A Week At The C.C.: Mr. Gould--Monday free porn video

ONE WEEK IN THE LIFE OF "THE SISSY." Monday--Mr. Gould "To succeed in this world we do everything we can to appear successful." This was my mantra during two decades of making The City Club what it is today. But now that apparent success is on a par with the actual, Jameson Gould honors only a few guiding principles: Discretion, discrimination, taste. Respect, respectability, and never fucking the staff. The latter isn't so difficult for me, as I'm straight as they come. Nor do I have any sexual tastes more unusual than maybe a preference for Asian women and/or busty redheads (the combo is rare, but one can dream). Since I'm employed at the pleasure of the membership; who could cause me grief if they thought my position allowed more frequent access to pleasures that they only acquire at considerable expense (and certain manageable risk), it's to my advantage to be non-judgmental, but not a tranny-chaser. They naturally envy me for having their ideal job. I command a workplace full of pretty, preening youths, who all dress to invite sex, welcome a thorough reaming, and hide a secret in their panties. Which isn't as easy as it sounds. My job, I mean. Sissies being above suspicion of having penises is a fundamental hiring standard. After nearly 30 years of increasingly rewarding contracts, some few may even envy my income. They would certainly envy my "grace and favor" membership, allowing me to use the club on my days off. I do sometimes enjoy an incomparable meal at dues-subsidized prices, but generally avoid mixing with members or staff outside work hours. Interviews don't occupy much of my time. Even though I schedule each for a leisurely two hours, and conduct about 60 a year. However, I'm acutely aware that these hours require the utter focus of my skills. Selectivity is essential. I typically require six to ten new upstairs staff *per annum*. But, meeting with many more is the key to maintaining high standards. On Mondays the club is shuttered, and it's one of my days off. However (whenever possible) I put in the effort to conduct interviews late on a Sunday or Monday. The club looks at its best in the golden hour, and I can conduct a tour without risking that an unsuitable candidate sees more than she needs to. When the bell in my office signals Christina Rios' arrival, I open the great brass and beveled glass doors while getting a quick read on her by the time I've unlocked the wrought-iron gates beyond them. Milky-coffee skin. And with the Spanish name, Dominican is my first guess. Grew-up the USA, judging by her greeting. Tiny striped blazer, long linen dress that's a half-shade pinker than her skin, small canvas bag, all pastel accents--vaguely preppy. Taller than I would prefer-- but willowy, at least. I'm guessing she latched onto the "private club" idea, so decided to go with a TJ Maxx interpretation of casual summer nights on the Vineyard. "It takes all sorts" is an idea you have to accept at The City Club. Some girls will come as they are to interviews--which sometimes means streetwalker. Some will look like it's a cattle-call for pornstars. Others treat it as an interview for a regular customer service job. Occasionally, I see the interview uniform for an uptown law firm--though each of the correct elements inevitably skews to too tight/short/sheer "sexy secretary." I can work with any of this clay. A girl arriving with her own fully- formed personality and image may be helpful. However, I do enjoy guiding girls in reinventing themselves to suit gentlemen's expectations. The most serious demerit is showing-up in pants! That girls wear skirts is a basic condition of employment. Maybe leggings or short-shorts in the afternoon, but never trousers. Cheekbones stunning. Lips full-ish. Smooth complexion. She's skilled with make-up, and hits the right note of just a little too much. I suspect her pink scarf was chosen to disguise an adam's-apple. Flat polka-dotted canvas shoes ("ballerina" is what I think the girls call this style). So yep, she's quite a bit taller than I would like. As I usher her inside I catch a fragrance--and think of Bambi. I don't know the names of many perfumes, but when you spend the years I have among hundreds of pretty perfumed tranny courtesans, every scent remind you of somebody else, or some time long past. I note garish "nail art"--the one incongruous bit of her style. Always in these circumstances, I'm immediately complimentary, chatty, and casual: "Hi! I'm Jay. That's a great purse. My daughter has one just like it!" Anything that sounds friendly (even gay-ish), but reinforces the idea I'm a respectable family man. Put them at their ease. With some of the younger candidates, I have to remember that they are probably thinking of me as not only an authority figure, but also nearer their grandfather than dad. Since it is warm for early-May, I don't need to take Christina's coat, but I'm always chivalrous to even the most flagrant man-whores. Which Christina, most decidedly, isn't. Her clear nervousness is quite charming. Her speech leans to flamboyantly queer, but not at all loud or deep. Possibly a lisp. Maybe just an accent. Our chandeliered and checkerboard-tiled entrance hall speaks of bygone wealth, and is dominated by a grand marble staircase that's the most imposing original feature of the building. Before troubling her with interview questions, I offer a quick tour of some ground floor rooms. Our library reeks of old money (and faintly of old smoke). Impressive, but not likely to enchant feminine sensibilities. Dark wood paneling; hunt scenes on the walls; massive leather armchairs dotted about a stone fireplace that one can practically walk inside. The very model of a late-nineteenth century gentleman's club. The adjacent cigar lounge and "billiards" room expand on this heavily masculine antique theme. In truth, these rooms are only lightly used. That's because upstairs staff (the Sissies) are forbidden to be on the ground floor during operating hours. Which draws members upstairs. Though some will use the library to read the newspapers with a cup of coffee, or have an emergency meeting with colleagues/clients in our Potemkin Conference Room. Outsiders can enter and see a proper club before them; but it's foremost a fa?ade obscuring upstairs improprieties. Where, as the sign on the rope across our grand staircase states, it's always "Reserved for Private Function." I point out various ornaments and knick-knacks that inspire stories credibly related to the history of the club. It's a convenient fiction to represent the C.C. as having a long-established wealth and respectability, in keeping with the (1876) premises. In truth, its tawdry origins date no earlier than circa 1970, when a common shemale brothel operated in the adjacent building that now house our offices, kitchen, and residential facilities. That's before a few of its wealthier patrons--with apparent mob connections--identified a common interest in acquiring the property as a shared harem. So, a club, of sorts. But a seedy sex club, with maybe a side-order of the coke and disco-balls that typified its heyday. Most of the expansion, refinement, diversity of services, etc. has happened on my watch. When I started here, in the late-80's, my business card may as well have read "Assistant Pimp"; but now I'm the executive officer of a non-profit corporation that controls very substantial assets. My sense and sensibilities have ensured a nearly-spotless record of management. Even twenty years on I feel a twinge of regret about silencing that one blackmailing whore. Yet, my greatest error was incorporating under the most generically available name: "The City Club." Then (seeking yet greater anonymity) shortening that to "The C.C.," on our doorplate and letterhead. These girly-boys--and not a few of the members--predictably choose to refer to the establishment as "The Sissy". Not entirely the sort of low-profile I had in mind. Disastrous consequence largely averted by the considerable connections of our members, and generous political donations. That you may have heard about the Edwards and Hughes scandals, but not The C.C. is testament to my management. I guide Christina with my hand at the small of her back. When I compliment her hair, I touch it. I'm subtly invading her space by taking small liberties, to see how she responds to accepting male attention. Pretty well--nervous but unflinching. She's got a decent ass. Boyish, as is the norm with these skinny chicks. But reasonably pert, insofar as I can tell. In my dimly-lit office, I lead her by the hand to my deeply-cushioned sofa, pour myself a long and strong drink, and offer her one, before joining her at the far end of the sofa. Two Sapphire and tonics. It's helpful that a candidate accepts a drink. Not that I require them too. But it'll relax her, and I can observe how gracefully she manages the glass while sipping or sucking. Most importantly I want to see that she doesn't knock it back quicker than I do. And that she will balk at a second, when she sees I limit myself to one. "So how do you know Mandy?" I inquire. I share some innocently fond tales about our shared acquaintance. Mandy belongs to what I call our "ladies auxiliary." All former Sissies, who've left on good terms, but haven't gone totally straight or bought themselves vaginas (AFAIK--I suppose they could if no member complained about it). They're allowed to clock-in when they please. Usually during peak periods--helping fill gaps, without over-working scheduled staff. So Mandy might cover the rent like this. Though like all the "ladies" her willingness to help-out is mostly in hope of the big score. They are my authorized personnel placement agents, so long as they remain available for supplementary Sissy duties, when needed. If Christina gets hired and completes a probationary period, Mandy could afford to take a few months off, or get whatever new cosmetic procedure her little heart desires. Though she can't require any more of either, being she's my top headhunter, responsible for about 40% of all placements. Now I ease into the more formal interview. Which isn't all that formal. I could give a shit how many years of food-service experience Christina has. That work here is simpler and less taxing than in any restaurant-- comparable or otherwise. No prep other than setting tables. No work in (or entry to) the kitchen--the only connection between the areas is by dumb waiters. No end of shift clean-up. No balancing heavy trays (evenings in particular, the Sissies are clothed and shod so impractically for the work, that little service carts are a necessity). No counting cash or swiping cards. Charges are totaled in the kitchen so a Sissy only needs deliver the statement. It's just take orders, bring food, remove plates, and be sexy. The main skills required are feminine deportment, pleasant sociability, an exhibitionist streak (or willingness to perform it), and ready acceptance of leering, groping, and pawing. I emphasize the large income potential that depends on an ability to satisfy demanding customers. I don't have to ask "where do you see yourself in five years." Anything related to goals, plans or drive is laughable. If they had those traits they'd be interviewing in a suit and tie, not presenting tits, ass, and lipstick application skills as resume highlights. Or applying for a job where the formal title is "Sissy." I don't go into qualifications for the horizontal duties at all. Sex isn't mentioned, because in maybe 80% of cases I'm getting close to "thank you, and goodbye." Always with courteous goodwill that leads a girl to believe she might get the call. Everyone leaves with an application, SASE, and consolation prize. There's a shelf in my credenza full of few-hundred dollar trinkets in Tiffany's boxes. After all, Mandy will have given any of her prospects fairly suggestive information. Like all the girls, she refers to the club as "The Sissy"- -which alone is a clue. Not many candidates walk in entirely blind. So I can avoid even the hint of any possible illegality or actionable discrimination. Misunderstandings are few. Though every couple of years I'll meet with a sloppily vetted girl who turns out to be the proud owner of a vagina since birth! Christina is a touch on the old side for a prospective Sissy. When I ask, she says "21?," with the obvious questioning inflection. She's really saying "Is 21 the right answer" or "would you believe 21," before increasing her bid to 25. Twenty-one is, I admit, the best answer. But I'll take anything from late-teens to early thirties. Though I'm not remotely interested in bedding stunning female simulacra, that doesn't make me immune from enjoying time in the company of attractive youngsters who have a talent for feminine presentation. I'll weigh the businesslike pros and cons later. But, at this juncture, my decision to extend the meeting is mostly based on the "tumescence test." After a half-hour chatting with a quality femme-boy, I need to have felt some stirring in my boxers, or she's dismissed. In this case, we proceed to the full tour. I unhook the heavy velvet rope at the foot of the main staircase, and offer Christina my arm to ascend. Normally the stairs are closed, so that access-controlled elevators are the transport between all floors. But I want to impress. Top of the stairs is another marbled foyer that serves no purpose other than display of furnishings bespeaking wealth. Here are the few monumental modernist canvasses in the club. While we possess no *objets d'art* produced by household names to the man on the street, we do house excellent work by lesser artists--well-known to curators and collectors. More portable pieces, however, tend to be high-quality reproductions--especially if jeweled, enameled or gold- plated. Our Ladies Salon contains three "Faberge eggs." I have to replace at least one a year, at a cost of a few grand. They're prime bait for weeding-out a muddle-headed magpie who thinks pocketing the sparkly thing will set her up for life. There's no fuss. Investigations, charges brought, publicity, are all anathema at the City Club. It's just good-riddance to a thieving cunt, who leaves with a bauble worth less than a gift from an appreciative admirer for an exceptional fuck, nor much more than a good week's earnings. Turning back around the grand opening of the staircase, we enter a discrete door between large paintings into the Ladies Salon. Where we find Marianne and Bella languidly browsing fashion magazines. Unsurprisingly, as I found these geldings in their rooms, and planted them in this femininely decorated parlor (which must have been the family dining room when this was the Verlinghuysen home). It's the break-room for girls who are working, and the main social space where girls who aren't like to congregate. You'll hear shrieks of disapproval if a man dares to enter. The girls will so severely ostracize anyone allowing sex in the room that I don't even budget for the, elsewhere significant, replacement of semen-stained upholstery. It would be expensive given the many spindly chairs and chaise longues upholstered in pink and white silk stripe. With scattered card tables, it has the look of a Regency country estate parlor, though littered with magazines, board games and forgotten high-heels. At the same time, it's a sort of display case or jewel box. At each end, the room has twenty-by-fourteen foot glass walls opening on the entrances to our two dining areas. There's nothing a good quality Sissy enjoys more than a stage for look but don't touch, preen and pretend it's unseen. The girls are only here to say "Hi," look happy, and dispel any rapey impressions from being alone in a partially darkened mansion with a strange man. I'm amused--conditioned as they are take offense at a man in the Salon--that they momentarily look shocked seeing me there, even though they knew I would be coming. Bella shows Christina the adjacent powder-room. I'm very proud of my attention to detail creating this girly sanctum. Pardon the expression I've heard one awestruck Sissy use on seeing it, but it is "plush as fuck". And the only area of the C.C. where "No Men, Staff Only" is prominently posted, and enforced. I even trust Marianne to show Christina the room that she shares with the new hire I just brought on. I notice their similarities of figure and movement--though Mari is definitely wider across the ass. Their side-trip gives me a few minutes to make sure the lights are on upstairs. The Powder Room Story illustrates my dealings with the board, and expanding my authority to create an ever-more respectable environment while balancing member interests. I (and my assistant managers) have always had the authority to remove and suspend a member until the next monthly Board meeting. This resulted in a proliferation of schoolboy shenanigans as the meeting drew closer (walking around with penis out- of-fly, loudly abusing a Sissy, refusing to wear a jacket at dinner, and the like). The Board didn't want to waste time considering every minor infraction, so would vote blanket reinstatements at every meeting. The result being increasing suspensions of a few days, when 30 days was warranted. So I acquired sole authority for issuing un-appealable 30-day bans (it's usually booze-fueled excesses, like belligerent language or pissing in a, theoretically decorative, spittoon) with the board only reviewing more serious 90-day or blackballing offenses. Full male nudity outside the Jungle is straightforward 90-days. Explicit threats of violence, usually likewise. Blackball for battery of a member or manager; of a Sissy, 90-days to life, depending on circumstance and severity. Any form of camera in the club is a particular concern. All camera-equipped phones must be checked at the door. Automatic 30-days if found with one, and the member will have to present the Board with a convincing tale of forgetfulness to avoid 90. Actually taking a picture is going to be at least 90-days. Distributing it, or smuggling actual camera equipment into the club--you'd need lots of friends on the Board to avoid blackball. It's third only to murder or putting a member in hospital. One of my secret amusements is seeing how a new Dormouse (and yes, all new hires must live in the Dorm for the six month probationary period, and usually until 21--though there's some flexibility there) reacts to this regime. All phones and laptops confiscated on moving into the dorm. Of course, I provide camera-free replacements--like those old- people flip-phones. I imagine nearly every one of these preening girlish youngsters enjoys texting and posting selfies. It's priceless seeing her dismay at being issued a Jitterbug! It'd be like my Dad saying he'd sold my all-in-one Sear's hi-fi, but I'd enjoy family sing- alongs around the piano instead. It seems my mind has wandered while waiting for Christina's return. Back to the Powder Room--figuratively speaking. It was my big structural improvement line item for 2013. Before that (it being a men only club) there was a Men's Room one each floor, but the girls had to walk next door to use a bathroom in the Residencies. Not so far you might say, but then you probably aren't making the trip in 4" heels. Then there's lost the room's keycard, left it behind or grabbed the wrong one, necessitating a repeat trip. Then once she's spent the time getting there she probably takes advantage of the opportunity to "powder her nose" or whatever else they get up to. The simplest solution, especially if she's busy waitressing, is use the Men's. Which results in men in the Men's Room trying to keep her there. Which sometimes results in sex in the stalls. Which sometimes results in other members being annoyed or delayed (especially at lunch we do have many who are simply there to use the basic facilities). Not much I could do about this. Sure I'd suspend indolent whores who let themselves get fucked in the toilets, while supposed to be performing other duties. But nothing I could do to curb the men's behavior. And neither fair nor practical to discipline a Sissy for the mere expedient of using the closest restroom. With the luxury and safe-space of the powder room (conveniently close to dining rooms) such problems mostly disappeared. Once they did, it was easier to address the rare offenses more vigorously, and convince the Board to authorize 30-day suspensions equally for Sissies in Men's, or men in the powder room. It both improves the tone of the place, and tickles the little powder-puffs. Once I'm again escorting Christina--now directing her with a hand testing the firmness of her pantied ass-cheeks--we pause for look into the afternoon dining area. The timing is perfect. Approaching sunset (through its bank of south-facing windows) glints off of every chrome accent in this Art Deco-themed room. The walls are decorated with images of Deco architecture and industrial design, mostly streamlined automobiles. It's centerpiece a life-sized, silvery, naked female figure leaning into the wind. It looks like the hood ornament on a 30's roadster. I allow Christina some space to linger, and note her appreciation of the view, before moving us along with a gentle pat. Up to the third floor where we enter the Sierra Lounge. Antiquely clubby, with Western touches--Remington bronzes, outsized fantastical landscapes of the majestic Rockies, and such. It's dominated by a vast Victorian mahogany and brass bar--bought, dismantled, and imported at great expense. The sort of thing you'd like, if you like that sort of thing. Also Christina will note features of our top floors designed for privacy. Here there are tables in spacious booths, with heavy red velvet curtains on brass rods. I can't describe my disappointment that these are called "cocksucking cubicles." There are few framed historic curios in the lounge. For instance, original erotic photographs of finely-dressed, or undressed, painted ladyboys dating from the century between 1870 and 1970. I have to quickly urge Christina onward when she starts reading the "Welsh letters" displayed next to the bar. This large area is flanked by smaller rooms. One is a game room with dartboards, old pinball machines, and a huge table-shuffleboard (which is an excellent pastime, and sturdy enough to be a stage for Sissy-on- Sissy-on-Sissy performances). One is closed-off, unrenovated, featuring a few step-machines and treadmills: the "ladies gym". While I've got funds to build-out any space to the highest possible standards, our select membership approaches (and is limited to) 200. Of which, never have more than a third have visited on any one day, and thirty at the same time is uncommon. I've more space than I need. Some strategies: the discotheque not open before midnight (and usually only on Fridays); separate afternoon and evening dining areas, each closed when not in use, are designed to keep the open areas somewhat lively. The members can take pride in having an array of finely furnished facilities available, but allowing free-run of the building at any hour would create an atmosphere of desertion. By far the largest side-room is "The Jungle"--named for the profusion of large potted-palms and other tropicalia scattered throughout. One of my biggest headaches is maintaining/replacing these. They provide some illusion of privacy between the variously-shaped and easily wipe-able furnishings. You can wander through the greenery, like it's a footpath in the woods, then happen upon a meadow of debauchery. Our one dedicated, public sex forum. The d?cor is haphazard. The bigger pieces scattered amongst the weeds. There's a big stone lion--possibly 12th century--taken from a Ceylonese temple, which may be worth millions. By the door, pieced together fragments of an ancient Hindu frieze depicting coital gymnastics. There are many other random artifacts from exotic locales--monumental phalluses in particular. I expect some of these have been pillaged/ smuggled. Though many may be forgeries sold to rich, gullible erotica enthusiasts. Not least, our members. One unnamed gentlemen of our Board generously contributed items from his primitive art collection, once he became doubtful of their provenance. I note that the room is due for a serious clean-up next week. Action items: two bottles of sexual lubricant stashed in plant pots; similarly, a pill bottle (probably poppers); evidence of ejaculatory remains in various locations (particular attention required in wiping fronds, which may be damaged by this), and; poorly positioned tripping hazards in a room that is usually dimly lit. There's no fucking so important that it can't be done cleanly and safely. TV's are the primary light source in the jungle. These are few, small, and discrete elsewhere in the club (for members to see the stock ticker or stay-up on breaking news). But here two of the largest flatscreens on the market are suspended near the high ceiling. Typically they're showing muted she-male porn. Sometimes an Attenborough documentary. I've made sure they are on, before escorting Christina to the room. It's just a standard poolside spit-roast, with SoCal valley backdrop. But Christina freezes at the sight! I curse myself for the misjudgment. I quickly lead her to the down elevator. Tour cut short, interview over--though I fill the silence with a description of our fourth floor discotheque, conservatory, and terrace. I'm relieved to see she has got herself together once we exit on the ground floor. It turns out that she knows the slut in the film, but was unaware of her "acting career," so was temporarily stunned to see a magnified version of a friend's face doused with semen spurting from a similarly gargantuan penis! Happily, Christina was able to take this as well as her girlfriend clearly did. Back in my office, I do feel that these unusual circumstances justify us having one more settling drink. As soon as these are poured, I find my camera, and tell her I need a couple of pictures. Some headshots. Then a few more that show her figure. These are for the file. Because (as indicated), I can reject any candidate, but my recommendations have to be accepted by the Board. I pride myself in maintaining +95% rubber- stamp approvals. I've got a wall I like to pose these pretties in front of. Old botanical prints on it, mounted at different levels--so that the lower edge of each frame is elevated 5'/5.5'/6'. I've allowed myself the private joke that the middle one depicts a "Tuckahoe." Normally, I have to ask a candidate to remove shoes. But Christina is fine in her flats, and falls just short of the 6-foot mark. She avoids the mistake of posing for a police line-up. It takes only mild encouragement and approval to inspire her to a bit of flirty bends and twirls. Now we have neared the end of our appointment. Ideally this is the moment I enjoy the most. You have surely heard of "lip-biting." Though I doubt you have (in real life) seen this skittish behavior often--a girl slowly evaluating the merits of being careful, against the advantages of strategic surrender. Christina truly delivers on this. If it's an act it's a great one--and that's all the better. What I see is her requesting an answer to "should I disrobe now?" Terribly cute. But I remain stone-faced. As a hiring manager I'm sensible to not encouraging a strip-show. But I'm safe if an applicant assaults me with nudity. Again, no two interviews are exactly alike. Nude photos help-- especially if showing male genitals. I can't personally judge the attraction of these, but can appreciate the need to maintain a reasonable diversity of size, circumcision, and erectile capability. Smallest, softest, and hairless is definitely the ideal by which the girls rule the pecking-order in their own roost. [Castration seems to be the latest Sissy trend! I'm working to constrain our overly-liberal sick-leave policies to minimize the problem. Perhaps an outright ban of the practice will be required]. I expect tiny-endowed girls are the majority preference amongst members as well. But I've learned to respect the unvocal (bisexual?) minority. "Why do we no longer hire staff with sturdy 9" pricks?" is the kind of question I don't expect to be uttered at the annual Board meeting. And I ensure it never will be askedby anticipating unspoken needs. As it happens, Christina responds to my reticence by just unbuttoning to show-off her delicately scalloped bra. I wrap things up. Give her the application. And a perhaps unduly frank description of the hiring process (in this case: that I recognize her potential; would be happy to hire her; but maybe she isn't the precise fit for immediate needs). To her credit, Christina has noticed my now assertive hardness. She gives me a kiss on the cheek and touches my knee, by way of goodbye. My continued stoicism can't really deny the evidence of erection. Tentatively she fumbles at my fly. A bit more effort releases my shaft from my khakis. She quickly applies herself to the oral massage. Just bobbing, at first. Hands on my thighs. I don't unbuckle. She tries cradling my balls through the trousers anyway. Steady rhythm. Decent suction. Not great use of her tongue. Satisfactory, but no more. She is, though, constantly raising her eyes to mine--seeking approval, or direction. I'm not going to tell her how to do her job. So I just smile. I don't understand the inclinations of our membership. But I figure the sight of a willing large-eyed girl with your dick in her mouth is generally acceptable. I surrender to the moment. Which continues for quite awhile. Warm dribbles on my balls. Nice at first, but chillier wetness over time. Minutes tick by. Not unpleasantly. My complacency doesn't help. I could, of course, hold her head and jackhammer. But that wouldn't be very professional. My stiffness flags. But whenever I look down upon those seeking eyes, my erection revives. Eventually, we arrive at the pleasantly predictable outcome. Christina neither plays the innocent by looking for a tissue in which to deposit my sperm. Nor does she seek further approval with the disgusting porn-influenced behavior of showing me my emission. Frankly, I find this as appealing as admiring my turds in the toilet! She simply swallows. Allowing a few seconds for me to regain composure, I'm soon escorting her to the door, with a Tiffany's box in her hand. I'm as solicitous as when she arrived. No more, nor less. Kiss on the cheek, avoiding her cum-spoiled mouth. This sort of thing (unsolicited cocksucking) happens in about half of interviews that reach this point. By the time a girl tries it, I'm not likely to change my mind. But I don't discourage initiative. Christina may have helped her chances--because of those eyes. None of this undermines my resolve to never bed a ladyboy, coerce applicants, or take sexual advantage of the staff. Christina doesn't exhibited obvious signs that she's a man. Hot chicks that make me hard can plainly make me cum (if they aren't displaying a flat chest or penis during the encounter). And Christina isn't yet an employee. So it's all good and proper. Allowing for one tiny hitch in the Jungle, it's yet another successful demonstration of my principles. I have to sleep on this one. Maybe aiding my recollections with a business-like wank in the morning. This is for the best anyway, as Tuesdays tend to be busy, and I need to be composed. Just enough time to jot preliminary notes concerning Christina. NEGATIVES: 1. A bit simple and quiet. Not bad qualities. Just an educated and engaging "classy" cunt is the hole I most need to fill immediately. Always a ready supply of featherbrains. 2. Nearly six feet tall. 3. Adam's apple (but this can easily be corrected). QUESTIONABLE: 1. No idea of how hung she is. I've a greater need for bigger currently. (Mandy can get photo?) 2. Ditto, tits. Though small would work on her, just like Mari. 3. Not a technically skilled fellator (easily trainable). 4. Not innocent. But shy. Certainly someone could develop an image from these elements. Bookish, secret nympho, or similar. Not certain she can act that well. POSITIVES: 1. No evidence of substance abuse. 2. Genuine. FTFW, I have no reason to believe she's hustling me. Or a gold-digger beyond usual expectations. 3. Healthy, and takes great care in all (clothes/makeup/hair) aspects of appearance. 4. Demonstrable eagerness to please. 5. Possible innate deference to men. All-in-all, it's a close-call on recommending her to the Board of Directors. Leaning to "no," but maybe requiring a second interview? First I have to attend to my 8:30 appointment. There's the bell.