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C|Suite Letters: Three Tiers To Heaven

C|Suite is a men's magazine founded by Frank Cervi. It combines urban/office life-style articles with soft-core pornographic pictorials. In recent years, C-Suite introduced the 'letters' column in which readers send in borderline ridiculous sexcapades, resulting often in explicit and unnecessary detail.


Three Tiers To Heaven

C|Suite Letters

Dear C|Suite: Life has been a continuous struggle for me, a millennial woman. At age Thirty-five, I still firmly believe that the world owes me a favor; that it caters to my every whim, need and idealization of what it should be to me.

About a year ago, I hit rock-bottom. Being your typical, average and overall mundane modern woman I bought a ticket and hopped-on the standard mental-illness spiral ride: I bought myself five fur-babies, dyed my hair like a clown on parade, branded my body with several tattoos of the 'inspirational saying' variety, became a vegan, then an enviro-nut and pretty much enveloped myself with any-and-every cultural fad, norm and trend so as to fill the emptiness in my life.

Being a bitter, broke and broken bitch—whose been thinking about cheating on her husband for quite some time now— I needed to find some form of salvation; a deeper meaning to life. That’s when I'd found my new religion, a new spiritual journey much like the Eat,Pray,Love one I'd took before getting married; sucked-off about ten Euro-dudes in the back ally’s and night clubs of Italy; had two Jamaican men take turns gang-banging my pussy in a Tiki hut only steps away from the resort pool; also enjoyed two Bukake sessions (after-hours) in the back lounge of a Japanese bar/restaurant in Osaka, Japan.

Saké, Saké...five dolla!

Lacking the innate and natural drive that men have, I sought to fake-believe my way through this rough patch in my life. A took advice from a female friend—who is also going through a morally broke (financially, as well), bitter, White Girl phase— which is what a dumb and naïve broad, like myself, would do in this case.

She told me, in order to get motivation, to get-off my ever increasingly fat-ass, that you first need to waste a lot of time creating what self-help guru’s call: Motivational boards. Oh, and also to read the book, The Secret.

As well all know, real motivation comes from wasting precious time and procrastination!

Recently, I joined this new yoga class in town. It made me feel born-again; like if some divine goddess took a wash cloth to my body, my sins—my weathered and beat-up pussy— and cleansed my soul...while also washing my used and abused, beat-up, mashed potato of a cunt.

I mean, if you could see my looks like the puffiest sack of sour dough this side of the FUPA factory.

Who would of thought, though, that this new journey into spiritual freedom would be wrought with as much passion and eroticism that I'd come to endure during the many sessions I have had with this new Femme-Power Yoga Studio?

My va-gi-ner is tingling just thinking about yoga, the sessions and how good I feel after a solid afternoon surrounded by other women, like me, in skin-tight athletic wear.

Oh, ma' God....let me just start from the very beginning! Ugh...

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon; I had just finished plunging my fingers into the endless pit of despair that is my gaping, hollowed-out from all my past Black boyfriends, pussy. Seriously, if Winnie the Pooh took a look inside my pussy with a flashlight he would probably say something like, "Oh my, Christopher Robin....someone's already dug-out this honey-pot!"

Anyway, my friend had texted me. I picked up my phone with the hand I was just masturbating with; texting back was a slippery-bit troublesome, I will add. She told me to look up this new yoga studio that had just opened. Already being in a good mood via finger-hooking my vagina from behind as if it were a large-mouth bass, I took my friend's advice; fired-up my laptop after turning my self-on for the last hour.

Upon opening up the website for the yoga studio, I felt immediately at home. Like any industry, modern yoga studios (empowerment feminism) market directly to middle-aged women who have hit the Wall and are looking for a way to feel better about themselves. A way to make-believe that they are going to lose weight somehow by wearing lululemon pants, humming like a Hindu cow for a few hours, and massaging each other’s.... egos.

I am that kind of woman. This new journey spoke to me.... and my vagina. Plus, giving myself an excuse to wear yoga pants all week, out in public, letting everyone know that I am wearing them because I do yoga and not because you can see my ass and camel toe, was an instant sell for me.

I am so active! So busy! I need to let everyone know that I am an on-the-go-gurl, by wearing yoga pants and a work-out top. If someone can see the folds of my labia and the contours of my ass, then that’s their problem!

I can’t help the fact that I am so super busy with life, being so active—sitting at home, shoving two-bite brownies into my mouth while I watch The View and Ellen re-runs all summer—trying to be such a hypocrite!

If you have a problem with seeing the outline of my meaty vagina, that has taken the most severe beating over the years by the amount of m-bate sessions, nig-nog dongers, jock-cocks from college and the occasional missionary, birthday pile-drive from my out-of-shape hubby, then stop starring! Honestly, the sound of my husband's saggy balls slapping against my equally saggy ass, is like white noise; puts me right to sleep, mid-fuck.

Related Read

Anyway, where was I?

Oh, right: The beginnings of my new in-fad-tu-ation with the latest money-making, cultural trend for Western women.

Given my spending/shopping addiction, I couldn’t help but get slightly moist and tingly at the sight of the studio’s 3-tier monthly membership system. When that pop-up showed on the screen, after scrolling down three quarters of the way, I could’ve masturbated again right then and there. Instead, though, I went to go and grab my hubby’s wallet and credit cards!

Speaking of masturbating and instant gratification, while I was signing up that day for my yoga membership, I multitasked— Went onto; bought ten new pairs of yoga pants (when two would’ve been plenty), three yoga mats and then also bought a new Hitachi Magic wand for my pussy!!

Let’s just say that it[Hitachi Magic Wand] does a good job of dusting my pussy off, buzzing it to an ethereal explosion the likes of which cannot be duplicated by my husband, who is never around because he is always working—Trying to pay down my credit card expenses.

The yoga studio’s 3-tiered membership system read as follows:

3 Auto Renew Memberships to choose from

The ‘Outer Labia’ $50

4 classes a month

Are you new to the femme-power scene? Want to just play around the edges and dip a finger or two into the fold? Curious about what it might be like, sharing a large room with other women like you, lying next to each other in their second skins (yoga pants)?

Try our beginner’s membership!

The ‘Inner labia’ $70

8 classes per month

Have you already experimented with solo yoga and would like to take your spiritual journey to the next level with a partner or instructor? Yoga is all about smashing cultural norms and social constructs, fighting capitalism by spending egregious amounts of money (until you are broke) on yoga pants, assimilated attire, classes and doing an exercise which otherwise could’ve just been done in the comfort of your own home, for free! You're an idiot!

If this is you, then try our Inner Labia membership!

1 (partner/guest) pass— * clients or guests new to yoga who are curious and seeking a release!

The Inner Goddess Explosion $100

Unlimited ‘Sessions’

Looking for the VIP treatment when it comes to feeling good about yourself?

Want access to all of the studios latest ‘spiritual devices’ and one-on-one instruction by our many experienced Yoginis in order to get the best 'Chakra release' your inner Goddess has been clamoring for? The type of 'release' you could already be getting, for free, in the comfort of your own home?

Then you need our Inner Goddess Explosion membership!

  • VIP access to the studio’s inner pleasure devices

  • 15% off one-on-one 'release sessions' with an experienced instructor

  • 2 guest passes (curious clients only)

  • Sign-up Bonus (free Womanizer suction vibrator & free towel)

Needless to say, I started off slow. I was curious and needed to ease my way into this cult-ure. I remember my first class/session as a new member. On the day of, I went first to the hair salon and dropped a three-fitty-hundo on a new doo—dyed my hair green like a bridge troll. It was a day of new beginnings, a new journey!

So, I then decided to splurge after my new hair-doo and went to the mall to get some new eye-classes. I wanted to a 'look' that would ‘wow’ people— a look that would signify that I was more interesting than I really am; a unique and powerful woman who marches to the beat of her own drum.

So, like.... back at the hair salon, I asked what was in 'fashion' at the current moment; I got a pair of retro, translucent classes; the kind that an 80-year-old grandma would wear; Glasses that would repel any sane man with good taste in beauty.

My transition into a new ‘me’—an independent, free spirit— was almost complete. The last step in this process was to attend my first Westernized, commercialized, yoga class!

By this point my vagina had been on tingle alert, all day—good thing I recently shopped at Victoria’s Secret and spend another $200 on new panties. I tend to go through a lot when I am excited about new things!

Heading to my first class, I parked my more eco-friendly Land Rover—which burns slightly less fuel per mile than the old Hummer we had— next to the studio. While walking to the front doors, I looked around the downtown and could see a lot of women, whom were a lot younger, tighter and more objectively beautiful than me, walking around in their yoga pants….but not going into the yoga studio. They seemed to be all either: Going to Planet fitness, the health food store or getting hit-on by construction workers that were repairing a man-hole down the street.

When I opened the stores to the studio, a wave of relief washed over me. There inside were a group of women who looked just like me—most were middle-aged, slightly overweight or bordering on having a weight issue; tattoos, green, purple, or pink hair for the most part.

I felt at home. Everyone had their yoga pants on; I instantly started to compare my body with everyone else’s. Who had the best looking camel toe, the nicest ass? Who did I wish I could be, but wasn’t?

You know… that sorta thing.

I was immediately greeted by everyone; the instructor (Yogini) came up to welcome me as well—she brushed her hand over my ass and lower-back, quickly. I immediately starred at her camel toe and fixated on it.

She quite possibly had the best looking one in the room; after all, she was the most experienced in the art of yoga. She is slightly younger than I, probably in her mid-twenties.

She had a much more expensive pair of yoga pants on than I did; a cooler design as well: The way her seam fitted against her mound and split her ass crack into two symmetrical cheeks; the thickness, yet, tight shape of her booty; the almost liquid tightness of her second skin—


I was slightly jealous, but vaguely aroused.

Everyone chanted, “Welcome, new sister!” as the instructor embraced me with a hug that bordered on lingering; an almost unnecessary tightness for a first hug. My heart started to beat faster. It felt like I was already burning calories and I hadn’t even done anything, yet!

We all then sat down on our mats and waited to be told what to do with our bodies. I was already starting to feel independent and free.

As the session went on, we quickly ran through a bunch of positions: Child, Warrior, Tree, Upward facing dog, Bridge and Triangle. However, I was having difficulty with the Upward Facing Dog and my instructor noticed because she came over without me knowing to help correct my disobedient body.

While in the position, out of know where, I heard her voice, “You seem to be carrying a lot of tension around your pelvis…this is why your arch is not at the right angle.” As she said this, I felt a hand whisk over my ass and two fingers run down the back side of my pussy—I'd let out a slight moan.

I thought maybe her hand slipped and accidentally went to my naughty nook, so I didn’t think anything of it…at that point. I didn’t realize though, at that moment, that my Yogini was trying to show me 'the way' toward being better and more relaxed; a better practitioner of yoga. A hint, if you will, at what it takes to be a good and obeying student of the art.

I wanted to feel strong and independent; I wanted to know the secret and the way to get it right.

“What I am I not doing, right? How can I get a better back arch? I asked, eagerly. The Yogini walked around my presenting ass and bent down to meet my gaze, brushing her hands across my back.

“Normally, only our top-tired members are allowed to use the tools necessary to achieve greatness….however…new clients are allowed a trial during their first 'session'.” The Yogini, after explaining this to me, walked over to the back wall.

Everyone else in the room were still doing their positions, practicing saying their mantra’s to each other and humming like Hindu cows. Suddenly, the drapes to the studio began to close automatically; the outside world was being hidden. Society and the patriarchy were now blind to what was about to go on in the studio. A portion of the back wall, with the press of a remote by the Yogini, opened slowly like a sliding door to a panic room.

However, it wasn’t a room, rather an array of shelves neatly stocked with the latest, best in class vibrators this side of an Amazon Prime membership.

The studio had everything you could imagine: Hitachi Magic wands, Womanizers, Shibari Mini Halo’s, Phelio Power Wands, BOMBEX Therapeutic Handhelds, Bussba Personal Cordless Wands, and the brand new HI! massager.

Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing as if they thought it was play time in a day care. The Yogini then made an announcement.

“Ladies, I know our special top-tier membership sessions are only after the second hour when our lower-tiered friends have left the studio, but today we have a new member who I think would like to experience the joys of what it would be like to be a top-tier member; the joy of being able to achieve the best back arch, and to obtain a peak position. To achieve perfection in your presentation and Chakra release, yes?”

“Yes, Yogini.” Everyone chanted in unison.

“Perhaps, maybe even be persuaded to upgrade herself to a full membership?” The Yogini starred directly at me with a bright, slightly seductive smile. I blushed, looked down for a second and then back up at her as she pulled, what looked to be, the latest Hitachi Magic Wand Pro—8 speeds, 20 regimes, powerful industry-leading Hitachi motor, and ergonomic design for comfortable gripping—from the shelf in the wall.

She then motioned me to come up to the front of the class, to a mat that was beneath a giant mural on the wall which displayed, what looked to be, a giant vagina surrounded by clouds, setting in the sun—with rays of light.... exploding from it.

As I began to walk up to the front, I started to tremble. I was nervous…and also noticed the slippery mess-of-a-story that was starting to develop in my yoga pants—It’s like my vagina already knew that it was about to be enlightened, that my second Chakra (sexuality) the Sacral was about to be opened to its fullest.

When I got up to the front, our Yogini raised the Hitachi Magic Wand up the air as if it were Simba from the Lion King.

“Praise be to the ultimate Yogini on high…may you bless our new found sister with the salvation she so desperately came here for. May her back arch like a horny cobra Goddess. May her womanly ego be massaged until rebirth. May the vibrations of your hand, your loving touch, provide a long lasting deliverance from the tension and shackles of the Patriarchy. Amen.”

All the other women were in the ‘Bridge’ position on their mats, presenting and pointing their camel toes forward to the front mural, in a show of solidarity. Strength of power through the all-mighty vagina— like a bunch of Care Bears, trying to 'Care Bear stare' invisible giner tingles toward me and the mural. The tension in the room—and in my yoga pants—was at fever pitch.

The Yogini then whispered and instructed me to get down into the ‘Upward Facing Dog’. Once in position, she turned the Hitachi Magic wand on the highest setting. I instinctively lifted my body up slightly and made space for it to be placed between my mound and the mat—the Yogini then put the Hitachi underneath me; I then lowered my body and mound onto it.

Within milliseconds, my posture started to improve. I perked up, greatly! With the instinct to press into the vibrations, into the wand, my back arch was taking a turn toward perfection. Greaness was about to explode from my inner Goddess.

The pleasure being caused by the vibrations— my yoga pants softening, what would otherwise be, a far too intense of a sensation to endure on bare skin—forced me to realize the importance and necessity of wearing thin and otherwise, extremely revealing pants, to a yoga class.

It’s all so, practical! It makes so much sense, now!

These thoughts crossed my mind, while at the same time noticing all the other women in the Bridge position were now rubbing themselves in solidarity with me—we were all trying to achieve the best possible arch.

Peak, perfection really.

It was a powerful scene. As I crooked my neck to look out onto the floor at all the other women, trying to achieve their peaks for personal perfection, it could only be described as a sea of solidarity—mutual mastery.

Next thing I knew before going in and out of pleasure waves— my eyes began to roll back into my head—was my Yogini touching my lips, my face with her fingers; brushing my hair. I was moaning loudly at this point.

Suddenly, as if she knew, the Yogini stepped back a bit, away from me. For some reason I started screaming “Take my money, TAKE MY MONEY…UPGRADE MY PUSSY!!”

My breathing simultaneously began a symphony of rapid rasps accompanied by intermittent gasps and moans. Then, without warning, my womanhood exploded; my back arched, snapped into the perfect curve.

At the point of release, I was grinding into that Magic wand as if I were a retard, trying to hump a doorknob; convulsing and shaking like someone prone to seizures from watching Japanese cartoons.

Yes, I had achieved the mastery of the Upward Facing Dog— I had also, creamed my Lulu's— a minor inconvenience and sacrifice. The juice, worth the squeeze.

After I had achieved the mastery of that position, I collapsed onto the mat, drooling as if I had just been electrocuted. A hand, again, brushed against my relaxed ass. It was the Yogini; she had a tablet opened up to my membership profile on the screen. I didn’t hesitate and immediately worked up enough strength to lift my hand to point and click the screen— Upgraded myself to The Goddess Explosion tier.

From that day on, I understood why it was so highly recommended from other women (and yoga studios) that I go out and buy 10+ pairs of yoga pants! Who knew that doing Yoga was going to be so draining (physically and financially), and be such an exhausting workout requiring loads of laundry to be done after a week’s work!

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