Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
It's truly stunning on her.
I think I’m prouder of this garment than of any piece I’ve ever made before. Ever.
“It’s magnifique, Autumn. I feel va-va-va-voom,” Jeanette answers, shimmying her shoulders and swaying her hips.
But looking around the room, I’m worried it doesn’t have enough wow-factor. It’s seductive in a feminine wiles sort of way, and against Katarina and Beatrice’s work in particular, I’m afraid Jeanette’s dress is simply . . . quiet.
Katarina’s collection actually reminds me of the outfit I wore at the club with Simon. It’s black and red and boldly sexy. She’s made two cocktail dresses, one super short and the other long with a slit that shows the top of her model’s hipbone. Definitely a commando situation. Two other models have harnesses layered over their tops, inspired by the bridle Katarina bought on our shopping trip. And her finale look? A red leather A-line gown that, while simple, fits impeccably and looks so buttery soft it begs to be touched. All in all . . . it’s drama, with a capital D and a ‘get on your knees before me, peasant’ vibe. A bit gothic, a bit dominatrix, and all sex.
Beatrice’s garments are classic and classy, in a full range of flesh-tones that match her models’ skin perfectly, giving an illusion of nudity while being tasteful. She’s accented with loads of sheer tulle in huge, grand overskirts or fluffy poufs at the shoulders. Her finale dress has a cape-train situation, cascading down from the dress’s shoulders and spilling out for at least three feet behind the model. For a monochromatic collection, there is also plenty of drama.
If I’m being honest, I want Katarina’s leather gown and Beatrice’s tulle overskirt in my own wardrobe.
Molly bought a twelve-inch, bright pink dildo as her inspiration piece, or so she claimed, though I think she might’ve just added it to her personal collection of toys instead. But given the outrageously thick, veiny muse, her pieces are relatively tame. Well, for Molly. She said her goal was to make an outfit that would get the wearer rode hard and put up wet, one for each day of the week, Monday through Friday because ‘Everyone knows Naked Weekends are totally a thing.’ I’d looked at the other designers with raised eyebrows when Molly said that and they mostly seemed to be thinking the same thing as I was . . . Molly’s crazy. And also, don’t go to her place on Saturday unless you want to check her ass for odd moles. But somehow, Molly’s pulled it together, and her days of the week outfits are flirty and cute. I’m afraid they’re not quite the House Corbin vibe, but she has to be true to herself.
Which is what I remind Yori, who seems to be worrying as much as I am.
“That looks fabulous, girl! Walk, walk, walk!” I snap my fingers encouragingly, praising the model who’s strutting back and forth across the room. Yori is sitting on the floor, evaluating the draping as it moves. “It’s exactly what you said you wanted . . . Glam Japan!”
Yori smiles, her eyes never leaving the hem of the dress. “Thank you. The sash effect . . . is it too . . .” Her words trail off as she thinks and then finally, she resorts to charades. She acts like she’s holding a baby . . . no, a bouquet, one hand above her head like an invisible crown, and then she ugly cries.
“Oh, pageant-y?” I translate. When Yori nods and points at me triumphantly, I look at her dress again. I never would’ve thought that, but now that she’s said it . . . “Hmm, maybe if the draping was attached at the bustline instead of the shoulder?”
“Yes!” Yori shouts, jumping up from the floor and pulling her model back toward the sewing machine. “Strip, now!” she orders.
I smile. At least Yori’s concerns are fixed. But mine?
I’m not sure. Should I do something else for Jeanette’s dress? Or trust my original instincts.
“Jeanette, can you walk for me, please?” I automatically make a walking movement with my fingers, using the shorthand we’ve pieced together over the last two weeks, and she begins model stomping across the floor like a badass bitch.
I nibble at my lip, thinking. Something is wrong.
Jeanette holds up a finger, telling me to wait. “I have idea.”
“Well, I’m sure as hell open to hearing it,” I tell her.
She fidgets with her phone for a moment and then piano music begins to play. It’s funky, jazzy, and sensual with unexpected notes. She backs up down the makeshift runway space and resets herself.
Her face softens, her lips lifting ever so slightly at the corners, and somehow, her already long arms grow longer and more graceful. She doesn’t walk, she prowls down the runway, slow and panther-like. The dress didn’t change, but the entire feeling of it does with Jeanette’s personality.