Mallory @ 19:55:00, 05/03/2016 free porn video

Tuesday--Mallory "So gently swaying through the fairy-land of love; If you'll just come with me you'll see the beauty of; Tuesday afternoon." Tuesday. Fucking. Afternoon. And evening. I arrived early at 5:15, but "Happy Hour" was descending into "Cum Circus" earlier than usual. Spring is in the air, I guess. And the animals primed to rut. The varied homes and lifestyles of the membership balance the workload somewhat; though the predominant type makes Tuesdays ever hectic and depraved. He works in the city and spends weekends with his family in some tony exurb or country estate. Maybe he has a mid-town pied-a-terre to spend weeknights in the city, maybe goes home after "working late." Monday closure makes him fit to burst, after 3-4 days away from his club! They're the same sorts that make 3 to 7 on Blowjob Fridays so busy. But that's an orderly process, despite some hiccups at the shift change. Everyone is having the same thing on the menu. On your knees; send them on their way in hopefully not more than five minutes; "Who's next in line!" Anyway, I've usually got enough probies (who have no choice in the matter) and some utter sluts who don't mind an endless parade of dicks in their mouths. It's not the blue-balled chaos of Fucking Tuesday! It's crazy, because I'm sure many of them have acquired decent trophy wives (or easily could) to fuck on weekends. They either want the greater variety and skills that the C.C. offers, or they've lost interest in cunt. Add in some guys with more flexible schedules who attend because they like the public debauchery atmosphere. It's a known business problem that never gets addressed. The most influential Members are in the Tues.-Thurs. set. They'd more likely to promote a "No-Sex Saturday" policy than rein-in Tuesdays! Tonight will be like Rome before the fall. =================================================== The blinds are partially drawn in the Sierra Lounge, but last rays of sunset creep in at five minutes to eight. You can imagine a world outside this bacchanal--one where Mom and Dad are watching Final Jeopardy before getting the little ones in their PJs. The windows in the Jungle are (as always) sealed and blacked out; the louvered skylights shut tight. I hear an orgasmic squeal from that direction. Even from the far end of the Lounge, it's piercing enough to hear the cry through the music and hum of a moderately busy barroom. Whoever has taken charge of the playlist tonight is either a little ditzy (Rachel) or an evil genius (Dana) as the mood needs more bangers. The next few hours prove to be lightly pastoral oldies, leaning heavily to 1970-ish in Laurel Canyon. Scanning the room, I see two blowjobs and one or two handies in progress, while listening to some woman trill about "ice cream castles in the air." Lexa is concluding a handjob on Smith Senior, so dips to engulf his shaft, and take his ejaculation down her throat. It's the wisest choice where food and drink are served. One surely endorsed by New York City Health Department inspectors. It's an odd pairing. I've never seen Lexa swallowing the semen of our most elderly City Club member. True, Smith Senior has the self-made ultra- wealth that Lexa admires. But she doesn't need his money, and usually focuses on erstwhile boy-geniuses in the 35-49 demographic. The cold truth of the C.C. is less desirable Members need to be more generous if they want "equal rights" -- or they play in the B-League, with girls whose sex appeal leaves them short of achieving financial goals. Smith Senior ought to be the last complaining about market realities. He made most of his dough in Life Insurance, where the costs increase with age much more so than at the C.C.! ================================================== My darling Dana is Lead Sissy on the late shift. She's standing at the back wall, between the bar and the entrance to the Jungle, giving her the best vantage to monitor both rooms, and ready to wipe down a table or help Rachel if she needs a bar-back. She's also centered in a spotlight, and is far more formally dressed than anyone in the room. It's smart for Leads to offer viewing pleasure, while looking a bit "do not touch." She's ravishing in eveningwear: A slinky red gown with a dramatic ruffle edging the neckline that plunges to her jeweled belly-button. Her high-lit chestnut hair is loosely clipped at the back, to show-off some romantic tendrils (and delicate drop earrings) grazing her bare shoulders. On her neck a wide 2-2.5" jeweled collar that's an open lattice of amber beads, with a matching cuff bracelet on her left wrist. Her gold all over Louboutin sandals have a sensible block heel. Her toenails painted to match the shoes, while her fingernails are buffed and glossed but uncolored. I, maybe too eagerly, beeline across the Lounge to her. She headnods as I approach. When working together we have a private language of subtly dudeish gestures. It's so far from usual Bambi behavior that I know it's a message directed to me alone. I stride with exaggerated hip sway that bounces my tutu, to draw the male gaze from every corner of the room. When I reach Dana, I give her a long tonguey kiss, before moving behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist. I nuzzle at her ear while whispering about my last session. Dana just purrs, except for hissing "Bambi." She's very particular about not using Dana at work, which I sometimes forget. I finger along the frill of her neckline for some minutes, then slip my hand in to cup her soft braless breast. It's a pleasing little lesbian display for the "boys" filtering in and out of the Jungle. Quite the most softcore thing they're likely to see all day. One guy, an out-of- towner, sweaty from Jungle exertions, bear hugs us both. But some scattered booing from men near the bar, who enjoyed watching Mallory and Bambi without a third, and me staring him down, make him quickly realize the error of his ways. I'm, to say the least, underdressed compared to Dana. At least I have the formality of being all in black, except for the pale gray tutu. It's one of those short stiff ones, like a wide ruff, that stands nearly horizontal at the hip. It's just barely enough coverage to hide any slippage beneath. Which is happening quite often, as I unwisely chose a tiny g-string. I've got a small silk sack purse strung on my wrist--barely big enough to hold basic needs for cosmetic touch-ups, tissues, a much more practical spare pair of panties, and a couple of light-absorbency pads. I'm also wearing a wide, silk-ribbon choker with a cameo at the front, embroidered longline bra, deeply clefted and wired between my boobs, a roughly matching garter belt, pin-striped stockings, and suede booties with a dagger sharp 4" heel. When I'm nose-to-nose with her I notice they are the same height as Dana's newest find. We are *exactly* the same height (5' 7.5") so I always know the height of hers without even seeing her feet. Above the neck we insist each is prettier than herself. Below it we could be mistaken for twins. Dana's a touch more hippy and bosomy than me, though we usually weigh precisely the same. I've no clue where my extra 5-6 lbs. is hiding! I take a half-size bigger shoe, but we can still swap--which may be the most desirable characteristic in a girlfriend! Clothes too! If it's a low/no jewelry situation we're often fighting for the same perfect outfit. If glamour is required she always gets first dibs on the fanciest dress. She needs it to frame her pricey bling; which I like more for potential resale value than anything. Our Queen(')s( ') apartment isn't blessed with a ton of closet space, but with the sharing (and constant pruning) we manage to keep the shoe collection to a reasonable 100 pairs; and have enough space to keep half of the second bedroom free for guests. We wear belly jewelry as a sort of engagement ring. Since we are often naked with a lot of the same men, you'd think that would be noticed. It's just that we are never with those men at the same time, and the token of our love isn't a particular item. It could be a pair I picked up BOGO at Claire's yesterday--so long as we are always wearing matching. We've even got back-to-back birthdays--though I'm 364 days older. We've got the same light ivory skin tone; which is helpful for sharing foundation and powder, though colorful make-up is separated on account of our different hair and eyes (mine blue/grey, hers hazel). I've got some scattered freckles, especially in the cleavage, which may help in telling us apart. Our nipples are nearly identical in color, and smallish with a well-defined edge; except when hers erect; which happens with her a lot more than me. Me nuzzling and kissing the back of her neck right now has made the nubs show through her gown. It's the opposite with our clits--me stiffening fairly easily and her barely at all. But otherwise quite similar: cut, slim, slight upward curve, and right about 5-inches. We bikini wax the same, and sport the same color. Hers is approximately the color of her un-highlighted hair, where mine is darker than the mane--which is sort of strawberry blonde, leaning a good deal more strawberry than blonde. The main difference is her being totally, and very prettily, smooth between her legs. It's the same style of orchi that Mari, Bella, and Pansi have. Gelded, as the younger Sissys call it. Dana doesn't like the term or even discussing it. But the other three are quite proud of their little Gelding Club. Though they are all fairly sweet, and only Marianne brags, you can tell they pity everyone else who isn't as fashionable. Physically we are the very opposite of "opposites attract." We both couldn't be more delighted than to please a body much like one's own. It's silly fun to sometimes play as each other, with that dash of kinkiness enlivening the proceedings. Dana loves bringing out the wigs, each doing the others' make-up in her own style, trading perfumes, and being "Mallory," rubbing her own clit. Or whatever--you get the idea. She maybe likes it too much. I think her enjoyment of being me is that the Mallory character is a step further removed from the Bambi one. She's an excellent mimic, Dana--due to her long dedication to vocal training. She worked hard to sound ultra-feminine, then had to create a completely different Bambi voice (the latter is a bit huskier and emphatic--when Dana slips into Bambi voice, I know she's really angry). I'm maybe not the best judge, but I think she does a good "me." Her with my voice, hair, fragrance, figure--and me with a modest dose of mind-altering substances--I can come close to believing I'm petting and fondling myself. Now, where was I? You know how it is. You're enraptured by your girlfriend's sweet scent, which make you think about her naked body. Before you know it, your mind has wandered to nipple hardness comparisons, the hottest castration trends, and the usual monthly doppelganger self-fucking. It happens to the best of us. Anyway, we're a good match. Our relationship doesn't lack emotional drama, which I expect is going to happen in any femme/femme household. If anything (to dredge-up antiquated stereotypes) I'm more the "husband." Dana likes keeping our home tidy and decorated. It's always me when bills must be paid, a cockroach wants crushing, or a rental car needs to be driven (in fairness, the latter defaults to me because Dana doesn't know how). I'm the better cook, but she likes cooking more, so we switch-off or combine our talents. Neither of us can fix things. Turning a screwdriver is about my limit; the first time I asked Dana where it was she said we were out of orange juice! She immediately giggled about her mistake. She's not dumb--just has a greater personal and professional interest in one over the other. After all, asking for a "plum bob" might get a different response from a builder than saying it to your hairdresser. I'll still be a bit more man-of-the-house when I'm post-op, and Dana's the one with the penis. At least we're free from petty sexual jealousies since work sex, and with each other, offers a lot of quantity and variety. Who could ask for anything more? ========================================================= Mr. Goldsmith (at the far end of the bar) is transfixed by me toying with Dana's nipples. That's quite an accomplishment when two old broads, in their late-twenties, can distract him from fresh, sweet Bella; who he has his arm draped over. He's clearly the last sip of Scotch away from leading her to a private room. I'm alerted to Bella's distress signal. There's no universal sign for "help a sister out" amongst the girls. The men would too easily crack any obvious code. You just keep your eye out for subtle indications (especially from younger Sissies, who haven't learned to manage the dilemma of "don't want to say yes, but shouldn't say no"). I take Bella's quickly scrunched nose and distracted tapping fingernails on the bar as a sign. She may have been signaling S.O.S, for all I know! I go into overdrive with Dana, worming my arm down the scandalous cleavage of her dress, to get a hand on her panties, and rub. She's shocked, as I intended; but when I whisper "Bella" in her ear she knows the score, and fakes writhing to match my fake kneading. Bella strokes Goldsmith's forearm, and plants sweet whispers and kisses on his ear. If she put a hand near his lap, I never saw it. Within a minute Mr. Goldsmith had (to discerning eyes) cum in his pants. There was a hushed, but very heated, altercation. I couldn't hear it, though I'm sure jist was Goldsmith wanting to hold fire for the bedroom, while Bella pleaded that the outcome wasn't her intent. She looked on the verge of tears. I thought I may have miscalculated. But once he's staggered to the restrooms in a sticky huff, she flashes a quick thumbs- up and hint of a smile--so all is well. Mr. Conrad, occupying the barstool closest to us, offers his rapt attention, and soon offers to buy us drinks. Dana's not having, given her responsibilities, but I go for a bottle of Bordeaux; picking a cheaper one, since it is a whole bottle. When Dana tallies the charges at the end of the night she sees Conrad has rounded-up to $150. I'm not saying that $95 is plan your retirement money. Still, it's a fair wage for ten minutes spent snuggling your fianc?e on-the-job, when you were going to do it anyway. Better yet, this barmaid knows precisely when Members are too drunk or distracted to notice the ol' switcheroo! When she asks if I want her to hold the bottle for me, I know she'll "open" it out-of-sight and serve me something similar that's already been opened. Rinse-and-repeat. If I want a refill, she'll give me whatever she has. Here a lady seeming to drink a lot is good for business, but drinking a lot isn't. At the end of the night any girl wanting to go home with a bottle gets one, and Rachel smuggles-out any excess "sold" stock. This is winkingly accepted practice. I wouldn't want to discuss the matter with management, though I'm sure Jay knows all about wastage schemes. His view is that a Sissy feeling like she's abusing the system, is one less concerned about it abusing her. We never go beyond making a little inadvertent pocket change from our kisses and cuddles though. That's mostly to suit Dana. She doesn't only keep Dana and Bambi separate in name. Dana has a separate make-up box for Bambi, and puts Bambi on with her face. The moment she gets home, she takes a shower to wash Bambi off. Where others might figuratively let their hair down after work, Dana always puts hers up. Hair down is Bambi. Even for a casual night at home Dana usually wears a high pony or loose bun. At least a half-hour of hairstyling precedes Dana going out on the town. If really in a rush she might go with braids (one of the few styles where I am qualified to help out) but she likes complicated better, which can look a bit formal. If I mention this, she says "it's always evening somewhere." My frustration has its rewards when I feel like an updo. Finding stray bobby-pins in unlikely places is a daily occurrence. Dana tries to rationalize all this effort as not wanting to be recognized by anyone from the C.C., outside of it. But we both know it's deeper than that. She'd have a breakdown if someone said "Hi!" to Bambi when she's Dana. She couldn't switch gears that quickly, while keeping in the Dana-lane would make anyone think she was playing a joke at their expense. But c'mon, it's a big city! There's some risk of meeting Carmen as she, unfortunately, moved-in two- blocks down from us. But that's only happened twice, while picking up take-out at a place we now avoid. While together we've run across Dior and Marianne (at the late Pacha, on separate occasions), Everhard (at MOMA), and narrowly avoided being seen by Mr. Black on Broadway. They always see me, not the girl I'm with. When it happens she excuses herself to the ladies room to "let me talk with *my* friend." Then I find her hyperventilating in a toilet stall, and we skedaddle! I may have forgotten some incidents, but only Member with his wife ones. Then it's him eyeing the exits, rather than thinking of introducing me and my pretty companion. Even Dana gets over her shock quickly then. She's only mildly concerned about the being recognized part. It's being cornered and forced to interact that really puts her in a dither. I try to convince her that the transformation is so great that she'd never be clocked. It's clothes, it's hairstyle, and especially make-up (whatever time Bambi saves on hair is lost to contouring). It's voice, it's stride, and even undressing (Bambi drops everything and leaves it where it lies, so Dana puts things away for both of them). Dana looks shorter, because she's mostly a flats girl. Shorter still next to me, as I always wear a bit of a heel. Dana set the record for shortest stay in the Dorm--serving the exact six- month mandatory minimum, and not a second more. She interviewed as Bambi, spent a half-year as only Bambi, and was, in every sense, ready to blow. She was in such a rush that she hadn't found a rental yet. Dana blames that irresponsibility on Bambi, though Dana's no stranger to impulsivity. Anyway, I kindly offered my couch as temporary arrangement. I'd left the Dorm, after three years saving up, just before Bambi arrived. Never regretted that for a moment, though the adjustment to being alone was a shock after being surrounded by so many girls for so long. I was thinking about getting a tenant, but didn't expect Bambi would be suitable. Bambi, I'm sure, viewed this as a very distasteful way to save $80 a night. After a few bumpy days Dana began to reemerge. Her, I liked! So here we are. I too value leaving work at the office, though no more than a lot of people. Lawyers don't wear suits at picnics. Proctologists avoid sticking a finger up anyone's ass while on vacation. My boundaries respect Dana's needs. Only Dana makes love to me. Only Bambi fucks at The Sissy. She won't allow those wires to cross. Bambi will go heavy girl-on-girl display for a Member's entertainment--just not with me. Hardly a week ago Rachel (who's tending bar now) was licking the remains of a load from between fianc?e's luscious cheeks. I'm a little jealous, but would never press my luck. Rachel's probably the best chica for the task (bartending, that is, not extracting cum from holes--though she's no slouch at the latter) on the rare occasions, like today, when there's enough trade to make the work at all demanding. She can hustle without seeming rushed; always sparing a quick minute to flirt before moving on to the next customer. Unless someone says something that reminds her of a "Friends" episode, in which case she's basically off-duty for 5-10 minutes to have a serious discussion. She's absolutely obsessed with that show! She goes by Esperanza, but most girls (and some Members) call her Rachel. She's totally committed to the original 90's Rachel 'do, though she's closer to Rachel's age when the show ended than started. She's had some (or a lot of) facial work to enhance the resemblance. She's even got an original Aniston nose; which can't be a request heard too often in cosmetic surgeon's offices. Don't get me wrong. Jennifer Aniston is certainly beautiful, but it's more despite the nose than because of it. Esperanza is also undisguisedly Puerto Rican. Her English is perfect, but with an accent that can make her difficult to understand when it's noisy. Her skin is ever-bronzed. She's a wee bit man-handed. You'd be lucky to work a day with her when she doesn't ask if her jet black roots are showing. Plus, she's five inches taller than Aniston (this isn't something I'd be expected to know, but you can deduce my informant). Have you ever experienced this thought process: she's taller than I expected, looking very good for her age; but why is Jennifer Aniston, in brown-face, browsing the aisles of a Duane Reade in Jersey City? If so, you've seen our Rachel. I could use an hour's break and refreshment, to allow my pantiliner to soak up the lube and united "Parkton" loads oozing from my very fabulously violated snatch. Dana wanders off to do her rounds--checking that antics in the Lounge and Jungle haven't descended to the second floor. So I, cautiously, share my tale of Mr. Park and Mr. Boulton with Rachel. She loves saucy gossip, and I feel safe that it doesn't involve any themes from a "Friends" episode, that might get the story off-track. ================================================ The men had gone ahead of me to Room 202, where I promised to join them once Mr. Steele tired of the motorboating. They're sort of a couple, Boulton and Park. I know they live together, and they rarely visit the club individually. I don't know if serious coupling is involved in that. Mr. Park, especially, reads pretty gay. He's an impeccable dresser, is a theatrical wardrobe manager (which, by the way, can't possibly provide an income covering C.C. dues, so Boulton must subsidize the expense) and usually wears a touch of make-up. Of course they'd keep that under the covers here--as Members having sex with *each other* on the property is an *absolute, surefire* do not pass "Go" and lose a hella lot more than $200! It's one of the few Member behaviors a Sissy will report that isn't some sort of health/safety issue. So, who knows? Maybe my role is to be a sort of intermediary for them. That's fine by me. I know pretty much what they have in mind, as we've done it a few times before. And on a physical level, at least, I find the experience extremely sensational! Better when blindfolded, though. Park was half undressed when he answered the door. Boulton, stretched on the bed, was as disrobed as he was going to be. Usually these gents like wearing something frilly beneath their expensively tailored suits--and today was no different. They were in similar tap pant and cami ensembles, with wide edgings of lace at the leg. Park was already erect when I arrived. He'd pulled the billowy bloomers aside so his rod stuck out the leg hole, with the ivory lace laid atop the shaft. Boulton, being the older and less fit of the two, had the head of his cock peeping just out of the waistband of his periwinkle pair. Boulton has to be shopping in plus sizes. I'd guess Mr. Park a Large. I stepped out of my tutu and g-string... artfully. I wriggled to get the waistband below my hips until it hit the floor, atop my stunning heels. There's only a wide elastic band keeping it on. I could've dropped it without the drama, if drama didn't sell. I delicately stepped out of the stiff ruffle pooled at my ankles. I bent at the waist to get the skirt off the floor--presenting my tautly plump backside, and what the customers really come to see. My g-string was no longer clothing. What charms it covered had already fallen out of it. It was just some strings, which could easily be kicked off, or left on, without causing interference. Still, I settled into a chair to raise my legs, and remove the panties with exceeding, and teasing, care. Other than to greet me, the men hadn't spoken. I take it as a testament to my skills that they aren't chatting with each other. When I undress in front of men, I decide whether to elicit bawdy hollers or awed silence, and pursue whatever my aim is diligently. It's been established that seeing my clit as swollen as it gets is their interest, second only to getting their shafts up me. They'd like my clit hard all the time, and have gone so far as to offer me pills from Mr. Boulton's Viagra supply. Yeah, no. My present situation is perfect. Put a ring on it if a feel the need for a full functionality and not have the bother the rest of the time. I curled up on the bed beside Boulton, and lazily ran a fingernail up the underside of his penis under the satin, while clarifying expectations. Sometimes they want a starter, like me sucking Boulton; never to completion, as it would take Boulton too long to get it up again, and they always schedule this to comfortably fit in a one-hour window. Sometimes Park wants me to ride his face. He always wants to suck me. I won't allow that, though he's permitted to lick. This time, quicker to the main course--with the only new twist that Boulton wanted my hands tied behind my back. Okey-doke. I gave Boulton a few firmer rubs through his satin. His erection was getting strong enough to rise against the constricting elastic waistband. They both had silk pocket squares, so together they tied one to each of my wrists, with enough left at the end for Boulton to tie the two together. Being prepared to be taken like this, I began to fell stirrings below. As soon as I was in the predicament, I realized I'd need someone to get my bra off. No shoulder straps, but a lot of hooks and eyes down the back of a longline. Park, being a costumer, had it off faster than I thought a man would ever manage. It was just for my comfort. As might be imagined, since they didn't think to remove it themselves, they're not really tit men. I mean, they'll suckle one if it's in their face, but not mesmerized by boobs like a lot of guys are. Even I'm more breast-obsessed than Boulton and Park! They're so preciously cute and squishy, so long as they aren't too big or fake. Breasts I mean, not B&P. At this point I was just in garter belt, pinstriped black over grey hose, and booties. Plus my belly ring to match Dana's; today a simple gold hoop. You couldn't pry that from my cold, dead navel. Boulton grazed a finger between my cheeks, palpitated my rosebud a few times with the pad of his middle finger, then suggested they carry me to the bed. They lowered me to my knees for safety; then, a man on each side, one hand slotted in my underarm, the other grabbing an ankle, they hoisted me on the mattress. Park jumped on beside me to help me raise my hips and spread my legs. Him being quite particular about exact angles; knees much further toward my shoulders, to lift my ass to a higher presentation, then a wee bit more forward, and a smidge closer together. Then he got off the bed and moved a few paces away, to examine the arrangement from a distance, like you'd step-back to tell if a picture hanging on a wall was straight. Park asked Boulton if it looked alright, and after doing the same hand- holding chin appraisal as Park, he said that it did. Boulton was now sporting a solid erection, and like Park he'd lifted the wide leg of the tap pants, so his shaft was exposed. Between my exposed posture and being shifted and posed, the blood was really flowing to my clitty. I rocked my bottom, to signal my need to get rid of it. Boulton lay back on the bed, beside me. Close--about a foot from my face turned toward him. Him staring into my eyes while lightly fingering the underside of his knob. There was the barest glisten at the slit. Boulton rubbed his finger there, told me to "open, slut" and put it in my mouth. I applied heavy suction like it was a penis. Once Mr. Boulton tired of that, and returned to fondling himself, he would sometimes reach out to roughly tug a nipple. I winced, but kept silent. He should have tried harder. Mr. Park, meanwhile, was behind and licking me. He lifted my bound wrists to start at the small of my back and drag his tongue straight down, as far as he could from his position. Down my ass cleft, grazing my yearning entrance, and down to the root of my clitty. It being well up now, he couldn't tongue to the tip without laying on his back and sliding between my legs. He followed this line with his tongue again, and again, and again; sometimes lingering to swirl around my hole. Mr. Boulton said he wanted a taste. Unlike Park, he immediately buried his face between my splayed cheeks. He didn't try to force entry with his tongue, rather did a rapid series of stabs/punches at the opening, before sloppy wide-tongued licking. He found he could support himself with hands on the mattress beneath my hanging breasts, which were a few inches above the sheets. Then he got both nipples between his thumb and forefinger, to roll and pull them--as if milking me. I bucked back at him, stretching my nipples even further. He snorted and burrowed deeper. Mr. Park opened the drawer in one of the bedside tables. He waved one of the Pill cartons in my direction, asking if one of those was what I needed. I told him to find one of the squeeze bottles with the bulbed tip. I was eager to get my pussy slippery, and get Boulton to stop eating me out, because his whiskers were starting to chafe. However, I was very aroused by his rough handling and obscene stretching of my nipples. So a bit win-some-lose-some when Mr. Boulton had to back away, so that Mr. Park could insert the bulb in me. He asked me how much of a fill-up I needed. I managed on four squirts the last time, so chose three today. You can always top-off later. It's better than starting with too much and losing that feeling of divine friction. Park clinically inserted a finger in my snatch, to spread the lubricant. Mr. Boulton pressed himself behind Park. When Park removed the digit, Boulton entered me with his own. That they are both perfectly manicured is a considerable part of their appeal. Boulton's fingers are, however, rougher and fatter. Also he inserted nail-up, to hook the finger and stimulate my spot before pulling the, still bent, finger out. I had to force myself to think unsexy thoughts to avoid wasting an emission too soon. If B&P were still visible, maybe them in their lingerie would have done the trick. But I was pressed into position where I could only see the wall between maple slats. Despite best efforts, I felt myself heavily drizzling on the sheets. Mr. Park was pressed against me, by the heft of Mr. Boulton behind him. I felt the lace of his tap pants grazing my right cheek. I felt his balls pressing into my cleft. I felt the base of his shaft rubbing my tailbone. I felt that these bounces weren't from Mr. Park. Park was transmitting Boulton's pelvic thrusting to me. There's not a chance in hell Boulton's dick wasn't rubbing against Park's back, nor Boulton's balls sliding on Park's satin panties! But with my face in the pillow, I chose "out of sight, out of mind" as the best policy. I was the slice at the bottom of a triple-decker sandwich. Once my ring was allowed to close again, I asked Mr. Park to give me one last squirt before my grand opening. This he did, just before Boulton administered two sharp slaps to my raised hindquarters, and pushed my right hip; so I fell onto the bed on my side. I adore the feeling of being drippingly wet and prepared for penile entry. As Mr. Park arranged me on my back, my thoughts narrowed to my ready receptivity. One firm pillow beneath my head, and another lifting my hips; legs spread and knees raised. If I could freeze time to live permanently in any moment, it would be ones like that. All the fleeting orgasms, themselves, aren't better than feeling the assurance that they will come, and come, and cum again soon. =============================================================== Rachel gets busy again, so I have to pause my story and peruse the room, while sipping a semi -decent wine that I didn't order. Justine saunters in, wearing what she normally does. That's not a problem, as she's not on the roster, so not required to wear her maid's uniform. Maybe she just wanted a quick drink before going out. She could be hunting Chris Novac. But I doubt it, as she's too new to be connected to the grapevine, and if she did overhear some tittle-tattle it'd more "have you met Chris with the whopper" than "the singer from Ultrasound." Dormice would probably recognize a song or two by the band but not know who does it. Their big hits were that one that starts quiet and gets loud, the loud one with the quiet bit in the middle, and the loud one with cowbells and howling coyotes. Classics all, but lacking in the truly timeless appeal of humongous cocks. I'd love seeing her dumbstruck when she runs across one of her idols. Dumbstruck now will have to do. She's probably figuring she can pull-up to the bar and crack-wise with the guys over a couple of brewskis. But she's never seen a "Fucking Tuesday" before, so she stops short for a moment, then proceeds more hesitantly. She makes it halfway in before noticing the Members staring at her, either nervously or hostilely. They don't mean to--in a moment they stop looking--but I see the swagger melt from Justine in those few short seconds, before she sheepishly backtracks. I'm not sure if I should explain it, or let her learn it herself. She walked in as a stranger to most, looking not at all like man or a Sissy. She looks like a girl randomly transported to the room. An unknown female here not dressed to please men is automatically suspect. Hannah emerges from the Jungle, looking unusually disheveled and typically dazed, while licking semen from around her mouth. I tell her she's got a blob at her hairline that's dribbled towards her brow. "I know," she says. "It pays..." "... to advertise" I wearily add--joining her in completing the sentence. I swear, if you know about a hundred catch-phrases and exclamations that should cover about half of Hannah's vocabulary. But it doesn't always pay to advertise. Not for someone like Hannah, who wasn't hired for that. I try to explain this to her for the umpteenth time; while spitting on a cocktail napkin to wipe the crusting jizz rivulet from Hannah's empty forehead. I'm pretty sure she'd be diagnosed as mentally disabled, and have doubts she's competent to consent. But she's twenty-five, has the motor- coordination to feed and dress herself, and wipe her own fat ass--so not up to me to make choices for her. Besides, being under Suzy's watchful eye in the Dorm is a safer place for her than trying to make it on her own in the big city. I can't even imagine how she got here. Rolling straight off an applecart, onto the doorstep is the most credible theory. Though I've never seen an applecart in Manhattan, or even the outer boroughs. She's plump and busty, with a round face that's blandly pretty but oddly immobile. That and a perpetually wide-eyed look more effectively communicate her mental aptitude than wearing a hat with a neon "vacancy" sign on it. She's got *the most dazzling* cornflower eyes--I'll give her that. Mr. Gould actually called Suzy and I to consult with him, when he was deciding about Hannah. It's rare he'll ask anyone for advice in something as essential as hiring. His argument was we had too many tramps at the time but he thought Hannah too stupid to be anything else. That's really saying something, given Jay's opinion on the intelligence of the average Sissy. So me and Suzy brainstormed a sort of na?ve farmer's daughter character: so foolish she doesn't know what the men have in mind. You look surprised when he whips his dick out, then shrug and let him have his way with you. All you gotta do is lay there. She could play the virgin and get guys to settle for an inexpert dick-tug or titty-fuck. Hannah does have the largest *natural* boobs in the house, so is a natural for that service. Maybe Minnie would take pity and develop a sister act with her? They look nothing alike, but could work a shared mid-western wholesomeness angle. There's definitely a market for screwing a ragdoll. Charlotte makes bank as an icy Pillow Princess--though she attracts worshippers, so it's more along the lines of a passive dominatrix. Anyway, that was the plan that got Hannah hired. Trouble is she's too actually dumb to learn playing dumb, and not slutty enough to play slut very well. There's a ruckus in the Jungle, but that's not my responsibility tonight. There's a doorman in the room (maybe two tonight) and Dana, and Dover. Sometimes I find it hard not to take charge, but I'm thinking I need another man to take charge of me before the night is through, and that any needless assertiveness might spoil my mood. Esperanza returns, apologizing for the "commercial break" and asking me to continue with the "episode." It sounds apt and witty under the circumstances, though Rachel announces a "commercial break" for any brief absence. She's never "taking a call" or "powdering her nose." ======================================================= Of course, such perfect moments are the perfect time for someone to screw things up! A major problem with men is that even those capable of big decisions aren't very detail-oriented. Total buzzkill! If I have to organize everything I may as well have sex with Dana, and would rather. I like the sensual give-and-take of womanly intercourse. I love controlling a man, up to a certain point, but if he never takes charge, what's the point at all? Being bisexual doesn't mean being attracted to everyone for the same reasons. I suppose my attraction to women is more feminine in nature, and my desire for men more stereotypically masculine. I'm certainly not the leading expert on either gender, but having some experience in both camps provides a little perspective. With men, I'm more like them in having a definite *type.* I certainly like predictable qualities such as gallantry, generosity, kindness, a sense of humor, and being a great lay. Thinking of an actual man, though, isn't required for me to enjoy myself with my hand down my panties or riding a dildo. Visualizing a collection of appealing chests, forearms, eyes, and penises will do the trick. I'm not saying that sexual objectification is exclusively a guy thing, just more common. In fact I'm a bit embarrassed my fantasy men are so similar to heroes in bodice-ripping romance novels. With women, I certainly have preferences, but not in a way that I can summon graphic fantasies about a celebrity or cluster of attractive body parts. I'm only attracted to individual girls I meet. Sometimes I'm surprised to feel fluttery with a girl I wouldn't expect to push my buttons. Tying my wrists was a great start, but consider the consequences. First thing's a pillow between my head and the headboard. I certainly was going to be rammed up into it, and concussion isn't high on my list of sexual interests. Second. If I'm to be taken with my heels planted as they were, the linens would have been utterly shredded by my stilettos. As it happened, I'm sure I'd have punctured the mattress! Park swiftly corrected the first problem before both men removed a shoe. They finished the job at the same time. Mr. Boulton spent some moments stroking my leg and admiring the look of my right foot in it's caligula, while Park placed the pillow. Mr. Park was quicker to unzip and slip the left shoe off me. But whatever time he gained in that was spent admiring the shoe itself. My other complaint was that if this went on as long as I hoped it would, my bound arms might go to sleep from my weight on top of them. Mr. Boulton, though, was adamant I remain bound. I suggested they use my stockings to tie my arms to the headboard. Mr. Park started untabbing my garterbelt. Mr. Boulton said if the stockings came off, he'd stick them in my mouth. He compromised by wedging a second pillow between my back and arms, for extra cushioning. Mr. Boulton straddled my torso. He pressed the head of his manhood to my lips, and rubbed it side-to-side, smearing my vibrantly purple and carefully lined lipstick. "Open, slut," he commanded. This didn't eliminate recent frustrations from my mind, though it suggested things might get back on track. Mr. Boulton's intent, it seemed to me, wasn't as much about getting his cock sucked, as reasserting dominance after following my instructions about the pillows and shoes. At this angle he couldn't force the whole shaft in my mouth. He clapped hands around my head, lifting it enough to move my lips only to the flare of the glans. I merely received it, and my lips felt slightly rubbery. Not from the task. Boulton must have applied some numbing agent to his penis--which promised a good long fucking to come. Mr. Park was flat on the mattress, between my legs. He'd finally seized his moment to lick me all the way from hole to tip. There was a gentle bounce to the mattress, in response to Park's small thrusts rubbing himself off on the sheets. Without really thinking, I found myself fluttering my tongue at Boulton's glans, in imitation of Park's tonguing between my legs. Boulton allowed himself a couple of minutes to take in the view. Possibly out of consideration for Park's enjoyment licking me. More likely because he appreciates the sight of such a pretty engorged clit. It wasn't my best-ever achievement, but at least 3/4ths up. Good value for money, I think. There's not many transgirls with estrogen readings similar to mine that would do any better. It's about as good as I'll do making love with Dana. ===================================================== "Freddie," said Mr. Boulton, while giving Park a gentle slap on his backside. Park responded immediately, and the men took position on their sides, in a "V" shape, with my legs draped over each man's waist. Both my heels in the air, with the right leg propped higher by the bigger man on that side. Mr. Boulton's knob needed the barest nudge to enter me easily. With the exception of the couple of "open sluts" he'd held his dirty talk. But now it came in a torrent. "Arr, you filthy whore," he groaned. "What'd yer mother think o' you now?" He inched further into me with each raunchy line. His speech was nothing like his usual precise diction. He's from somewhere like Nova Scotia or wherever, and may have a youthful background in piracy before making a career switch to Broadway impresario. "We should send 'er a pho...to of 'er boy, with a pair of tits..." "on 'is back, with a man's... root shoved in yer hole..." "gettin' primed for... all the other men... to work theirselves in ya'." "You the only fucktoy of the family?" "Or ya got a little brother... I could make my bitch too?" "E.B.!!" gasps Park. His tone that of a flustered schoolmarm. I manage not to laugh. Even as playboy's playtoy Mallory, I'm not mouthing any "I'm a nawty widdle slut" dialogue. The "boy" slur will sting a little if it's sprung on me by surprise. But I was girded to expect it from Boulton, sooner or later. At The Sissy, verbal abuse is common enough that you've got to establish a policy about it. My rules: 1. Never play-along or engage with it. 2. Slut/bitch/etc. I just ignore. 3. Any misgendering from a guy with his pants on, I laugh and leave. 4. I make an exception if he's close to emptying his balls. Some are even apologetic afterwards. I considered, but did not mention that Boulton, with his dick inside a bound transgendered working girl, another man's penis likely nudging his balls, while he's wearing a periwinkle cami set might not be a picture *his* mother would set on the family mantelpiece. Saucy is a part of me that's also part of "Mallory." So keeping my lip buttoned was mostly (Boulton being over fifty) not wanting to mention a woman who may be dead. Nonetheless, I was turned-on by the idea of a blackmail photograph. I had this momentary thought of old-time newspaper photogs bursting through the door with their big flashbulbs popping. Then an image of a glossy black and white photo, where both it and I are overexposed. I imagine the struggle to cover myself with my hands are tied--the inconsequential light bondage suddenly becoming true helplessness. Public sex is really quite a bore once you're used to it. An audience is a noisy distraction and I get self-conscious about how I look to interested but disinterested observers. But I thrill at the thought of being caught in the most compromising circumstances. Waves of orgasm crashing upon a sudden jolt of adrenaline has to be the ultimate drug combination. Sadly, this can't be planned. Expecting it would spoil the surprise. PICTURE: Me with that glazed, unfocused look in my eyes; perspiration sheen; lipstick smeared; nipples fat and full; at the moment of penile insertion; wearing only a garterbelt holding up one stocking, speckled with semen; while the other is bunched at my ankle; Me looking entirely used, but craving being used again. If I had a few of those pix I'd need to buy more fridge magnets! It wasn't necessary for Boulton to fill me incrementally. I've taken bigger than him in a single thrust, with less warm-up. But I appreciated his approach. Like the song says, the first cum is the deepest, so best to enjoy the build-up to it for as long as you can. Boulton held still at full depth in my passage for a minute. He's trying to avoid filthy outbursts, because there'll be total sac evacuation if he's both ramming and ranting. When Mr. Boulton withdrew it was never fully; always very slowly. If there were as many Mississippis as you could count between each plunge, the entire Gulf Coast would be swept into the sea. Soon I felt Mr. Park's helmet nosing around my opening. Maybe it's incidental to him rubbing against Mr. Boulton's shaft where it entered me. I have to hand it to B&P. If they get a little too gay, they make sure I'm passed the point of caring first. Eventually Park became more focused on the hole than the pole, and began tentatively prodding me. He had to scooch a bit lower and more perpendicular, before really setting to push his throbbing manhood in my, already occupied, pussy. Mr. Boulton kept nearly still while the second penis forced entry. Park took his time until he had more than half penetrated me. But the last inches were pushed home with sudden vigor. Boulton was taken by surprise but increased the pressure so he didn't surrender ground to the new invader. Fortunately, neither man is too hung. Both fairly average, though Park's is (ironically?) straight as an arrow, while Boulton's has a quite extreme banana curve and is thicker at the base. If they were two Novacs I'd be hospitalized! Oh! My! God! though. I've never felt a single penis so magnificent that it could compare with the electrifying sensations of being taken by two unremarkable ones. ======================================================= Mention of *la vieja penetracion doble* really sparks Esperanza's interest. It seems a pair of dicks is her favorite couple outside of Ross and Rachel. Between serving and her frequent interruptions about her own experiences I doubt I'll ever finish my story. Naturally she has to one-up me by claiming to have taken three a few times. I don't doubt it, but I personally think that's more of a party-trick. Even if the third man is in your mouth it's not as good. I want to surrender to it, not think about giving good head, or worry that I might bite a dick off. Esperanza's main interest seems to be that two are thicker. She's not wrong. You'd be having a really bad day if two randomly selected penises weren't wider than even a monstrous one. Anyway two would still be better, as you can start with one and build up to it. But I think that argument undersells the experience. It's really about angle and rhythm. All these can change being penetrated by one man. You can change position; he can fuck you fast and hard or slow and deep. But too much change can be tiring, and it's still only one thing at a given moment. With two it's all change all the time! By definition they are thrusting from different angles constantly. As they slide around or bounce off of each other there are spots deep within you getting bumped, which may never be reached otherwise. For speed and depth I guess they could try time it to work as a single battering ram, but they'd never keep it up for long. One man tires a little, one speeds up as he's close to cumming. Even slightly different rhythms slowly shift between them entering you together or alternately. I can work with one cock. With two they work me. There are too many variations to possibly describe. The one I like best is probably one deep inside cumming while the other is again reentering. The start and the end are the best bits, so why not have both at once?! B&P are even better thanks to teamwork and team spirit. Here, on Fucking Tuesday, any Sissy in the place could run into the Jungle, throw herself naked on a gym mat, and probably round-up two volunteers. But... that can be really awkward at the start. The men need a lot of warming-up before they can ignore that most of the rubbing they feel is against the other guy's dick and balls. ====================================================== That jolt from Mr. Park bounced my rapidly deflating clit onto my embroidered garterbelt. With a second cock in me to the hilt, I unloaded again. The first squirt had just enough arc to clear the top of the belt and puddle in my bellybutton. The next, and the one after, gushing without force, so soiling my lingerie. I can produce a man-sized cum if I've been denied for a while. Having a chaste couple of days (Scrabble, Netflix, and a doubleheader ballgame--which sound suggestive, but isn't) with Dana meant I hadn't had a solid fucking since Saturday night--when Ellie had her costume party. Of course, with not a lot of erection my clit doesn't provide anything like the force of men's ejaculations, but the volume is similar. Both men held still and firmly embedded in my pussy while savoring the sensation of my clutching cavity trying to expel the invasion. It's futile attempting to push hard cocks out of your body when the weight of a man holds them in place. Still, everyone enjoys the feeling of a helplessly spasming sphincter, so long as the man isn't too busy to notice. Lots of Members will keep thrusting through my first climax, though I try to make them stop and smell the roses. I expect they are the ones most used to vaginas and treat everything like one. With those being so loose at the entry there's a lot less to feel inside an orgasming one. I speak from experience, though not recently. Once you know the vastly greater pleasures of being deeply and thoroughly fucked, and can have that more than you ever need, sticking your clit in something is poor resource allocation. It's not an absolute negative; more like spoiling your appetite by eating a 7-11 hotdog on your way to Nobu. B&P know how to maximize the pleasure that a rear pussy offers--likely because they're less familiar with vaginas than even me. Three more waves of bliss then, thanks to the stiff motionless cocks. Much less fluid. Most of it dewing my inner thigh, with possibly enough to drip onto Park's shaft, where it would be pushed back to the source--joining the churned lubrication around my hole. It was a couple of minutes of moaning and heel kicking before I became aware that neither Boulton or Park had left a deposit. That's an incredibly mixed emotion. On the one hand yay, the festivities will continue longer and I'll climax a lot more. On the other... am I getting too old, too slack, too whatever? What are the odds I didn't vacuum a load out of either of them? Mr. Boulton resumed his long steady drumbeat within me. Just a little faster than before. Mr. Park matched his rhythm, but on the offbeat. As one cock withdrew from my clinging interior, the other pushed forward to replace it. This alternating sodomy continued for a while. Maybe only a few minutes in real time, but I couldn't keep track of that anymore. For a while I even forgot my calves were bouncing on silky camisoles, and my bottom being brushed by lace. Park became impatient. He doubled the pace. He wasn't only filling the space that Mr. Boulton had vacated. Now he was filling me in place of Boulton's cock and alongside it. This caused an inevitable eruption. I was surprised it didn't force another cum from me, or from Boulton! It was enough for Mr. Park, though. He dropped the first load in me, before quickly withering, so that Mr. Boulton's heavy pressure pushed the weaker erection out. Before temporarily retreating, Park lifted my leg off of him, then knelt to straddle it while leaning down to my midsection. I thought he might try slurping my clit in his mouth. Instead he only took one flick at the tip before deeply sucking at the creamy wet spots I'd dappled on my garterbelt. He then licked the drip at my waist before slurping the remains from my cum-pooled in my navel. With Park out of the way Boulton rolled over to mount me in the missionary position. Between my loosened pussy and his numbed cock he may not have been feeling much, but could still enjoy my deep inner warmth. He was ball's deep inside me, while barely moving. Just ever pressing forward like he wanted to get one more inch deeper. He put my heels on his shoulders. My knees nearly at *my* shoulders, as a bore much of his weight. That strain woke me up from my hazy delight. I noticed Park watching and stroking. Trying to get it up for another bout. Refractory periods are the principal failing of male design! Men are both the essential force and limiting factor in a good fuck. It's frustrating, though I recognize the C.C. would be out of business, and me out of a job, if this wasn't the case. Imagine the staffing requirements! Few men could satisfy one truly insatiable woman for a night. With it the other way around, the club record is 22! I was becoming impatient for Park to produce another erection. So was Mr. Boulton, and Mr. Park likely more eager for that hard-on than any of us. "Hurry up, Freddie," was all Boulton said, other than whispering one profanity in my ear. "Right," said Fred, as he decided on drastic action. From his the pocket of his jacket, slung over the dining-table chair, he extracted a tiny hastening device. He was still too sensitive to actually turn the vibrating prostate massager on, but after a quick dash to the bathroom with my bottle of lube, he returned sporting a satisfactory erection. None too soon for my numb hands and straining thighs, Mr. Boulton let my legs fall, then rolled over so I lay on top of him. With a bit of struggle, but mostly thanks to the assistance of Park pulling at his ankles, Boulton shifted us to the end of the bed. This presented my ass at the ideal elevation for Mr. Park, standing behind. I asked to him slip the lubricating nozzle alongside Boulton's shaft, for two refresher squirts. My pussy hadn't enough time to tighten around one penis, so the second cock inserted for the second time, wasn't much trouble. Mr. Park didn't charge in suddenly or roughly, but his smooth, steady entry wasted no time. Mr. Boulton seemed the worse for wear. Though he'd paced himself with low-exertion fucking, he'd still been thrusting in and out of my back- passage almost continuously, for what may have approached a half-hour. The drugs wouldn't let his dick give up, but the man couldn't take much more exercise. Boulton stayed pretty still beneath me, while my head lay on his shoulder. Sometimes bouncing his hips straight up, but not forward to thrust into me. Mr. Park took the reins now. Almost literally, as he hooked the few inches of silk between my wrists to pull me back against both shafts. Once he left-off the pulling my wrists idea, he hunched on top of me to start a speedy irregular thrusting. The most sensitive undersides of the two shafts in my love tunnel were being stimulated by each other. Boulton stopped moving at all; reserving his energy for a steady stream of filthy language. There was one "boywhore," but I was grateful it was in a string of more pleasant "slut/bitch/cunt". He was obviously just seconds away from lift-off. Park was running like a greyhound on meth--sprinting to catch up. I finished before both of them. My squashed limp clit bubbling on Boulton's stomach. Thanks to the rectal contractions I couldn't really feel Mr. Boulton jettisoned in me before that orgasm waned. My next "O" rolled upon the last, with Mr. Park still thrusting. Just a small dry aftershock, but that feeling of having every drop forced out of me is extremely satisfying. Within seconds, Park inseminated me too. You can't feel two men's loads mixing deep inside you anymore than one. Regardless, it's an emotion of pure sinfulness that perfectly complements the physical sensation of being obscenely well fucked. ========================================================== REVIEW: For the purely physical stimulation I give B&P above their usual B+, so A or A-. For visuals a D. They are always clean and well- groomed. Boulton is nobody's idea of a handsome man; Park could be if he was as more interested in the gym than lipgloss. One half grade deduction for Boulton's language. Full deduction for the lingerie. I'm not at all opposed to something peeking out a panty leg; I just prefer it on someone looking more like Dana and myself than B&P. (WHERE ARE THEY NOW?) -- April 2021 Publisher's notes on the "Tails of The Sissy" 5th Anniversary Edition. Whether called the "C.C. Scandal" or "Rickygate," few readers require a complete recounting of one of the biggest international news stories of 2016. It resulted in 17 criminal convictions, and civil claims to club assets that continue to this day. Reputations, marriages, careers, and what is fondly recalled as the best tuna-melt in the Tri-state area were lost. Lt. Gov. Cumbo's resignation and the tragic suicide of City Club President Gregory G. Gregory were among the most notable events of 2016. Nothing, though, exceeds the cancellation of "The Ricky Show," Mr. Romano's swift decline, and his mysterious demise--which attracts ever more conspiracy theories. He is survived by his wife, Mrs. Sydney Romano of Mt. Kisco, NY, and approximately 7.5 billion testicles. Movie industry observers unanimously agree that Hardy Johnson's tour-de- force performance as a blind, deaf, one-armed drummer was snubbed by the Academy due to his connection with the scandal. While neither as in- demand or ubiquitous as he once was, he remains steadily employed doing voice work for videogames and commercials. Chris Novac, contrarily, saw his reputation boosted by the most prominent feature of his brief association with the club. Though critically panned, his solo album "Goes To Eleven"s songs about whales and cocks was a surprise commercial success. Ultrasound's inevitable reunion and Reserection (sic) Tour saw them booked in venues as large as in their 90s heyday. They remain among the world's top 20 touring acts. Cristina Suarez rode her brief moment in the spotlight and being dubbed "The Last Sissy" in the press to a large following as a social media "influencer". This to the great annoyance of some ex-Sissies whose similar efforts have not been as rewarding. She gained more fame while (as is rightly pointed-out) never working a day at the club. As for the principle characters in 'Tails': JAMESON GOULD (nee Anthony Lombardo) runs laundry operations in Yelp's most recommended New York Department of Corrections facility. Despite seizure of $1.85 million in personal assets, he's rumored to have more than that stashed elsewhere. He is shunned by ex-City Club Board Members in his cell block. His favorite recreations are shuffleboard, bridge nights, and complaining about the disgraceful condition of the prison's tennis and squash courts. He is eligible for parole in 2028, when he'll be 70. PETE DUVALL co-manages his cousin's pizzeria in Far Rockaway while attempting to leverage his modest notoriety as Chef Duvall/Disco Pete into appearances on TV reality shows. He served 33 month of a light 4 year sentence for Grand Larceny in the 2nd degree, and contributing to the delinquency of minors. His pornographic film review blog is more popular than ever, though his predictions that his next five-star pick will open in multiplexes has, as yet, failed to materialize. On his nights off he can usually be found in the known haunts of transsexual prostitutes, or bars and clubs offering a decent Seventies Night and drinks special. AMARANTA AUSLANDER (AKA Mandy Maclean, nee Alan Tapper) escaped from New York before the press became aware of her association with The City Club. She subsequently sold all her properties in the city. Despite outstanding warrants in New York, credible--if conflicting--reports of her whereabouts abound. She may live in Rio de Janiero, Punta del Este, a little outside of Bangkok, or all three. Various cell phone pictures and video clips of a tall woman with uncannily striking cheekbones and a starkly banged black wig released to the public suggest she is still engaged in scouting for talent. ELLIE JONES was swiftly deported. After a year or two of aimlessness, she used her own funds, reputation from being named in the snowballing scandal and "The C.C. Exposed!" and the help of a silent partner to open Ellie's Size Queen Boutique on the King's Road. Its prime location and uniquely kawaii d?cor have made it the most fashionable sex shop in London. She spends her days surrounded by the thick 8-14" penises she so loves--albeit in replica. It's been reported she attended every show of Ultrasound's Winter 2019-2020 European tour. LULU PANSI BOTTOMS headed West, changed her name, and returned to her first love. She's been named "California's Sexiest Librarian" in both years since the contest's inception, and has a particular talent for identifying and counseling nervous b*ys in her branch. She's in a semi- stable relationship with three men who share her custody. Being forced to cut back to about two doses per day, she worries she's no longer getting as much sperm as she should. She now wonders if maybe she has become a woman. MRS. SUZY GRAYSON (formerly Hepburn) has one of the most highly regarded socialite vaginas, and is the adoptive mother of three to five girls; their exact number and gender being a matter of dispute. She remains chairwoman of her Foundation Foundation--by far the most successful (and only) historical underwear philanthropy in the world. Her ongoing divorce suit has become among the costliest and most contentious in the history of the state. She's selecting her next husband from numerous worthy applicants. Aside from a large settlement for back taxes, all other charges against her were eventually dropped. ELIZABETH M. BENNETT, of course, needs no introduction. Her celebrity for writing the present epic is exceeded only by the success of her non- fiction "The C.C. Exposed!" She is famously "Mallory" from both books, and is a frequent television commentator on ongoing City Club legal dramas, gender variance and the sex trade. The 2019 publication of her serio-comic "Jane Austen's Tallywhacker" is credited with the recent surge of interest in historical transgender romance novels. Her works have been translated into 22 languages, and banned in eight of them. After serving nine months of her plea agreement, she resides on her farm in Connecticut, with her wife Dana, their two dogs, and one pussy.