From: julnar@julnar.org (The Gadfly)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: FTSD: The Catsuit (Part 1)
Date: 2 Dec 1998 06:19:10 GMT
Organization: J. Z. Al-Huriyeh
Lines: 548
Message-ID: <742m4u$gt7$2@198.79.30.84>
X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.1/32.230

Part One, in Which our Heroine, Seeking to Succeed in One Career,
Finds Herself Launched In Another
======================================================

I had come to New York with everything I had and everything I could
save and borrow, determined to get my big break-- to get a stage part,
ANY stage part, that would launch my career.  I had a naive faith in
my drive, my intelligence... but I know you’ve heard it all before,
and that I was really just one more kid gawking at skyscrapers and
thinking everything would work out like a Hollywood movie.

But I was willing to pay my dues.  For nearly three years I juggled
auditions and part-time jobs,  always hopeful that my luck would turn
for the better.  But you get tired.  Either I was too young or too old
or too tall or too short or maybe it was my Yat drawl that put them
off.  I started getting fired from the part time jobs, tired of being
patted on the ass as I cleared away the debris of yet another lunch
rush. 

I often thought that if I had ever had my chance to make it, it must
have slipped by unnoticed.

So I quit.  I pawned off my watch and my TV to help pay my share of
the rent. I went to living off crackers and canned tuna. I knew I
couldn’t go on like this forever, especially since I couldn't watch my
talkshows in bed all day anymore.  

So when my roommate Marianna told me she could help get me a "small"
job, I said yes without even asking what I was. So OK, that was a
mistake. I like to think she never could have talked me into it if I
had known the truth. 

“It’s... like modeling,” she said. Modeling. I’ve always been told I’m
beautiful, but I never thought I was tall or thin enough to model...
But no, not THAT kind of modeling, CeCe. This was for an “adult
lingerie” catalog, she said. 

But Marianna herself was a model-- tall, rail-thin, pouty-lipped,
perfect. So why didn’t she take this job?

“I don’t have the tits for it,” she explained.

And I did? Well, OK, compared to a Marianna I was stacked.  I guess
she was saving up for the implants.

Anyway, I’d already said yes before I asked how much I would be
expected to show. “Just your cleavage,” Marianna promised. “It’s a
lingerie catalog.”

It was enough to get me into the shower while Marianna decided what I
would wear to “the shoot”. When I came out, I found a T-shirt and
jeans neatly folded over the towel rack. She had tucked a pair of
panties in the jeans pocket. No bra?

“No, silly. You won’t need that.”

No bra, no makeup, not even a pair of socks?

She called a cab while I dried my hair and dressed. The cab took us
cross-town, finally stopping in front of an elegant high-rise. I stood
shivering beneath my overcoat while Marianna rang the intercom. So
nervous, too, and hating myself for this sleazy “shoot” already, and I
hadn’t even done anything that would embarrass me, the famous
stage actress, years later.

Only when we got inside did I realize it was an apartment building,
not an office building.  I decided this wasn’t such a surprise since
most women don’t wear lingerie around the office.  They needed an
intimate setting.  I thought they would pay well if they could afford
the rent for this place.  

I followed Marianna through the marbled foyer to the elevator where we
lined up with a half-dozen bored-looking residents.  I waited out the
27-story ride choked up by nervousness and the tense silence while
Marianna studied her newly applied false nails with an irritating
calm.

“Beckermann’s floozies,”  I heard an old woman mutter as we exited the
elevator.  I turned to snap something back, but the elevator door had
already closed behind us

Marianna took hold of my arm.

“Who the hell is she to say that to us?”  I said, wriggling free.  

“Rich old bitches are always like that,” Marianna shrugged.  “Anyway
you’re going to be late.  If you want to model that’s a big no-no!”

I wanted to talk back, but since she had gone to the trouble of
getting me the job, it didn’t seem fair.  In all the years we’d roomed
together she never so much as lent me her shampoo.  So rather than
make another crack about how she probably got her jobs, I asked why
she had gone to the trouble of getting me mine.  

“Well, you know, you are my roommate and all,” she said, twirling a
lock of her hair from the end of her finger.

I’d seen her do that often enough with guys to know it was a sure sign
she was lying.

“Why, really, Marianna.”

“Well, Paul couldn’t give me this job because... well you know why...
but he promised I could audition for the runway show.”

“You brought me here cause you thought it might get you in his show?”

“Well...” 

Spill it, Marianna...

“It’s not just any shoot, see...”

“What’s so special about it?” I asked.

“Oh, you’ll see!  It’ll be a surprise.”

“No, goddammit, no surprises,” I said, stopping dead.  “If you don’t
tell me right now, I’m turning right back around and walking out of
here.”
	
“Are you stupid?” Marianna said, reverting to her usual whiny tone.
“You’re gonna pass up your break just ‘cause you don’t know what
you’re gonna model?”

“What I’m going to model?  So what is it, huh?  Some kind of
whip-and-chains outfit only a sicko would make you wear?  Then why
aren’t you doing it if the job’s so good?  What’s in it for you, huh?”

“Finder’s fee,” she muttered.

“Finder’s fee-- because you know somebody stupider than you are?”

At that I turned back for the elevator.

“CeCe... CeCe!” she called after me. “You always have to be a pain in
the ass about everything, don’t you?”
	
I kept walking.  There are plenty of things more important than money.

“Let me explain!” she said.

Like respecting yourself.  I couldn’t go cheaper than Marianna and
live with myself.

“Cece!”

She had me by the arm now.  I stopped and waited cross-armed for her
next lie, the one that would spare me any guilt over her lost
“finder’s fee”.

“Don’t you know who Harrold Beckermann is?”

“No,” I said.

“Well you wouldn’t,” Marianna said.  “He’s only one of the best
designers around... just not everybody knows it yet.”

“And what does this have to do with your finder’s fee?”

“He’s launching a new line, some kind of bodysuit lingerie or
something.”

“Yeah, yeah and you don’t have the tits for it...”

“Yes I do,” she retorted smugly.  “But he’s got this one outfit he’s
trying to add to the show, but it’s kind of late and he’s running out
of time trying to work it in.  He can’t find a model that looks right
in it.”

“You mean to tell me somebody like that-- somebody who could probably
get any model from any agency to try on his stuff-- would have
somebody like me try on his lingerie?  Somebody the agencies wouldn’t
even interview?  How stupid do I look!”

“CeCe!  Listen!  He’ll pay you his standard five hundred just for
trying it... but if he chooses you for the show you get ten thousand
dollars up front, plus a lot more if you do shows and print ads.”

“You can’t be serious...” I said.

“What’ve you got to lose?  I only get a hundred for bringing you, but
it’s like free money for both of us.  No more tuna fish salads, CeCe.
No more of the old pat on the ass when you reach over to get your tip.
Think about it!”

“You’re lying about how much I have to show.”

“No.  Just cleavage.  I swear, CeCe-- I swear Paul told me it’s just
cleavage.”

So I agreed.  So money was important, especially when I could make a
few months of rent just playing mannequin for some aging, overdressed
queen.  

I followed Marianna down a dimly lit hallway ending in a pair of
wooden double doors.  Marianna rang the bell several times but when no
one opened, shrugged and led me inside.  It was no surprise no one had
answered.  The large, richly decorated foyer was crowded with two
dozen other girls in various phases of undress, elbowing one another
as they preened before a large gilt mirror, sending up choking clouds
of hairspray as they repaired hairdos ruffled from wardrobe changes.
The scene reminded me of high school girls at a dance and made me feel
just as nauseated and self-conscious.

A bedroom door opened and closed and a short, thin man in a tight
white T-shirt appeared, eying me questioningly.

“Paul, this is Cleavetta... CeCe,” Marianna said, “my roomate... like
I told you about.”

Paul didn’t bother with social pleasantries. He stared directly at my
chest though of course there wasn’t much to see through my overcoat.
Marianna made a frustrated grunt, prompting me to open the coat, then
unceremoniously hiked up my white T-shirt. It felt so obscene--
perhaps more so because Marianna was so blasé about it.  

I could hear the other girls snicker as they turned away from their
silly huddle before the mirror.

Paul stared at my breasts for a long moment until I yanked my shirt
back down. 

The girls were laughing openly now. Really, what was I thinking?  That
my real boobs could compare with their perfect plastic Barbie boobs?

“First door to the left,” Paul said.

The girls gasped.  I heard mutters of protest build to whines.  Before
I could shoot back a sarcastic response, Marianna hustled me down the
hall to the empty bedroom and closed the door.  Paul entered without
knocking, a dry-cleaning bag slung over his shoulder.

“Why aren’t you undressed yet?” he grumbled. “You working or not? You
want to get paid or not?”
	
He tossed the bag on the bed. 

“Does this mean I’m hired?” I asked.

“Let’s see how it looks first,”  he said, his tone skeptical.

Marianna cuffed me, grumbling about how stupid I must be. Paul’s hands
were on his hips. “How much of my time do you think you’re gonna
waste?” he snapped. “Now get undressed or get out!” He tossed the
dry-cleaning bag down on the bed. 

That was more embarrassing than the examination in the foyer. He
stormed out after barking to Marianna that I had better not take long
or he’d pick somebody else.

“OK,” I said, a blush stinging my cheeks. I’d come this far, right?

I lifted the plastic to reveal something black, soft and fleshlike.
What, no teddy? No nightgown? No negligée?

I tugged off the dry-cleaning bag to reveal the catsuit in its full
glory. It was not unlike leather catsuits I’d seen in the movies: full
length, V-necked with a shiny metal zipper. But this one was as thin
as silk, cool and soft to the touch, yet pliable beneath my fingers.
It also had a distinctive and alluring odor-- not the rank, meatlike
funk of leather but a soft, sweet smell, like freshly washed skin. 
For a long moment I could only stare admiringly at the finest material
I had ever seen.  But I noticed that it had also been sewn together in
some innovative way, because there was not a seam or stitch to be
found, even from the inside. It was as if the suit had been poured by
mould, or cut from a single skin and hermetically sealed. 

“A leather suit? Oh please...” Marianna huffed.  “It’s so sixties...”

“It’s a masterpiece,” I said reverently.  “Whoever made this must have
spent months, if not years, perfecting the design.  This had to have
been custom cut.”

“Well, duh! What is couture, CeCe!”

I shut her up with a jab of my elbow.  

“Well, that’s great, if you can wear it,”  Marianna said.

“Don’t make up your mind so quick,” I grumbled, but only because I
knew she’d be right.  Maybe Paul just wanted a laugh. How could any
real girl fit into the obscenely tight thighs? How was I going to pull
that zipper up without snaring a fold of my skin in it? 

But I was determined to try on the suit anyway. 

My fear and embarrassment forgotten, I stripped off my clothes and,
even forgetting Marianna was there to help me change, prepared to
squeeze myself into the catsuit the way you do in too-tight jeans:
horizontally.

I tugged the silent zipper all the way down and inserted one foot,
pointing my toes like a ballerina as I slid the other foot into the
suit’s long, seamless legs.  The leather was so smooth and pliable it
scarcely rubbed against my skin as I climbed into it. In no time I was
leather from hips to ankles, the snug-looking thighs molded to mine as
if they had been tailored to fit. I didn’t even need Marianna’s help
to slide each arm into the suit’s tapering sleeves, because the suit
moved with me like a second skin.

She watched, hang-jawed, while I pulled the silent zipper up until my
cleavage peeked out just enough,  the zipper disappearing though there
was no seam to hide it.  I turned to face the full length mirror
behind me and I too was surprised. The catsuit fit me perfectly, maybe
more than perfectly because I hardly recognized my own figure.
Whatever was too big before was now smoothed away.  Where my
proportions might once have disappointed, they now seemed more perfect
than I could have imagined possible.  

“Well? Is this going to take all day?” I heard Paul shout from the
hall.

Marianna opened the door. At the sight of me, Paul's attitude
completely changed. He walked around me, viewing me from every angle 

“Well aren’t we the one,” he said, smiling lopsidedly. “Changed your
mind, didn’t it?”

“About what?” I asked.

“The shoes,” Paul said, ignoring my question. “It’s not complete
without shoes.”

He opened a closet door to reveal a shoe collection. He tossed aside a
few pairs of black spiked heels.

“Would a seven do?”

Before I knew it I was tottering on a pair of four-inch stilettos.

“Follow me. He’s really going to dig you,”  Paul said.

“But... the makeup... don’t I need...”

Paul led us out the door and away from the restless crowd of
half-dressed models.  Somehow I felt at ease now. Why would I want to
sit and be painted on for hours?  They could just retouch what needed
retouching these days. Maybe my face wouldn’t even
appear in the catalog at all.

We rounded a corner, stopping in front of a pair of double doors.
Paul took me by the wrist, perhaps in the pretense of guiding me
inside. Then suddenly his grip tightened painfully. He yanked the door
open and he shoved me forward, tugging the door closed
behind me until it locked fast. 

“Hey! What the hell is this!” I shouted, twisting the doorknob. “What
the hell are you trying to do!” I kicked at the door with my stilettos
which of course got me nowhere.

“What’s wrong, sweetcakes?” said a strange male voice behind me.
“Don’t you want to be a star?”

Standing beside the king size bed opposite me, wearing only a pair of
rumpled plaid boxers was an obscene little troll of a man. His lips
spread into a silly, gap-toothed grin as he eyed me down to my
wobbling stilettos. He ran the palm of one hand over his
sweating, half-bald head while the other slithered southward through
the white fuzz of his chesthair. Because I couldn’t bear to watch I
turned away, back to the door I wanted to bust down with my bare
fists.

“Oh, knock all you want,” he said calmly. “Paul won’t be back until
I’m through with you.”

That fag, that pimp...

“Don’t touch me you dirty old--”

He laughed dismissively, reaching behind him for a camera mounted on a
tripod, complete with a cyclopean lens and a long shutter release
cable. But he didn’t aim it at what little of me was revealed by the
catsuit’s snug V-neck. He tilted it towards the bed so that it was
poised to capture on film what he evidently he had planned for me.

“Normally I pay five hundred for this,” he said, drawing a stack of
crisp bills from the nightstand drawer. “But for you-- for you I’m
paying more, much more. I’ve never seen a girl look as perfect as you
in my catsuit.”

“Your catsuit?”

“Yes, my catsuit, which took me years to design and perfect, and which
is going to make me millions. You see, it’s created to be the one item
of clothing that fits any woman perfectly, and makes her irresistable
to men.”

“Look, I don’t want your money," I said.  "I...I changed my mind.  I'm
an actress, really...”

“No, oh no, that’s not how it works around here,” he said, wagging his
finger at me, grinning. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“That I look perfect in the catsuit.”

“No, not that. You know that already, don’t you?” His voice had become
accusatory. His grin had vanished. “I said that the catsuit is
supposed to make women irresistable to men. That’s why you’re here.
That’s the only reason you’re here. And the thousand dollars is for
your trouble.”

He tossed the money on the bed, the stack of neatly wrapped hundreds
nestling into the soft satin comforter.
	
“How am I supposed to know if my product works if I don’t-- shall we
say-- test it out?” he asked, stepping towards me.

“You’re sick,” I spat back at him. “A sick old pervert too weak to buy
his hookers the way all the other sick old perverts do.”

“I might be a pervert, as you say, but I’ve never wanted a woman like
I want you now,” he said. “And for a thousand dollars...”

“I don’t want your money!” I shouted. 

Suddenly he rushed me, locking his arms around my waist. Shocked by
his attack, I fell back against the door. The sensation of his body
pressed against mine filled me with a nausea that heightened my rage
as I struggled to break free, stumbling on my stilettos.  I pummeled
him with punches, even kneed him a few times. With my height advantage
that should’ve done the trick, but he just wouldn’t let go. He went on
and on with some nonsensical lover’s babble, half-begging,
half-demanding my submission while I tried to pry his fingers loose. 

I rammed him into the wall, against a chest of drawers and then,
desperate, I hobbled towards the bed with the geezer bastard still
holding on. 
	
I was tiring quickly. The false surrender seemed to be my last hope. 

We fell together on the satin comforter. Now I was free to beat him
with fists, elbows and knees all at once. I could see his nose was
bleeding. I slipped off the stilettos and, digging my feet on his
stomach, kicked until I broke his grip on me. Breathless, I
swung my feet floorward. I was going to get a running start at the
door and kick it until it gave way.

But then came the counterattack.

Grabbing me in a chokehold, he pressed me down on my back and held me
there. His stare was locked on the cleavage peeking from the V-neck of
his high-tech catsuit. I watched as he raised a hand to grab hold of
the zipper...and then, guided by instinct, I lashed out, kneeing away
the arm that supported him, sure that I would get free again.
	
He collapsed on top of me, his face pressing into my cleavage.

Appalled, I grabbed his head by what hair it had to yank it free...
but it wouldn’t yank free. He was STUCK there. Desperate for air, he
grabbed my shoulders, pressing against them with all his force,
his terrified cries nearly muted by the smothering fold of my bosom. I
screamed, I wrestled, I tugged desperately at the zipper hoping to
eliminate the suction created by his accidental gasp for breath while
trapped there, but the zipper wouldn’t budge. 

His weight was almost enough to crush my breath out and his frantic
dogpaddling prevented me from turning over and using gravity to
unwedge him. Had he never learned to swim? Didn’t he know that a cool
head could save you from riptides and undertows, and probably from a
smothering bosom too?

Maybe it was his heart giving out on him. All I know is that his
seemingly endless flailing culminated in a gross mal seizure that
bloodied my nose and nearly threw both of us on the floor. Then he
went limp, and there was silence... and the soft, nearly imperceptable
rush of air from between my murderous breasts-- the vacuum created by
his own panicked attempt to breathe was suddenly gone.

I pulled myself out from underneath his motionless body, allowing him
to fall flat on his back.  For a long moment I was paralyzed with a
confused, animal fear.  I stared at his face, his wide-open eyes, his
bluish lips still pursed for the last desperate suck of air.

They would have to believe I had acted in self-defense.  But I could
picture the headline:  HOTSHOT DESIGNER SNUFFED OUT BY BUXOM
BITCH'S BOSOM.  I could imagine the jail cells, the courtroom, the
trial, and the tabloid press hounding me with stupid questions as I
was hustled to and from dark sedans... WHY-DID-YOU-DO-IT-
CECE-WHY-DID-YOU-DO-IT...and when it would be over, what little I had,
the dreams I had, everything would be lost forever......everything
lost over a few hundred bucks, a leather catsuit and a horny old man.


How was it fair for this to happen to me?
	
I had to choose what the rest of my life was going to be.
	
The money.  I groped for it in the rumpled folds of the comforter.
What else did I have now?  It would get me back to New Orleans.  It
would get me to Mexico.

But getting out... getting away...how could I get away?  The door was
locked. The apartment was full of people... more girls to satisfy the
old geezer's depraved appetites.  They'd know before I even reached
the lobby, unless...

I started with the bedstand drawer.  After five minutes of desperate
searching I found the small brass key tied to a loop of white ribbon.
I stood listening at the door to be sure the hall was empty, then
turned the key soundlessly.  Locking the door on the inside,
I slipped out and pulled it closed behind me.  I then slid the key
under the door and out of reach.

"Cece?"

It was Marianna turning the corner.  I felt her eyes travel over me,
resting on the fistful of hundreds, my dishevelled hair, by bloodied
face. I watched her upper lip curl back.

“Cece! Damn! I didn’t think you'd go *that* far with it!”

“Shut up, bitch,” I said.  “What’d you think I was in there to do?”

I pushed past her.  There was no time to waste.  Paul met me halfway
to the bedroom where I had changed clothes.  It took all the
self-possession I had left to keep from slapping the smirk off his
face.  I pushed passed him, too, ignoring his comment about making a
regular appointment for me.  I retrieved my wallet, my keys and my
coat,and headed for the door, Marianna and Paul stumbling through the
waiting “models” tofollow after me.

“Cece! Cece, wait!  You forgot to change!”
	
“Dammit, do you have any idea what that suit cost?  I’ll call the cops
on you, you bitch!”  Paul yelled.

Paul grabbed me by the arm.  I wrenched my arm free and threw a swing
at him, knocking him back.  He stumbled and fell to the floor.  Then I
ran for the stairs.
	
I left Marianna on the landing of the twenty-fifth floor-- she had
broken a heel trying to keep up and was gasping for air.  She kept
yelling  that I had to return the catsuit, that she would never get me
a “gig” again, and that she had no idea what an cheap slut I really
was. 

But I didn't care.  I was going to run for it.  I was going to be
free.


======TO BE CONTINUED======
(c) copyright J. Z. Al-Huriyeh 1998
_______________________________
Aux innocents les mains pleines
_______________________________

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