Women Make The Clothes
Part IV: Finale
My heart is pounding.
I'm standing here just off stage. I'm naked and trembling, my body flush with nerves but my skin cool with perspiration. I am trying really hard not to throw up.
What have I gotten myself into? This is insane! I am a dresser, a fashion assistant. I am not a runway model. This is not what I am good at.
I am not a remarkable beauty. Naked to the world, no carefully chosen clothes to sharpen or distract, I am an underwhelming creature. I am too skinny, with weirdly long spindly limbs considering how short I am. My stomach is soft, my thighs are too big, my ass high and modest. I have fairly big breasts for my frame, but free of a bra they sag enough that my nipples point at the ground. My hair, free of its pins and clips (as per Carman's instructions), is a frizzy, unkempt tangle. My face is too round, my eyes too close, my nose far too hawkish for my soft cheeks and chin. The crowd is here to see the immaculate beauty of supermodel Magda, my pale, nude body is definitely not what this crowd is here for.
And I'm about to be transformed! Altered, changed, maybe mutilated, probably exaggerated sexually. Certainly my life is about to be massively altered forever. And then what will I do? Breanne has never quite broken through as a model and wants to get into design, Criss is clearly trying to break into the growing world of transformed lingerie, and Saffron's life as a singer and pinup girl probably won't change all that much. But me? I'm a behind the scenes dresser. I don't have a glamorous career to fall back on or prospects for what comes after. What the fuck am I doing?
But the show has to go on.
And fuck me, this whole thing is such a turn on.
I don't hear any music, but the wet hiss and wild gesturing of Criss is telling me it's time. I take a deep breath and step onto the perimeter stage.
Here goes nothing.
I am instantly blinded by the flare of the spotlights and glare of the stage lighting. I stagger a bit and thrust my arm up to block the light. There is still no music so I can actually hear the audible gasp of the crowd and confusing murmur. It seems the audience is as surprised as I am.
I take another deep breath and steady myself. I stand tall, thrust out my hanging tits, and take my first steps. I am trying for the smooth professional stride of Breanne, but I suspect I look jerky and awkward. I focus on the task, left foot, right foot, and try to ignore the pressing crowd. Thankfully out of shock or disgust they aren't pawing at me like the other models and I can keep making progress. Left foot. Right foot. Try not to slip on the cum. Left foot, right food.
As I complete my gradual circuit of the outer stage and climb onto the centre stage my heart leaps up into my chest. I can see the audience, all of them, staring at my naked body with interest. In the silence of the hall I can hear my own ragged breathing.
I take another deep breath.
And walk down the stage and step into the open transformation chamber.
My horny cunt is a burning and tight and leaking down my leg.
The chamber door slams shut.
I am so ready for this part.
As I enter the chamber the strobe lights kick in and my world becomes a stutter of blinding flashes. Obscuring fog begins to flood the chamber, and I begin to shiver from the cold vapor. I can hear my mic amplified panting echo through the building and a little moan as I give voice to my anxiety and arousal.
And then I hear it, the hiss of the transformation gas as it enters the chamber.
A moment passes.
And then I feel it! A warmth that races across my flesh and makes me moan louder. A warmth that grows inside me until all my flesh feels like its blushing and swelling. And I realize that some of it is. I feel my face swell oddly, and my hair fall out. I feel my feet stretch and my posture change. In the flashing light and fog I hear myself grunt, groan, pant, cry out. My torso and legs stretch, my arms go numb, my breasts feel strange and weights shift on my chest.
I am in pain, I am in ecstasy.
And then my world explodes. I feel a great, orgasmic swelling. I feel my labia (labias?) swell and multiply and grow huge and heavy and wet. I feel myself reaching a peak of arousal, and I scream in joy and it echoes through the chamber.
And the strobe lights stop.
As the strobe lights die, I can see myself reflected in on the inner walls of the transformation chamber. I gasp.
The creature, the woman, the me, that stares back is gorgeous, haute couture incarnate.
She (I think I'm still a she) has a beautiful, if altered face. Her chin is delicate and sharp, her lips are swollen and red. Her eyes, my eyes, peak out of a domino-like mask that stretches from her forehead over her cheeks and covers her nose. A mask made of penis glans tissue with a urethra where her nostrils should be. From the top of the mask at her forehead a pair of small, backswept antelope horns jut out. Instead of hair, she has a mass of short tentacles sprouting from her scalp.
She smiles in wonder, moues thoughtfully and gathers her tentacles into something approximating an elegantly piled hairdo.
Her neck is slender, long, and emerges from a large, elaborate collar made from fleshy folds of labia that originate from a clit on her chest and come to a point behind her head. It looks like haut couture drama and as if her face and neck were emerging from a cunt around her neck.
She is armless, her shoulders taper to elegant smooth ends. She has four, perky D cup breasts with upturned nipples arranged in two rows. Her giant collar clit sits between the top pair of breasts, creating the appearance that her top row actually has three tits.
She shifts her body to admire her new breasts and sculpted shoulder stumps. She hears a crisp clop, and feels her new hooves strike the floor. She smiles broadly.
From the waist down her body swells dramatically into the bloom of a ball gown. But instead of fabric, her lower body is a cascade of cunt flesh. Layer after layer of glistening labia, ruched dramatically along the opening slit at the front of the cuntskirt, hanging from her waist and surrounding the glowing, sopping cunt at the core of her.
She sways her hips experimentally, and her perfect lips gasp and moan at the sensation of her long, toned legs pressing against her insides and her labia rubbing against each other.
She laughs in delight.
I laugh in delight.
I'm her, and I'm the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.
The door opens.
The door opens, and I emerge from my chrysalis. My hooves beat a staccato rhythm as I confidently strut down the catwalk, my head and chest held high, my cunt skirts swaying and swishing with every step. I am magical.
The crowd gasps, and begins to applaud. They begin to stand, and by the time I reach the apex of the stage, I am surrounded by an ovation.
I do not pose.
I just stand, resplendent and bask in my glory. In my adoration. In my beauty.
I can't wait to fuck someone.
As I continue to stand and preen at the end of the stage, I hear the clop of other hooves and see that the other models have joined me on stage. Soon Breanne is standing to my left, Criss to my right, and Saffron has reared up on her tail behind us. We are blinded by flashbulbs.
Breanne leans over to me and whispers. "You look amazing..." I feel a tentacle slip under my cunt gown, wrap around my thigh, and press itself gentle against my most inner of lips. "I can't wait to fuck you."
I smile at her. Of course she wants to fuck me.
I hear more clopping and a gasp rise from the crowd. We all look back and see a changed Carman, now devoid of her robes, walking down the runway to join her models. From her chest now hang five breasts, and her hips sport petals of labia flesh. She walks on elongated hooves and an equine tail swishes behind her. From her crotch sprouts a massive equine cock.
"Thank you my public for witnessing my new vision where the women make the clothes. If you'll excuse us, my lovelies and I have to get reacquainted. I hope you enjoyed the show!"
To see the narrator (Erica's) final form go here: http://www.furaffinity.net/view/14288496/
Hopefully you enjoyed the story and my first experiment with a scheduled serialized story.