She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 01

"Come to me, now." I said.

She stepped quickly back from the window, breathing hard.

I stared at her with pride (and yearning). Her arms were no longer crossed over her chest. That was good -- a more assertive posture.

I pointed at my boxers. "Now go down on me."

This made her smirk. "Is this part of my training?"

"It sure is," I said, grinning back. "As you suck me off -- or anybody -- always remember what you do with your hands. From now on, you're going to do that to the microphone. It's a sexual suggestion, on stage. Remember how you tilt your head, how you move your fingers on my cock. You're going to do the same actions with the microphone."

"I'm going to look like a whore," she said. She stepped forward and got on her knees. I hadn't meant for her to do it in the kitchen -- but oh well. She pulled down my underwear and dug out my cock.

"You won't look like a whore, because you have class." I gasped as her mouth enveloped my cock. Whether it was from the nervousness of the window, or her anxiousness to learn, her actions weren't smooth. Her mouth was wet, dripping with saliva. At some point in her past, she had become an awesome cocksucker, but now her training escaped her. "Besides, you're working on suggestiveness. People shouldn't know what they're seeing."

I stopped talking and leaned back against the counter, her breasts slapping my thighs as she worked. She paused every now and then, eyeing her hands, tilting her head. Jeez, she was such a simple thing. My dick was still in her mouth, but I swear I heard her mouthing the lyrics to one of her songs.

* * * * *

My plan for the day was to replace her wardrobe.

I meant to clean it out and replace it with stylish, clingy gig outfits. I'm not made of money, I told her, so they'll have to be from second-hand stores. She was okay with that. I told her I'd already thrown out her skirt and blouse, and she merely nodded. Then, I said, we'd visit her apartment and get rid of all her clothes. We'd empty her shelves.

From now on, I told her, she would only ever wear gig outfits, stuff for the stage. She would have to start filling out the persona of a singer, 24/7, starting today.

She was following me around as I talked, nodding. A streak of cum was still on her cheek. She padded through my apartment in just her panties, her hands gripping her elbows behind her back. This did wonderful things to her chest, and she accepted my hands on her tits without changine her attentive expression.

I'd found a fresh pair of silk boxers that were a little small for me, and a muscle shirt. "Put these on."

She pulled on the boxers. "They're loose and my panties show," she reported.

"Take off the panties, then. We'll safety-pin the boxers. Here -- come to the window, for the light."

She sighed, but turned and went to the kitchen. I hadn't told her which window. I followed her with some pins, and found her standing in front of the window again.

"Go ahead," I said.

She pulled her panties off and stepped out of them, dropping them in the garbage. I couldn't help but smile. I held the boxers for her as she stepped into them, and then pinned them tight at the waist. When they were snug, I rolled the hem down over her hips several times, to hide the pins, I told her.

She had to bend at the waist to see the results over her chest. Her hip-bones were showing, and her stomach was bare down to about four inches below her belly button. As I watched, her knees trembled. This would be her sign to me that she was nervous.

"You know you're standing in front of an open window, don't you?" I asked.

"Don't remind me."

"Aren't you wondering why your street clothes today are so small?"

She shrugged, eyeing the shirt in my hands. Her nipples were hard little knots, pointed at the ceiling. "I thought it was more of the same."

"It isn't. Who cares who looks at you in the streets?"

"I do."

"No you don't. That's your job: to get noticed. It's their job to notice you. So forget being embarassed on the street. These clothes are small, honey, because you need sunlight."

I held out the muscle-shirt, and she shrugged into it quickly. I continued, "You're too pale on stage. You need to be a little darker. Until you get a tan, you should wear as little as possible. Okay?"

"Okay."

While I was on a roll, I added, "And, every morning, get up and come to this window. While I make coffee."

"Okay."

"But no panties, next time!"

"Okay."

"Now, find some scissors, and cut up the shirt."

She looked frightened again. The arm-holes hung halfway down her ribcage -- the curves of her breasts peeked out on either side of the straps. It was my shirt, after all, and it was much too big to be appropriate for her. But she was worried about cutting it off!

"Leave some extra cloth in front. You're going to tie it up, under your tits."

"Shit-okay," she said, quivering. As I got ready to go out, I watched her progress. She found some scissors in a kitchen drawer, and then -- so help me -- returned to the window. She was cutting away at the fabric, twisting every direction. I'd rarely seen her look sexier -- her hair was hanging in her eyes as she looked down, attentive to her task. Her chest pointed this way and that as she turned her shoulders, the muscles of her stomach, arms and back bulging and rippling in the morning light. Her ass flexed as she stood on her tippy-toes.

"It'll be easier if you just take it off again," I suggested, passing through the room.

"Oh! Duh!" she said. She pulled it off, and layed it on the window sill, to make an even cut.

"Is anybody watching you?"

"Mmmm," she glanced out. "The same guys, mostly. And a few in the building across the street."

Her tone of voice was so matter of fact about it, I started getting hard again. She was concentrating on her task, of course. But still, it sounded like she just didn't mind who saw her. I was making a righteously exhibitionist extrovert!

When we paused by the door to leave, I gave her a good long look. She was quite hot -- quite a difference from the regular Ali. She was all cut stomach, bulging half-covered chest, leg, thigh, high muscled ass. Her hair was still a mess -- but it looked endearing. The cum had dried on her cheek.

"We're ready. How do you feel?"

She was staring determinedly at the door, as if willing it to stay shut. Quietly, she said, "Like a star." Then the broke the mood, and glanced at me. "Right?"

"Right," I said drily. "That's how you feel. Remember to strut."

"I will."

Outside, the streets were starting to get crowded in earnest. We stood outside the door, pausing to watch the people pass. The street vendors were starting to set up their tables -- ties, chokers, cheap jewelery, suspenders, alpaca sweaters, bootleg videos.

Ali, despite her revealing outfit, didn't really stand out. In New York, perhaps one in five people passing by was a woman worth checking out. Perhaps one in fifty was an attractive woman wearing something sexy, who gave you whiplash as she went by. If anything, Ali had been more exceptional /before/ I'd dressed her -- a beautiful woman in frumpy, formless clothes: not the most common thing on New York streets. Not that this made Ali any more relaxed.

She stood slightly apart from me, nervously locking and unlocking her knees. It was one of the ways she fidgeted. Today it had the effect of rocking the hem of her boxers up and down, bringing attention to the narrow band of silk over her lap.

I took her hand, and walked her into the crowd. We were slower than the people around us, and they passed us in both directions. A few slowed down and trailed us from behind or a little to the side, watching her.

"Try to keep count of how many guys look back at you," I said to her. "They're your feedback. Remember the outfits that work the best."

"I will," she said. Her voice tremored.

With each step she took, the hem of her boxers rolled like a ship at sea. They weren't exceedingly tight, and had soon settled far below her hips, held up by the swell of her ass. The sunglight soaked into her fair skin, causing the downy, transparent little hairs on her stomach and shoulders to glow.

At the first intersection, Ali was inspected up close. We waited to cross in a tight clump of businessmen, tourists and neighborhood types. I glanced around, and thought I noticed a lot of people checking her out, from under a foot away. I couldn't be sure -- with her hand in mine, they might've been selfconscious about being noticed by me.

"How many are looking at you?" I whispered.

"I've lost count. I'd put it at half."

"The male half?"

She gave a humored snort. "Yeah."

Squeezing her hand encouragingly, I said, "You go on ahead of me. I'll follow behind. I need to see what they're seeing."

"I don't understand. They're seeing me, obviously."

"I have to see what they like about you. Whether it's your legs, or your ass. Or your stomach, or tits."

"That makes sense," she said.

"I'll be right behind you. I'll catch up in a block or two."

With a juddering sigh, she stepped out ahead of me as we crossed the street. She was in the middle of the clump of people, but as they spread out, the situation resolved. Some men were walking around her, some were strolling behind, having slowed their pace to her's. By the middle of the next block, an Ali admiration society of about 6 men were sticking close to her, trying to look innocent.

Everything about her was hot. I could barely believe my luck. Was I really fucking that woman at night? Was I really taking her public persona under my control, and was she really obedient to my every suggestion? Well, yeah. I only had to think back to waking up with her, to the window in the kitchen, the blow-job with her on her knees. I knew where to look on her cheek, to see the dried, shiny streak of my cum. But following behind her seemed to take all that knowledge out of me. I felt chancy, loose, willing to forgo my destination to follow her -- the same way any man felt behind a hot woman on the street.

Her spine was a little string of notches down her back. Muscles played out from that central line. Her waist was hard and smooth, as if turned on a lathe. Each step shifted the rolled waistline of the boxers, and the sunlight picked up the beginnings of the crevice of her ass. Her legs were long and powerful, thighs shrinking into knees, calves flaring from the ankles. My shortened boxers were quite short on her, each step disclosed a brief, almost subliminal glimpse of the fold under her ass. If she bent at the waist for anything, her ass would appear under the hem. Her legs seemed longer because of the elevated, chunky shoes she was wearing. Those shoes hadn't seemed so over-the-top sexy the night before, with her modest skirt/blouse outfit.

But by far, the best part of Ali was her chest. Even from behind. When she swung her arms -- and she was carrying nothing, no purse (her ID and cash were in my pocket) -- I could see the curves of her breasts around her back. Her rack was large for her small frame, it overhung her torso. Each step she took caused them to bounce and roll, side to side.

I wanted to keep her in the street all day. There was just one thing wrong.

Her boxers were pinned up. Not tight, but no longer elastic. Every time she tried on some clothes, she would have to unroll them, unpin them, and take them off. As a male, I knew that the best part about clothes shopping was /not/ waiting for the woman in the dressing room. She needed a belt, or something.

I paused at the next street vendor, who was watching Ali stride down the street with her entourage.

This vendor had it all. Scarfs, ties, suspenders, jewelery. He was only partially set up, and had paused to watch Ali move past. I liked how she seemed to own the street.

I quickly scanned his offerings. This would be perfect. I bought some narrow suspenders, and impulsively added a choker with a little cameo in the middle. They were both black, so they would sort of match.

"Fifteen, together," he said. Ali was out of sight, and he deigned to assist me.

"No bag, thanks. Here." I passed over the money, and hustled to catch up.

Two blocks up, she was waiting for me. This was at Broadway and 8th Street, a very crowded part of Manhattan, being near a subway stop and close to New York University. She was searching the crowd, looking for me.

"There you are!" she said as I walked up. Her nipples, I noticed, were hard again, poking out against the thin ribbed fabric of the muscle shirt.

"How are you holding up?"

"This is one hell of a way to get a tan," she said. "You should've heard everybody talking to me."

"What, were they being mean?"

"Not really," she shook her head. "Just things like, 'Hey baby, wanna do me?' And, 'Are you expensive?' And, of course, nice tits, ass, rack, boobs. I didn't know people chatted with strangers, they just walked up and started talking."

"Get used to it. Everybody's going to want to talk to you."

She grinned at me, flattered. If she thought 'Nice tits' was friendly conversation, who was I to argue? "What do you have there?"

I held up the suspenders and choker. They looked like bondage gear. "New part of your outfit. I realized that you're going to have to get in and out of those shorts, and you'll take too long with the safety pins."

"I've never worn suspenders before," she said, eyeing them.

I guided her to the edge of the sidewalk by the nearest building. "Put on the choker first."

The choker looked great on her, like I expected. Of course, I'm a sucker for chokers. It was about an inch and a half wide, cheap black lace, and the cameo was in the middle of her throat. She gave a wide smile.

"That was really sweet and thoughtful," she said. "How does it look?"

"Perfect. Now the suspenders."

I'd worn suspenders exactly once, but I knew how they went. I put the straps over her shoulders, and fastened the back clips to the waistline of the boxers, which she rolled up for me. The straps, in front, bracketed her chest.

She had to bend over to see her waist, and fasten the front clips. "Every time I look down, I just see my breasts hanging out," she reported.

I shrugged. "Are those clipped? Yeah? Now take off the safety pins."

I stepped back and watched her. As streams of people passed, she was bent over, intent on the pins. Soon she had them off, and held them out for me to take. The boxers slid further down her waist -- a little too far. The muscles of her lower belly slid into view, v-shaped and pointing towards her crotch. In back, the top quarter of her ass had slipped into view.

"You can shorten the straps a little bit," I told her. "To bring the boxers higher."

"Mmm. If you say so." She fiddled with the sliders, peering around her breasts. She'd accumulated another little group of watchers, scattered unobtrusively around the sidewalk. She didn't seem to notice them at all. "Is this okay?"

"That's fucking great," I breathed. "I'm a genius."

"You sure are! Those pins were digging into me. I was worried I'd get stuck!"

"Walk ahead of me again. Remember, you're a star. Go into that used clothing boutique at the end of the block."

"Oh, that one!?" her face lit up. She had always commented how cool the clothes were when we passed.

She struck out on her own again, with me following. I sure /was/ a genius. Suspenders are nothing like a belt, nothing like a pinned-up waistline. The boxers hung from the suspenders, which hung haphazardly from her shoulders. Pushed out by her breasts, the front clips of the suspenders held the hemline away from her stomach. With every movement, the boxers swished away from her torso in the front and back, but especially the front. When I was close, I could stare down her tummy, down her hip, down her ass -- and get brief glimpses down the briefs.

The herring-bone pattern of the boxers seemed to print her skin with a weird pattern, shifting and confusing. And, too -- the silk of the boxers flouresced in the sunlight -- you couldn't help but notice her shorts. And noticing those, you noticed the broad expanses of skin that showed. Of course, the boxers were no longer short -- they hung a third of the way down her thighs, making them merely look normal.

And Ali, bless her, didn't seem to care about any of this. Perhaps she was just so generally anxious, she couldn't be specifically anxious about her there, not-there waistline. Or perhaps she didn't know, because she couldn't look down without only seeing her chest.

I caught up to her again and wrapped my hand around her waist. One of the straps of the suspenders fell, and she scooped it up again -- natural for a woman. Except usually when they replaced a strap, it was to cover the chest. Now, the straps contributed to covering her lap.

"Still keeping track of who's doing double-takes on you?" I asked.

She shrugged, her chest lifting. "I forgot. I'm guessing about the same."

I peeked down her boxers as she strode along. The muscles of her lower stomach surged and rippled, disappearing down into the light-pattern and then curving under to her sex.

With her high heels, she climbed the stoop to the boutique, her ass shaking above me. Inside, I bought her no less than ten outfits. I put them all on my credit card. Though the clothing was used, it was a Manhattan boutique. The stuff was /not/ cheap.

Apparently the prevailing fashion was repurposed negliges. If the boutique was anything to go by, trendy young women were donning lacy, silky, semi-sheer underthings from the forties, fifties and sixties as normal day-wear. That was fine by me. I pulled hangars from the rack, and piled them in Ali's arms. She tried them on in the changing room, running out to the mirror. Each outfit was better than the last -- I was honing in on the short slips, the lacy camisols, anything where the shoulder straps were tied in little bows -- the bows I could re-tie into something inappropriate.

Ali, for her part, was soon in the spirit. We were reinventing her, after all. And this reinvention was taking the form of a shopping spree. Even though these clothes were not her style, sexier by a multiple of twenty than her normal gear, her enthusiasm grew until she was almost bubbling.

We visited another boutique, this one with trashier club clothes. I got her some more conventional outfits -- tie-on halters, little flaring skirts, nylons, netted tops. Money would be tight for me after these purchases, but I knew it would be worth it.

Afterwards (I told her because we were loaded down with bags), I headed us for the subway. We didn't need the subway -- we were young, the day was nice. Her apartment was only two stops away. But by then I was pretty far gone. I was drunk on how she looked, how easy it was to visually penetrate her flimsy outfit to her body. I was a little out of my head about all the looks being sent her way, how men jostled and turned abruptly in her presence, trying to look innocent, unable to keep from staring at her.

And I was imaginging the subway ride. Those trains, even in mid-morning, were always crowded. I imagined standing behind her as we borded the train, my arm around her and my palm flat on her stomach, my lap buried in her ass. Walking her onto the train, pressing her forward, tits-first into the mass of people.

This is what I wanted to try: I'd press her towards one of the central poles in the subway car. The one surrounded by commuters, with the forest of hands attached to it. I'd walk her right up to it, press her towards it, and watch the hands, the wrists and arms, gently connect with her chest. As the train rocked, her weight would shift, her tits would brush the stranger's extremeties.

I could envision it as if I was some lucky schmoe on the train standing next to her. My eyes cast downward, as normal, so I don't have to avoid the eyes of the other commuters. And then her chest comes into view, right under my eyes. I glance up and see her flawless skin, the open, unthinking expression on her face. Her unchallenging eyes. Her breast would squash against my chest, I (as the stranger) would freeze, hoping the contact would last. It would. Disbelieving my luck, I would pick strategic moments (when her head was turned, as she swayed with her eyes closed or down-cast) to glance down at her. Eventually, my eyes would track past the magnificent view down the muscle shirt, to her shorts.