Sunday With Miss Suzy: Premi?re Partie free porn video

Sunday--Miss Suzy Premi?re partie "The best things in life are free. The second best are very expensive." Since I de-planed in the Big Apple (I came from Ohio, but am most certainly not a Scientologist--unless an impeccable platinum banded solitaire ring of about five carats is part of the deal) I've had oodles of marriage proposals and was even, briefly, engaged. All very flattering, but I can afford to be choosy--or could. I think it's well past time if a lady is unmarried at 30. There've been many reasons to say no: too old, too young, too poor, too ugly, cheap ring, too old and poor, too ugly and poor, lack of interest in taking up snappy hats and pipe-smoking, under-whelmingly endowed (x 4), etc. Did I mention too poor? That leaves only two or three suitably fianc?-able men that I've met during my husband acquisition period. With each of them a sticking-point has been taking my virginity on *my* wedding night. Not before! It's non-negotiable that I walk down the aisle veiled, in virginal vintage white, with a well-healed, officially-certified, proper lady vagina, sourced from the finest purveyors. *And* that my wedding vagina will accept no intruders to whom I have not been married in a religious ceremony befitting my station. I'm thinking a Cardinal officiating, though that may be a little too showy. More than one is clearly vulgar. I'm an old-fashioned girl! I concede that my heart is rather set on being penetrated by three meaty shafts, once I have three orifices to accommodate them. But that's just a "bucket-list" thing. In any case, if my husband were amenable to *menages a trois* of this sort, he would *absolutely, unquestionably* be the only one thrusting in the vagina he bought! Should subsequent dalliances prove unavoidable, I'd simply tell the cad leading me astray "keep away from my vagina, dear." I've done extremely well off of two amorous entries until now, and see no reason they shouldn't be adequate to any extra-matrimonial requirements in the future. Further, I'd require that any man insistent on spearing my sphincter did so while I was on my back. Given the shadow of infidelity and the less respectable route of ingress, I'd wish to be especially ladylike in all other particulars. There's the additional virtue that overflowing loads don't dribble between my pleasingly plump vulvic mounds; risking foreign deposits racing through the tunnel where only my husband's sperm ought be! Doubtless the many Sissies with whom I'm acquainted would have a quasi- scientific interest in examining my fabulous luxury vagina. They'd probably want to finger it, out of curiosity. Perhaps I'd permit them an appreciative lick or two. No harm in that, since they aren't men. After an enchanting afternoon tryst of tea, creme patisseries, and light to moderate cunnilingus, I'd oh-so politely excuse myself by trilling "Lovely to see you again *ch?ries*, but I *simply must* dash home, to direct the cooks in preparing a spectacular dinner for my new husband, before he rudely rams his massive phallus in my snug new vagina!" Since all but one of these proposals came from members at The City Club, you can see the problem, darling! Few of them would top a list of vagina enthusiasts. That's understandable, given their expenditures for the tighter entries controlled by a talented harlots. But it is rather a bother. I've seen too many Sissies run-off with men so besotted they'll pay for the desired upgrade, but then lose interest. So intuition and a plan are essential for a lady wishing a secure financial future. I'd even acquiesce to him retaining membership, if he kept it to a weekly frolic. Better yet, I could select an un-vagina-ed mistress for him. Such arrangements are awfully chic, if handled with appropriate discretion. And, you may gather, plebian monogamy may not suit me either! I have every intention to be the perfect wife, but I imagine a designer vagina will make me even more desirable than I already am! If that's possible. It's not realistic that I reject *every* advance! Indecent proposals are clearly out of the question. If a groomsman wished me to fellate him prior to the ceremony I'd certainly refuse. It's outrageous to think I'd chance soiling my $100,000 wedding gown, or smearing the makeup applied by my team of cosmeticians! If he submitted the request after the rehearsal dinner I might consider the generosity of the offer. I'll definitely have more than one bridesmaid qualified to handle these issues if I'm rushed for time. All these matters, nonetheless, remain compatible with my serious commitment to bestow my wedding vagina only on the man who says "I do." ============================================== Mr. Grayson is the latest billionaire beau with whom I'm negotiating my betrothal. He pulls-off a bespoke suit well, and has that distinguished lightly- graying, but just at the temples, look. Though he likes a fine cigar, and I've wheedled him into a bit of pipe use, he's frustratingly hat- averse. He's exactly forty, an even six-foot, and fairly buff for a non- laborer. Just the right amount of moderately hairy, but impeccably barbered below. And well-manicured--which is the biggest problem when cavorting with the lower-orders, other than that they're all very poor. He boasts a fairly hefty masculine package: a girthy and admirably straight shaft, remarkably smooth, with a streamlined, pinkish, velvety cut mushroom. It's almost too cute. This is no slight on Mr. Grayson, as it is pleasingly contrasted by very impressive manly testicles, held admirably high and tight, and containing a healthy reservoir of sperm, boasting excellent lineage. He's not especially handsome, but has captivating and kindly-looking tawny eyes. He wasn't the quickest in learning to indulge and pamper me in the manner I deserve, but he has proved trainable. His husky, moneyed, New England accent induces palpitations, even when he's not saying much--which is often, as he doesn't have many interests (aside from his abiding passion for shemale hussies and associated pornography). I'd say that, aside from the bank balance and the ejaculatory quality, I like his voice best. It's not the perfect Mid-Atlantic accent of mid- twentieth century film. But given his misfortune of being born in the dreadful 1970s it may be as good as it gets. Nobody's perfect! Not even (hush) Miss Suzy. As for money... loads! More loads than he could ever fill me with. It's mostly in shares derived from the storied family shipping firm--which has long-since gone public, and been absorbed into ever-and-ever larger international conglomerates. However, he's not some idly enervated degenerate playboy coasting on a bottomless inheritance (except for the degenerate part). It is essential that my husband has an important job in a stylishly decorated office, if only so I have ample time to primp, and make a cozy home for him to return to. I've always wanted to say, "How was your day at the office, dear" -- but this proves difficult to insert into casual conversations. I'm still beholden to my youthful fascination with the 50's sitcom husband and housewife scenario. Just that I now imagine it with more than a part-time maid. I expect I'll have at least a half dozen; all very pretty and smartly dressed in uniforms of my own design. Grayson is senior partner in an international trade consultancy, which provides services to other consultants exclusively. I believe even the sub-consultants only work with consultants on the next-lower tier. Could be consultancies all the way down, for all I know. Actually doing things is for suckers. The big money is all creamed by smartly be-suited specialists in talking about what to do. Don't count your chickens before they're hatched, they say. But I prefer to be forward thinking. Just because I need a husband now doesn't mean he'll be the only one. Indeed, when I'm the charmingly presentable, respectable, and resplendently vagina-ed Mrs. Grayson, and Mr. Grayson breaks our vows, due to his ongoing penchant for inseminating busty low- rent boy-slatterns, well, whose side do you think the judge will be on? While I recognize the importance of wedding planning, a girl needs to plan the befores and afters just as carefully. I don't have a fixed target number for husbands, but three seems reasonable. It's just enough for the whiff of scandal that keeps one in the limelight, without creating the impression that one is chronically indecisive or mercenary. It's not easy grooming a groom. There's some friction about my unimpeachable fashion sense. He'd like me to dress more modern sometimes. But he's so gaga for my physical and amatory charms that I don't need to budge much. I don't support gender equality, just because it seems like a huge step backward to me. I like keeping my men thinking with the little head, so that the pussy makes the rules. But sometimes I need to let him win. Just last week I trolloped-up in some unspeakably trashy latex miniskirt and platform heels combo, with (gasp!) my garters exposed. ============================================== As evidence of how accommodating I am, consider that we are holding hands at brunch while he's ejaculating in the mouth of little Vivi, hidden under the tablecloth. He's not the only one. Well... he is the only one holding my hand and spraying Vivi's tonsils. But, if I shifted my chair a tad, I'd catch Gigi and Pansi engaged in the same act--or maybe disengaged in Pansi's case, as she's offering a predictably passive orifice. And I might see two of our three "babygirls," Clarissa and Minnie, licking opposite sides of a big lollipop. The babygirl designation is a matter of style, though being diminutive helps. Now they look like ridiculously mismatched flower girls at a wedding that's occurring both last year and in Spring 1995. There are, to my knowledge, about four teen Sissies. Two are serving this afternoon; but it's not these two. Bridget, bless her, is facing forward on Mr. Masters lap, his trousers are around his ankles, while she works her hips on the rigid manhood invading her sloppy cavity. It must be understood that members will not tolerate the sight of lewd male nudity. Anything more than willy out the fly is limited to The Jungle. But this particular view is hidden by Bridget's calico maxi-dress--so proper brunch etiquette is, just barely, preserved. I hope they don't inspire others, as I've more consequential issues to attend to than some tawdry orgy intervention. It's mostly the typical sounds of murmured conversation; clink and tinkle of cutlery and cut crystal; instrumental renditions of jazz-pop standards from the speakers (A high-point, as its broadly of my era, and suits itself to the Deco d?cor of our more tasteful dining room); calls of "Sissy!" from members needing glasses filled or balls emptied. Noisy ejaculators are remarkably few. I'm pleased with Grayson's manly reserve in this regard, though the grip of his fingers risks bruising the porcelain perfection of my hand. Gigi chatters too loudly in her frightful dog-whistle voice--though, admittedly, there's less of it than formerly, and her language isn't nearly as appalling. But, honestly, there are only two disruptive moments: vile trust-fund (recently-ex) frat-boy, Chadwick, barking "Don't dare swallow that load" at Clarissa; and, Bridget's staccato groans and whimpers of impending climax. Thankfully her screams at the end are muffled by Masters wisely shoving her panties in her mouth, to maintain decorum. The conclusion of the act also eliminated Bridget's evident symptom for the time being--which cut down on Clarissa and Minnie making catty remarks rather than attending to their own duties. I can't say I disagree with them--though the Members' evident enjoyment of the louche display trumps a Sissy getting sniffy about another's stiffy. Bridget is new enough to not be jaded about being always lusted after. She's so besotted with her ravishingly emerging feminine charms that being regarded as a dazzling plaything delights her above all. Where Miss Suzy is excited by making men aroused, Bridget's greatest pleasure seems to be arousing Bridget. No Member could sexually objectify her as much as she does to herself. Her room can only be described as a photographic shrine to Bridget's progress. Her loose and light dress, combined with panties of the same character, create an unusual profile. The latter looked to me extra-small satin tap pants on a girl wanting mediums. The result is a protrusion which caused the babygirls' shocked whispers about unbecoming "stiff clitties." There are Sissies who view erectile ability as an inherently shameful condition. It's definitely not *savoir faire* while bussing tables in the afternoon, but alright as a boudoir or eveningwear look. Some girls like Janet, Dominika, and a handful of others might sometimes (dare I say) "open-carry" - but never before 10 p.m. My personal sympathies are more with Clarissa and Minnie. However, Bridget is undeniably more punctually emptying testicles than either of them. That she's doing so as an excuse for a few minute's makeup check, hair fluffing and striking pin-up poses in one of the many narrow full- length mirrors punctuating the walls of the Deco Dining Room is, surely, an acceptable cost for good performance. There are barely exceptional lowlights, easily handled. Pansi serves coffee to two patrons seated together, while displaying both of their spermy deposits on her face. As Lead I have to intervene, and suffer Pansi's disappointment that while, yes, it's acceptable to serve Messrs. Boulton and Park in that state, she simply must clean herself up before going to the buffet or another table. Clarissa is helplessly on her knees for 10 minutes beside Chad--holding his emission in her mouth, while he pats her head or tweaks her nipples. With a small rush of new patrons, I'm able to insist she run along. She later bursts into tears, on discovering she's only been tipped 125% for her troubles. Bridget is wobble-kneed on (terribly unseasonal!) cork-soled orange summery wedges, as I shoo her to change out of the dress with a massive wet-spot seeping behind, and a smaller splash in front. Vivi and Janet get their mammaries out, as the afternoon progresses. Awful Gigi clocked-in topless--for her first day, no less! Except for a matching choker, all she's wearing above the waist is a red vinyl under-bust corset. Both I and Duvall were painstakingly instructed to keep a sharp eye on Gigi, and told we could send her away at will. I'd have dismissed her immediately, but since that cooking oaf is the actual manager here I left him to decide if she was out of uniform. He's being very indulgent of Gigi, for reasons that may not be too hard to imagine. And I have to respect her moxie. She's been out of circulation for months. Her breasts, while still not worth featuring in a Movietone newsreel, are well beyond their Winter pre-pubescent breast-bud appearance. It's hard to fault a girl of few charms and no refinement pushing what she does have in your face. For my part, I pulled out my list of "Gigi's Rules" and glanced at a few. She's wearing the necessary 6"heels, so towers above the other servers who, except for myself and Bridget, have all opted for flats. They're unspeakably hideous clear vinyl lace-up booties, but none of her rules address dressing tastefully. I run her through the paces of "sit Sissy, kneel Sissy, lift your skirt Sissy." She does as told. Her panties are clean and her erectile inhibiting device is locked and secured. So, up to snuff. If I dismissed every Sissy for being young, dumb, and uncouth we would be at half-staff--and so would the Members. Throughout, I feel goo-ily aroused. Not from the pedestrian sex acts, but because my provisional pussy has been plugged for hours. Housing a little secret inside always makes Miss Suzy woozy. The snugness of a hobbled skirt significantly enhances the delights of a firmly occupied *passage d'amour*. Like all that I own, it's only a small one. I can easily accommodate Grayson, and most men, without much preparation. The point of these is the opposite of stretching. It's more of a resistance exercise to ensure the muscle has a strong grip. Everyone knows that what you wear influences your mood and bodily expression. It's why I always go to the trouble of wearing costly, fine lingerie--even if unseen beneath utilitarian clothing. If I was wearing, say, a wide crinolined skirt after toy insertion, I might express my heightened sexuality as the strut of a runway model. But you can't strut while in a frightfully tight skirt, hugging you from high-waist to below the knee. Miss Suzy would never participate in anything so unbecoming and unaesthetic as "bondage." Nonetheless, she fully understands the appeal of constricting garments. Controlling my figure makes me feel in control. Whenever I need to be serious or studious I find a tightly cinched waist essential to my focus. I always feel a little silly and weak when in a swimsuit, fun playsuit, or most modern fashions. That I'm wearing the least when in bed works perfectly! It's the time when I want to surrender control to a man. But when I need to be serious and thoughtful corsetry is a godsend. It's the same with high-heels. I understand they can be seen as symbols of vulnerability, and some girl's like them for that, but they always make me feel more in-charge. Part of it's the need to stride with more care and deliberation. Also, being a few inches taller creates confidence. The mechanics of walking when dressed as I am favor some hip sway. When you add sexual stimulation considerably great than just a silky camisole rubbing your nipple, your derriere twitching can become quite pronounced. I find this motion and sensation feedback loop often leads to predictable climax. My pillowy cheeks are held so tight in my skirt that that backside motion is strongly transmitted to the plug. Silk panties rub against the satin skirt lining. Soft, sensitive inner thighs feel the slick silk-on-silk slide of my Parisian stocking tops. As I've admitted, I retain soon to be ex-genitalia, snugly tucked. This too feels the squeeze of compressed thighs rubbing. Miss Suzy's frequent indulgence in these private sensual delights may, on occasion, present difficulties. ============================================== It was especially problematic at mid-morning Mass. I couldn't concentrate on the sermon at all! Though I am sure a (not inconsiderable) number of the male parishioners shared in my struggle. What with my fetching ensemble displaying my figure to delightful effect, and the inner satisfaction of my little toy being bum-twitchingly expressed, I'm confident a few dozen trousers concealed wooden bishops. Perhaps it's best if, like me, they couldn't focus on the sermon's moral theme. Many would question it. I'm certain they wouldn't like having done unto them, what they wanted to do unto me! I've already experienced four mildly pleasant climaxes today. Fortunately, all being only single-O in my five-level orgasmic rating system. If I'm out and about, I've learned how to limit my single-O response to are barely noticeable shiver, followed by a desire to sit down. I can whip-out a figurative fan, and pass it off as ladylike faintness. Until Grayson ejaculated in my mouth, some hours later, the biggest was my first of the day, just before I exited the cathedral. I like beating the crowd to the door. If stuck in a scrum, there are occasions I've been groped in the basilica (so to speak). I accept the occasional anonymous pat on my bottom as a gesture of approval; a one-handed clap, if you will. It's fitting that I adopt the more lax standards of yesteryear regarding sexual assault. But any extended pawing is quite beyond the pale! Mostly, though, it's to skip the side-eye from women whose boyfriends/husbands have been ogling me. So, I'm skittering down the aisle--trying ever-so-much to keep my hips on the straight-and-narrow while in God's house. Having inspired enough of them, I've developed a keen eye for gents pumping involuntary emissions in their trousers. There was definitely one from the teenage boy who'd been seated behind me; but since he'd been sneaking his hand in his trouser pocket for quite some time, I don't really count that. A possible incoming at 2 o'clock, near the wall, may also only have had a stroke. I don't count the half- dozen mere erections from regular parishioners. They probably expect me at mass (indeed I've probably increased attendance) so wisely relieve themselves first thing on a Sunday. I'm sure the blandly respectable bespectacled father (right side, on the aisle, half-way back) was in the throes of an admiring ejaculation. Given the brood of six seated between him and his matronly wife, I'm confident it was a potent one, and a relief. He can't be an upright citizen forever. I believe 4-hours is the maximum recommended. One of his imps (who couldn't have been much more than 12) didn't have the sense to stop staring at me, wide-eyed. He looked more afraid than anything, so maybe his first time. The very handsome, but slovenly, guy near the back was jetting with gusto, while kneading his hymnal and trying to mouth the words to the recessional. The usher on the right, at the back of the pews, seemed a suffering soul; in very hard circumstances, but not close to salvation. Even in my imminent condition I couldn't deny Christian charity! There'd be a throng passing him in a minute. With my considerable experience regarding the cut and weight of materials, I knew his shame would be less evident if the matter was promptly concluded. I fell towards the fellow, while throwing my arms around his neck. Then I pressed against him, while righting myself. He was a man of steel in more places one--as the expected outcome remained unachieved. This called for some (genuine) blushing, and mewling expressions of false gratitude. Plus giving myself a quick inspection and pat-down, to ensure everything was attractively and respectably ordered. A female observer may have regarded my examination of a plunging neckline, and a shrug to put the puppies back in place as rather too obvious a ploy. But she'd be overestimating the subtlety of men's observational skills. Mission accomplished, in any case. Even shyly averting my eyes, I knew. You're better flustered than shocked in these situations. He knew that I knew what was poking my belly-button, and I didn't want to spoil his big moment by making a fuss. It was so awfully naughty seeing him unleash tadpoles so up-close and in church, that I had a sympathetic borderline 2-O on the spot. I just managed to keep my footing, and my little squeal was mostly covered by the hymn singing. Of course the back row heard, so it probably cancelled my good deed for the day. The fright on the face of cum in his boxers chap clearly indicated he thought I was about to scream "rape!" An unavoidable outcome, but one I'd hoped to delay until I'd hailed a taxi. Unlike poor hair-trigger men I can better hide the response--mostly because I can anticipate it. When I'm dolled-up to perfection and going out amongst crowds, I know I will stir masculine excitement, and know seeing it will excite me. So I always prepare for it with a sturdy mid- century panty-girdle and a small feminine towelette. The former completely inhibits and contains any worry of tumescence. The latter is simply a precaution. There's only once or twice I've got so carried away to need it. I'm absolutely not a public servant. But, given an easy opportunity, it seemed churlish not to help. If churches object to men cumming in them, they ought not post leaflets about volunteering in shelters and soup- kitchens! They make me feel like I'm not being charitable, but Miss Suzy will not expose herself to smelly environments or pot-scrubbing! I inevitably find less odious means of ministering to the afflicted. ============================================== I had to rest in the vestibule; fanning myself with the church bulletin. So I didn't escape the impure or catty glances. Still, in repose, my affect is less salacious. Despite a lightly palpitating bosom and a radiantly charming flush, there's no swaying derriere and hips to incite a crowd of churchgoers. A few nice ladies inquired after my condition, or complimented my outfit. But more were set on hurrying their men past me. You may think that my detecting erections and ejaculations, even at a distance and with an obscured view, is exaggeration (or even boastfulness!) on my part. I assure you it's a simple matter of experience giving me a strong situational awareness in these matters. My motto is: "A woman must be aware of her surroundings. A lady must be aware her presence. A courtesan must be aware her affect." It's not a superpower. Just focused attention on where you are, how you look, and what you do (to men). I could write a best-selling "self-help" book on the subject. Some biddies have suggested (hissed may be a better word) that it would be preferable if I wore a muu-muu and curlers to church. But I too greatly respect the institution, and Miss Suzy, to do that! Call it Pride, if you must. I'm a firm believer in forgiving human frailties. Anyone guilty of *just one* of the Seven Deadly Sins is nearly a saint, in my book. In moments of pious doubt I'd still not say Miss Suzy was worse than 2.6/7. That's not even half-bad; and allows more wiggle-room than many of my skirts. Naturally I'm Catholic, love. They've got the best decorations and costumes. Candles and incense are a nice touch. I won't say no to a sip of wine (though it would be more refined if they served aperitifs before the service instead). In "my day" the Mass was in Latin--which I prefer for the ambient chill-out vibe, and not feeling guilty if you're not listening. Anyway, it's no problem if you *are* guilty. Catholics do as they darned-well please: go to Confession, clean slate! The penalties are trivial to non-existent. Sentenced to saying twenty Hail Marys? Wonderful! I already have! Priests never tell you to say twenty *more* Hail Marys. I already met the quota in 1998. From time-to-time the more uncharitable, and mostly female, of my co-religionists suggest that I should "read the Bible." I've done that too. Beginning to end, not just the good bits--so I'm all squared away. It's not like I'm going to read it *again,* when I know how it ends. I could watch "On the Town", "Breakfast at Tiffany's", and "How to Marry a Millionaire" ten times *each* quicker than slogging through that again. It's a good book, but I don't know who decided it's *THE* good book--certainly not the NYTRB. They're remarkably lenient, the Catholics. If you are overwhelmed with guilt that you shot a man in Reno just to watch him die, my advice is to confess at a Catholic church rather than a police station! You'll get a far better deal, and it's more convenient. What if you've already left Nevada and don't feel like directing your chauffeur back there? You can confess it in a church anywhere! The only situation where I'd recommend the police station is if you've stroked-off a Catholic priest. Perhaps my mistake was confessing to the same one. You can imagine what my penance was! Soon I was hopping into his side of the booth and wanking him while I confessed! That saved time with my exciting confessions getting him off quicker, but it seemed like an endless cycle. I was 500 hand penances in the whole before I developed my "only do it once" religious philosophy. Quite. Well, anyway, I got my cab. I had two more single-Os on the way back to the C.C.--simply remembering earlier events, and unobtrusively bouncing on the car-seat. I might have managed four, if I hadn't been distracted by my exceptionally grotesque driver. I suppose I should explain my *petite mort* rating system to the orgasmically deprived; which may be nearly everyone, as I've known few Sissies who understand the full range and finer gradations. I gather that it is even rarer among women. Men simply don't enter into the discussion! They're more "one size fits-all." Despite all my skills, I've never seen a man so swept away cumming as I often am. And they are incapable of multiples, or the delicious little shivers that don't interrupt your day. I'm putting on my tightest waspie to describe this soberly. Please don't consider this as any sort of recruitment tool! It's far better for me than my former existence; but just one girl's experience. I imagine many young boys (in particular) would be eager to climax as variously, strongly and frequently as I do, but achieving this may not be for everyone. Regularly being mounted by men seems to me the only way to reach the highest levels. ============================================== 1 - O: This is an everyday out-and-about thing. It's just goosebumps, lightheadedness, maybe a small gasp, and some flushing afterwards. It wasn't until my teens that I understood this as a sexual thing. Probably because I'd learned to induce them young enough that they were a pleasant daily diversion before I knew about sex. Also that 1-Os involve no noticeable engorgement. These sorts of feelings sometimes happened for no reason I could explain, but were so delightful I wanted to learn how to make them happen. I discovered that squeezing my thighs together and flexing my nether regions could do it sometimes. The variation with my privates held between my thighs was much more reliable. Raiding my Mother's sewing room for silky scraps to line my briefs was the best of all! This underwear arrangement became my favorite; when I thought I could get away with it. I found that I didn't have to stop at one, but could manage another right after the first feeling subsided. That time (right after elementary school) was the apotheosis of my fascination with sitcom housewives, and the start of my vintage fashion obsession. I didn't see any connection between preferred entertainment and secret pleasures. My role models were all female, but so were my emerging crushes. I knew my interests weren't typical of boys, but imagined that if they'd discovered the wonder of keeping their penises between their legs and squeezing they'd all have done it! ============================================== 2 - O: In character they are similar to 1-Os. But given the broad range of these feelings, I have to draw a line of intensity somewhere. I first had one seeing how many multiple 1-Os I could have. Becoming too carried away, one of them was much more powerful than the others. My line is when they become inconvenient to experience in public. If I can't avoid vocalization and swooning if it's a two. Some bystander is likely to call for a doctor! Nowadays the other feature of a 2-O is not a problem given a decade of estrogen and wise undergarment management. But from roughly 12 to 22 they would be preceded by unavoidable stiffness issues. If any emissions occurs that's a sure also call it a two. I admit missing my early-twenties. I could go straight to 2-O just seeing all the guys eyeing me. And in loud busy nightclubs my response wasn't too obvious. Today, of course, if I had 2-Os every time I got a man erect in my presence I'd be dead from all the concussions. I still get them from really long and dedicated bout of fellatio on an exceptional cock. If I'm really enjoying it my goal is getting a drop out of me before a load out of him. My first 2-O occurred not long before my first 3-O. With the latter being an obvious sex thing I realized the others were too. ============================================== 3 - O: Meh! It's the standard male orgasm from direct front stimulation. Miss Suzy admits she has experienced this many, many times, but finds it totally unsatisfactory. It feels better than a 2-O for maybe three seconds. A 2-O might extend for a half-minute or more. 1-Os can be strung together in little waves for many minutes. Those are all much better! The only thing to be said for 3-Os is they're quick and easily achieved. Yet, like men, these put Miss Suzy out of sorts and out of commission for a while. It's a tragedy ending like that when multiples and bigger climaxes are within grasp. ======================================== 4 - O: Bliss! There is nothing that remotely compares with prostatic orgasms from repeated penile insertion. Nothing. Even getting close to one and failing to cross the line feels better than anything else in the world. I'll emit violently, though having one pushed out of me does not quench desire like having one pulled out. After a couple of minutes loudly moaning I may be too exhausted to move, but I'm still ready, willing and eager to be taken again, and have another. Or more. Given male limitations you obviously need a few lined-up if you're a real sucker for gluttony. ======================================= 5 - O: I've never been to Hawaii, but I'm an optimist, so this is a placeholder for greater pleasures to come. There's no guarantee that a sturdy erection deep in my vagina is better than anything I've ever experienced. If it's not, I'll manage. My need for a pussy isn't primarily about sexual gratification, anyway. It's more a matter of feeling proper, and giving me a wider choice of gentlemen. Also, it would be much lower-maintenance, in the long-run. A vagina alone may not be the ticket to ultimate orgasmic rapture. But think of the phenomenal totality: a clitoris, a prostate and two love tunnels all situated mere inches apart! The entry of penis(es) into both passages (whether sequentially or simultaneously) must be the best feeling in the world! Sweetheart, seriously! You have to realize there's no better possible configuration. Nevermind. A rhetorical question. You only need say is "I do." CITY CLUB GLOSSARY AND NOTES BABYGIRL: A Sissy who uses juvenile fashions or mannerisms as part of her on-the-job persona. There are many other words for a girl's workplace presentation: Slut, Princess, Rah-Rah, etc. But since many of these can be combined with others, Babygirl and Domme are most recognized as distinct professional specialties. CUM BURGLAR: The act of extracting semen (usually from the lips/mouth or anus/rectum) of a club employee. Among the girls this accusation is often in jest. But it's regarded as the vilest Member behavior, unless the semen in question is the man's own. By extension it's the ultimate derogatory epithet for a Member, which may cause confusion if his offense does not involve literal cum burglary. (CUM) SCRUBBING: The literal act is a weekly housekeeping in "the Jungle" (see below). Since it's the most despised chore, any girl on disciplinary suspension will be the first assigned to the task. Colloquially, scrubbing means at risk of termination. "Scrubbed-out" may refer to a girl who has been fired, or a Member who has been blackballed. DISPLAY: Fake lesbianism, often. It's from "The Sissy Prayer" (see below). Any sexual behavior performed for an audience can be "display" but *far-and-away* the greatest Member viewing interest is seeing Sissies having sex together. Display distinguishes on-the-job lesbian acts from those done as a personal preference. DORM: The upper two floors of "the Residences" which offer free accommodation to the girls. It's mandatory that any new hire be kept under observation by living in the Dorm for six months. It's usual that anyone under 21 lives there--though in rare cases responsible younger girls have received exemptions. DOORMEN: They don't actually open the door. It's more of a receptionist/bouncer job. Their main duty is collecting and storing Members' electronic devices, which aren't allowed above the ground floor. They're on-call if a confrontation arises. Being huge, gay and tight- lipped are the minimum qualifications. Calm, polite and unobtrusive are also desirable. DORMOUSE/DORMICE: Girls who live in the Dorm. It replaced Sissy-(girl) when those terms became more loosely and generally applied. DRY: Poor/cheapskate. A Member best avoided because he doesn't tip well. EGG: Another name for "the Pill" (see below) So called because they resemble eggs in shape, are packaged in egg boxes, and the larger ones are that size. GEM: This is the word from "The Sissy Prayer" most often used. It is perhaps closest in meaning to "chin up." It's meant to sound positive/encouraging while acknowledging an underlying problem. It's close to saying "good enough" with an upbeat inflection. HANG-AND-BANG: A popular living arrangement in the Dorm. All girls are assigned a private room, which accesses one other by an internal door, so they can be expanded into suites. Often friends will get connecting rooms to use one as private room, while the other is a workspace. There are rooms on the lower floors reserved for sex, but she chances not finding one both available and clean, or may simply feel more safe/comfortable upstairs. (THE) JUNGLE: The club's public sex/orgy room, where rules are the loosest (e.g. the only place where full male nudity is allowed). The d?cor is a mish-mashed Central American/South Asian/African theme. There a many large potted tropical plants to screen/partition sections of the room, and it gets steamy in there. LADIES (AUXILIARY): Without regard to age, full-time paid employees are called Sissies or girls. There are "ladies" younger than "girls", though there isn't a lot of overlap. Ladies are former Sissies with club visiting privileges, who may provide (unpaid) sexual service in times of peak demand. Girls are prohibited from referring prospective employees to the club. So ladies are the major recruitment tool, and their goal is usually to get commissions for placements. THE PILL: This item is the only thing manufactured at the club. It's a gelatin capsule filled with sexual lubricant. There are many variations based on three parameters: size therefore quantity of lubricant, viscosity of the lubricant, and thickness of the capsule which governs time-release. They are used when sex is planned, to eliminate the need for a later interruption. PILL, (ON THE, ETC.): This builds on the idea of sexual readiness, (and probably the use of estrogen pills) but is far removed from any literal meaning. It is the #1 word of Sissyspeak, adapted to many circumstance. "You on the pill?" means are you ready to go yet. "Pill" in response to this question, indicates absolute agreement. As an exclamation "Pill!" is "Yes" with extra emphasis or enthusiasm. "She's on the Pill" is praise that may mean correct/competent/intelligent. "Off the Pill" meaning the opposite. In direct reference to lubrication, a Sissy might say she'd "had/taken" a Pill. Saying she was "on" one is pure boasting. THE (C.C.) RESIDENCES: The building beside the club, to which it's internally connected. Its entrance awning says "New Amsterdam Residences" to obscure its connection with the club. Girls must enter/exit the club via the Residences, rather than use the main entrance. The two top floors are the Dorm. The lower two contain rooms for managers and for private sex. Out-of-town Members can book a room here, though it's priced to discourage that. SHIT'S GONNA HAPPEN: It means the same as it does elsewhere: an unfortunate but unavoidable event. At the C.C. it tends to be understood more literally. SISSY: It's derived from C.C., and was once more closely associated with the standard "weak/cowardly/effeminate" meaning. Some older girls living outside the Dorm may still use it to suggest a Dorm resident is less experienced and streetwise than herself (see Dormouse). But it's become more of a general title for any girl working at the club. THE SISSY/C.C.: The most commonly used names for The City Club of Manhattan. Members and some senior girls use C.C. Most girls call the club "The Sissy." (THE) SISSY PRAYER: It's a satirical verse that every Sissy knows (I am a precious gem/I am rare in nature/Once cut and polished I shine/Then I am ready for mounting and display). Words in it like "gem," or "polished," or "display" are usually understood as words from the "Prayer." Reciting a whole line of it is almost always delivered with dramatic eye-rolling sarcasm. STRINGING/STRINGER/ON STRING: All girls are allowed to declare they are on light duty a few days a month. The specific privilege is an unquestioned right to refuse anal penetration. Though a stringing girl might see the benefit in Members being more solicitous, or avoiding her. Etymology unknown. The badge of being on string is wearing a red ribbon on one's wrist, which may be the string referenced. Or, given the resemblance to "not on my period" it may mean the string on a tampon. Sometimes tampons are employed as a final warning/last line of defense device. TWENTY-ONE: Mr. Gould rates his interviews on a twenty-point scale. So a "twenty-one" is an extra-special candidate. He also happens to think it's the ideal hiring age. TWINKLETOES: The club's in-house nail service, operated by Chef Duvall. More commonly what Chef Duvall is called, behind his back. WENT TO HEAVEN: Anyone forced to resign because she's getting "bottom surgery." This usage can be anything from admiring to sarcastic, depending on tone, speaker, and context. WOMEN: Since there are no cis-women Members or employees at the C.C. it means outsiders. "Civilian" is the best synonym. The word is used without regard to gender of number. "A women" is acceptable usage.