Becoming Charlie

SERNEA STEELE MONROE

 

A trans girl just wants to submit to black men!

 

Charlie in the BNWO #1

BECOMING CHARLIE

 

© Copyright 2025 by Serena Steele Monroe

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18). This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This tale is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, real events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Becoming Charlie

 

Dawn’s gauzy light leaks through a crack in the blinds, coating the ceiling in a band of bruised lavender. Heart thudding, Charlie flings off the comforter, toes already curling with anticipation for what he’s promised himself—this morning. The black man’s bar. Today, maybe, eyes will linger. Perhaps the barman will nod, not smirk.

 

Possibly, the world will line up behind what the mirror image imagines.

 

Huddled under a wash of blue, the room waits for movement. Feeling the day crack open, Charlie sits up and rubs sleep from his eyes. The digital clock on the nightstand shows 5:37. He stares at his phone for the day’s affirmation, but instead, the lock screen throws his reflection back at him, half shadow.

 

She remembers she’s no longer a boy, she’s a woman.

 

Vanity mirror, battered white laminate, ringed by bare bulbs that sizzle to life. The chair wobbles under her ninety-eight pounds. Squinting through the blear of morning, she bends forward, the minor film of oily sweat spoiling the illusion. Deep breath. Shaky fingers drag through limp, shoulder-length hair, untangling strands. Blonde, but only in the technical sense; under this light, even her best features fade.

 

Powder-blue dressing gown droops off a bony shoulder. The bones, for once, offer some use: cheekbones, not so much chiseled as starved into visibility, provide a trellis for blush and bronze.

 

Charlie’s hands tremble, but they know the drill. Foundation spatters onto the back of his hand, cool, thick, a shield against scrutiny. She dots her forehead, chin, cheeks, and smooths, the movement practiced and almost clinical. A harsh line threatens at the jaw; she softens it with a damp sponge, dabs at the places where beard shadows used to reassert a claim.

 

Electrolysis really works.

 

Mirror, mirror: the girl in the glass emerges by degrees, never all at once. Concealer next. The tube rattles as he unscrews it, the noise sharp in the stillness. She paints crescent moons under both eyes. Obliterating the old evidence of nights spent awake, searching, scrolling, wishing for connections. Blends with fingertips, repeats for the spots that seem to spring up in a heartbeat.

 

When she leans in, nose nearly to the glass, hunting flaws threatens her. A smudge, a dry patch, the faint pink of a healing pimple scar at the brow. A sigh, not quite frustration, a soft exhale of resignation.

 

She brushes translucent powder in upward strokes, sets the work, and cradles the powder compact in both hands, taking a pause. A soft, secretive smile flickers.

 

“We got this, baby girl,” she mouths, and repeats herself barely audible.

 

Next, the contouring. Fingers tap the palette, selecting a muted brown. She draws faint lines under the cheekbones, around the jaw, and at the sides of the nose. Brushes and buffs erase harshness, coaxing each angle toward a softer, feminine geometry. The effect is subtle, a whisper of shadow, which might trick an indifferent world, maybe.

 

Hopes abound within her.

 

Mascara last. This is her favorite part. The brush slides out with a gratifying pop, loaded with inky promise. Sweeping it along already-long lashes, careful not to clump or overdo. Left, right, a blink, a flutter. The difference always surprises her.

 

The eyes, crystalline, blue as deep as still pools of water, go from haunted to hopeful in a stroke of the brush.

 

Charlie sits back, breathes in the moment. Tries to see the girl everyone else keeps missing. A slip.

 

She frowns, catches it—right side, the eyeliner’s too thick, veers upward at a weird angle.

 

“C’mon, girl,” she scolds softly, grabbing a cotton swab. The fix leaves a faint red smear, but she dabs over it, camouflages the flaw.

 

“That’s better,” she says, this time with more conviction. She grins. It isn’t perfect, but for a second, perfection doesn’t matter. For a second, she looks back.

 

Dresser drawer, third one down. Charlie rummages past stacks of spiraled notebooks, art pencils, a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and pulls out two plastic bottles.

 

Labels in black Sharpie.

 

ESTRO and BLOCKER.

 

Charlie twists off the cap of the first, shakes a single pink pill onto her small palm, and holds it up to the light. For a beat, she studies the thing as if it might sprout wings and save her.

 

“Cheers,” she says, popping it into her mouth, chasing it with a sip of tepid water.

 

Second bottle, blue pill. Charlie presses the tablet between tongue and roof of mouth, savoring the bitterness like penance.

 

“A little closer every day,” she murmurs, and straightens, wiping a bead of water from her chin.

 

Charlie lingers at the mirror. Runs hands down the length of her arms, smoothing invisible flaws, and touches the buds of breasts, still barely there but stubbornly real. The gesture feels equal parts desperate and defiant.

 

“Almost,” she whispers.

 

She glances away, and back again, testing whether the illusion will hold. It does for now. And her tiny girl cock stiffens, reaching down, she pulls her panties out of the way. Staring at the clitty, she tugs it between forefinger and thumb.

 

Stroking, ten times, thirty, a hundred. For seven minutes, she rubs furiously for seven whole minutes. Finally, watery, white seed surges in thin strings onto the bathroom floor. Gasping, sighing, while she expels her semen, her body shuddering through a massive climax.

 

“Just like a real girl,” she says, not about her prick, or seed, but how the emotions run through her. The way she’s consumed by her orgasm.

 

For hours, she does nothing, waiting for the right time to leave.

 

Sunlight claws its way across the floorboards, shoving the last shadows out of Charlie’s tiny bedroom. Closet doors agape, a jawful of tangled hangers and slumped dresses. Clothes scatter across the unmade bed. Hopeful pinks, reckless reds, a black cocktail number snagged from the consignment store’s “dangerous girls only” rack.

 

Charlie stands in the center, arms folded, lips compressed. The mirror catches her indecision, reflecting it in triplicate. First, the marigold sundress, faded at the seams but always faithful. She presses it against her chest, holds the straps in place, and studies the effect.

 

The yellow fights against her skin—too brash, too hungry for attention. A grimace. She tosses it aside.

 

Next, the green slip dress. The satin feels lush between Charlie’s fingers, slick as river stones. She steps into it, wriggles the hem over narrow hips, pulls the straps onto her shoulders.

 

The fabric pools at her chest, exposing the lie: no fullness, only the faintest curve. She tugs at the material, trying to coax cleavage out of the shadows. No dice. She peels it off, shoves it into the growing pile.

 

Option three: a sleeveless shift in storm-cloud gray, structured but forgiving. Charlie slips it over her head, arms poking through like white asparagus. In the mirror, the dress clings to her stomach, telegraphs every rib. She frowns, sucks in her gut, turns sideways. The dress flattens her—no hips, no butt, nothing to catch the gaze. She yanks it off and flings it onto the bed with extra force. Sighs, long and theatrical.

 

Last chance: the sky-blue sundress. She saves it for days when she wants to look like someone else, an easygoing gal in her own skin. She strokes the hem with her thumb, careful not to snag a nail. She pulls the zipper down, shimmies in, and draws it up with both hands.

 

The cotton hugs against her mounds and molds, allowing her nipples to press up through, floating over her stomach, skimming her thighs. She twirls in place, watching the fabric flutter around her. The dress clings to her waist, suggesting a greater curve, a whisper of hips.

 

She faces the full-length mirror, lifts her chin. The blue in the dress sets her eyes on fire, making her lashes seem darker and her a bolder girl. She touches her cheek, traces the contour she built this morning. The smile that forms isn’t borrowed; it’s hers.

 

She experiments with posture, throws a hip, cocks a knee, watches as her silhouette ripples from boy-thin to something almost hourglass. Satisfied, she smooths the bodice, aligns the seams, checks the neckline for any sign of the breast forms she refuses to buy, the ones she can’t afford.

 

She turns to the side, angles her body, and arches her back slightly. The move accentuates the pert rise of her chest, the modest dip at her waist. She holds the pose, commits it to memory. If she walks like this, keeps her arms close, maybe nobody will notice what’s missing.

 

On the wall, a poster of Brigitte Bardot gazes down in silent approval. Charlie salutes her with two fingers and blows a kiss.

 

For the first time all morning, nerves slip away. The dress works; the trick holds. If she never breathes too deeply, if she keeps her arms tucked and her shoulders loose, Charlie will pass.

 

Lifting the hem, she stares at how well the transgender thong hides her boy thing. The fit makes her sack look like a camel-toe.

 

She spins once more to feel the skirt lift. Lightness. Almost weightless.

 

Shoebox under the bed, out of sight until absolutely needed. Charlie tugs it free, pops the lid, and reveals the crown jewels: patent-leather heels in the exact shade of the sundress, powder blue with a cheeky ankle strap. She slips the first onto her left foot, and the right, calf muscle flexing at the unfamiliar angle.

 

Standing, she wobbles. The mirror snickers at her instability, but she steadies herself with a hand on the closet door. Heels lend two inches, force her hips forward, teach her spine a new normal. The shoes, borrowed from a cousin but never admitted, bite at her toes—pain with a purpose.

 

She lines herself up at the foot of the bed, sets a target at the far wall, and walks. The first step lands heavy and graceless; she nearly rolls an ankle on the fourth.

 

“Easy,” she says, voice thick with concentration.

 

Back to the starting line.

 

Second try: one foot in front of the other, small steps, heel-toe, heel-toe. She swings her arms, remembers to lead with her chest, not her chin.

 

The sound of heels on hardwood fills the room, staccato and sharp, like applause in miniature. Each pass across the floor smooths the movement, erases the memory of yesterday’s slouch. She tries a turn, pivots too fast, flails for balance, but recovers with a quick grab at the dresser. Laughter erupts, bright and spontaneous.

 

She glances in the mirror, watching her reflection improve with each lap. By the fifth run, the movement shifts from forced to fluid, with hips swaying enough and shoulders relaxed. A real girl’s walk, or close enough for tonight.

 

At the desk, she pulls open the drawer, finds the blue clutch: smooth vinyl, satin lining, big enough for the essentials. She thumbs the fake ID, “Charlotte Skinner, 22,” the edges worn from dozens of nervous checks.

 

Scanning the hologram, traces the signature, rehearses the lie in her head. Birthday at the bowling alley, three older sisters, a fondness for tequila. She presses the card against her lips, seals the story with a kiss, and slides it into the clutch.

 

Her twentieth birthday was still a month away.

 

Next, lip gloss—clear with a hint of shimmer. Charlie tucks it in, and her phone, screen already buzzing with a new text from a number she doesn’t recognize. Scam risk flashes under the number. Snapping the clutch closed, she ignores the caller and sets it by the door.

 

Final inspection: She stands before the mirror, her hands at her sides, her feet together. The sundress floats, the shoes extend her legs, the makeup catches the light just so. She cocks a hip, bends one wrist, tries on a half-smile. Finally, this morning, she recognizes herself—no edits, no illusions.

 

She breathes deep, holds the air, and lets it out slowly. Grabs the clutch, squares her shoulders, and steps out the door.

 

In the hallway, she hesitates, listens for sounds of life in the house. Silence. Parents probably gone or ignoring her on purpose. She tiptoes to the stairs, navigates each step like a cat burglar, shoes in hand, descending into a different light.

 

In another month, she’ll be on her own at college. Free to be herself, and to be a girl.

 

At the threshold, she pauses, slips the heels back on, and opens the front door. The sun has climbed higher, banishing all doubts from the porch. She walks out, head up, hair loose around her face, clutch tight against her side.

 

Today, she’ll make the world see her, no matter what.

 

Bar parking lot, blacktop still wet from the last garbage truck. Charlie’s heels skitter and scrape, amplifying every doubt. With the clutch tucked under her arm, she glances at the mirrored windows. Checking her silhouette—a slip of a girl in a too-bright dress, ankles thin as wishbones, hair an accidental halo around her face.

 

The front door looms, black iron with flaking paint, long handle, cold as November. Booker’s shape blots the glass: six-and-a-half feet of muscle and shadow, shoulders so broad they threaten the frame. He unlocks the deadbolt in two moves and pivots, catching Charlie dead-on with his eyes.

 

Booker’s gaze lingers on her throat, skims collarbones, and settles on the pulse working overtime under the makeup. Showing a canine edge, she grins, and he pushes the door open and gestures her in.

 

Charlie’s tongue glues itself to the roof of her mouth. She shuffles past, eyes down, counting the tiles inside—one, two, three—before boots slam the door behind them. Noise bounces, echoes.

 

Bleach over stale whiskey, Charlie smells the bar’s chemical tang. Catching the undertow of Booker’s cologne: sandalwood, wet cedar, nothing sweet about it. But oh, so mannish.

 

With arms crossed, he leans in the doorway. His biceps flex, testing the limits of cotton and patience. And for all the world, Charlie’s knees want to buckle. She plants herself at the patch of the bar’s linoleum, rehearses a greeting, but only a nervous laugh escapes.

 

“You got a name, princess?” Booker’s voice could shatter a glass.

 

“Ch—Charlotte, but call me Charlie,” she says, swallowing hard.

 

“ID?”

 

And she fumbles the clutch, fingers slippery. Zipper snags, but she yanks it free, hands over the plastic with a tremor she can’t control.

 

Booker doesn’t rush. He takes the card, angles it toward the neon, and inspects the hologram with a deliberate, gradual drag of his thumb.

 

“Charlotte Skinner. Twenty-two,” he reads, glances up, eyebrows cocked. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”

 

Blood drums in her ears.

 

“Yessir.” Voice comes out smaller than planned. She hates it, tries to rescue with eye contact, but Booker’s already moved on, sliding the card back with a flick that smacks of judgment.

 

Without warning, he locks the door again, the metal clack fills the emptiness. The bar’s a mausoleum at nine in the morning: chairs flipped, glasses inverted on wet napkins, cash drawer gaping like a wound. Booker flips the sign to CLOSED, tilts his head toward the back hallway.

 

“C’mon. Don’t keep me waiting.” With that, he stalks off, boots slapping the floor, and she stumbles after, clutch tight, breath tighter.

 

As the corridor narrows, the walls close in. Hyper-aware of every inch separating their bodies, Charlie likes the way his mass bends space. Keys jangling, Booker pauses by the office, and he unlocks the door, swinging it open. He gestures her through, with a mock-chivalrous bow.

 

Inside, cheap wood paneling, paperwork littering the desk, a trophy bat on the wall inscribed with faded black marker: “Booker—State Champs 2004.” She stands in the middle, uncertain, until he closes the door and the latch clicks.

 

Nowhere to run.

 

Booker circles at a snail’s pace. He parks himself on the edge of the desk, arms braced.

 

“You’re early,” he says, as if testing her for a lie.

 

“Nerves,” she admits. “Didn’t wanna—didn’t want to run into anyone.”

 

He snorts. “Only fools or the desperate show up before noon.” His smile widens, predatory. “Which are you, Charlotte?”

 

She shifts from foot to foot, dress swishing around knobby knees. “Guess that depends on you.”

 

He barks a single laugh.

 

“Cute.” He gestures for her to come closer, and she obeys, stepping inside the circumference of his legs. Shivering at the body heat radiating off him.