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Emerson wondered if it really was cold in here, or if it just seemed like it because he was clad only in underwear. Specifically, boxer shorts. More than that, boxer shorts that weren't even his.

Seated on a bare wooden bench, the only furniture in the small dressing room, the big white-furred bear inhaled deeply (an act that had once been said to threaten oxygen deprivation to others in the same car as himself) and let it out slowly. He made himself breathe and remember where he was, what he was doing there. Unfortunately, that didn't help much; the idea was still intimidating, no matter how many times he made himself remember all of the reasons that he had decided to go through with this. He needed the money, and he'd already gone this far. He just wasn't sure he'd be able to... He breathed deeply again, willing himself to calm down. It hadn't happened yet, after all, and even if it did, maybe it wouldn't be so bad, and he could always walk out, or maybe he could actually do it, if he could just_calm down..._

A gentle knock on the door surprised him. "Yes?" he managed, although he wasn't at all sure that was the right word to use, in the context.

"Mr. McGraw, may I come in?"

The bear swallowed. It wasn't like he was entirely naked or anything. He wondered how that might change, given the situation. "Yeah, sure."

Opening slowly, on silent hinges, the door moved inward to reveal an old beagle, some gray in his smiling muzzle and on his drooping dun-colored ears. Short of stature, the dog still held himself well, only a slight stoop in his shoulders to indicate that he was getting on in years. Dressed simply (khaki trousers, a pullover knit shirt with a recognizable branding on the left breast), he didn't look like what the bear was expecting.

"I'm Bryce, Mr. McGraw. I hope everyone's been treating you well?"

"Just fine, thanks. Call me Emerson."

The beagle bowed slightly. "Emerson it shall be. Very pleased to meet you."

"Same." Inwardly, Emerson cursed himself. He was usually polite, outgoing, interested in others, at least enough to talk with them, when he had the chance. This wasn't his usual self. He wondered if it might be better to be someone else for a while.

"So, Emerson." The beagle closed the door quietly, then adjusted the half-moon reading glasses on his snout, consulting a clipboard (which, Emerson thought, was appropriately "old school" for the dog to use), bringing out a pencil from under the large clip at the top of the board. "You've been doing some modeling for us."

"Yes, sir."

Another smile on the gray-flecked muzzle. "Just Bryce is fine, Emerson. I hope that 'old-fashioned' doesn't mean that I'm too old to be on a first-name basis with those a few years younger than I." The eyes didn't seem old at all, the way they twinkled. "Or quite a bit more than a few."

The bear tried not to betray his edginess, but he wasn't sure if the shower that he took a little while ago was enough to disguise the nervous sweat he was beginning to generate, despite the room seeming cold.

"Are you enjoying the work?"

"It's really different," Emerson managed. "Trying on a lot of clothes and such. First time I ever showered on the job."

"That's a standard thing in modeling, at least for us." The beagle looked back at his notes. "It's actually hard work, what with all that posing, moving, flexing under hot lights and so on. I like to make sure that our models are taken care of properly. A fur can lose a lot of fluids on the set."

The wording did little to curb the bear's concerns. He had answered the ad, wondering why it wanted "young males of large stature." He qualified on all counts -- 23 trips around the sun, tall, wide in the shoulders, strong arms, strong legs (no one asked about the rest but, if all be known, yes, that too was of matching proportions) -- and was signed on the spot. The first day had been formal wear, tuxedos and so on; the next, business wear; the next, upscale but more casual. Bit by bit, the clothing became less and less, until now he was wearing only boxer shorts that were slightly too snug and too short for him. He was careful not to allow anything to be put on display that shouldn't be there, but he was beginning to wonder when they'd lower the boom and tell him what he had really (if unknowingly) signed up for.

At that moment, the door swung open again, and in clopped a Clydesdale stallion -- another "young male of large stature" who looked as if he spent all his waking hours working out. Taller still than Emerson's two full meters, the horse's broad shoulders helped him fill the rest of the doorway space. His ripped musculature ran from eartips to hooves; it was easy to observe this, since he was clad in nothing but a snugly-fitting, bright red thong that contrasted mightily with his dark taupe hide. The "snugly-fitting" aspect provided further details that Emerson wasn't at all sure he wanted to know.

"Bryce..." the newcomer began before noticing the bear's presence and blinking at him. "Oh, sorry; didn't know anyone else was in here."

"Emerson is our new model. Emerson, let me introduce you to Kenny; you're likely to bump up against him on set."

Inwardly, the bear cringed.

"Hi," the stallion offered in an offpaw, but perfectly friendly, way. His smile was bright and seemed to go all the way up to his golden-hazel eyes. "First time modeling?"

"How could you tell?"

"Because I know how cold these rooms can feel." Kenny crossed the small room to a closet and, reaching inside, pulled out a large, white terry-cloth robe. "That oughta fit ya," he said tossing it gently in the bear's direction. "If not, we'll find one for you."

"Oh heavens, I've been silly." The old beagle turned a benevolent eye toward the new recruit. "Emerson, I apologize; I should have mentioned those before. It's hot under the lights, but it can be positively frigid in the rooms back here." He frowned at the stallion. "Come to that, Kenny, why aren't you wearing a robe as well?"

"I'm used to the cold by now." The Clyde laughed easily as he crossed back toward the old beagle. Emerson's forepaws worked at getting the fabric of his robe to cooperate as quickly as possible. He had little choice but to watch the chiseled glutes of the stallion passing in front of him, since they were more or less at his eye-level. That situation, he realized, could be cured simply by standing up, but he wasn't entirely sure that he wouldn't be more than a little wobbly on his pins. The view had been an unnerving admixture of frightening and arousing, and the bear had yet to reconcile those feelings.

The phrase bump up against him on set was still echoing in his ears.

"You were looking for me, Kenny?" the dog asked, peering up at the stallion over the top of his glasses.

"Had a question about this thong." Without the slightest pretense towards shyness, the Clyde lifted his powerful arms and looked down along his washboard torso, pivoting on his hooves. "Are you sure this is the right size? It feels really tight."

"It's supposed to show off your assets, pardon the joke." Bryce cast an appraising eye over every aspect of the thong, no doubt checking it for fit. (Of course, Emerson thought. Sure. Right. Whatever.) "You're meant to demonstrate its ease of removal; those magnetized snaps are the main selling point for this design."

"That's what I'm talking about; I have the feeling that, if I move just the wrong way--"

Apparently, in his attempts to demonstrate the focus of his concern, Kenny managed to show everything else instead. With audible_clicks,_ the snaps at his hips popped open, and the entire garment managed to fall to the floor, slithering against the silky dark hide of his tree-trunk thighs on the way down. The externally-displayed equipment was such that Emerson didn't really want to know what the still-hidden equipment might be like; his ego was easily deflated.

Neither of the other two males expressed even the slightest embarrassment. The bear wondered if maybe they had both been in_that_ part of the business for too long.

"I see what you mean." Bryce leaned over to retrieve the garment, examining it closely. He held it so close to his muzzle that Emerson thought he must be sniffing it. The beagle stopped, adjusting his glasses for a moment. "There's the tag... Oh. Yes, I think this might be a size too small. Have Syzygy get another set out of stores, next size up. Oh, and you might want to consider anchoring the tail strap on the next pair; at least that way, it won't fall to the floor at your next unveiling."

"You want me to have it hanging from the base of my tail?"

"It would make quite the flag to be captured." The beagle smiled softly as he made a playful swat at the stallion's tail with the size-too-small garment. "Off you go, lad. I think I need to help Emerson get his brain started up again."

Kenny offered a good-natured laugh, and Emerson tried to get his lower jaw to go back up to meet the rest of his maw. The stallion exited, closing the door behind him, and Bryce turned a pair of very kindly, still-twinkling eyes toward the bear, his smile still soft, almost paternal. "We're very casual around here, Emerson. I hope we haven't offended you in some way."

"No, no, not at all, just..." The bear broke off, feeling more awkward than ever. "I guess I... don't know how things work in this... sort of job."

"Things can happen fast, and sometimes, space is limited. Models tend to do what they need to do -- get their wardrobe changed, go through hair, makeup, whatever -- and not think too much about whoever might be around to watch." The beagle's smile increased slightly. "A bit of a paradox, though, considering that models are those who are paid to be watched."

Emerson swallowed past a small lump in his throat. "Yeah. I guess so."

"Kenny isn't vain, believe it or not." Bryce went back to check on his notes. "A trade secret for you, my young bear: The best models are confident but not arrogant. Some few of the highest-paid models break that rule, but they don't usually last long. When they start to expect their star treatment, rather than appreciating it, they become inflexible, intractable, and a singular pain in the ass."

Remembering the stallion's general size and appearance, the bear felt himself clench.

"Not long after that," the old beagle continued, "they tend to fall out of favor, except perhaps for what might be called 'private clientele'." He poked the air with clawed quote marks, shaking his head with some sadness. "That's a long, slow, painful way down."

"You've seen it?"

"I damn near lived it, until a snow leopard I greatly admired took me aside and taught me a proper lesson."

"You were a model?" Emerson cursed himself the moment the words were out of his maw. Fortunately, the beagle took the question at muzzle-value, answering with another of his gentle smiles.

"This sort of work takes all shapes and sizes, lad. I'm a bit long in the fang to be considered a desirable model by many of our clients, but I had a modest career in my younger years that I parlayed into a decent savings account, and I've parlayed that into this humble offering of my various remaining talents."

Although still nervous, the bear had managed to get the robe on without any accidental revelations to his audience of one. "You, um, get everyone... ready?"

"I tend to wardrobe, mostly; what I don't get done, Syzygy helps with quite effectively."

"Who is sih-zih-gee?" Emerson pronounced carefully.

"She's the peripatetic young kinkajou that you'll find flying across every set that we have."

"Oh, she's female?" Somehow, the idea that there was a female around gave Emerson a sense of relief, although he wasn't at all sure why.

"At the moment," Bryce replied.

The bear's brain threatened to seize up again. "At the--"

"They call it 'gender-fluid,' I'm told. She's 'she' this week." The beagle shook his head ruefully, yet another small smile on his muzzle. "I haven't the slightest understanding of it, myself; I chalk that up to being old. Even so, I try to respect his... excuse me,her wishes."

The reply was heartfelt enough that Emerson was able to let go of at least some of his nervousness, and he nodded slowly. "That's good of you."

"Thank you for saying." Bryce waved his forepaws in a_get up_ gesture. "Rise, young bear; let's have a proper look at you. I need to examine those shorts closely before you get on set."

He gained his hindpaws, but the bear was reluctant to open his robe for fear of what he'd heard called a "wardrobe malfunction," on a scale far more explicit than that offered by the stallion. Emerson calmed himself as best he could, holding his breath as the beagle leaned down to examine the evidence more closely. After a moment, the dog tugged at the waistband, used both forepaws to pull down first one leg of the boxers, then the other, then huffed a breath as if with effort (or an attempt to get a better sniff?) before standing up to his full height again.

"Has everything shrunk?" he asked no one in particular. "You'd have to peel those things off a few centimeters at a time..." Padding to the door, he opened it and called down the hallway. "Syzygy, dear, Kenny isn't the only one with size issues today. Emerson will need larger boxers."

"Emerwho?" called a high voice from a short distance.

"Our new recruit, the white bear. Just bring the whole lot; he may have to try on a few 'til we find the right size."

Bryce closed the door gently, then waved his pencil in a non-descript rolling motion. "I don't even know how you managed to get those on, and you're likely to feel better with them off. Go ahead."

Standing very still, the robe hanging open, the bear tried to make use of actual words. "Umm..." Fail.

"Oh, sorry." The beagle glanced around the dressing area, frowning. "We really don't stand on ceremony here. Great gods above and below, not even a curtain? Here, lad; I'll turn my back, you turn yours. The robe should provide at least a little privacy."

It seemed a reasonable compromise. Bryce had fulfilled his part of the bargain, so Emerson did his part and began the process requested of him. Matters weren't helped by the fact that the boxers really were a tighter fit than he'd first thought, not to mention the slight inflation of his ursine pride. It was a counterintuitive truth that embarrassment about "popping a chubby" often resulted in at least some measure of that event actually happening. He hoped that his grunts were quiet enough not to make things worse. After more effort than should have been strictly necessary, the full-sized bear finally managed to get the less-than-full-sized underwear down to his ankles and, carefully, over his hindpaws. He was thus bent over when the door opened and an enthusiastic voice began chirping in the small room.

"Here's all of them... oh my, what a lovely big bear you have there, Bryce!"

"Mind your manners, Syzygy, if you still have any."

His back still turned, Emerson pulled the robe close around him, making sure everything was properly covered and the belt secured about his middle mound before facing the newcomer, his now fully-removed shorts in paw. The short-statured assistant's round black eyes seemed to take in all of Emerson at once, and his (her) prehensile tail first shot straight up, then danced in some form of sign language that the bear felt didn't needed a whole lot of translating.

"Omigawd, you're blushing! That is so cute! I didn't think anyone blushed anymore!" In a flurry of dark golden fur and chittering squeaks, the young (fe)male appeared in front of the bear, his (her) head not quite reaching the belt of Emerson's robe. For a moment, the bear thought that the small kinkajou would climb up his body and hang around his neck like a pendant.

"Syzygy, this is Emerson. He is new to modeling, and he's a bit shy around strangers, so kindly refrain from being too enthusiastic."

"No such thing," the dresser's assistant chuckled with a note of wickedness, small round ears twitching with mischief. "Well, maybe a little. Here, I'll take those."

The boxers were not so much passed along as grabbed out of the bear's forepaw. Despite the robe, Emerson felt ridiculously naked. He was actually grateful when Bryce gently pulled the assistant aside and stood almost as a guard in the small space. Holding up a different pair of shorts, the beagle suggested, "Try these. And Syzygy, we'll need some room here, please."

"I don't get to watch?"

"Neither do I. There's only room in here for those with a modicum of self-control."

"I promise I'll just watch."

"Thank you, Syzygy; that'll be all for now." Closing the door slowly on the reluctantly retreating assistant, Bryce added, "You got Kenny a replacement thong, I trust?"

"Fitted it myself."

"I'm sure that you did." The door fully closed, the old dog turned back to Emerson just long enough to say, "My apologies," before turning his back to the bear once more.

It took a few moments for the younger male to turn away and loosen the robe. As he tried on the new boxer shorts, he felt his heart thudding in his chest. The emotions warring within him were not clearly defined, and he couldn't make enough sense of them to know what to do next. He was pretty sure what was going on, what would be happening on the set, but he didn't know how to reconcile what he felt about that. He felt out of control, out of his depth, out of his ever-lovin' mind.

This time, the boxers slid on much more easily, felt more relaxed. They were definitely a better fit, with plenty of room for the necessary appendages to breathe without threatening to expand. The boxers also, he realized, could be removed just easily as they went on. It was time to end his fear, to confirm his suspicions, and then make up his mind just how far he was prepared to go to make some money. He swallowed yet again and, trembling only slightly, turned around. "Bryce?"

Setting aside his clipboard, the old dog again squatted in front of the bear, looking closely at... well, everything. "Much better," he decreed, running a finger along the inside of the waistband to test its elasticity, smoothing the ends of the leg portions. "I'll bet they don't feel nearly so restrictive now. It's a wonder your circulation wasn't cut off entirely."

"Are you the fluffer?"

The beagle didn't move from his position, looked up into the bear's eyes with a gentle smile. "There's an old term I don't hear often. Where did you hear it?"

"Isn't that the name for someone who keeps the males... erm..."

"Tumescent?" the old dog supplied.

"Well... yeah."

"In mythology, perhaps." The old dog rose slowly, keeping his eyes on Emerson's. "It's not real, or at least not at all common. It's also part of the porn industry, not the modeling field. Were you looking for that kind of work, Emerson?"

"I... no, I didn't..." He gathered himself as best he could and let it all come out. "I signed up for modeling, and the rabbit who hired me said I'd probably do well, especially for someone with no prior experience. It's just that, I mean, it's all been good, interesting, even fun, but there's less and less clothing, and then with the stallion, and all the comments about losing fluids and bumping up against him on the set, and I thought that I was going to have to..."

The bear was aware of Bryce's forepaw gently resting on his terry-covered shoulder. "Emerson, take breath for me, would you? That's the way, nice big breath... let it out slowly..."

The model did as he was directed. That's something one of the directors had said, that the bear took direction well. He moved the way they told him, and he kept trying on faces until the director found what he was looking for.Tuxedos are about seduction,_that first director had told him; _high class seduction, mind you, but seduction. Power. Grace. Style. The impression of money, status, all the trappings of whatever is left of royalty... That's it, that's the look right there, give me more of that...

"That looks better," the beagle observed. "Now, let's start at the top. What do you think that you signed up for?"

"Modeling clothes. All kinds of clothes." Emerson's breathing was more natural now, although he still felt shaky. "I didn't think that I could be a model. I mean, they're supposed to be all slim and slinky, or tall, bulked-out furs who lift weights all the time, like Kenny..."

Bryce nodded slowly. "So bigger, non-buffed furs don't wear clothes?"

"Of course, but..."

"But...?" the beagle prompted.

"The clothes... they got to be less and less, and then the underwear, and Kenny, and that big lion I saw the other day, and everything is all... I mean, what happens when the underwear comes off? What am I supposed to do... what if it's not about clothes..."

"It is about clothes, Emerson. I promise you that it is. We hired you to be a model for various clothes lines. No hidden agenda, no loopholes in the contract, nothing like that. I promise."

"I guess... I mean, I couldn't figure out why anyone would want..."

"It's a market that's just as important as the market for those 'twinks' you spoke of." The old beagle continued speaking softly, reassuringly. "It's less about glamour, with larger-sized males; instead, it's about showing that a big male can dress well, be attractive, good-looking, without having to think less of themselves for not being either buffed or a twink. It's about range, Emerson."

"But why... I mean, why... me...?"

"Because Danny -- the rabbit you met for your interview -- saw something he liked, a quality, or perhaps several, that fit what we needed for this line of clothes. I've seen the results of your work so far, and it's quite the portfolio. I think Danny was spot-on."

Emerson wasn't sure that his brain was working, but his maw certainly wasn't. He wrestled with emotions that he had known all too intensely since he was a cub, and he just couldn't think of what to say. The silence stretched for some little time before Bryce broke it with a softly-spoken question. "Why do you doubt yourself?"

His legs finally betraying him, Emerson sat down hard on the bare wooden bench behind him. The confusion of emotions in him included relief, fear, uncertainty, bewilderment, a need to believe in something, anything, except... "What do you mean?"

Sitting next to him on the bench, Bryce put his forepaws into his lap, still speaking softly. "It seems to me that you feel like you're whoring yourself somehow. Did it ever occur to you, Emerson, that you weren't hired to be anything other than who you are? You imagined that the only way you could be valuable in all this is to debase yourself, on camera no less. Is that about it?"

The white-furred bear forced himself to look at his emotions again, and he realized that the old dog was right. Almost against his will, his head nodded once, just a few centimeters, to acknowledge the truth of the statement.

"You are a handsome young bear, Emerson, and you are exactly what the directors are looking for, for this modeling shoot. It's not easy to find what our client refers to as 'furs of royal proportions' who can take direction, look natural in the unnatural situations that we put you through. We change directors for each type of clothing style for precisely that reason: Each has a particular vision that suits the suits, so to speak. All of them have spoken highly of you, and I decided that I wanted to meet you for myself, so I came in today to help you with what, usually, is the most difficult part of the job, for a first-timer."

Bryce chuckled softly. "I went through it too, when I was a model. I was a reasonably well-formed pup, back in the day, but I was still scrawny and devastatingly plain, compared to the likes of my snow leopard mentor. Kenny wasn't around back then, but there were others of his caliber out there. I don't want to jinx you, lad, but I have to tell you something: When I did my first underwear shoot, I was to go in front of the camera after a particularly handsome tiger did his flexing and strutting, and I popped one before I knew what I was about."

The young model looked sharply to Bryce with wide-open eyes. "What did you do?"

"I excused myself to the loo, where I tried to think of everything but tiger. Failing that, I rubbed one out and tried to calm down."

The beagle's soft laughter was contagious, and Emerson found himself laughing along with him. "Did it work?"

"Worked well enough, anyway. I was afraid I might dribble some last drops into the Speedos, so I put in a small amount of cloth to catch it. I wasn't actually trying to stuff my jock, but I did get a few more jobs out of that particular shoot."

"I know you mean 'photo shoot,' but the idea..." Emerson allowed himself one last chuckle, then sobered enough to ask, "There's really no porn?"

"Not here. If you really want that sort of work, I imagine one or two of the directors might know of a place. Is that what you want?"

"I..." The bear breathed in again, let it out slowly. "I don't think so."

"There's no shame in it, Emerson, either in doing it or not doing it. You're allowed to discover things when you're young."

Another moment stretched, as the model squirmed a little.

"I'll tell, but you have to ask."

"Um... did you... did you ever make... that sort of film?"

"Yes. But privately, not for pay. The idea of making money from the act put me off." The beagle sighed. "I'd love to say that it was the tiger in question, since I brought him up earlier, but it was actually a handsome Doberman who convinced me. He was good to his word: It was never posted anywhere, even to KnoTube, where he could have made some money off of it. We shared it with special friends. They said it wasn't really porn, because they felt our love in it." Another soft sigh. "I watch it even now sometimes, always alone, just to remember that I really was that young, once upon a time. And to remember him, and the love we shared, even if only for a short time."

Emerson hesitated. "What happened?"

"He was on his motorcycle. Car jumped the light, hit him broadside."

The bear felt gut-punched. He didn't think twice about reaching his forepaw to grasp Bryce's. He couldn't find words; he hoped that the gentle squeeze said enough.

"Well." Bryce returned the squeeze and regained his hindpaws slowly. "I didn't mean to bring down the mood. You'll need to be at your best for the shoot." Adjusting his glasses with a gentle sniff, the old beagle turned back to the bear, bringing back one of his small smiles. "Oh, and the answer to the other question you haven't asked: All new models are given the underwear shoot last, if there's to be one. The idea is to try to get you used to being comfortable in your own fur. The more comfortable you are, the more natural you look. We figure you're not used to parading around in your underwear, so we lead you up to it slowly. When you've done one underwear shoot -- don't go there, lad! -- then you know how to be a model in every way that our company needs. You'll be like Kenny, barely noticing when his thong falls off."

"I might notice the cold," Emerson laughed, "at least for a little while longer." He, too, stood, pausing only a moment before asking, "May I hug you?"

"Honored, lad." The old dog suited actions to words, and the bear held him close for what felt like a long time. Bryce sounded a little reluctant as he pulled gently away, saying, "They'll probably be waiting for you. Ready?"

"I am now. Thank you, Bryce."

"You're very welcome. Let's go meet your fluffer."

The bear stared.

Glancing up with a wicked gleam in his eye, the beagle said, "Your fur, Emerson. He'll fluff up your body fur for the cameras."

With a smirk, the young model removed the robe entirely, tossing it on the bench. "This'd only be in the way then. Lead the way, Bryce. Let's get fluffy."