The moon hangs full over an anonymous building in the Warehouse District.

A black limousine arrives discreetly on the wet gravel outside, disgorges its esteemed guests into the shadows, and leaves. In the distance, barking dogs.

Inside, chaos.

Lights everywhere. Frazzled faces rushing about backstage getting ready for the show. Flashes go off as a photographer shoots a few models lounging sultrily over decrepit stairs, against raw brick walls oozing bohemian chic.

The girl looks at the stylist, who is admiring her creation in the mirror. “Simply dahling,” sings the stylist. She fluffs the girl's hair, gives it a ruffled look. Satisfied, she flicks her fingers. “Just dahling. Now, shoo!” The girl smiles, gets up from the makeup chair, and for a moment, stares at herself in the lighted mirror. The makeup artist's hand rises with her and imparts parting dabs (“Dewy. Natural. That face was made for runway makeup!”). 

The girl is amazed at the magic that these people do. She pouts. She hardly recognizes the girl pouting back at her with silvery eyes and glossy lips — the white satin lingerie contrasts so well with her tanned and toned and lightly-oiled skin. And to think, just two hours earlier, this very same girl arrived in tank top and skinny jeans, just another fresh-faced coltish model happy to find work at Fashion Week in the City. She is lucky to have beaten hundreds of hopeful models over two highly competitive castings.

“This way, please” a strong hand grabs her arm and leads her over to Props, narrowly missing a rack of taffetas and spaghetti straps rushing somewhere. “All yours, Viktor,” says Strong-Hand as she is propelled towards an arty, effeminate man. She turns back to see the laughing skull on the back of Strong-Hand's black tee as he rushes off, probably to manhandle some other model. Didn't need to be rude, she thinks.

Nevermind, she must be professional about this — this is her biggest assignment yet, and these people are such wonderful paymasters — generous rates, salon visit the day before (“they ordered you in honey-roasted brown, just a tad overdone so people know the tan is fresh. Thoroughly waxed, of course,” announced the salon girl); and a luxury spa session in the morning (“to soothe the soreness, and to bring out your natural oils tonight, love”). Not to mention limo rides to and from the show, with complementary drinks for the nerves. A girl could get used to this.

“Over here, darl — oh lose those undies, will you? Change of plans, you won't be needing those tonight,” says Effeminate, as he opens an ivory-inlaid box.

“But, I just came from Wardrobe...”

“Quickly, quickly! You're going to be late!” Effeminate barks impatiently with a perfect little frown. As she wriggles out of her laces, a collar hovers overhead, wraps round her neck. “Now, doesn't this look boom-boom-boom sexxxy on you? Kinky, kinky!” Effeminate coos as he adjusts the designer collar till it sits nicely at the base of her slender neck. He locks it shut, sticks his finger between collar and neck, pressing against her collar bone. “Comfortable?” She nods. “Fabulous — we've to make sure it doesn't slide about that lovely neck of yours.” 

“So what will I be wea-”

A tap on her lightly-oiled shoulder. She flinches (skin still a tad tight and sore, price of a fresh bake) and turns to see an impossibly leggy blonde. It's her minder. “Ciao, you're up next, hurry!” Her handler looks every inch the fashionista in elegant Valentino red, exchanging quick air kisses with Effeminate. “Hurry! No no, just leave those laces on the floor.” Snap. Blonde Minder has fixed a leash to the collar and is now leading her, running, naked, on heels, collar bell jingling, through the back-stage mass of people, who are too busy to look at her. She arrives at the stage door, joins a short queue of similarly-attired girls on the red carpet, all beautiful, perfectly coiffured and naked, wearing only a designer collar, and high heels, and each led by a gorgeous handler. 

Her handler asks, “You ready?”

She nods, “But I don't understand...”

“Change of plans. It's the defrocked look now. Au naturel. Something fresher, edgier — you know, like Reality TV? Minimalist cover, maximum drama.”

Right, parading naked girls. Really fresh. Fresh meat, maybe. Takes “cattle show” to a new level.

She removes her hands from her breasts and crotch — none of the other models seem to care.

“For this show, they want ‘playful’, ‘impromptu’ and ‘improvised’. It's all about ‘The Now’. It's about audience interaction, natural responses — you know, a spontaneous, cheeky show. That's a very expensive collar you're selling on your neck.”

A collar? That's the secret fashion accessory I'm selling to international fashion buyers?

Now, with each breath, she feels the weight and presence of the collar wrapped around her neck — it feels oddly controlling.

Still, she has glimpsed the arriving audience earlier, decked out in tuxedos and couture frocks. However bizarre this may appear, this is an elegant fashion show for the well-heeled.

Blonde Minder leans in and whispers to her ear, “But we shall cheat and rehearse a bit, make you look good, hmm?”

She nods.

Yes... maybe I might get lucky tonight, meet a nice sugar daddy... I so need that Prada bag!

“Okay, when I jerk the leash like this, you go down on all fours — understand? There's a love.” As she nods, the leash jerks, and she obeys. Blonde Minder walks her a few steps to the side, bell jingling. This is humiliating, she thinks, the things a girl has to do to pay the rent in this town. At least till she becomes famous. Payoff for the gym hours — then men will worship her on the billboards.

She is walked back.

“Good girl. You can swing your derriere a bit more — the buyers love that.”

She hears the techno music spurting into life on stage outside. Another flick of the leash, a sustained tug — her chin is lifted up and she is guided to her feet, on tiptoes. She watches the girls in front of her begin to sashay forward on their high heels and out the door, one at a time. She feels her wrists being pulled back. Ow, she recoils for a second, straining against the leash. A stage hand throws the ice cubes back into the bucket. She stares disbelievably at her chest... her nipples are now constricted, wet... and icy cold. She glares at the stage hand, looks at the stage manager in protest, who ignores her and checks the bio tag on her collar against the glossy show catalog: height 5' 8'', weight 106 lbs, measurements 35"-24"-34", eyes green, hair hazel brown, stock Caucasian, shoes 8½. She squirms, realizes that her wrists are firmly secured behind her. She has done artistic nude photoshoots before (two Trade-for-CDs, not counting that dubious photography workshop involving generous servings of linseed oil), but now, suddenly, she feels naked, exposed; like her freshly shorn motte, she has nowhere to hide.

Blonde Minder smiles approvingly. “Yes, that's very good — do that — work your shoulders and arms — they'll love it!” she shouts through the pumping music into her ear as she guides her shoulders forward into a hunched pose. Hefting an oiled breast in one hand, she adds, “Showcase these, darling, there's nothing quite like the bounce of organic titties. I'm sure they'll fetch a good price per pound.”

“But — ”

The manager verifies the serial number on her collar, checks it against what appears to be an ownership deed, and satisfied, slaps a large “Lot #8” circle on her left breast, just above the now-attentive nipple. “Next!”

The well-worn industrial door creaks open, letting in the blast of techno dance; she hesitates; her minder cracks the whip, jerks the leash, and she is dragged out, naked and collared, on stilettos, into the blinding lights and the pounding beat.

The auction begins.

Now possible. With LULU Signature Collar (and Cuffs). Comes with Ownership Deed on the LULU Public Register, Pet Tag, Pet Crawl Dynamic AO, Leash●Me system, Convertible Leash Ring and the Air Rez system.

Postscript.

The show was the most humilating experience of her life — after the catwalk, she was led from table to table. Blonde Minder was way too enthusiastic with that whip, encouraging her into various uncomfortable and embarrassing poses in front of the distinguished guests, who discerningly palpated both collar and wearer while exchanging bon mots over Moet flutes. From the corner of her eye, she could see other girls at other dimly-lit tables, perfect, oiled bodies bending in purple strobe, showing off their collars too.

At the end though, she was thrilled that her collar fetched one of the highest prices. They did promise her a tip if she managed to get them a good price — it might make all her welts worth it.

Auction over, her minder is now leading her through the tables. She strides, on heels, head high, shoulders square, unfettered breasts bouncing with each stride, face nonchalant the way good models look, her naked browned body still stinging from the whip.

Yes, very kinky, she thinks to herself, the model delivers the collar, on her neck, to the successful bidder, in person, naked, bound, on six-inch heels.

Presently she is in a private room, kneeling. The buyer is a tall bearded man in tuxedo and red bow tie. So the collar is for his dog. The dog, which looks like a wolf, is sitting on its haunches, leashed beside his owner and staring at her. Dog and girl are on the floor, leashed to opposite camps, only she has her wrists cuffed behind her. My collar is prettier than yours, she thinks, good upgrade for you, lucky dog. She watches the small party sip champagne and finish the paperwork and shake hands. She is thirsty. She has worked hard tonight — or perhaps more accurately, she has been worked hard — and she cannot wait for drinks and networking at the after party. She deserves it.

Blonde Minder hands over the papers, keys and leash to the bearded man. He is holding the leashes to both dog and girl on the floor and is now ogling her fresh stripes, her oiled nakedness. She feels the heat of his eyes on her shoulders, her breasts, her arms, her thighs, her rump, as if they are being lashed all over, again, part by part. She looks down. A camera flashes a few times to record the occasion. He must notice her nipples — they are erect though they are no longer cold. Why are they not moving to take the collar already?

Blonde Minder bends down, whispers into her ear, “Oh darling, before we bring you to the after party, there's one thing you should know — these couture collars are custom-made, so it is only natural that... the girl... whose neck it fits... the girl... comes with the collar.” Blonde Minder straightens and leaves the room even as the dog moves forward to sniff her.

Every Lulu has a story. What's yours?