I feel and relish the pressure on my swollen clit. Her curves at this angle are delicious. I try to lean forward to kiss her skin but the wrenching pain in my shoulders reminds me I can’t. Then suddenly you’re in my face, shouting at the top of your voice, “Do not attempt to touch her, she is not for you, she is mine. Do you understand?” "Yes, Sir!" My voice is small and like a whisper in comparison. The silence that follows is deafening, all three of us holding our breath. You stare into my eyes for what must have been barely seconds but felt like hours. You lean right in, spit in my face and stand up straight, taking Charlie’s hand and helping her up to stand in front of you. I find bliss. While I’m adrift: at the back of my mind, I acknowledge that this is you letting me know that you were intently watching me, not her, but my reaction to her. I feel fizzy all over and my skin prickles hot and cold as I return to the world. This is intense. You grab Charlie by the shoulders and. All set in motion by a single sentence, uttered at theage of five:I'm really a girl. 3Backstage traffic was always relatively heavy Fridaynights; waiters, barhands and security staff passedthrough the changing area in an endless stream. Makeup, dressing tables and clothing racks had beenprovided for the girls, but their employers saw noneed for privacy. Girls who modelled their underpantsfor a living had no use for dressing rooms, as far asthe management was concerned.Charise glanced self-consciously around the changingarea. Beautiful young girls were disrobing all aroundher, slipping out of blouses, stepping out of skirtsand frocks. Not a single one over the age of nineteen,they walked about in their prettiest underwearcarefully oblivious of the activity around them. She often wondered about genetic girls; did they feelthat indescribable silken thrill that precededclipping a suspender belt around a tiny waist? Didthey enjoy the same moist, gasping fantasies sheexperienced whenever.
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