A Week At The C.C.: Mallory--Wednesday free porn video

ONE WEEK IN THE LIFE OF "THE SISSY." Wednesday--Mallory "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a gathering of men in possession of fortunes must be in want of a regulatory structure." I'm "Lead Sissy" today (until seven, anyway). But don't get any idea I'm super-important! All the responsible girls, who've been around for a couple of years, alternate in the role. Most would as well avoid it. First of all, you are forbidden to have sex. I mean a quick handy isn't a prob. But being undressed, deeply involved, or anything preventing you being present and presentable in less than three minutes is strictly no- go. And, ehh, that's not so bad. Sometimes you get the itch. But I get so much cock the other four days that an extra day off is usually welcome. The responsibilities aren't heavy. Keep an eye on things; try to make sure everything runs smoothly; subtly direct traffic; and fill-in anywhere if all the other girls are occupied. But your authority is fucking close to zip! Obviously I have no control over the members. With the girls my power is basically an implied threat that if they don't do as they're told now, I may be a bigger bitch next time. The *absolute worst thing* though?! You can't provide any service like waitressing/bartending. Unless, as mentioned, when only you are available (which probably won't be the case on our least "humpday" of the week). Need I say that Sissy pay is, approximately, shit? Practically "let me see if we have your size" or "want fries with that"! Supervising today I might not double my check. If I wasn't, I might manage five-times that--even on a slow day. On a well-attended one... not to be indiscreet or immodest, but four-figures... unremarkably. Which is decent, considering the indecent benefits. Men, in my experience, love to make rules. Just think of all their incomprehensible sports! Then, imagine a bunch of rich guys who expect to get their way always. And in their clubby private retreat demand servility even more. The only problem is members who expect the same, and don't want other members (with differing expectations) to violate their own expectations. Claro? So, rules. And lots of them. These inhibit a bunch of alpha Wall Streeter's, who want to shank one another in the library over smoking cigars there in the afternoon. [*NB*: Both behaviors aren't permitted at The C.C. One explicitly.] In reality, these are rules that may be enforced, as required. Or flouted, if discrete. Significantly, enforcement of serious infractions requires a written member complaint. And most members delight in inducing a Sissy to break rules. Example (from rules that are actually posted in the third-floor Sierra Lounge): "Gentlemen may not make violent outbursts in the dining rooms; further, business may not be openly conducted in any second-floor area until after dinner service." So you might wonder why violent outburst are allowed elsewhere, or why Gabriella and the three guys at table six are now seriously engaged in stretching the rules. Well, for a start, Gabby appears to be under the table before offering coffee. I present in evidence Exhibit X: it appears she's too suddenly disappeared to allow any other explanation. I can't entirely see what she is up to. The dove-grey tablecloths that reach a foot from the ground were, surely, designed to veil any "open conduct of business." But the men's manner assures me that one is impatient, one is pleased, and one has already jetted a "violent outburst" down Gabby's eagerly receptive throat. No other member seems inclined to snitch. Indeed, of the other three eating alone in the room, only one is paying the slightest attention. The other two are too busy eyeing the new girl, Justine. If Gabby was reported (after having been reprimanded a few times for the same infraction) she might find herself punished. Then I'd be instructed to assign her too a week of polishing literal knobs! She'd still get paid. And, obviously, still be penetrated by a great many penises during that week. But (as I have said) not being able to provide *chargeable* services really cuts down on a girl's income! Knowing Gabby, she has already calculated that the risk is low, but hinted to the guys that (though she is eager to oblige) she is risking a "third-strike." Though cash is NEVER-EVER exchanged at The C.C., and even discussion of monetary exchange with Sissies is a sure-fire route to membership suspension, you can't blame a girl for hinting at circumstances that make her services more valuable. However, Gabby is one of those slutty cunts who constantly flaunts her desperate *need* to eat semen on the reg. So possibly she just wants a lunchtime snack, herself. You see how it is. No girl will suffer any consequences from a first- time offense like this. And some members enjoy breaking minor rules. In consequence, blowing a tableful of men in the early afternoon is a basic right-of-passage for a new hire. Young Justine will have swallowed a dozen thick loads, in exactly these circumstances, by the weekend. And she will be extravagantly compensated for it! There's an alignment of interests. Men who like making rules, to keep other men in line. Girls who can scrupulously honor the rules so they don't "get in trouble." Or can be "bad girls" sparingly, and be rewarded. How else can you play coy and teasing when your chastity isn't remotely in question? The club isn't a whorehouse! Exactly. I mean there are members here who could maintain multiple "escorts" with that something "extra" to be on- call 24/7. And some do. What The Sissy offers is constant sexually-charged ambience, and low-risk challenge. It's like having a well-stocked fishpond on your estate, or magically gaining "house advantage" at the tables of Monaco. For a man who thinks he has everything, the only thrill is in the game. Winning is more enjoyable if you believe it is due to your skill. But you have to lose from time-to-time or it gets boring. And each girl learns to play the rules--and develop a presentation--to appeal to different members. There are total cum-bucket sluts who'll have private encounters with a swift succession of gentlemen every day. Some men are turned-on by the seediness of this, while busy men simply require a quick release of their seed. Being easy can be renumerative. But IMHO it's not the smartest angle. Mostly because the sperm-hungry hooker image typecasts you like no other. Better to start as a lady and become a whore than vice-versa. Naughty Gabby emerges from under the table, shortly. Pulling a dainty pink laced-handkerchief from her bra, she dabs the corner of her mouth for any spermy residue. Then lightly kisses the men at the table on the cheek, before ostentatiously reapplying her lipstick. During her exertions, Gabriella's tight spandex skirt has rucked-up to reveal her stay-up stocking tops. She takes her time assuring these are adjusted properly, while the nearest man lightly fingers the lacy edge, and is afforded a peek of her red satin pantied crotch. Then--with unnecessary wriggling--she adjusts her skirt downward. When she returns with the account charges (never bill or check, and always just a simple handwritten total) on a tiny silver tray, she has also brought small heated towels. She then, considerately, wipes each patron, before taking care that they leave with comfortably resituated and zippered dicks. She completes her performance by collecting the discretely folded tiny slip of richly embossed paper, and cheekily inserting it in her stocking top. Moments after the men leave, I hear the eldest of them, Mr. Collins, announce that he must have left his wallet behind. He catches Gabby by the entrance to the dining room. Roughly kneading and separating her ample ass-cheeks, while drawing her to his chest, he warily glances around the room. Confident of no audience, he raises Gabby's chin for a sucking kiss, accompanied by rude, searching penetration with his tongue. Then, in an instant, he silently rushes to catch up with his party. The (im)moral of the story: One's standing as a C.C. member *will not* be enhanced if it gets about that one takes his pleasure in extracting from a lady's mouth the remnants of an associates' ball-sauce. While club rules haven't been formulated to address exceptional practices, this one would commonly be regarded as a violation of etiquette in refined circles. Gabby is too shocked by this brazen cum burglary to even shut her smeared lips! Which takes some doing, as her demeanor is reliably one of almost icy, sluttish, self-satisfaction. Gathering her wits, she thinks to extract the slip from her stocking. Whereupon, her mouth resumes its customary half-smile. Three down. So now my focus is Justine. I've more staff than men in the building, as it passes 2:30--which is to say that those who've genuinely stopped in for lunch and a bit of eye- candy have already departed. The three guys in the dining room are nursing a coffee or cognac, in anticipation of claiming a girl once the kitchen closes. A further two or three are downstairs in the billiard room. So it's easy to have Marianne train Justine in the basics of waiting tables. Marianne has started with table setting--affording her the opportunity to drop the odd knife (or three) then turn her back to the room, and bend deeply from the waist to pick it up. Mari is looking super-elegant this afternoon: her hair tightly bunned with jeweled pins; in a white wrap-top with flowing sleeves extending nearly to her fingertips, and an ankle-length, deeply-slit skirt of thin black jersey. The latter item may not be as suited to her show as a mini would, but is still a pleasant sight for her tiny audience. She is exceedingly (and very rightly) bottom-proud, and the stretchy fabric nicely displays her magnificently womanly posterior. The girls giggle when dutiful trainee Justine follows Mari's lead--not only in ensuring crisply folded napkins, but also that cutlery is correctly positioned on the carpet, and properly retrieved. It seems these two have hit it off. Justine only arrived three days ago, and started on the clock today. Still, she and Mari have become roommates already. Any new girl in "The Dorm" is assigned her own room. These generous accommodations are perhaps smaller than any luxury hotel room in the city, but otherwise equal to them. The ensuite bathrooms may even be nicer--with abundant mirrors, counters, and the essential bidet. However, "hang and bang" arrangements are commonplace. Girls usually choose to bunk together, while leaving the other room for "encounters." It's a very sensible set-up. "Hang" bathrooms are usually messy make-up emporia; the bedrooms creatively decorated with personal effects, and often strewn with tarty outfits. Having spent a couple of years as in the dorm, I appreciate both the practicality of the arrangement, and the intimate connection that may arise between compatible roommates. Many of the dormie damsels get sniffy about seriously lesbo activities. Some few are fucking intolerant! But it's accepted as simple courtesy that rub your roomie's shoulders when her bra straps have cut, or have scented foot lotion ready for a massage, when she comes home from a night-shift perched on ultra-high-heels. If a reddened bottom shows she has been spanked, you might kiss it better. If she complains of an over- worked pussy, a friendly soothing tongue might help her out. There's nothing so sweetly luxurious as drifting into sleep, on fresh cool sheets of the highest available thread count, while cuddling the softness of another perfumed princess. Your smoothly moisturized legs entwined. Her exhalations tickling your neck, as the breathing creates a squishy rhythm of her boobs against your back. Maybe the soft brush of sheer negligees. Gentle caresses. Comforting pillow talk after a hard day. It's not like you're banging her (which is against dorm policy, plus majorly dykey!). Sharing feminine sensuality is the most utterly complete opposite of that! Totes no homo. Then, you awaken to behold the innocence of a pretty, well scrubbed face (a rarity in these parts), or the decadent suggestions of smeared make-up from the night before. The first kiss of the new day. A steamy, sudsy--and environmentally conscious--shower together. The intimacy of brushing/styling her hair, before picking outfits for each other. It's divine! My point is... oh, I've forgotten. Something, something, Justine. Yes? Keeping an eye on her is my main responsibility today. And her questionable appearance the greatest cause for concern. Mr. Gould told me she had been hired to fill a "niche"--but if this means punky street- urchin image, I rather doubt that it will go over well with a membership that tends to favor stereotypical fantasy sex dolls. True, she is wearing the (day-shift mandatory) white-over-black of a generic waitress uniform, and not in violation of any other dress rules--which are few and easily circumvented to eroticize the look. Sleeves must reach the elbow, skirts not higher than mid-thigh, but the waist of the latter might "accidently" start rising over the course of a shift. Slatternly looks, like visible stocking-tops or a bra visible through a too-sheer blouse are no-nos--but a girl can simply dispense with both stockings and bra. Many Sissies wear flats in the afternoon, as only things like athletic shoes, flip-flops, or exceedingly "mannish" styles are prohibited, and slutty divas who sport 5" heels on evening shifts opt for comfort during the daytime. I sincerely love Justine's boots (if I was wearing them off the job). Grey suede with crystals at the toecap. They lack the sturdy heaviness of Doc Martens', but are still a fashiony copy of that style. Her utterly (and intentionally) shredded black tights are an offense to our service standards! The mid-thigh, heavily pleated kilt, with just the faintest white/green plaid over black, is alright in an ironic private schoolgirl kind of way. Her snug long-sleeved t-shirt advertising a band called Ultrasound is clearly some retro-homage, but dingy and threadbare enough to be a 20th century relic. IMHO we *need a rule* against black lipstick! Heavily banged black bob with magenta tips does sort of suit her, but it's probably a wig. My idea is to introduce her to Everhard. His name accurately describes what makes him unpopular with Sissies. He's fairly handsome and a bit younger than the average club member. But a guy who brags about fucking for an hour before cumming is not viewed kindly by anyone subject to an interminable pounding; even less when the whole encounter could take twice that long. Having time to spread your charms through flirtatious mingling is more productive than just spreading your legs. As a general rule, new Sissies respond best to gentle immersion over a couple of weeks of progressive responsibilities. For example, if she is the sort that easily crushes on delectable dolls, maybe limit her to a few days of playful girly sex with her designated trainer. Then invite a man to merely observe the trainer/trainee relationship in action. When first mounted by a man, her trainer/playmate will be reassuringly present. As an organization, we strongly endorse constructive mentoring in a supportive environment. That's how I think our (wholly imaginary) H.R. Department might phrase it. None but the rarest specimen arrives virginal, but you want her to settle into a strange and frequently demanding role while learning "the ropes"; much as you wouldn't hand over a new account to someone on the first day at office, and expect him to handle all duties with no supervision or available resources. If she doesn't hit it off with any co-worker, or is simply skeeved by girls, her honeymoon period may be spent on a week of non-service tasks. Cleaning the Jungle and the Residences are the only needful chores--performed by Dormice, in exchange for their free accommodation--because less sensitive areas are cleaned by overnight contractors six days a week. But there's make-work, like dusting. I can even provide her with a variety of sizes and designs of French Maid uniform--from $25 Halloween costume, to seriously ghastly artifacts from*La Belle Epoque*. It's simply to put her in contact with members, without any expectations upon her; other than accepting frequent lewd comments, and being ogled, kissed and petted. Then she might be trained in service jobs while "stringing." Sissies are entitled to protect themselves from repetitive stress injuries on- the-job by claiming this status up to four days a month. It's a sort of-semi sick day, when your performance won't be judged, other than being present and presentable. Clock-in, circle your shift in red on the posted schedule, select a red ribbon to tie on your wrist, and you're good! The string in question is attached to a tampon (usually coated in medicated balm) that a Sissy inserts in her back passage. Members can't use her anally. Members who wish to retain the favor of an established girl will, if wise, be undemanding and solicitous toward her, in general. Unfortunately, for a newbie who has been dangled as bait for a week, these extra courtesies rarely apply. Guys may line-up to enjoy a lap dance, a slippery titty-fuck or push a cock past her lips. This remains a gently progressive debut. True, I'm mildly irked by Justine, and want to see if she's equal to her tough girl act. [TBH, I think she's a cock-hungry trans-rich-bitch slumming for kicks] But I'm not throwing her in the deep-end for that reason alone; or without management approval. I know Everhard loves to be watched in action; which aligns with Mr. Gould's suggestion that I report on Justine's performance. Everhard is one of the two members who have lingered after lunch to eye Justine, and each other. There are sufficient girls to fulfill needs right now, but just one to satisfy the competitive instincts that drive these men to want first crack at at the debutante. So naturally, when I whisper to Everhard that I'm arranging a private meeting for him, he is pleased to claim the prize. More so when I mention that if he gets Justine in private, he should make sure the door is unlocked. My first task is to refocus the attentions of Mr. DeVere. If he must be the loser, best he is a ragingly hard one. Our resident Amazon, Athena, has just collected the charge slip from DeVere. Faced with the prospect of another hour replacing last night's soiled linens in the Residences, our idled little plump Gigi shruggingly accepts teaming up with Athena. They make an arresting study in contrasts--big Athena (interestingly) the more demure compared to the boisterousness of tiny dynamite Gigi. Something for every taste, and few men can resist the prospect of being bodily dragged to a bedroom by a pair of needy bitches demanding relief for their in-heat pussies. I reckon paunchy, balding, and moderately stingy DeVere least of all. While it is preferred that every member can relieve his stress at least every second or third visit, someone like DeVere rarely sees this kind of enthusiastic special treatment. As lunch draws to a close, this leaves Ashley giggingly alighting on the lap of our remaining patron. Our Lady of Perpetually Resurrected Virginity, Carmen, is still cleaning rooms (not the prettiest or most gifted, she manages some popularity with men who feel more respectable sharing a lightly fucked passage with a select few). Bridget is upstairs--stocking the bar for the after-work rush, between admiringly posing for herself in the mirrors. She'll always play this off like she is critically assessing her style, but she knows she's *the* mouth wateringly delectable winner of hormone roulette. These changes being recent enough that flaunting her flowering is the sum total of her interests. And Marianne has opted to paint her nails. All ready to circulate, once the guys downstairs finish knocking their balls into pockets. I've sent Justine to her room to freshen up. She probably figured a surprise was in store, so showed some impertinence, leaning to flat refusal (and me with no authority to compel her!). Fortunately she saw Everhard smiling when I uncertainly glanced in his direction. With that clue, plus apprising that Everhard was the most virile option at hand, she sassily strutted to the elevator. Everhard follows after five minutes. Twinkletoes Duvall comes up from the kitchen. He wants his dining room vacated. For no particular reason other than he likes to assert his minimal authority in ending meal service 15 minutes early. But he softens his insistence when Mari jokingly blows him kisses, while he considers the virtue of a few minutes watching Ashley getting frisky with the man whose face is mashed between her massively fake porno tits. Then, also, he hardens. When not playing "Maitre Chef" with regular members, or groveling before Board Members, he's cavalier about showing- off the sizeable frequent stiffies in his whites. I spend an unpleasant few minutes with him complaining about some kitchen drudge or other that he's hired, plus his options for next week's menu, opinions on who should win "Dancing With The Stars," and various other things about which I give not. one. shit. But I have no pressing need to excuse myself, as I let events develop in Justine's room. As I quietly ease open the door to 407, I have to suppress a laugh. Justine wasn't expecting a visitor, and forgets where she is. Like a schoolgirl discovered by her parents, she pulls her head back from Everhard's erection. With a sudden exodus of drool dappling her chin, her eyes dart for any available exit. She tries to stand, but Everhard's hand on the top of her head gently guides her lips over his glans again. When Justine gets back to work she's side-eye staring at me; her head still, while Everhard leisurely thrusts half his length between her lips. She is on her knees before the standing man. She's still covered, though her boots are off, and the gnarly hosiery is on the floor beside her-- knotted with some equally unbecoming stripey boyshorts. As Justine regains her composure, and reapplys herself to bobbing, I notice a slow elevation at the front of her kilt. As I approach and kneel to lift the skirt, Justine again stills, while Everhard takes the lead with slow strokes, but deeper, to keep her focused. Oh, my! I suppose I've discovered her niche. Engorged but only half-up. Even in this condition it's the equal of Everhard's above-average dick. I'm guessing easily +9" at full-staff; though she may not be able to achieve that naturally. I've been told she's gobbled girly pills for nearly six months. Cocky girls are a minority taste among the membership, but as we have few currently in-stock, it's a quality in high-demand. She's uncut. Grooming shows she isn't completely unacquainted with razors, but predictably sloppy, with a stubbly bikini line. With me kneeling beside Justine, I know our guy is thinking of taking advantage of the opportunity presented. I quickly shake my head to dismiss the notion, So Everhard, instead, orders me to help Justine out of her clothes. Between this suggestion and knowing which bathroom drawer holds shears, the opportunity presents for disposal of the offending garment. It's the right choice: tugging that thing off her would demand a blowjob time-out; no way for me to remove a tight item over her head and her still look sexy, and; I might pull-off her wig. Seen only by Everhard, I gleefully wave the scissors over my head. He nods while pressing his big hands on both sides of Justine's head, to keep her under control. One quick zip straight up the back, a few clips to sever the tougher neckline, and it's done. Unintelligible mumbled yelps from Justine, but Everhard has a solid grip, and a steely cock firmly imbedded in her mouth to ? depth. Any further, he'd choke her. A calculation Justine may have had in mind when she abruptly quits whining. Everhard progresses to mid-tempo face- fucking, as an unzipped kilt hits the floor. I stand-up behind Justine, to see Everhard meaningfully glancing at her bra. This time I knit my brows and very forcefully shake my head. It's true that Justine displays full, pretty cleavage, but I know it's an effect she's created with tape and padding. Thankfully, her man's controlling grip on her head has convinced me that Justine's do is natural. But I know Everhard won't enjoy placing second place in a two- entrant dick measuring contest. And Justine has frightfully slim hips. Bra-off, she might be too boyish for this player, and I need him to stay in the game. Everhard withdraws, as I open the bedside drawer for supplies. Justine immediately starts sputtering some sounds where only "my shirt" and some expletives are understandable. Quickly she is silenced by my sharp stare and the heavy dull thud of a cock on her forehead. Justine has tears on her cheeks. Not crying. It's likely due to Everhard going balls-deep on a few strokes. And jumpy, but not fearful. More like she's searching for a clue to what's in store for her next. 407 is a windowless mid-building room. Only sirens can rise above the constant traffic noise heard at the front of the club (which can take a country lass years to blot out). So silence has prevailed over this encounter--barring Justine's slurps and outbursts. Everhard and I have reached a wordless understanding. Everhard lifts Justine to sit at the end of the bed. I take my time. There's the sound of a distantly ticking clock. Or maybe I'm imagining it. I scan the pristine meticulously organized drawer, which in every room contains identical supplies: a small stash of condoms, and a dizzying array of lubricants. The former isn't required. Sissies get check-ups pre-hire and thrice-yearly. All through doctors who are also members. Gentlemen may choose to use them or, like Everhard, enjoy inseminating Sissies, so long as they file appropriate records annually. The slipperies include every combination of thin, glutinous, warming, desensitizing, fruit flavored, iridescent, time-released, vaginally scented, vitamin enhanced, peanut free, or collected by monks from the labia of excited Tibetan virgins. Though I may exaggerate... slightly. Most of these are purchased wholesale, by the gallon. Pride of place belongs to "the pill"--our homemade, artisanal product that some of the "crafty" girls have recently cooked-up. Discretely marketed through intermediaries, this has become such a popular sideline that Mr. Gould is negotiating licensed production in Mexican factories. "Huevo de Ano" seems the favored choice for a brand name. Everhard has firmly pressed Justine to lie down, then flipped her and lifted her hips to an appropriate angle for penetration when he chooses to mount her. Devilishly, I select thick with delayed slight anesthetic qualities. This may make Justine more comfortable but, on balance, just make Everhard work longer and harder. I screw a slightly bulbous nozzle on the bottle. Soon I see that Justine has another surprise in store. Where I expect to see an inviting pucker, I find a little crystal skull leering at me! This is more foresight and attention to detail than I would have credited her with. I allow her some credit, as I slowly remove the little stainless plug from Justine's warm depths. Then, as quickly as the extraction was slow, I plant the nozzle and squeeze before her love ring has the chance to contract. Justine squeals piercingly, but just the once. My job done, I shift an armchair to be furthest from the show but visible to both lovers, and settle in. Everhard's mushroom enters Justine's slackened muscle very easily. At which moment he stops and winks at me. Then with the most excruciating slow deliberation he eases his length inside her. Never withdrawing. Always slowly deeper. Justine, with ass high and face pressed in the mattress, turns her head in my direction. Minutes pass. I'm not kidding! It seems like he has spent more minutes embedding his shaft in her numbed lovehole than the inches he has to insert. I discretely check my watch. Turns out it has been less than 15 minutes since I walked in the door. Silent erotic electricity drawing time to a standstill. Still, I can't stay here forever. Evidently, Everhard is very satisfied with the feel of clenching boy- pussy, but could use much more enchantingly feminine visuals to run for the finish. I slowly unbutton my crisp embroidered white blouse, but leave the bottom one in place in case of the need for fast exit. I bunch my skirt above my hips, praying it won't get too wrinkled. My matching bra and panty set is ultra-sheer lilac, completely un-ribboned or embroidered. Nothing but wispy haze covering my boobs or tiny trimmed pubic thatch I figure I'm putting on a standard show, before I notice my fiercely tight protruding nipples. Their easy erection is the only problem I have with my otherwise lusciously perfect boobs. I lick my fingers and lazily circle a stiff nip. Easing two fingers between my soft thighs, but outside my panties, I feel more hardness than I would have expected. Consequently, I just rub the gap, avoiding the head of my slim and tucked clit. I don't want to get so riled-up that I become a participant. I spread myself so one knee is over the chair, given Justine her first look at my "concealed weapon". For Everhard's benefit I rub one purple- polished finger across my glossy nude bottom lip, than work it in and out of my mouth. This is effective. Everhard now commences plowing Justine's infertile furrow so hard that she is flat on the mattress, with them both inching toward concussion on the headboard. Her hefty organ is standing more proud than I would have thought possible; trapped up-against her belly, rubbing the sheets in time with the thrusts of her lusty penetrator. That I arouse Everhard is just useless info I already know. Justine's wide-eyed gaze suggests that I can arouse her too. And that's a fact I may find useful, in future. I might seriously have drifted off into some hazy fucktrip vacuum. Everhard's not a grunter. But Justine becomes unable to contain her moans and whimpers any longer. An inspiration for her fucker, but spoils the mood for me. I'm Audi! Before leaving I fasten Velcro-cuffed nylon restraints to the headboard rails. Not that Everhard is into bondage. Just that I know he will flip Justine before he cums in her. Her legs will be raised-high and spread- wide--as optimal deep missionary nether-cunt shafting requires. But it's a strenuous position to maintain for very long. She'll be glad for the cuffed ankles. It's a kindness for my underestimation of Justine. She'll be available for the "blow and go" rush starting around 4:30. It's all "honey, I have to work a little late/missed the train, but will still get home to Westchester/Connecticut before dinner is cold, darling" types. I'll have about 13 or 14 Sissies on-call from 5-to-7. Waaaaay more than required today. But I'll give Justine the chance to prove her mettle, and keep her at the head of the head queue. Any worthy new Sissy should easily drain the contents of three pairs of balls, while enjoying the sensation of her earlier lover's fluids slowly leaking from her weakened hole. After that, I'll see if she is walking straight. Let her decide if she has a slot she wants filled before 7 PM. It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it.