A Fly on the Wall: Can We Put on a Bad Barbie Fashion Show

A Fly on the Wall

by Ganymede

A Fly on the Wall is the story of Savannah Martin, a ten-year-old fashion model, and the journey to change gender. With surgery in Mexico depending on meeting certain conditions, the responsibility falls on Grampa.

To read the rest of the story, click here: Contents

To read other Ganymede stories, click here: Ganymede

Copyright 2019

The responsibility falls on you, the reader, to support Nifty.

It’s easy, safer than using a condom, and personally satisfying.

Why let others pay the bills for your thrills?

Vignette < < < Can we put on a Bad-Barbie Show? >>>>

Frank Martin arrived on the non-stop red eye from Phoenix, less to save money than to avoid the pre-Thanksgiving Day traffic through JFK. At 6:00 am, he splurged, $15.00 for coffee and two croissants while he waited, bleary eyed, for a limo to take him to 39th Street.

Savannah was still asleep when he stretched out on the couch, intending to snooze for an hour, perhaps two. He awoke at noon to New York City noise, taxi horns bleating, pneumatic drills, a constant dull drone through the curtained windows. He could hear Karen in the kitchen, the stop and start of her sewing machine, high-pitched giggles lurking somewhere nearby. Savannah’s fuzzy blue baby blanket was over his top half, tightly tucked in.

“There’s a cowboy asleep on your couch.”

Frank was sure the voice belonged to Mickey. Ten going on eleven, precocious like Savannah, and gender dysphoric, just farther along. Girly didn’t come close.

Savannah came closer. “Don’t wake him up!”

He could sense them, Mickey like a cautious kitten, tiptoeing up. She stopped at the armrest, only inches away.

“I wish my grandpa was cool like yours, even if the outfit’s a bit over the top,” Mickey whispered.

Savannah looked down at him, sprawled on the couch in crumpled checked blue and yellow shirt, cowboy genre with requisite rawhide and turquoise bolo, stone-washed blue jeans, and silver bronco-buster belt-buckle. His tan Italian-leather jacket draped over the couch armrest; hand-tooled cowboy boots custom-made for Cimarron Ranch laying on the floor where he’d kicked them off.

“I think he looks hot, kinda like Bruce Willis.” Mickey confided from the opposite end of the couch. “He’s sexy, don’t you think?”

“He’s my grampa, dumb ass.”

“I bet his dick is huge when it’s stiff.”

“You shouldn’t say stuff like that.”

“Sshhh!” Mickey’s voice returned to a whisper. “His bulge is way bigger than my uncle’s.”

“So what if it is?”

“Geez, Sav; don’t you know anything? The bigger they are, the more they hurt.”

“You mean in your butt?”

“Duh! If it’s this big soft, it must humongous when he’s got a hard-on.”

“We could take a photo and ‘shop it.”

Frank wasn’t sure he’d heard right, not *his* Savannah.

“Pick one of your porno pics,” she added with a girlish giggle.

“You should pick! You said you see him in the buff when you go skinny dipping at his ranch. I bet he gets a stiff when he’s around you… My uncle would for sure.”

Savannah glanced at her grandfather. He’d told her not to say anything; not a word to Mom or anyone else about what they did in private.

It was safer not to say anything, but Mickey regarded her, expecting confirmation or denial.

“So much for sharing secrets with you.”

“So you seen it. Really big, right?”

Annoyed that she said that much when she should’ve kept her mouth shut, Frank was about to ‘wake up’ and surprise his ‘admirers’ when the sewing machine stopped.

“Disturb Grampa, and he’ll kick your butt back to Cimarron Ranch, Savannah,” Karen chided from the kitchen.

Mickey said the first thing that came into her head. “Can we put on a Bad Barbie fashion show when he wakes up?”

“You said I should model Rage for him, Mom,” Savannah added. “We got to get the runway set up so it’s a surprise when he wakes up. Come on, Mickey.”

She headed toward her bedroom doorway, giggling Mickey right on her heels.

“How about you model for both of us after I get back?” Karen called after them.

Savannah pirouetted. “You going out, Mom?”

“If I’m going to spend the holiday with you and Grampa, I have to run to the studio and pick up a few things. Meanwhile, you need to put on some clothes before he wakes up. Seeing both of you running around in panties might give him a heart attack.”

<<>>

Frank peeked; it was impossible not to. Savannah wore TOMBOY WONDER, a hipster-style bikini bottom, scarcely enough to cover private parts with a second skin of purple and pink faux-snake scales. It was exotic and erotic, and loaded with latent sexuality. The matching bra was strapless, no more than a stretchy ribbon around her chest to flatten breasts. Mickey paled beside her, white semi-see-thru lace panties and a training bra that could’ve come from Victoria’s Secret, if they had a kids’ department.

He was still trying to decide if ‘WONDER’ had to do with Wonder Woman when he heard the two kids snickering, following Karen’s instructions to ‘bolt’ the door. Bare feet padded back to the couch, their muted whispers intermixed with giggles as they moved around rearranging furniture and setting up three reading lamps as spotlights.

“Enter from the right, walk slowly to here with panache; that’s flair.” Savannah went through the motions. “Mr. Perlman always wants me to wriggle my hips, do my ‘sashay,’ he calls it, only not too much or you look passé. That’s like last season’s catwalk queen. Then, pirouette and panache back to the bedroom.”

“I got it.”

It wasn’t often that Mickey relinquished leadership; it made sense when Fashion Brat was the expert.

“What are you wearing?”

Savannah decided on the spot. “Mr. Perlman always says start big and end with a bang; so I’m starting with Biker. Grampa thinks I’m uber sexy in it. Then, regular stuff; then, some of Mom’s early Rage outfits to finis.”

“Can we act sexy?”

“Sure. On the runway, I sort of flirt with the audience. Mr. Perlman calls it my ‘sultry kid’ look. It’s with your eyes mostly down, and using your body to express mood. Mom and I practiced forever to get ‘languid’ just right.”

“That French, too?”

“Most everything is in fashion.”

Savannah performed ‘languid,’ sauntering with a kind of flouncy sway. Frank would’ve ‘woken up’ to watch; however, Mickey stood directly in front of him, arranging a reading lamp on the table beside the couch. Semi-see-thru lace panties didn’t hide much; however, there wasn’t much to hide, just the elongated bump of a little-finger-sized penis.

His interest increased when Mickey picked up the TOMBOY Fall catalog, Savannah and Raoul posing for Biker. Faux-leather vests open in front and skinny-leg pants, little black studs, oversized chrome zippers, kids having fun on a 1970s classic Harley Electra Glide.

“I had to learn sang-froid for that shoot,” Savannah went on. “It means really cool, like zero stress.”

She demonstrated, becoming the disdainful James Dean Junior on the cover, stepping around Mickey, dramatic, imperial, haughty head tilted, peeking back, slender neck stretched, little lithe body holding the pose. Then, a slow turn, making her already slender legs seem longer, as graceful as a stork in water.

“Wow!”

“Mom said to act like I was naked, only pretend I know someone’s watching me. That’s why I’m sneakin’ peeks.”

Mickey held the magazine at arm’s length, comparing. “You look really sexy.”

“I’m sultry,” Savannah mimicked Mom, flicking curls over her shoulders. “Modeling’s fun when Bruce is the photographer,” she added.

“How?”

“Mom won’t let me show skin on the catwalk unless it’s the style. Bruce, he does all my TOMBOY shoots; he want to see skin. He’s not happy if my tummy’s covered up.”

Mickey gave the front cover a second look; only one belly was bare. The Biker ensemble included six shirt styles; Raoul’s was red, no collar. Savannah’s pink T-shirt draped the green and white Harley fuel tank; the contrast as provocative as her downward smile.

Envious, Mickey resorted to, “He’s gay, girlfriend.”

Savannah shrugged, gave the catwalk an approving nod, and headed off to get dressed. Mickey dawdled in the rear, undecided about what she would wear, wondering if Savannah’s grandfather was really *that* big—the bulge in his jeans was huge.