No icky boys up here. That’s the one immutable rule of your clubhouse.
No nasty, chiseled pectoral muscles in this ramshackle tree-dwelling. Only boobs. Big, soft, squishy, touchable boobs that you can touch with your fingers and feel the touch of. Yeah. No boys allowed.
Testicles? More like no…sticles. Don’t bounce those balls up in this court, or they’ll be deflated. With knives.
Best not be bringing one smegma-riddled, tube-snaking bit of that dick in my house. Some of the people that ran this club before me might have been more lenient about what you’re hiding under your plaid skirt, but not this girl. I’ll only have ham wallets, roast beef curtains, and good old-fashioned axe wounds in my meeting hall, thank you!
A leader’s got to have her standards.