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and these are all fashion categories pretty models naturally love, of course.

Cindy's tastes were well developed, but also young and fickle. She changed her designer allegiance often, impulsively rushing out to get her latest fashion hero's sexiest little suit or dress on a moment's notice.

"He's so great!" she'd gush as she'd show me some new little suit she'd bought. "He's really the best he knows what women want.

The designer in question changed from month to month, but Cindy's enthusiasm was always fresh; always new.

My mistress' clothes addiction became a surprising source of attraction for me, too. The fashions sometimes made my tedious job rather fun. I never knew what fascinating, avant garde' outfit Miss Cindy would bring home next. I'd never dreamed I'd be so enthralled and intrigued by women's fashion.

Sometimes she would even bring home surprisingly sexy little panties and bras or a silky chemise or something for me. I had hated her gifts at first, but grew to look forward to them. At least they showed she was thinking of me when she was out shopping.

RECENTLY, MISS CINDY HAD EVEN TAKEN ME SHOPPING WITH HER. On a rainy Saturday in April Cindy loaned me a pair of her jeans and a plain white linen blouse. We were nearly the same size, although she had a much more interesting shape. Cindy was insistent about my wearing a gaff and smooth lace panties under her jeans, however.

"They're women's jeans, Cissie, and they just wouldn't look right otherwise. Trust me I know about these things!"

I caved in to her, of course. (At least she didn't make me wear a bra! She said it was my option.) Although I looked a effeminate in Cindy's clothes, it wasn't a big problem in sophisticated Manhattan. I had my hair pulled back into a ponytail and no makeup. We took a cab to a new boutique Miss Cindy had heard about on the upper West Side.

The salesgirls immediately flocked around Miss Cindy, anxious to be of service to her. One of them even recognized her from an advertisement for cosmetics she'd recently done.

I wasn't sure whether they thought I was a boy or girl. If they thought "boy", I hoped they wouldn't recognize that my "shirt" was actually a blouse and that I had girl's jeans

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on, since both buttoned right over left. My tight gaff and panties also made the crotch of the jeans much too smooth for a guy. But why was I even worrying they were so dazzled by Miss Cindy's beauty, they never took their eyes off her for an instant.

Cindy asked if her "boy" could join her in the dressing room to "help me on and off with things." The girls were a bit puzzled and stared at me as I hurried in and out of the dressing room asking for items in different colors or sizes. They snickered a little at my scurrying, but never said anything rude. As the girls were boxing up Miss Cindy's purchases, they mentioned quietly to her that they thought it was great she had her boyfriend so well trained.

"He isn't my boyfriend, silly he's my servant," Cindy announced plainly. With that she looked at me and sternly announced, "Come get my packages, we're going now.'

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Miss Cindy walked haughtily out the door as I sheepishly began gathering all her packages up off the counter. "Are you really a boy and her servant?" one of the salesgirls asked in an excited whisper.

"Yes," I whispered back, smiling nervously. "You poor, sweet boy she must really keep you hopping!"

―

"Yes, she does," I answered truthfully.

The pretty salesgirl kindly held the door open for me and said, "Good luck!" as I left. Instead of feeling ashamed of being Miss Cindy's servant, I actually felt a little proud as I walked out the door of the boutique. The salesgirls watched from the doorway as I scurried down 72nd street after Cindy, my arms full with her purchases.

DRESSING MISS CINDY FOR HER LATE NIGHT EXCURSIONS TO THE hottest clubs in the city was like an adventure in fashion. Sexy, barely-there underthings were daringly worn to show, a risky approach that was nonetheless successful on Cindy's incredible, "to-die-for" body. Short leather mini-skirts in rich colors would hug her perfect butt tighter than the tightest pants. Low-cut tops worn over devilish "push-up" demi-cup bras displayed an almost pneumatic cleavage, making her the embodiment of a breast fetishist's dreams.

Miss Cindy also had little body-skimming dresses in linen or stretchy knits to wear out at night. They were mostly in