The Art of Vancy
with storyettes by Prim


The Prettyboy Spring Fashion Show

 The usual electric atmosphere pervaded the showing hall of the English Order of Omphalia: that heady mix of glamour, exclusive perfumes and women in anticipation of a morning of sexual gratification. Nothing too overt, of course. The giddy babble of excited female voices occasionally failed to conceal the ripple and squeak of rubber panties worn beneath rubber bloomers... all discreetly out of sight beneath this year's 'must-haves' from Christian Odette and the like.
Madame Elveau Rouaffe was in pride of place in front of the runway, surrounded by her coterie, while anyone who was anyone, in the county and beyond, was to be seen at Omphalia around them... for today was the Prettyboy Spring Fashion Show.

"Ladies," began Nicole de Wynter, their compere for the day, "pray calm yourselves sufficiently for me to introduce our star guests this morning, specially commissioned and garmented by Rachel of LA and Glauanna of Hamburg. Our schedule is slightly remoulded today... one or two little accidents in panties before we began..." There were titters behind gloves and fans... "but isn't that what we love here at Omphalia?" A swell of agreement as grins met each other throughout the sea of elegant hair-dos and expensive pearls.
Nicole de Wynter was scarcely behind her guests in glamour: her unctuous bust, ablaze with sapphires, was barely contained in the glittering corsage of a violet gown to the floor in silk organza, while sapphires set in silver twisted in strands through her built up dark brown hair. A smile of satisfaction broadened her succulent, cimson lips as she got the go-ahead from the wings. The boys were as ready as they would ever be.
"Ladies," she intoned, "and revered guests, I welcome you to our Prettyboy Spring Fashion Show." She turned her breasts and lips toward the far end of the runway. "Without further ado, I give you our darling sweeties... the house of Lady Collina Montaire."

To be honest, the applause of a hall filled with women from 20 years of age to 80 plus, can be a little daunting, and there was a moment of delay. The applause settled back and in the end became slightly embarrassed chuckles, until a stewardess appeared, clearly coaxing forward the nicely dressed angel whose invisible hand she was holding beyond view. Her failure to coax hard enough led to another swell of laughter in the hall, and the ladies felt that early glow of pleasure at the evident wall of shyness that afflicted the little dears on the other side of the curtains.
"Are we going to see our stars?" wondered Nicole into her microphone. "But we demand to see what the poppets are going to wear for us, don't we, ladies?"
"Ye-e-e-es," came the warm reply, and moments later, the stewardess persuaded her charge to mince into view and even to let go of the curtain. His hair was done into a tight, very precious perm of blond curls, while he wore a delicate blouse with ruffled panties that showed the extreme length of his smooth, curvaceous legs. He had to wait before proceeding, until his peers had been persuaded to step into view too, which they did, holding each other's hands in a delightful chain of feminine prettiness. Eventually, all six sweet-boys were exposed to the gasps and admiration of their audience, at which point the stewardess let go of her sweetie and exited through the curtains, leaving him and his friends to their own devices.

"Hello, boys," greeted Nicole from her presentation stand at the far end of the runway. "No, don't hold hands, we want to see you on your own, without anyone supporting you or helping you. You too, my dear, in the pretty silk blouse and plaid skirt... let go of your friend's hand... That's better. That's it, you can put your hands behind your skirt, and spread it out to show the ladies how nice it is. Good boy."
An emotional breathlessness descended on the ladies, broken only by the occasional giggle as one of the boys crossed one leg over the other and rocked nervously on his toe. The charming sweetness of the boys and the attention to detail of their emasculating costumes led to a spontaneous rise of applause which began with Madame Rouaffe's party and spread to every woman in the room as they gloried in their superiority over these unsexed examples of the opposite sex. Their compere sensed the moment to begin the individual interviews.

"Now dear... yes, my darling, you... I want you to walk slowly this way, along the platform towards me, and I'm going to ask you a few simple questions."
The sweetie of the nervous entrance a moment before walked girlishly towards her in a blind stupor of nervousness. "Not quite so fast, my dear... I want the ladies to see how sweetly you walk in your panties and frilled anklets. My oh my, what a picture of effeminate weakness. How vulnerable he is, ladies. What beautifully shaped legs: those legs need a pair of ruffled panties, and would you believe it, they are in butter soft latex plastic. So practical for a teenaged boy who can't be relied on to reach the toilet."

The boy's face shrank down almost to his blouse and he put his thumb in his mouth to the hilt.
"Aaaaahhhh!" glowed the hall full of ladies in deep sympathy with his childishness. Nicole spoke to the shy young model.
"Tell us your name, darling."
He extricated his wet thumb: "Prissipus Petty Miss," and sank his thumb back into his mouth.
"And how old are you, Master Prissipus Petty?"
"I'm eighteen and a half Miss."
His answer brought a mixture of gasps and Ahhhs.
"That's nice, sweetie. You'll have to take your thumb out of your mouth or we won't hear what you are telling us, darling. Now, does Mummy dress you in ruffled panties and pretty blouses at home, darling?"
"Oh yes Miss," and he crossed one of his Mary Janes behind the other to rock his legs together, "she says I'm such a pretty boy I need to wear only the prettiest of girls' dainties." He looked up through his long lashes to see that Nicole was not going to go on - in fact she was letting his words sink in for her guests - so he added: "she puts me into little bra and panty sets... which are very pretty."
The perfumed atmosphere was rapt in attention.
"Do you like wearing your transparent pink panties, Master Prissipus? They're ever so sweet."

His hands gathered at his red lips in fists of delicate fingers. "They make me feel... like a girl... in my botty and little bit Miss."
Still silence, punctuated by slithers of matronly lingerie and nylons here and there.
"Of course they do, pet. Hold your pretty ruffles for us, to show us how sweet your pretty panties are, and you can feel really girly in front of us. Isn't that nice? Such a lovely girls' feeling in your little bit and through your girly botty?"
His soft curls nodded and his cheeks tinged a deeper shade of crimson.
"You look so lovely in your nylon blouse too, precious. We want you to turn round slowly for us, to show us the four, darling little blouse buttons running down from your Peter Pan collar to between your shoulder blades. Oh isn't Master Prissipus gorgeous in his blouse, ladies? Look, he's holding out his pink plastic ruffles for us and showing his blouse buttons at the back. He's so adorable for his mummy, isn't he ladies?"

The ladies' replies wafted warmly back to the runway, while Elveau Rouaffe had lifted the fronts of her skirts, enough to bury her gloves under them to pleasure herself... the signal for many ladies around the hall to do the same. It's not certain whether it was the slurry of taffetas and silks and the many lipsticked faces in front of the unsexed youth, eager to absorb his intense feelings, or whether he simply felt so lovely in his blouse and plastic panties, but Master Prissipus stopped turning and stood with his toes together as feelings of overwhelming girlishness coursed through him, into his panties, filling him with that rosy feeling which he was familiar with, where his little bit felt utterly sweet and girly and seeped its dainty juice from the tip, before its little surges of milk came spurting out repeatedly into his beautiful sissy-boy panties.

***

 



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