Charlie Ch. 01-02

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Double Penetration


There was a persistent knocking, tearing me from my doze. As I awoke the knocking continued. I called out, asking who was there.

“My name is Justine Zamora. I’m looking for Charlie Baines. Do I have the right room?” asked the voice on the other side of the door, timidly.

“Justine! Oh my God! Let me get dressed! Hold on!” I hollered and slipped quickly into my kimono. Leif frantically stepped into his pants and pulled on his tee-shirt inside out. He remained barefoot. I cracked the door open.

“I’m with someone. You should meet him.” I said and opened the door and Leif was sitting at my desk, his head hanging slightly. The riding crop peeked out from under the bed. The sheets were strewn about. A nearly indiscernible “Oh” slipped out of Justine’s lips. She said she was hoping we could talk.

“Sure! What about?” I asked, taking a seat on the bed. I gestured towards my boy. They shook hands. I could see Justine noting the rope burns Leif still had on the outsides of his wrists. Justine stared him down. I wondered if Leif had suspicions about what happened between me and Justine in DC.

“I’d rather we spoke in private. No offense Leif. Girl stuff,” Justine half heartedly reassured Leif.

“Uh-huh. Girl stuff. I’ll be in my room, Charlie,” said Leif. He must have known what this was about but he left the two of us alone together anyway. I suppose he trusted his Domme because he had to, because he was taught to. And because he loved her. He put on his sandals and left.

“So what’s up? What are you doing here? I mean, you’re welcome here.” I was trying to be perky.

“I broke things off with Jonathan,” Justine said, chin quivering. “It just wasn’t working out. He just couldn’t do it right, Charlie. He wasn’t you!” Her words shook me. Was Justine here to throw herself at my feet?

I think it best to start off at around the time of my first love ending, my first academic success fueling me, and my first real friendship forming. It all happened at once. I know that’s not exactly what you signed on for, but that’s where this perverse tale begins. My name is Charlotte Baines and I have a story.


In high school I was unassuming, unremarkable, and unimpressive in many ways. Unless you knew me. I had few accomplishments to speak of. My social status was little more than invisible. And when I graduated from that school, I graduated from the bottom quarter of my class. Hardly something to be proud of. My hair was long and wavy and had a matted appearance and it swayed as I stalked about the school halls, rarely looking up, never making eye contact with other students, never smiling. Only a contorted grimace would form on my face on the rare occasion I did exchange glances with someone. I wore my boyfriend’s corduroys, size x-large tee-shirts, and combat boots. The visibility of my social status was entirely associated with this boyfriend. Jay. He was really popular. At the time, I didn’t know what he saw in me. He called me his little secret. Now I know, he couldn’t even wrap his little pea brain around the half of my personality.

After high school I first worked as a stocker boy at the local grocery store, then I worked as a check out girl at the local grocery store, then I worked as the pharmacy check out girl at the local grocery store. I was moving up, I thought. In school I had been labeled a ‘slow reader’ from early on but that wasn’t the reason for my low grades. My teenage rebellion was never fully holstered, I could never be controlled by my parents, they never got their fists firmly around my fiery disposition. Sure, I seemed unassuming to the casual onlooker but at home I was always neglecting my studies to run off with friends who weren’t really my friends because they thought I was too weird, or run off with boys who didn’t really care about what I had to say. I refused to do my homework when my folks were strictest, as that was all I had control over. My counselor told me I would never go to college. My father repeatedly told me I was stupid. Thus my teachers believed me to be a rather slow in the head socialite. I was neither slow in the head nor a true socialite.

By the time I was twenty five I was working a stable job at the pharmacy and could have been happy with my career, my relationship with Jay, our trailer home, our dreams for a family. But I had these feelings, nagging feelings of intellectual inadequacy, especially after what people had said to me. The thing that nagged me the most was that “slow reader” label. I went to the community college and enrolled in Literature 101. Reading. It was a pretty solid class, really. Most of the people who were there were there because they couldn’t afford four years of a regular college and they had a chip on their shoulders about it. They all had something to prove: they were bigger, better, smarter than that community college. Oh boy! And by how far! My advantage: I was still unassuming, which made for some pleasant debates.

Seeing as how I actually did read slowly (I read word for word), I had a fierce lead over those petty academic snobs. I knew the texts inside and out. I knew the page numbers on which certain conversations appeared. I knew the streets on which certain events took place (very useful in Russian lit). I knew the colors of the walls in various rooms in various homes and posited their significance. When it came time for class discussion Ataşehir Ukraynalı Escort I felt like a mother fucking lioness who had been caged and starved and I attacked fiercely, but politely. When everyone left the classroom, no one knew it was I that had hit them. For an hour and a half twice a week, those nerds treated me like an equal and I reveled in the feeling it gave me. That class made me feel smart, and feeling smart made me feel power hungry. And I liked it.

Jay and I had been known as what you call high school sweethearts. In high school, we sure did have a rather passionate thing going. Love poems. Letters. Professions of love. Stolen time snuck away during school lunch. Stolen time when my folks were away. Stolen time when he snuck into my bedroom window at night.

Jay used to climb under the covers with me. We would kiss for what seemed like hours. Passionately and desperately. He pulled on my lower lip, swelling it. I licked the crevice between his two lips. We fully explored each other’s mouths, probing, licking every part, our inner cheeks, tickling the roofs of our mouths, occasionally stopping to catch our breaths. Gosh, it was such an innocent time. Because all of our time was stolen we were always frantic in each other’s presence. But somehow, there was time, there was always time for prolonged kissing. Jay was funny. He would rub my shoulder, massaging it in larger and larger circles, (like I didn’t know what he was doing). He was never bold enough to touch my breast outright, not knowing his lack of courage was perfectly building tension in his young lover’s body. I waited, occasionally halting kissing when I thought the moment would finally come, when he would run his fingers across my breast. His innocent muddlement was unknowingly brilliant. The suspense would paralyze me and finally the brush would come and I would let a little breath out onto Jay’s lips to let him know this was nice for me too. The proverbial ice was broken. Jay could have his way with my breasts. We would roll back and forth over each other on my queen sized bed. Jay would grope at my breasts like the inexperienced high school boy he was, squeezing, grabbing, desperately searching for a nipple to pull, maybe even kiss. If we fell from the bed it would make an undeniable thumping noise and Jay would have to grab his clothes and run from the room out the window, at times naked, because my stupid dad would no doubt open the door shortly thereafter, asking what all the noise was about. All my dad ever found was me on the floor explaining the thump. Another bad dream, I’d say.

On the occasion that Jay didn’t have to leave due to a thump, he would tug on my pajama pants. Occasionally I would allow his fingers to roam down the waistband, past my panties, to the depths of me. A part of me knew this was supposed to feel good, and I did feel good, I felt an excitement, but I still somehow… some part of me didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about. What was so great about sex? But Jay was kind to me. He never pressed me to do things I didn’t want to do. He was always giving. Those were sweet times between us.

Because of this early passion Jay and I thought we’d solidified true love for good. Whatever we thought true love was. We thought we’d made it and had it, you know? We thought we’d better stick together, though much of these passionate acts had disappeared and our relationship had slowly devolved into a series of robotic routines once we moved in together. We still believed we were a special couple. But that was pure silliness.

One day I saw a flyer outside my classroom. It was for a play called “The Swan.” I thought to myself, “A play… a play.” I thought this could help me with some of my, well, let’s call them social ills. My heart was aflutter as I inspected that flyer. It had a sexy woman’s silhouette on it and I imagined myself, well. You know how I’d imagined myself. I thought I could meet new people and get out on stage. Become… well. I thought to myself the literature class was quite the successful experiment and this shall be as well.

I got a copy of the script and read that it was a version of a novel rewritten by a professor right there at the college. He was going to be directing the show and selecting the cast single handedly. I must tell you now that I’ve always been oblivious to men’s attentions towards me. At that point in my life it was because I’d always kept my head down. You know, and that grimace. But there were times when men’s attentions were so overwhelming they even made it past my own ignorance. The director’s awareness of me was evident. His eyelashes delayed blinking in mimicry of my own. He leaned into me, far enough so that I could smell what he’d had for lunch. A clumsy move for an older man on a younger girl. I wasn’t sure why he’d displayed such an interest in me but he coached me. He coached me on the role I wanted to play. I’d picked out the Swan, the curvaceous silhouette. I don’t have to tell you how this story turned out.

I rehearsed my lines at home (alone) and when it came time for auditions I was paired with someone from Lit class. I was nervous, but I was relieved to be paired with someone I knew. He was a super nice guy. The role I had selected was that of an older woman, that of a sex crazed thirty-three year old. I thought to myself, “It must take some brains Ataşehir Üniversiteli Escort to play an older woman. Compose yourself, girl.” Me and the guy completed the scene with awesome chemistry and humor, but I got my part and he didn’t get his. Too bad.

My real competition for this role was Amanda. Amanda fuckin’ Jenkins. She played the role as any proper character actress might. She didn’t really use her body, or her sex appeal, but used acting tricks, sitting at the end of the stage and crossing her legs in the most sexless way possible, laughing whole heartedly in the least believable way possible, and instead of coming across as a sultry thirty three year old, she came across as a vivacious eighty eight year old. She went through all of the motions that someone with sex appeal might go through, but she had none of her own. And that role needed sex appeal. But some in the theater crowd considered this good acting and did not want me to get the part that I inevitably did.

It was a low budget play and actors were responsible for their own costumes. I didn’t really think about costumes until the last minute and I hurriedly picked out two options from my cousin’s closet, a frilly dress or a tight, low cut tee-shirt with tight pencil skirt. Both were to be worn with very high heels with rounded toes and ankle straps (we wore the same size shoe). Literally in the last minute, right before I was called onto stage, I chose the more daring, the latter. When the time came, when my line was up, I don’t know what came over me. I just knew, I knew how to walk in those heels and I sauntered onto that stage and I said my lines and the crowd laughed. I sat on the couch with the lead actor and inched over to him until he fell off it. I leaned over to look at him, letting both my feet lift off the floor, kneeling in a very provocative position on the couch. It was like I’d shed my corduroys and was a slinky sex goddess to be looked at by hundreds of people. The crowds loved me! The theater kids did as well. I won best supporting actress that year, voted for by the actors.

I’d gotten dressed up for the awards ceremony, after which a flaming gay boy walked right up to me and said, “You shouldn’t have had to use your body like that. You should have used your brains.” He stood up onto his tippee-toes, swiveled around, and began to walk away. Clearly he was deeply impressed with his own comment and incapable of imagining any retort. As I saw him walk away, hips sliding from side to side, I thought he was almost right. I rather did like using my brain in literature class. But on the other hand, I rather did like using my body on that stage, and, like I said, it took some brains to play an older woman. Something he clearly just hadn’t grasped.

“No!” I said. Joseph began to turn around. That was his name: Joseph. “I want both,” I said. My comeback came rather late in the game and Joseph was pretty far away at this point. I had to say this somewhat loudly. He just looked at me and walked away.

“You tell that mama’s boy goody two shoes!” said a voice that seemed to come out of nowhere. A girl’s voice. She clapped and clasped her hands together. “Don’t let him get you down. That role required sex appeal. You deserve that award.” It was Justine. Justine hadn’t tried out for “The Swan” but had appeared in numerous other plays at the school. She was well known. She might’ve been overweight, but was gorgeous. She had full rounded breasts, which she always displayed outwardly, an always corseted waist, thick, curvy thighs. She lived completely in her femininity. She had pale white skin, slanted eyes that were always lined with what seemed like charcoal, gloved hands, and pin curled fire red hair. Yeah, I looked her up and down, but she was checking me out too. She seemed approving of my response to Thomas. That wasn’t all she was impressed with. I had shed my corduroys. I was wearing a loose fitting 1970’s style colorful mini-dress with white go-go boots that had a low heel. My eyes were lined with liquid liner and I had pale gloss on my lips. My hair was pulled into a purposefully messy up do. I was more confident about my looks now that I was officially an actress. I was dressing up a little bit by this point.

I didn’t know what to say to this strange Justine, lurking in the shadows so I just said, “Thanks,” and walked away. She gave me the creeps. I went home to Jay. He hadn’t been at the awards ceremony. We did that thing we called making love, where Jay laid on top of me and had his way with me and I felt happy… no, not happy, pleased to have made him feel good. Jay would pull my pajama pants and panties down. He kissed my legs, my toes, parts of my face. When I look back at those late times with Jay I think he must’ve felt affection towards me, his little secret, even though he never bothered to take my shirt off anymore. He kissed me between my legs, licking carefully between each fold, each crevice. I know now he did it not because he loved me, but because he wanted to lubricate me. I felt him press himself into me, pound himself into me, I felt warmth spread through my body. I felt an inkling of a memory of that excitement I felt when he’d brushed up against my breast in high school, back when we were younger. But that memory was fleeting and I never could hold onto it. During those times when he was fucking me I wanted to be good to Jay Ataşehir Vip Escort but I didn’t really know what I was supposed to do exactly.

But I had a new life budding before me. I continued taking classes. Classes in Biology, classes in Art, classes in English. I was educating myself. It almost seemed as though I had plans to move up and out of Middleburg, Virginia. Pretty soon I was working forty hours a week and taking three classes. I had very little time for Jay. Soon I would have less. I noticed another flyer posted at my college. It was for Les Miserables. Another silhouette.

Around this time I had visited the eye doctor. The eye doctor asked me some weird questions, like, “Do the words move around on the page for you?” To which I replied, “Of course not.” But when the Doctor performed one of his tests on the machine that you have to look through, the doctor was able to hold the images, the letters, at the precise moment at which they ‘moved around on the page.’

“Oh, you mean that,” I said, “They do that all the time.”

“All you need my dear, all you ever needed, was some reading glasses. No one ever thinks to check for that in the younger patients.” And the doctor wrote me a prescription for reading glasses. From that point on I was unstoppable in my classes. I could read fast! I read ahead, I read the ‘suggested reading’ in addition to the required reading. I enrolled in courses for next semester. I looked at the Les Miserables poster again. Justine approached me as I was gazing at it and fantasizing about what roles I could play and what a grand production it could be.

“The part of Mademoiselle Thenardier is mine,” she said condescendingly. “So don’t even bother. Besides, you haven’t got the body.” And with that Justine shook one thigh at me.

“Actually, I was thinking about the part of Eponine,” I said, trying to guide the conversation.

“Still shooting for supporting actress I see,” Justine said as she turned and walked away, her fingers curling under my chin. What a weirdo, I thought. Weird as she may have been, Justine was most impressive looking, even at that point. She had fire red eyelashes that curled at the tips, most severely in the corners of her eyes, where they were longest. She lined her eyes, thinly at the outer edges and thickly in the middle and then thinly again on the insides of her eyes. I noted this technique. She penciled in her eyebrows which created maximum emotional effect. She lined and painted her lips. I couldn’t figure out if she was really sultry or really geeky or both.

That year I got the part of Eponine and Justine got the part of Mademoiselle Thenardier. Jay and I started fighting about how much time I was spending away from home, at class, the library, rehearsals, work. Jay just didn’t get it. This was what moving up in life was really about, not some promotion at some grocery store. He wanted to marry me, I think, and have kids. But my eyes were already pointed at the stars.

The school funded significantly more money for Les Miserables than they did for The Swan. The actors had costumes, the set was fantastic, the lighting looked professional thanks to the crew. All was very exciting backstage. On opening night I was pacing the hallway between the men’s and women’s dressing rooms, running through my lines about an hour before the show. Everyone bustled about and no one seemed to honor the “Men’s” and “Women’s” labels above the dressing room doorways, as men and women moved freely between the two. It was possible this freedom was due to the lack of doors on the dressing rooms, I posited. It was possible this was just a particularly free theater crowd, I thought. It was possible all theater crowds are this way.

I caught a glimpse of Justine while I was pacing. She was in makeup and costume already. So was I. She was made up to look evil, her eyebrows were pointed, her lips severely lined, but she looked beautiful as always. Justine noticed me as well, pacing in the hallway. She walked up to me, grabbed me by the waist with her right hand, grabbed my head with her left hand and kissed me decisively. What happened next I couldn’t have explained. I cannot explain to this very day. I kissed Justine back. By this point everyone had crowded around the doors of the dressing rooms and anyone who could get a view was watching us intently. I just felt something inside, something intangible, indiscernible, undeniable. It was as if I were a puppet at the mercy of a very skilled and very lecherous master. I kissed Justine gently on her closed lips, and on her upper lip and boldly pulled away to look her in the eyes. I kissed her gently again, tilting my head back, embracing her delicately. Justine kissed me back and it got really intense. We kissed open mouthed, tongues meeting rhythmically, jaws opening and closing, hands running along each other’s backs and straying lower, straying further to the front. I wanted to feel the curvature of Justine’s corset and the luscious bulge of her thigh that came out from under it. It seemed like Justine wanted to feel me too. She ran her hands along my unrestricted breasts underneath my ragged costume. Our makeup smeared. Our mouths pawed at each other’s, our teeth ran along each other’s tongues and lips, we suckled on each other’s mouths. I licked Justine’s lips the way I had once licked Jay’s and I felt that excitement again, I felt it in the depths of myself. For a moment, the strangest thing popped into my mind. I thought of that power I felt in Literature class. Something about it was the same as this kiss. I felt hungry. Justine licked me back. The kiss was sealed. There was applause. Jay didn’t attend the show a single night. I never told him about the kiss.

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