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Sissies and the City By Gingerfred Man My name is Cheryl. I'm 20 years old and I'm a pantyboy. That's how I've started off each of the brilliant, literature-for-the-ages stories I've written for you. Though technically, with the brabuster titties I have these days, I guess you would now call me a shemale. I hope you've already read the stories I wrote about my three pretty little creampuff friends and me. Those stories describe how each of us became beautiful, delicious, cock receptacles for the men we choose to favor with our charms. In each story, I promised you one additional story, this one, about our lives together in a fabulous, four-bedroom, six-bath, eastside apartment in New York, which is paid for, of course by four nice men who "know" us well. And frequently. First, let me apologize for the delay in writing this story. But if you've been alive on Planet Earth in the past few months, and paying the tiniest bit of attention, you KNOW why I've been so "occupied" lately. That's right. I'm THAT Cheryl (the former Charlie [ICK!]) LaFemme. More about why I'm extra famous later. First, a quick "who's who" recap for those who came in late. If you "read" Panty Boy magazine (and who doesn't?) you know that I was Miss First-Half-of-June 2002 and they did a big pictorial on little old me. You can read all about my transition to girlishness in "Slacker Moms," which chronicles how my Mom used "petticoat punishment" to motivate me toward responsible citizenship. It sort of worked, except that I turned out to be her responsible daughter, not her irresponsible son. I've been responsible for millions of male orgasms, both because of my "pictorials" and because of how I help make men happy in my bed. Like me, Judy is a blonde, but her golden crown is long and straight, while mine is short and styled. She has the prettiest three-and-a-half inch cock in the world (I've looked around for comparison) and perfect erect nipples, framed by her bra-shaped tan lines. I imagine you read in "Test Driven," how Harold Strokewood's sales job at Stiffman's Intimate Apparel metamorphed Harold into the lovely Judy. Amy is a brunette with a curly, boyish cut. Her features are probably the most masculine of us all, but she more than makes up for it by being the frilliest and sissiest of the quartet. She has a smile that is regulated by the International Atomic Energy Commission and a warm, giving nature for almost every nice man she meets. The story of English boy Ralph's transformation to Amy while serving as Lord Spunkley's personal assistant is chronicled in "Serviced." Sandy, a redhead with green eyes that pierce men's souls, is a little cheater. She's already heartbreakingly beautiful, but she has "augmented" herself with almost A-cup titties! And at three inches, she has the teeniest little popsy of any of us. All of which give her an edge when we compete (which we surely do) for men. Those hormones she takes haven't softened her stiffies (which she always seems to have) or her cum production (oceans worth). In "Sissy Stepmother," I told you all about how George Spermmore's father's marriage to the lovely sissy Beth led to Sandy's joyful journey to The Panty Life. I must admit that I'm well equipped to co-exist with these fabulous girls. I am (no kidding) even prettier than the rest of those tarty little tramps [giggle], with legs that promise (and deliver) men intense delights. I also have titties of my own. They started out growing a little each day until my "unique situation" developed and now they're C-cup-plump and bursting with breast milk. And they're so sensitive that a man's soft kisses on my nipples have me gasping and ejaculating helplessly. Our home is definitely a "deluxe apartment in the sky" as George Jefferson once sang, and we've got more than a piece of the pie. We own the bakery. Let me tell you all about it. Chapter One -- NYSE I know you think the NYSE is on Wall Street. But the NYSE is actually on Third Avenue in the 60s. It's our apartment [giggle]; the place men call the "New York Sperm Exchange." Our exchange volume is in the millions of little spermies a day. There's no Sperm Exchange Commission overseeing our transactions. And unlike that Wall Street place, we're pretty much 24/7/365. Since you know from reading my first four stories that I tell all, we'd better go back a bit to when Judy, Amy, Sandy and I were all just nineteen and did our Panty Boy magazine swimsuit issue pictorial for the Panty Boy publisher, Nick Nickerson. Nick is such a rogue. All the world's prettiest pantyboys pass through his bed. And he makes us all believe that, "Nick loves me and only me." Maybe he believes it too. I mean, the pantyboy mind is something that is only dimly understood. Especially by us pantyboys. I know that conventional "faithfulness" to one lover is a difficult concept for me to embrace. Come to think of it, it's fully embraced by few women and far fewer men. Oh well. Too much thinking makes my head hurt and my prick go soft. Nick's greatest accomplishment was getting Judy, Amy, Sandy and me together. We had each done a stupefyingly beautiful individual pictorial and had decided to stay around the Panty Mansion in Fromage, Wisconsin to sample The Panty Life at its epicenter. The darned mansion was so huge and Nick had such stamina that he was fucking us all and we never met until we assembled for the swimsuit photo shoot. The storyline for the shoot involved the four of us, dressed in miniskirts, stockings and big heels, getting into a red convertible, and driving to "the beach." In the locker room, of course, we stripped sensuously, teasingly, then pleased each other in messy, cummy ways. Then we got into our microscopic swimsuits and went out to the beach where we drove men wild and were repeatedly and enthusiastically fucked by delicious men. And we got PAID for that! Anyway, we fell in love with our male partners for the shoot, of course. I fell in love several times a week. But the four of us totally and permanently fell in love with each other. The shoot actually took three days, since there were eleven or twelve cum shots from each of us (and the men) in the pics. I could have done that in four or five hours, but Nick said he wanted thick, creamy loads in all of the shots, not dribbles. I spent the first night of the shoot in bed with Brad, a blond, thick- cocked, surfer boy from the shoot. The other girls, Nick and the other men in the shoot mixed it up at the Panty Mansion. The second night, I spent with Nick, which is always a wonderful treat. The third night, when the shoot was over, I suggested to Judy, Amy and Sandy that we spend the night together - no men - just us. Those three always need leadership and I'm always there to provide it. A night without men is a scary prospect for most pantyboys, but I had a vision of the NYSE forming in my head and wanted to see if we were compatible. We definitely were. We finished the photo shoot around five and I told the girls to assemble themselves at their girliest, then assemble in my room at 7:30. It had been an exhausting day and my appearance showed it. My face was coated with three creamy loads of man juice. My lipstick was smeared. My poor bottom was stretched and squishy from all its "visitors" that day. The men from the shoot that my little pooty accommodated were bad enough, but with all he had to witness, I couldn't let that poor photographer suffer...or his lighting assistant...or the guy who brought us coffee and lube. Anyway, I got into a warm, soapy bathtub and got my plan all set in my mind. I would tell the girls how, individually, we would probably do OK - entertain men every night for a couple of years - end up marrying some billionaire or other. But together, we would have true sissy power. Shared security. Shared finances. Shared services. Shared fame. And best of all - shared lives. Lives with some of the only people in the world who truly understood us. As I shaved my legs. I thought about where I wanted us to live. As I pat-dried my beautiful body, I thought about how we would finance the operation. As I powdered and perfumed all over, I thought about how we would get, keep and pay household help. As I styled my hair, I thought about how we would get, keep and pay a security staff. As I put on my killer, super-slutty makeup, I thought about how we would find and use a financial manager. And as I dressed, I thought about how Nick could help us. And why he would want to. All that thinking didn't distract from my beauty that night. I think I was as lovely as I ever was at that tender age of 19. I slid on my super-sheer, black, seamed, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, then took a fashion risk. I usually wore a frilly black garter belt and black or pink panties, but that evening, I went for the "clean" look. No panties. Frilly, ruffled, black, thigh garters with tiny, baby-blue ribbons, symbolizing my underlying "boyishness." As if that stiff, pink throbber of mine wasn't symbol enough. I considered myself in the mirror. And stiffened to my full three and a half inches. I was spectacular! Isn't it ironic that they call us pantyboys, but we always have the most fun with our panties off? A loving look at my beautiful self confirmed my no-panties decision. But I needed something to complete the ensemble. Hmmm. Then I found it. A diaphanous, silky, skimpy, black bolero jacket that barely covered my shoulders and completely exposed my puffy, perky nipples. Puffy half-sleeves and a puffy collar. I added large gold hoops and a delicate pearl necklace. I was adorable. Turning this way and that. Balancing on my five-inch stiletto sandals as I drank in my narcissistic vision of perfection. Wow. Those three sissyboys were going to be lucky they had me as their leader/lover. Despite my "hard" work of that day, I was very excited about the evening ahead. Getting anally porked by several hunky men is certainly my idea of a good time. But all the cameras and lighting and posing and stopping and starting tended to dampen the excitement a bit. Some good, knockdown kissing, sucking and fucking in the privacy of one's own quarters, accompanied by one or more close friends is the way to spend a nice evening at home. Goodness, my own beauty was making me stiff and drippy. If those "girls" didn't arrive soon, I'd be spilling my first load in admiration of my own intense pulchritude. Just in time, I heard a sissyish knock on the door. I minced over, my popsy stiff, pink ball sack swaying with girlish excitement. Then I opened the door and saw.... Someone ALMOST as beautiful as I, though just a smidge more boyish - it was Amy, the little brunette, English creampuff. She was delicious. All in pink. Ruffled garter belt. Pretty, fully-fashioned and seamed stockings. Killer, five-inch fuck-me pumps. And a delicate, pink bra, with cutouts exposing her throbbing nipples. I opened my mouth to invite her in, but the aggressive little panty princess had already covered my glossed lips with her own, depositing her tongue deep within my oral cavity. Oh my. Her perfume ("Poison," I think) was enflaming my nose hairs. Her soft, sissy hands were caressing my plump, smooth bottom cheeks. And her peeny...her pink, gorgeous, miniscule peeny...was creating the sweetest friction by rubbing, wetly and insistently against my own tiny tickler. It was too much for a hormone-crazed, sexually-primal sissyboy to endure for longer than the two or three minutes I was forced to hold back so I wouldn't be accused of premature pleasure. Amy wriggled the lacquered fingernail of her right index finger into my sweet sissy pussy and I saw the origins of the universe. In technicolor. And surround sound. No bang was bigger. Gasping for breath, I slid down my loving assailant's body and fell to my knees. I thought she would give me a moment or two to recuperate before I fulfilled the Sissy Code by returning the orgasmic favor. But no. The little English hooligan was on her knees BEHIND me! Was she going to? She was. She was finger fucking me, sliding a very slick lubricant into my anus as if she were preparing me for... Well. That was new. I had accommodated many men in my nether arena. Joyfully and willingly. But a sissyboy, especially one as "short-staffed" as sweet Amy, had never invaded that territory. To be a true pantyboy, one must be open to variety. And despite my bombastic orgasm that had only died two minutes ago, I was already experiencing a rebirth in certain parts. That aggressive little buttpounder intended to FUCK me. (Much as it turned out, she had seen other pantyboys do to and for each other at the Spermapaloozas she had attended in England - see "Serviced.") Thank goodness my pussy was and is so tight and hot that it affords pleasure to all manner of penises. Even one so small that I almost asked if it were in yet. Amy's low groan told me that she was fully sheathed. Though the situation was very exciting, I wasn't feeling much physically until two things happened. 1) Amy's excitement pushed just enough blood into Amy's "Little Miss Happy" that on each downstroke, she clipped my "special place. Quite nicely, actually. 2) Amy gave me the nicest "reacharound" as she fucked me. It's such an obvious thing, as I'm sure you know, girls. The fucker-from-behind should always give his (or her) partner a lovely penile tickle as he satisfies his own animal lust. Animal lust must he satisfied wherever we find it. Amy's little grunty noises, her lovely manual technique, her delicious perfume and her inspired fucking combined to make me squeal, shudder and spurt yet another big load of girlish juices, this time into her soft, pretty hand. As my last glob dribbled out, Amy screamed and drenched my bottom with a half-gallon of milk that would make the Wisconsin dairy farmers jealous. Heaving with effort and short of breath, we were about to uncouple when we heard some sissyish giggling. "I see you started the party without us," Judy said as she and Sandy stood at the door, which I had never had a chance to close. Amazingly, the sight of those two angels made both Amy's and my exhausted cocks twitch. Judy was dressed very simply, especially for someone who had begun her sissiness as a lingerie model. Just a very pretty, white, silky, very short, babydoll nightie. No panties. No stockings or shoes covered her perfect, painted toes. Her pretty peener was completely exposed and quite angry looking - skinned, red and ready for anything. Sandy was wearing green lingerie, to set off her deeply red hair. She was showing off her budding, little "plum-sized" titties in a push-up bra that exposed the titty tops and most of the nipples. Her fully- fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, garter belt and fuck-me pumps were all deep green and delectable. For an instant, I was concerned that I had committed a sissy faux pas by having two debilitating orgasms with one of my guests before the other two guests arrived. But then I remembered who we were. Pantyboys! We live for this. My real concern was that if I was going to be the leader of this quartet, I had better start acting as if I were in charge. I staggered to my feet, then said, "Welcome, Ladies. I've been dreaming about having some private time with the three most beautiful, feminine people in the world. Now that you're all here, I can see that my dreams were inadequate to describe the reality of your perfection. I suggest we temporarily satisfy our lust for each other, then we'll talk about a little idea of mine." Their luminescent smiles told me that they were fine with the lust part. The talking part would be something I would have to, as the grown-up, make sure we did. And my mother thought I would never be the responsible one in any group. Judy stepped forward to claim me for the lust part of the evening. Sandy and Amy seemed very happy to pair off. There was only one bed in the room - a well-used king - and Sandy and Amy were soon writhing on it in a deeply passionate overheated kissathon. Judy was sitting in the room's one easy chair. I was on my knees at her feet, kissing, licking and sucking her pretty toes as she squealed and giggled. Four hours, six partner rotations and fifteen combined orgasms later, the four of us had simmered down enough to discuss some real business. "What are your plans, girls?" I asked. "What's next for all of us after we leave the Panty Mansion? We can't stay here forever." Blank stares all around. "I hadn't really thought about it," Sandy said. "Maybe I'll go back and live with my Daddy and my sissy stepmother." Judy said, "Good question. I guess I could go back to work at Stiffman's Intimate Apparel. Cozy up to the customers. Be a mistress to one or more of them. Maybe even marry one someday." "I could go back to England," Amy said. "Maybe hook up with one of Lord Spunkley's friends and live with him." I looked at them sternly. "What do all these plans have in common?" I asked. None of these sissies was the sharpest knife in the drawer, but the answer was so obvious that Amy said, "They all involve moving backward." I gave her a big hug and said, "Exactly right." Then I stepped back and said to them all, "With my plan, we move forward." And that's what we did. We implemented my plan. Chapter Two - A Brief Negotiation The next evening, I was lying in bed with Nick Nickerson, stroking his fat, limp cock. Skinning the head up and down. Kissing his manly lips. I was in bed with him because 1) I wanted something from him besides a lovely, stiff, spunk-filled fucking. 2) Nick wanted to give me several stiff fuckings. Me. Not the other 14 lovely pantyboys who happened to be residing in the Panty Mansion at the time. Nick's cock was limp because, from the moment I had arrived two hours earlier, clad only in black stockings and black, four-inch-stiletto pumps, I had been doing whatever it took to make him empty his fat balls. Judging the moment right, I stopped kissing the Pantied World's Hugh Hefner and said, "Oh, Nickie." Nick looked deeply into my gorgeous eyes and said, most eloquently..."Uhhhh?" "Nickie," I continued. "Do you love me?" I had his attention. "Of course I do, Sweetheart. You know I do. And I can prove it. Every time I look at you my cock gets hard." It was difficult to refute such logic, so I moved on. "If you love me, you'll do a couple of tiny, little, itsy-bitsy things for me...and my friends." That was the point when a man knows he's done for. But he asked what fate compelled him to ask. "And what would those 'couple of tiny, little, itsy-bitsy things for you...and your friends' be?" I giggled girlishly and said, "Well, I was hoping you would put together some 'investors' who would buy Amy, Sandy, Judy and me a huge, luxury condo in the best part of New York, free and clear, of course, with all taxes, utilities and maintenance paid in advance for say, 20 years. Then if you would just get us a business manager to handle all our taxes and details, a security force to make sure no one bothers us, some beautiful furniture and lots of groceries. And a foundation for us to run - one of those charitable places where we can collect money from rich men and help the poor...and the rich men." Nick laughed out loud. "Is that all?" I didn't have him yet. One part to go. The "what's in it for you, Nick" part. "Of course, everyone, especially you, will benefit from the arrangement." That got his attention. "And how would that be?" "Well, the investors and employees would be compensated 'directly,' of course. And you can enjoy me and my friends whenever you wish. Nothing new for you there. But the new part is that the four of us, living and working together openly as glamorous pantyboys, will make us famous. But the person who will really be famous will be you." Now I really had his attention and continued, "Everyone in America will learn that Nick Nickerson discovered us. And that it was Nick Nickerson's idea and his efforts that created the New York Sperm Exchange. It's just what you'll need to move up to what you've desperately been wanting - to make Panty Boy a weekly magazine!" Nick gasped. "How did you know that?" Notice he didn't deny it? I had him Chapter Three - Four months later Life was fabulous at the New York Sperm Exchange. Even at the beginning. There were things to do and organize, but those lucky sissyboys were well led. By me, of course. Nickiekins had gotten right to work the day after our cum-drenched evening. It was easy for him, really. Everyone wants to do a favor for the guy who can invite you to spend time at the Panty Mansion. It's a place with the world's greatest...comforts. Nick accomplished everything on my checklist in about a week. Everything except the foundation. We had to get our not-for-profit legal thingies and all. We had to register this and that. But most of all, we needed to decide what we were foundationing. Of course, I had the killer idea on all of that. I said to the Terrific Triplets, "What's like the worst thing that can happen to people?" They thought about that. "Death?" Amy suggested. "Wearing boy clothes?" Judy said. "Celibacy?" Sandy offered. All reasonable answers. But not correct. "Bad sex," I said. "Ohh," they said in unison. Then after thinking a moment, Judy said, "But how can sex be bad?" Good point. I had an answer. "When it hurts." They nodded in agreement. We had all been on the end of an overly impetuous cock in our unprepared pussies. "So, I propose that we establish a foundation that will use its donations to inform the public about how to do anal sex properly. I already have a name. Want to hear it?" They nodded eagerly. "The LDP Foundation." Blank stares. "LDP," I said, "means lubricate, dilate, penetrate. The 'anuspussy.' In that order. That's what a real lover does for his pantyboy." It was brilliant. And an overnight success. I mean, everyone wants better anal sex, right? Why hadn't any non- profit stepped up to raise money and educate the public about the best way to ease that Johnson into a tight pooper? Well, we were going to correct that. Nickie found a lawyer, a very horny young man, I can testify personally, to set up the LDP Foundation. And an event planner, who Judy says was beyond randy, to put together a "grand opening" (LDP is the best method for a truly grand opening) cocktail party for the foundation one Friday night in July 2003. We had been in the apartment for about two months by that night and I remember it all very well. It's a lot of work coordinating a sissy household, especially since we were very much on the "barter system" with our benefactors. Nickie had found four very eager men to buy and furnish our condo, as well as pay all our utilities, maintenance fees and taxes in advance for 20 years. Thinking ahead, as I always have to, I insisted that they all be married men, since I didn't want them in our bedrooms 24/7. Which the randy little buggerers would have been if they didn't have to attend to home and hearth. The girls and I needed our freedom too. Especially since there was a whole world of men beyond our apartment. The afternoon of our LDP Foundation kickoff event, I remember that Sandy was "entertaining" Biff, one of our six dedicated security/bodyguards, who ensured that we weren't besieged, bothered or heckled. Mr. Diddler (a core benefactor) was coring Judy in her room. Amy was dallying with one of her new boyfriends (even I couldn't keep track of them all) in her room. I was working on the evening's business, including my brilliant speech. Someone had to be the grownup. Of course, we paid the security guys actual money, but we thought that "sweetening the pootie" by trading monthly pussy for eternal devotion to duty was a fair deal all around. We also "entertained" our financial adviser/business manager John Bosley and our four "great benefactors" of house and home on a regular basis, so scheduling was always an issue. It was a good thing that Microsoft had recently developed a management program called "SissySperm2003," which helped us schedule such conjugal encounters. We needed time in the schedule, of course, for our boyfriends, who were legion. We also needed girlie maintenance time - a critical requirement for four lovely sissies. We needed "business time" to run the Foundation and invest our money properly. And we needed "Girl's Night In." Everyone in our circle, including the four core benefactors, knew that Thursday nights were a "stay-at-home-and-love-each-other" night for us. I loved Thursdays and so did the girls. More about that later. At three o'clock that afternoon, I knocked on three doors and evicted three men. We all had prettying up to do for that night and those silly sissies and their pussystruck swains would have fucked all night if I didn't lean on them. As he left, Mr. Diddler gave me a leer and a good "feel," reminding me of our "date" the following week. Right after he had fucked my roommate! Even my morals are higher than that. Not too much higher. But higher. I don't mean to run down the Core Four really. They put up a whole lot of money in a short time for us. And I'm forever grateful to Nick that he selected four good-looking, hygiene-conscious, well-hung, fit gentlemen to be our sugar daddies. I just wished that they had slightly smaller libidos. I thought early on that they were so eager and randy because of the newness of our relationships. Three years later, they seem even hornier. That's the effect we have on men, I guess. Anyway, back to that night. My three roommates looked as if they had just been thoroughly fucked. Which was how they almost always looked. If I was to whip them into shape for that evening, I had to give them a "halftime locker room" speech. "All right ladies," I said. "Tonight is a huge night for us. If you look your best and act your best, the LDP Foundation will be a global success. That means you will be rich, famous and well-fucked for the rest of your lives. If you don't cooperate, I will cut your bodies into bite -sized pieces and feed you to the alligators that live in the New York sewers." I could see that they were processing that. Judy, who had Mr. Diddler's cum oozing out of her bottom and dripping onto our living room Karrastan rug said, "But we're already rich, famous and well-fucked." I glowered at her, then the other two and said, "Well, then. I guess this will be the alligators' lucky night." That got them moving. Four hours of bathing, shaving, painting, cosmeticsizing, and sumptuous, sensual dressing later, I resumed my "cat herding" exercise with the three sissy princesses. I stepped out of my room, half-expecting them to be running around in panties and rollers in their hair. But no. They were ready. We were all ready. Four stunning pantyboys in full warpaint and evening gowns. Five-inch- pencil-heeled sandals. Painted toes showing through sheer, evening-dark stockings. Gorgeous gowns, with high slits exposing luscious legs. Judy's gown was red, sequined, spaghetti-strapped, knee-length and form-fitting. Her sandals were gold and strappy. Judy's blond mane touched her nearly bare shoulders prettily. Amy chose an electric-blue, sequined, mini-gown that displayed her fabulous legs. Her sandals were silver and slutty. Yum. Sandy was wearing green sequins, of course, to dramatize her luscious red hair. It was floor length, but with slits all the way to her stocking tops. Her sandals matched the dress. The little showoff was wearing a strapless frock, even though her wonder bra was working overtime to show off any cleavage on those almost-new titties. I have to admit though, those little knobs made me a bit jealous. Sigh. I was wearing a lovely black sequined classic gown - floor length - gold sandals. Trust me. I was hot. We all thought the same thing, but Sandy articulated it - "Too bad it's not Thursday night." At precisely seven, Bosley arrived to escort us to our "debut" in New York fundraising society. He gave us his standard greeting. "Hello, angels," he said. Then he gave us each a lovely peck on the cheek, smelled each pantyboy's perfume, and rubbed the backs of the fingers of his right hand against each of our peenies. I've never been sure why, but it's kind of cute. As if he needed to reassure himself that we were boys, sort of. "Let's go, angels," he said after the ritual. We followed him out the door and to the elevator. Our poor neighbor, Mr. Lovecock, was just coming out of his door, as he always seemed to be whenever we left the apartment. I thought briefly about adding him to our "satisfaction rotation," but the rolls were swelling pretty fast. "Good evening, Mr. Lovecock," Bosley said. "Nice evening." Mr. Lovecock never seems to be able to speak in our presence. He just nodded. And gawked. The five of us got into the elevator. I remembered something. "Bosley," I said, "Some guy named 'Charlie' called again. He called us angels too, asked me to put him on the speakerphone, and said he wanted us to go blow up some foreign embassy or something." "There are nutcases everywhere, Cheryl. I'll block his calls." Well, that was a relief. We all got into our limo. Clarence, our driver (and another grateful beneficiary of our favors) took us to the event that would shape our futures. Aggressive paparazzi were everywhere, but so were our security guards. There were also tons of our fans. Hurling praise and lewd suggestions. I loved it! We sissied and high-heel-minced our way through the adoring mob and into the Hotel Grand Ritz Magnificent Ballroom. Conversation, which had been lively, stopped. Completely. Silence. Then...and this is the best part...a huge gasp! I love making a good first impression. We certainly weren't the only pantyboys there that evening. Nick Nickerson had graciously arranged for fully 35 or 40 of his finest creampuffs to "work the crowd" that evening. They were all delightfully, deliciously beautiful - perfect makeup - beautiful bodies and long, stockinged legs visible through the long slits in their designer evening gowns. They had been there a half hour before we were. And yet, the crowd of 40 influential, rich men gasped when WE entered the room. That's what I like. My roommates and I were off to a good start. Every man in the room made a valiant effort to get close enough to each of us to smell our perfume. That's so sweet. I would have taken all 40 of them, one at a time, into the back room for a "proper introduction," but both Nick and Bosley gave me some lecture about "supply and demand" or something. Anyway, at 8 p.m., there was a fanfare and I began my presentation. "Thank you all for joining us this evening. My roommates and I adore you all for what we know will be your outstanding generosity to our noble cause. I would introduce my roommates to you now, but if you saw us all together, you wouldn't listen to our critical message. Plus, I know you all read Panty Boy and you've seen us all in the state we love best - naked and submitting to a man." The low groan of lust from the crowd assured me of their agreement. "This is a crusade - and a true battle - to rid the world of painful anal sex. It is a crusade against ignorance. Ignorance of the ways a man can prepare his pantyboy for spectacular, mutually delicious anal sex. The anal sex that gets the man what he really wants - what all men want - regular pussy. Pussy that comes back for more and more of his cock. By following our way - the LDP way. "Allow me to illustrate what I'm saying." The crowd gasped. Did they think I was going to lift my dress, drop my panties, invite one of them to join me, get all lubed and dilated, then take it up the pootie? It appeared that they did. Sorry to disappoint them, but instead I showed them a video on several very large screens placed around the room. My prerecorded voice narrated the video. "This is Sandy. This is her lover Ben. Observe how happy they are to be together." The crowd observed. Sandy was wearing only a diaphanous, "flyaway," emerald-green babydoll nightie and matching stiletto sandals. Ben was wearing only Ben. Both were painfully erect. Ben's Johnson was several times larger than his pantyboy lover's. It was a bludgeon! How did Sandy rate a boyfriend like him? I mean, she was cute and everything, but here we were in New York for three months and I didn't have a real boyfriend yet. And Sandy found Ben five minutes after we got off the plane. That was because I did all the work in our sorry outfit. There's no justice. The whole boyfriend issue was starting to bug me. I hadn't had a real boyfriend in almost a year. Since that day I left my lover (and former best friend Mark Cumwell) without even a proper goodbye. I mean it was for a good reason. Nick Nickerson had sent his assistant to whisk me off to Fromage to be rich and famous as Panty Boy of the Year and everything. But I could sense that Mark wasn't happy when he came home from his summer construction job that night expecting a night of glorious pussy and I was in Nick Nickerson's bed a thousand miles away. That could tick a guy off. I missed him. I liked the idea of having a steady guy. But how could I over that past year? I mean I had to write the stories of my bubbleheaded roommates, so you all could spill your spunk. I had to establish the New York Sperm Exchange and the Lubricate Dilate Penetrate Foundation, didn't I? And I had all those photoshoots for Panty Boy. And all that time in bed with Nick. And the photo crew guys. And my roommates. And now the Core Four benefactors and our house staff. I was fucked out and I wasn't getting any real love. Mark loved me. Even though I sort of abandoned him. And we hadn't spoken. I thought about him. He was ready for his sophomore year in college. Probably working that summer construction job, I thought. All sweaty and muscular. Thinking of me. Looking at my pictures in Panty Boy. Remembering me. [Sigh] Anyway, in the video, Sandy and Ben were kissing sweetly and getting each other quite hot and very bothered. "Sex is obviously in their imminent plans," I heard myself say. I guess that's how a documentary narrator speaks. It sounded dumb. Much like a lot of the stuff our director Holly Wood came up with. Nick recommended her, and we kind of owed Nick. I'm sure he was banging Holly, since she was a pretty hot pantyboy. But she made dumb decisions. Like casting Sandy in the key, introductory scene. Instead of me. I was way sexier. And tons prettier. I knew why she made that casting error. It was Sandy's boobies. Everyone seemed to like Sandy's boobies. Except me. I was envious. They were actually pretty nice boobies. About the size of a pantyboy's fist. Two-thirds of their surface was dark brown puffy nipple. Did you ever see "Blame it on Rio?" Michael Caine's young girlfriend, who was the Joe Mantegna character's daughter, had boobies exactly like Sandy's. Maybe she was a pantyboy early in her hormone treatments. Remember the scene on the beach where she's wearing only bikini bottoms and Michael Caine is trying to avoid looking at her boobies? Well, when Ben untied Sandy's babydoll front and exposed her boobies to the crowd that night, no one looked away. Back to my narration. "Consumed by lust, Ben's passion leads him astray." [Who wrote that stuff?] Sandy was on her back, moaning with pain as Ben was trying to fit a size ten cock into Sandy's size two pussy. Sandy was so upset that she even lost her erection!!! Ben kept pushing and forcing - unsuccessfully - until Sandy smacked his cock, stood up and walked out of the room. Leaving Ben in blue-ball agony. "Everyone loses when the man fails to LDP. But everything good happens when he does LDP." The scene refreshed. Sandy was on her back and Ben was fucking her lustily, vigorously and gloriously. His rammer was entering and leaving heaven with ease. To Ben's right was a half-empty gallon jar of Vaseline. To his left, a well-lubricated plastic cock, with little poopie stains flecked here and there all over it. He had obviously done right by his pantyboy and was enjoying the delightful rewards. It was powerful theater. Made even better by Sandy's excellent gasps, pants, squeals, and moans. And those boobies. Every time Ben stuck his cock into her, Sandy's beautiful boobies bounced. Every time he took it out, they bounced. I wanted boobies. Sandy's cock was stiff and proud until she gasped, screamed sweetly and pumped five thick globs of sticky cream all over her belly and [sigh] boobies. The crowd moaned. No need to show Ben emptying his nuts. Everyone comes to the show to see the pantyboy shoot her juice. It's just so...dirty. The man is an extra. My narration moved into an appeal for funding. "Your contributions will educate pantyboys and their lovers worldwide. It will teach them to lubricate..." The scene switched to me...finally...wearing the same dress I was wearing for the grand opening. Bruno from our security detail was playing my boyfriend in the video. Kind of pathetic, really, that I didn't have a real boyfriend to fuck me. But Bruno wasn't bad. We were kissing and pawing each other really well and before you knew it, my dress was puddled at my feet and I showed the crowd how I looked in black stockings, garters, panties and brassiere. Thank goodness they moaned, gasped and panted appreciatively. I got down on all fours, facing away from the camera, just like that dippy director said to, and Bruno had my panties down in a New York minute. That allowed the crowd to see my pussy for the first time. Framed by my garter straps and stocking tops. Quite a lovely sight. My narration began again. "This absolutely spectacular pantyboy [I adlibbed that part] is about to be lubricated properly by her eager, yet caring and well-informed lover. There are many ways for the man to prepare his pretty boy's pussy. All quite pleasant." Bruno was skinning my peeny quite lovingly as his left hand was poised to catch my creamy discharge. As I recall, he had a very nice stroke. And in moments, I was squealing and spurting into his calloused hand. The bad boy then used my own cum (!) to lubricate his right middle finger. Using the greatest natural lubricant, he "greased my pooper" with his finger. In and out. Lubing. Doing what a good lover should do. Getting me ready. For his cock. Bruno then added a second finger and, just to be sure, used a healthy dollop of Vaseline. A third finger engendered the use of KY lubricant. And then, just to be sure, as he entered me with four fingers and his thumb, he slathered my anus with baby oil. "A caring lover takes precautions," I said in the voiceover. "This man has lubricated and dilated his lover properly and he is now about to claim his prize - possession of her most intimate parts." Again, who writes this stuff? Oh well. No one was listening anyway. They just saw Bruno remove his hand to reveal the Grand Canyon after a babyoilstorm struck it. Every man in that room gulped. They wanted to be Bruno. I just knew it. But Bruno was Bruno. And his big cock was the surrogate for those men's dirty desires. His gigantic phallus penetrated me with ease. He paused a moment to allow my pussy to relax and tighten around its welcome intruder. Then he set about his work. Fucking me. Hard. Doggie style. Yum. My cock twitched at the memory. I looked at the men in the audience. Several were leering at me. Dreaming of me. Me. Despite the presence of 40 pantyboy all-stars in their midst. And my trampy roommates. It's so wonderful to be me. Bruno fucked me for five minutes of video time (Holly had edited it from two hours) during which I spurted three times and he filled my pussy twice. After he emptied his huge testicle bag twice, Bruno withdrew, revealing my gaping, cum-drenched, drooling pussy. The film ended. Everyone groaned. They wanted more. But they would have to pay for that. I began speaking live again. "The Foundation needs you. We need your support - financial and physical. Lots of both. "Help us to educate. Help us to ease suffering. Anal sex doesn't have to be a pain in the ass." I had them. One last statement. "I know you brought your checkbooks. Let's see them. Make a BIG donation for a good cause to the pantyboys walking among you with the little silk bags. Those pretty boys will be very grateful. VERY grateful. And a sissyboy knows how to show her gratitude." That should grease the old wheels. Checkbooks and pens were emerging at light speed. I was watching the pantied prettyboys accepting checks and indecent proposals from the well-heeled men all over the room when I heard someone say, "I'm a big believer in the LDP Foundation and I can prove it." I turned my head and saw a masculine masterpiece. Tall, dark and handsome are inadequate descriptors. And he was BUILT! Narrow waist. Broad shoulders. An athlete, perhaps? I was right again. His name and resume registered in my brain - Marty Morningwood - star starting pitcher for the Boston Red Sox. Back when I had time for such things (and was an icky boy) I liked baseball. No true sissy would admit that, so I pretended I didn't know a guy who was a multi-multi-millionaire on his way to the Hall of Fame. Instead, I asked, "And how can you prove that you believe in the LDP Foundation?" He smiled nuclearly. Made me almost wet my panties right there. "Two ways, my darling," he said, a bit over-familiarly. "First, I'll offer a contribution." And he handed me a check. A big check. $500,000. Which, even for a guy who has made over $10 million a year for quite some time is a lot. My eyes got wide when I saw that. Which inspired him to press on. "And the second proof?" I gasped. My hormones were making me very warm and my peeny was stiff as a James Bond martini. He touched my hand gently and said, "I can lubricate, dilate, and penetrate better than anyone you'll ever know." Check, please! Chapter Four - Baseball been berry berry good...to me. Without even saying goodbye to my trampy roommates or Bosley, I grabbed Marty's arm and let him lead me to his waiting limo. I was so sexually hot and excited that I wondered if we would make it home before he fucked me. On the floor of the limo. In New York traffic. That would have been so DIRTY! No. My new swain had more class than that. Darn it. One coherent thought entered my brain before it was engulfed in its total quest for sex. The Red Sox were playing the Yankees that night. Wasn't he supposed to, you know, be there? I asked him. "Well, yes, Honey," he admitted. "But I pitched a complete game and won last night, so the manager agreed that I could go to a family gathering tonight." Huh? He saw my puzzled look. "You're gonna be my family, Sweetheart. I'm gonna make you fall in love with me and marry me." I didn't think so. But it was a sweet notion. Very ego affirming. And no one has a stronger ego than little old me. It was only a ten minute ride at that time of night from the hotel to the NYSE. Ten minutes of frantic kissing and groping in the back seat of the limo. Ten hungry minutes. Ten minutes after a year of need. Now I'm not saying my physical needs over the past year hadn't been fulfilled. I'd been fucked. Lots of times. And swallowed a small town's water tower reservoir of cum. But I hadn't had a boyfriend since Mark. Ah, Mark. Dear Mark. Everyone who had "gotten into my panties" over the past year had been an "obligation fuck." Not a "love fuck." I was always fucking someone to pay a debt or meet an obligation. Or another legitimate reason such as getting ahead in life. All good reasons. But Mark had been my boyfriend. The only boyfriend I had ever had. Until that LDP Foundation night. Until Marty. Marty was a great kisser. He had me panting and gasping. And my little pickle was dripping steadily and fully engorged with hot blood. Those ten minutes in the limo were magnificent. Hot. Steamy. But they lasted way too long. I wanted to be LDP-ed right away!! In the middle of 63rd Street if need be. As a crowd gathered to watch a baseball star in a dinner jacket and no pants fucking a sissyboy in a black evening gown and no panties. On the sidewalk. At it. [Ooooh] Wouldn't that have been naughty? I was still a teenager then, remember. Rambunctious. Impatient. Actually, I'm still like that. Worse, maybe. When we FINALLY arrived at the New York Sperm Exchange, Marty and I practically ran from the car to the front door. Which is not easy to do in five-inch spikes. By sheer coincidence, Bruno was on duty at the desk that night. The Bruno whom Marty had just seen fucking me in that video. Would Marty notice? Would he, in a jealous rage abandon me? Not bloody likely. Marty didn't even look at anyone but me. I may have not had a boyfriend in a year, but I still had "it." The elevator was taking SO LONG! Though we did kiss and fondle all the way. For the first time, we hugged face-to-face. And I felt a thick iron pipe against my flat stomach. Yum! Marty was large! Somehow, I expected no less, though not all my subsequent boyfriends were "monster men." It's the thickness I like anyway, not the length. A cock only needs to be long enough to torment a pantyboy's prostate on each thrust. But I do my men's cocks to be thick. I love the feeling of being stretched. Ripped. Violated! I love when I'm lying there after and I can feel the sweet man cream drooling out of my stretched opening. I love when I "poop funny" the next time I have to go big potty. Of coursed, the cock is not the only thing I look for in a man. Especially now that I'm much more mature. But it's nice to tickle and play with a thick prick, lick it until it's all drippy, then stick it into your "special place." Steamy hot and blinded with lust, we made it to my room and closed the door. If Marty had been aware of his surroundings, he would have seen a lovely, ultra-feminine room, done in a pink and baby-blue motif. And a bed the size of the national debt. But all he could see was my pretty black gown sliding off my alabaster shoulders, down my slim body, into a puddle at my black-stockinged, stiletto-sandaled feet. I stood before a rich, famous, sports legend. Wearing only my pretty, black stockings, garterbelt, panties, and sandals. I had removed my bra to display my stiff, puffy nipples. Strangely, I was self-conscious for the first time in quite a while, about my "missing" titties. I wanted it all to be prefect between Marty and me. I was trembling. Waiting for Marty to ravage me. Thoroughly. But he had stopped his frantic groping and frenetic lust. Oh no. I thought. Was he was expecting me to be like Sandy? With those boobies of hers? I HATED her! Was he was going to leave me? Humiliate me? Abandon me to blue-ball torment? Uh, no. "This is the greatest moment of my life," he said. "I want to savor it just for a moment." My ego went back from E to F. Where it stays almost all the time. Except for some silly little moments like that one. Still, just to be sure, I was getting boobies. While Marty was "savoring," I basked in his admiration. I was thinking, someone who was a baseball pitcher must have big, thick, sweaty arm muscles. And all sorts of calluses and bumps on his fingers and hands. He would be so rough when he touched my delicate parts. He had one little more touching bit of information before we entered full rut. "You're the first boy I ever kissed, Cheryl. Even though I was always taught that being with someone like you was 'wrong,' I've been in love with you since the first time I saw you in Panty Boy. To tell you the truth, I still wasn't sure you were a boy until I saw your puffy nipples and the cute tent in your panties. Loving you is the most right thing I've ever done." Wow. He was honest and open with his feelings. We girlyboys, like girls, love when our men give us that sort of intimacy. But enough of that. I wanted to see if he could fuck! Thank goodness that was his next agenda item. Marty shucked off his clothes and I was treated to the sight of a world-class athlete's body. And the athlete's world-class penis. He clearly had given up his minor hangup about my vestigial virility. That pipe would kill a man if you hit his head with it. I blushed at the sight of Marty's nakedness. Which always drives men nuts. Then I eased my own panties down...slowly...showing just the tip of my peehole...hen the knoblet...then a teeny peek at the shaft...then the whole shaft...then my pink purse and its pretty peanuts. Marty's eyes actually teared up when he saw it. I was maybe the millionth person he had fucked in his life, but the first pantyboy. It was a first for him to look at a penis and want to devour it and the girl it was attached to. He needed help. I gave it. "Oh, Marty. "I'm so excited. I'm afraid I'll be injured if I don't shoot my sissy cream soon. Could you rub my little peeny or even...[blush]...kiss it, so I can feel better?" Attack a phobia head-on, I always say. Marty accepted my suggestion with great enthusiasm. He actually picked me up in his arms, right arm underneath the backs of my thighs, left arm under my back, and lifted my slim body high enough so that he could take my "dolly" into his mouth. I squealed in surprise. That was a very manly move! And he had other moves. Marty may have never sucked a cock before, but he displayed a fine aptitude. He licked and kissed and sucked my knoblet until, despite the odd position we were in, I felt the wonderful stirrings in my tummy. He was so strong and manly and I was completely in his power. Unless I yelled "Rumpelstiltskin," which would activate an alarm that would bring a SWAT team of security guys to my rescue. A girl has to have options. Anyway, Marty licked and kissed and sucked and I moaned and wriggled and then, with my girliest squeal, I spunked his sweet mouth with the first load of sticky cream that the beautiful man had ever swallowed. And swallow it he did. They all swallowed. Every man I've ever been with. And they all wanted to suck my doodle and tongue-bathe my wrinkly bag. Marty was doing quite well at the first quiz in Boyfriend 101. Let's see how he did on the midterm. He laid me on the bed on my stomach. Then he moved my legs into a "V" shape. Was he going to fuck me before I even got my shoes off? What about that line he gave me about following the principles of LDP? Was he going to just fuck me dry? He would kill me! I started to resist, at least to tell him that there were seven or eight different kinds of lubricant in the night stand drawer. I opened my mouth to tell him that, or to scream or anything when suddenly... All was well. Better than well. Marty, who, I had already discovered was quite oral, had his tongue buried in my pussy. That wasn't in the video. He had come up with that all by himself. The only other man who had ever done that for me had been Mark. See? A boyfriend is better than an "obligation fuck." I LOVE having my pussy eaten. And Marty was a very good pussy eater. He held my bottom cheeks apart with his thumbs and feasted on my "naughty hole." Slurped. Excavated. Kissed and licked. Every once in a while, he would leave my pussy and lick my balls, which were exposed to his lustful lunges. It was scrumptious. And he did it for a good half hour, during which I soaked my sheets with creamies once and was about to do it again when he moved to the "dilate" phase. Oh, girls. Pitchers have such manly fingers. Rough. Thick. Knuckly. They "do things" to us pantyboys when they're roaming freely in our pussies. Marty had found the lube and was slathering it on all four (!) of the fingers of his right hand (his pitching hand). Was he going to put them all inside me?!?! The Beast! I could have yelled Rumplestiltskin right then. And missed out on a fuck for the ages. I said no such fairy-tale-character word. Instead I just moaned and gasped as he rudely entered my saliva-sopped pussy with two huge fingers and began to torture my poor prostate. That produced my third creamy emission of that fine evening. And I screamed loudly enough to wake our neighbor, Mr. Lovecock. And the entire upper east side. Marty didn't care about waking mere Yankee fans. He eased that third finger in there. Ooohhh. Then a fourth. Unnnhhh. I was afraid that the hand, wrist and elbow were next. But no. Satisfied that I was ready for the "P" part of LDP, Marty removed his fingers and replaced them with his glorious cock. For a second, I thought it might have been his whole arm in there after all. The darned thing was a bludgeon. And it was all mine. Marty felt very at home with his cock in my anus. I tried to be a good hostess. I grunted and moaned and begged for more and harder fucking. All the stuff guys like to hear but most women won't do for them. He lifted my hips and fucked me on all fours. Then he pulled out [boo], placed me on my back, cocked my knees up and fucked me face to face. Kissing. Tongues. Drooling. Grunting. Oh that feeling again. I... Wow! My fourth orgasm of the evening struck me just as Marty joyfully and uninhibitedly drenched my stretched bottom with eight ounces of grade A nut butter. I liked my new boyfriend. Chapter Five - More Boyfriends My trampy roommates all got laid that night too. With rich powerful men they had just met at the LDP Foundation party. They just had no morals. It was different with Marty and me. Our love was pure. Pure sex. One of the things I insist on from a lover is my eight-straight-hour beauty sleep. I need it to stay the most beautiful pantyboy in world history. And my little cum factory (and my man's) needs it to replace all the spilled spunk from the evening's entertainment. I would have insisted that Marty agree to that non-negotiable condition, except he was well into his eight-straight hours after our second go-round of the evening. Wasn't that considerate of him? Anyway, I woke that morning at 8:30 with a great need to tinkle and a big need for a bellyful of Marty's cum - a vintage I had not yet tasted. The tinkle need had greater urgency. As I sat and peed, I savored the imminent future. I would kneel by my man and awaken him by sucking his cockhead until he fed me his load. I would be on my knees, but I would be in charge. Marty had other ideas. He was standing outside the bathroom door and ambushed me as I exited. I squealed and squirmed as he grabbed me from behind, threw me over his shoulder and carried me to the bed. He half- flung me down so that I was flat on my back. Then, on his knees, he straddled my shoulders and [the beast!] rubbed his obscenely dripping peehole all over my face. "Open your mouth, Cheryl," he demanded. "I'm going to fuck your face." He was degrading me! And he wanted to degrade me even further by sordidly sticking his dirty thing - the thing he urinates with - the thing he had buried in my bowels (twice) without even washing it off - in my poor little mouth! Then fuck my throat as if I were a cheap little streetwalker. Do I know how to pick a boyfriend or what? I made quite a show of resisting, but I finally opened my mouth and accepted my fate. A dirty cock in my pretty mouth. I submitted to my new boyfriend. Gave myself to him. Surrendered. Try it, girls. You won't regret it. He was a brute. Using my mouth as he would a pussy. I was gagging and gasping for breath. It was so degrading. I loved it. He loved it. In less than five minutes (thank goodness or I may have asphyxiated) he was pumping eight hours and five minutes worth of manly cream into my mouth, out the sides and onto the sheets, my neck and my chest. He was a keeper! I would run away with him to an island where we would fuck 16 hours a day and sleep eight. I had our whole future planned. Until he reminded me the next morning that he was only in town for the weekend, then wouldn't be back to New York for a month. And that he even had a game THAT afternoon - an afternoon he could have spent in bed with me! And another game the FOLLOWING afternoon! He was so cruel. Couldn't he like, ask his Boston team to play all their games in New York? Couldn't he "work from home?" Everyone was doing it those days. "Fine," I said, petulantly. "You'd better get going then. We don't want you to miss your precious ball game." He tried to make up to me by sucking my pink bits. I let him. But only because my balls were a little achy. And I didn't want to injure myself. When he swallowed a big load of my morning goo, I decided to temporarily forgive him, since he swore he would be at the NYSE for a nice date by 7 p.m. I kissed him sweetly and told him to get going. Which he would have, except for one little problem. The only clothes he had were his dinner jacket ensemble from the previous evening. Which would have caused him to do some fancy splainin' when he got to his clubhouse. As I often was, I was grateful for Bosley's great planning on this and other matters. "I'll take care of things, Sweetie," I said. And I rang for Nancy. Nancy appeared at the bedroom door almost instantly. Surprising Marty. And pleasing me. "Yes, Miss Cheryl," she said. She always said that, or something like it. She's a perfectly submissive lady's maid. With a cock the size of many of the NYSE boyfriends. "Thank you for coming, Nancy," I said [always be polite with the "help."] Mr. Morningwood needs clothing - khakis, polo shirt, penny loafers will do - with fresh underwear and a shaving kit." "Certainly, ma'am. May I ask your sizes, sir?" A somewhat amused Marty recited them to her and she left immediately to fetch his things. "Who was that and why was she or he dressed like that?" he asked. "And why do you have men's clothing here?" I answered in reverse order. "My trampy roommates (and occasionally I) often have unplanned, overnight male visitors. Since it wouldn't do for the gentleman to show up at his workplace unshaven and in smelly, inappropriate clothing, we take precautions." "Great idea," Marty acknowledged. "Thank you," I said, though the sensible policy was all Bosley's good idea - one of many. "The lady you met briefly is Nancy, my day maid. She's a sweet, lovely pantyboy who is eager to serve me and be a vital part of the New York Sperm Exchange. You certainly wouldn't expect me to do housework and [gasp] cooking, would you?" Marty smiled. "Of course not. But why is Nancy dressed like that?" He was referring to the fact that Nancy was wearing black, seamed, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings; sensible, three-and-one-half-inch stiletto pumps; a ruffled, black garter belt; and a traditional maid's dress that was so short it completely exposed Nancy's considerable, panty-free, pink package and her full, plump bottom. The answer to Marty's question was complicated, but I attempted it. "The exposed goodies were our business manager's idea. Bosley says that the 'girls' adore the role they play here. And he ought to know since he extensively 'interviewed' all the candidates for the eight positions. It allows them to live the Panty Life to the max. And exposing their 'pretties' reminds them to be submissive to my roommates and me." While Marty thought that over, I thought about the other reasons we exposed our maids like that. Having the maids around took a great deal of "obligation fuck" pressure off the four of us. The security guys. The Core Four. Bosley. The lawyers who set up the LDP Foundation. They all fucked the eight maids we called "The Second Team." And the maids LOVED it! Exposing them like that kept the maids in a state of continuous humiliation, which not only aroused them, it aroused every man they met. Only our boyfriends were off limits to them. They knew that and knew that violation of that rule meant dismissal - to which they would have preferred death. Nancy was a pretty little thing. And so was Megan, my night maid. They were both older - late 20s, I would say. And both had big dicks and heavy, huge balls. But they were otherwise totally feminine. The other six maids, who served Judy, Amy and Sandy, were also sweet, feminine, pretty and submissive to us, though their cocks were various sizes. Jeanette, Sandy's night maid, had the smallest peeny I've ever seen. And at 2 p.m. each day when she came on duty, her bare, gaping, cum- drooling bottom told me that she had GREATLY enjoyed her free time. The girls worked either the day shift - 6 a.m. to 2 p.m. - or night shift - 2 p.m. to 10 p.m, seven days a week. We managed for ourselves from 10 to 6 each night. And on Thursday nights we dismissed the maids at 7 for our Girls' Night In. The maids cooked our meals too. We had to eat. Fucking used up a lot of calories. And they were pretty good in the kitchen. I often wondered how many "girls" Bosley interviewed to find them. And he was still "interviewing" the eight maids whenever he had the chance. So were the security guards. The maids would come to work in their boy clothes and change in a room we rented for them on the ground floor. The guards would chat them up and invariably give them a nice pre-work fucking and a post-work shagging as well. Sometimes, if we weren't home, I know the girls would pop downstairs during the workday as well for a little in- and-out. I have to believe that there was some heavy "dating" activity during off-duty hours as well. Back to Marty and me. Nancy returned quickly with his clothes. Too quickly. I would have to speak to her about that. And her obvious "excitement" in the presence of my boyfriend, though I couldn't fault her for that. Marty disappointed me again. He gave me a quick kiss, then ran off - alone?to shower shave and dress. Ten minutes, another quick kiss and a promise to return later, he was gone. Rats. It was 9:30 a.m. on a Saturday and I hadn't even been fucked. Was I losing my touch? I decided to seek comfort and rang for Nancy. In the 30 seconds it took her to report, I thought about what a fright I must look. I was wearing last night's make-up (under a layer of dried cum. I hadn't even taken off my stockings or garters. I was still wearing my sandals. No wonder Marty didn't want to give up his $15-million-per-year job for me. Always-reliable Nancy arrived promptly. "Yes, ma'am?" she said. I smiled at Nancy. Her cock twitched. Another good reasons for our maids to be "bare-bottom." We can always see what they're thinking. "I need some girl talk, Nancy. And some support. Can you get in bed with me? After you take your dress and petticoats off." Nancy erected fiercely. And I saw sweet tears of joy form in her eyes. "Oh, yes, Miss Cheryl," she said eagerly. And she quickly stripped to her garters and stockings. I saw her naked body for the first time. Very nice. Especially her puffy nipples. And my goodness, her seven-inch cock. And cum-filled oranges. We lay side-by-side on our backs, Nancy awaiting her cue from me. I lay on my left side, put my head onto her right shoulder and skinned her cock up and down as I told her my troubles. "That, that man, who just left - Marty. He went off to play in some old ballgame instead of staying with me! Can you believe that?" "No, mistress," Nancy said. "Men can be such brutes. Oh, Miss Cheryl, that's very nice." Well, at least someone appreciated me. I went on for a while about how Marty was the first real boyfriend I had had in a year and he had already disrespected me. Nancy was very sympathetic, grunting frequently and gasping at the really bad parts of my story. Or maybe she was nearing orgasm. Whatever. I felt better telling her everything. Then I said, in my most seductive way, "And the beast didn't even f