Meeting Charlotte

MEETING CHARLOTTE - PART I: HE COMPLIMENTED MY APPEARANCE

Three taps on the door, followed by "five minutes to show," the voice said.

"Gotcha," I called back. "Almost there."

"OK," the voice replied, fading away.

I was almost there. My left stocking seam was refusing to line up. The Cuban heel was straight, but the seam was drifting.

, I thought. Shucking it down to the foot, I squared it once more and then pulled straight up. Success!

Time for my toe-to-head review: heels -- stocking -- seams -- backless panties -- rear zipper on the 20 inch black leather skirt halfway up -- chemise straps up -- bra low -- cleavage moderate -- vermillion lipstick -- wig fluffed -- two button black kid gloves. Check. Deep breath and out I go.

The stage is simple tonight. A straight back chair with a night stand next to it. There was a bar with two chains and cuffs attached and an overhead lamp above that. Cameras to the left and right with boom mikes to the side.

Mia, the "Star", was already there. Taller than me (I'm 5-9+) in her flat feet, the five inch heels gave her almost 10 inches on me. Above those heels was the classic Domme black leather jump suit. It was as supple as skin and just as tight. Her nipples were well in front of the 36C's. Equally classic dark make-up.

She sniffed, "Cutting it a bit close, aren't we? Are you ready?"

I nodded, "Yep, one seam wouldn't cooperate. Cleaned and lubed."

Victor - the "Director" - stepped up, gave us the once over, "OK, you're good to go. Any questions on the sequence?"

We both shook our heads.

He stepped back, holding up his hand. A brief pause and then, "Five -- Four -Three," he counted down showing Two, then One and then a finger point.

Mia was behind me. She grabbed my neck and pushed me into the set. I stumbled, looking around.

"Hey," I yelled, swatting her hand down. "What's this? What the fuck is this?"

She stepped around, grabbing me by the throat. "You said you wanted to go somewhere quiet and get to know me better," she snarled. "So here we are."

I reached up to pull her hand down, but she blocked it and twisted me around into a Half-Nelson with her other arm across my throat. We were facing the cameras now. She hissed loudly, "It's real quiet in here, and pretty soon you are going to know me intimately. You thought you were going to be in charge? Little arrogant, self-centered Bitch. You should have known the moment you approached me out there, I was always in control. Or maybe this is your game---pretend to be forceful but then submit at the first sign of power. Huh? Is that it?

I got my free arm up on her forearm, but the more I pulled, the harder she squeezed the elbow. I was writhing, but even that was not loosening her grip. I dropped my arm.

Embracing me tightly, she pulled me back to the chair. She pulled my arm from behind my back and jerked it up, grabbing the manacle and sealing the Velcro in one swift move. I got my other arm free and swung a slap. She blocked and then smacked me across the cheek, my face spinning as it came across. I reeled and up went the other arm. She pushed the chair behind me.

And there I sat, glaring, struggling, mouthing off, and demanding to be released.

At which point she acknowledges my efforts, tells me to save my energy and that a release will be coming in a little while. Her leer made me shiver.

She then starts removing items from the night stand----a crop, a gag, dildos/vibrator, cigarettes.

She brings the crop and starts stroking me with it. I give her grief. I know she is not going to stop, but she tricked me, and I'm outraged.

She steps back and yells, "Enough. Dumb Bitch. You followed me down a dark hall to a back room. Did you think we were going to play with Barbies?"

And with that she whacks my cheeks with a right and return left stroke. My head snaps each time and I start up again.

"This is too damn much," she shouts. She grabs the ball gag and pitches my nose until I open up for air and in it goes. The Velcro closes before I shake it out.

Standing behind me she caresses my neck and shoulders, encouraging me to relax. I shrug her off and stand. But she grabs my shoulders and with her height advantage, holds me there.

I feel her looking me over. "Cuban heels," she snorts. "You are a tramp!"

She then pushes me forward and bends me as the chains allow.

"What have we here?" she wonders.

Spinning me around (the bar is on swivel), she displays my ass to the viewers. Caressing it and my legs, she slowly unzips the skirt exposing my panties.

"Oh wow," she exclaims. "Looks like this little tramp came prepared."

She moves me left and right so the audience gets a good look - - bottomless panties in black lase with a bow at the top. The lace encircles the buttocks. It's all ass and thanks to my being a runner and a cyclist, is really, really firm. She massages it a bit and then in a smooth, well-practiced move, lubes her two fingers, penetrates and thrusts as she grabs the butt plug with the other hand, inserting it. Spinning me back into the chair, she activates it. She runs the speed up and down as I writhe trying to get control of the sensation.

Reducing the speed, she grabs me by the throat, lifting my head. She sneers, "Do I keep this up or are you going to give me what I need?"

With her other hand she releases the ball gag.

"Please," I beg. "I'll do it. I promise, I'll be good, please stop the egg, I can't concentrate!"

She releases my hands and turn me sideways on the chair so the cameras are looking at our profile. She then unzips her jump suit down to her crotch and withdraws a moderately sized cock.

She then grabs the cigarette and lighter. As she lights it, she tells me to remove my gloves. She pours some lube in my right hand, and puts the cigarette in the other.

"That 120 will last about seven minutes. I want a smoking blowjob. Get me off and I'll release you. Come up short and you'll be here all night."

I take my first drag and blow it gently on her shaft, and then get to work. I know how she likes to be stroked and how for me to use my tongue. Two months of practice has taught me how to draw it out or hasten the conclusion depending on the time remaining. Out of the corner of my eye I see Charlotte give me the three minute sign. So 20 seconds later, I start humming and taking her deeper. She moans and utters the appropriate compliments and epithets. 30 seconds to go she grunts. I pull out, take drag and as I exhale slowly through my nose, she begins to vibrate. Two more exhales, and she pushes my hand away, taking her cock in one hand and holding my head with the other, she cums on my face = = once, twice, then three and four. I sit back on my heels----no easy feat, or 'feet' rather, and take one more long inhale, I exhale towards the ceiling. I lean back and put it out on my sole.

"Lick it off," she commands.

Facing the camera, I take my finger and wipe it up, then sucking my finger clean before taking another swipe and repeating---all with a satisfied smile.

Victor signals fading to black, and I wait for the "all clear" call.

Getting to my feet, I look at Mia and pointing to my ass, I say, "A little help please."

She snorts, "Not my job."

Charlotte is shutting down the equipment. "Uhh Charlotte?" I ask.

She barely looks up, "I'm busy, sorry," she answers.

As usual, I'm on my own. I spent four years as a loadmaster on a C-17. There the crew concept was the basis of success. Not so much in the world of Saturday night BDSM pornography.

Fortunately, there's a tail. Putting a glove back on for traction, I extract the pesky plug, sighing in relief.

There's only one sink in the basement, it's wide and deep, but Mia -- Diva that she is -- never shares. So I sit and wait as the sweat, gunk, etc. dries up.

Mia has gone upstairs with Victor to check the log-ins and settle up. Me? I'm cleaning up the toys and the props because that's who I am. I wish Charlotte a good night and to be safe going home. She looks over her shoulder for a brief second, sighs, and then is gone. At least I got a sigh this time.

As I wait my turn with the Boss, I hear Mia arguing with him about her cut. She does this every week. True, we've averaged 5,000+ discrete viewers since I started. And trending upwards per Charlotte's reports -- she's the bookkeeper too. At $25 a login, the cost of lights, internet, some lube and a couple of cigarettes leaves a huge profit margin. The clothes we get from vendors to shoot advertisements for them.

Me? I'm thrilled to be making extra cash--a lot of cash actually even as the second banana. Hah--banana, I wish; more like one of those hors d'oeuvre tiny dill pickles if truth be known.

The Company pays the new hires very well and there's a decent bump when you "graduate" to full employment. But the grad school tuition loan needs to be gone as soon as I can, and I've always sent some money to Mom. The loan should be paid with a couple more weeks of shows. Then comes an IRA and municipal bonds. Putting the ethics and moderate physical discomfort aside, this is easy money.

I hear Mia leave, and I start up the stairs. But then I hear Charlotte go in and so I wait outside. I guess she thought I was gone or still downstairs. I figured she would just be a moment so I stood quietly.

"You need to put him back under," she demanded.

"Why? What's wrong?" came the response.

"He's becoming more friendly, and I can't have that!" she asserted.

"I gave him a good dose the night we recruited him; it should be holding," Victor replied.

"It's not, he's been asking about a drink or walking me to the car. He's trying to banter. He even tried to ask me a cost-accounting question," she retorted.

"Well gee imagine that, a nice 30-something heterosexual male is attracted to a woman about the same age who is attractive, professional and apparently single in a business where we are up to our elbows in sex. Besides, as I recall, you got all flirty with him when we gave him the Domme obedience test," Victor was firm. "Go put on a wedding band," he advised.

"Fuck you squared old man. My maid of honor blowing my fiancé the night before the wedding? Nothing is going on that finger ever again. But fix him. OK, so maybe I got caught up in the moment; he's not our typical recruit. Yeah, sure, there's a lot about him to like, but you need to fix him. And you know why; I can't risk it!!!" She was yelling now.

"Charlotte, I understand, but that was three years ago," he pleaded.

"No, no. Good riddance to him. They divorced last year. He called the house looking for me a couple of months ago. Dad told him if he came within 50 miles, he'd kill him. Nice gesture, but both of them are dead to me. I don't need to need someone. Please turn him off," she sounded sad.

"Look, we've only got him until January; then he gets transferred,"

"Do it, please," she asked softly.

"OK, OK," Victor said. "Is he still here?"

"Yeah, cleaning up the place like the good little Boy Scout he is," she replied.

"Go ahead and split, I'll take care of it. Viewership was way up, I'm going to boost his cut. I'll put him under and reinforce the wall.

I fade. Quietly. I'm puttering downstairs when he calls asking me to stop by.

As I enter, the only light is at his desk, and the computer screen behind him is swirling. He makes small talk about how hard he knows it is to work with Mia, but I'm doing a good job and the viewers seem to like my character as well. We need to discuss some variations but all is good. Good enough my share is increasing. He tells me to sit and relax and then from behind he murmurs a word in my ear. A flood of memories rush in and directions like watch, obey and so forth repeat in a loop.

So I sit back, watch the screen and wait.

He comes back in. To be honest I almost nodded off---it's late and tonight's show wore me out, much less the weight of the emotional puzzle as to whatever is going on with Charlotte. But as he talks, I become more alert, but careful to sound drowsy. He talks about Charlotte, how she is a private person, has no interest in anything except the business, she's embarrassed by the business but needs the work, doesn't want to socialize, so please respect her wishes.

He goes through it a couple of times. To prove I understand he gives me a simple test - - take home a dress, some hose and shoes and then send a picture of me in it.

With his prompting, I repeat the direction to avoid Charlotte a few times, then he counts down and I "awake".

As I come to, he tells me I've got a $5,000 raise. I'm effusive, then I pause and tell him I need to go back downstairs. Moments later I'm back up with a black silky mini-dress, hose and heels.

"Hey Victor, I've had my eye on this for a while. Mind if I take it home?" I ask.

"Only at home," he admonishes. "Please don't go out. You know the rules. You're no good to me or yourself if you get rolled."

"Not a problem," I say. "All this is just a means to an end."

___________

A quick shower to get the rest of the night off of me, and then go ahead and dress up. I had also grabbed some foundation, lip gloss, eyeshadow and a cigarette as a prop. I decide to oversell. I balance the phone and set the video. I pose in the dress, unlit cigarette in one hand with the other slowly going up under the skirt and stimulating my cock. I move against my hand for bit, and then straighten up, asking if we could add this in for next Saturday, please. Stop-Send-Delete.

That task now done it's time to figure out what the heck is going on. Still in the dress, I pour some Scotch and take the cigarette I "borrowed" out to the patio. A couple of swallows, and then I send a couple of long, slow exhales drifting up to the sky. A few more sips and long slow exhales later, I admire the lip imprint on the glass and the filter. A shudder goes through me as my cock stirs in stimulation. I drain the glass and tap out the butt.

OK, OK---- alcohol is bad, smoking is bad, cross-dressing is bad, giving head and getting analized is bad, but it's sexy and I'm still young and this is something I never even fantasized about. I smile while I imagine my Scout Master and Track Coach having coronaries--not literally mind you.

A moment later it's time for replaying what I overheard. I start trying to figure out Charlotte, but am getting nowhere. I understand women like I understand nuclear physics -- push this button, bomb go boom. So her fiancé blew it (I chuckle at the inverse pun--and then feel bad, really bad). But I'm not in the same universe as those bozos who try to get laid anywhere anytime. I'm a nice guy, I think.

But she's making serious money streaming porn videos, working with a skilled but Prima Donna transsexual, and a neophyte cross-dresser/cocksucker/ass slut as the foil. Definitely your atypical work environment. And being collegial and offering to walk her to her car is somehow an HR violation?

And then 'pop', it hits me. I now recall meeting Victor for the first time.

__________

My Mother liked shopping; but not the actual buying as money was always tight. She liked looking in the windows and walking the aisles. As it was just me and her, I was her always available escort.

I never understood the benefit of looking at things you could not have, but it was a time of being together, chatting, learning and observing. It was a good time.

And so here I am in Denver, two weeks into my new job, on a Sunday afternoon, strolling through a nice Mall. Consistent with my Mother's rules, I was respectably dressed, not that dressing "up" even slightly took much effort compared to most folks these days, but khakis, an oxford shirt and Bass Weejuns would have met with her approval.

I had completed the first floor and was halfway around the second when I reached the entryway to the Hilton that tied into the Mall. I stopped and considered having a drink. Although I lived with my Great Uncle while at Georgia Tech, 80% of my loan and GI Bill went to tuition and fees. But Friday was payday, and I was living rent free in the condo Martin-LOGEX provided for its trainees.

I mentally created a spreadsheet just as any self-respecting new graduate holding a Masters in Industrial Engineering with an emphasis on Logistics would due---risk/benefit assessment. I mean, who doesn't use Six Sigma to decide between a glass of wine or an Old Fashioned.

The calculation was favoring wine - - too early for bourbon - - when a fellow walked up from behind and said "Excuse me."

"Certainly," I said as I turned. "But what for?"

He reminded me of Ray Walston--Boothby on Star Trek. He was well dressed to include a blue blazer, but not overdone. Nothing pretentious like an ascot. He looked at ease, comfortable.

"I just wanted to compliment you," he said.

"For????," I drew out the question.

"Look around you," he said gesturing towards the Mall concourse.

I followed his gesture. It was still the Mall. There were still lots of people going back and forth.

"Sorry, I'm not seeing what you're seeing."

"The people--how they look, what they are wearing. No one has any style any more---sweat pants, bed room slippers, shredded jeans. The majority appear to be in their pajamas. You on the other hand, look respectable. So, you're not from around here, are you?"

Looking back and forth, I could see what he saw. I never thought much about it though unless someone was spilling out of their pants or top and then it was hard to ignore. I behaved and dressed as I was raised; I didn't judge.

I shrugged. "My Mother liked to go shopping; it was her entertainment, her reward to herself. It was just her and me, so I was her escort. And then eight years in the Air Force--fatigues and flight suits were for work only. Old lessons stay with you."

"That is true," he replied. "Very true. Are you staying here at the Hilton?"

"No, sir," I replied. "Here for six months of OJT. The Company has condos for us to use. Got settled in last weekend, yesterday was safety training, and so I decided this weekend to stroll around and window shop. You?"

"Shoe shopping," he said holding up the bag. "And going to have a drink before heading home. Join me?" he asked.

"Thanks. For the first time in 12 months, I've got nothing pressing."

"Charles," I said offering my hand. "Victor," he responded shaking it.

I gestured for him to lead the way.

It appeared he knew the hostess and indicated where he wanted to sit. I followed his lead on the wine -- I tend to defer to older people -- and agreed some cheese would be good.

We made small talk; a quick toast when the wine arrived; a piece of cheese every now and then. It was comfortable. I found myself thinking I wasn't a crew dog or a grad student anymore; I felt like an adult.

A second glass of wine appeared.

I don't know when I noticed it, but he had positioned his left hand flat on the table. He wore a ring that had a large, clear stone with lots of facets. The light was over my shoulder and was reflecting off the ring. There was a large fan overhead on low and it was causing the light to flicker. It wasn't irritating. But he never moved his hand; he used his right the whole time.

Pretty soon I found myself looking more at the ring than at him and lagging in the conversation.

"It's pleasant isn't it? The way it catches the light? The steady rhythm of the fan overhead? The quiet hum of the motor? It's all so pleasant and relaxing. It's why I like to sit here. It's why there is nothing to bother or interrupt us. It's just the so, so pleasant sensation of watching the light, and listening to my voice. Don't you think so?" he asked.

"Uhhh," I mumbled. I was trying to process what he said.

"A simple yes will do Charles," he instructed.

"Uhhh; yes," I mumbled again.