By the time I’d turned twenty-one, I had blossomed into a major, horny slut. With glacial slowness, I began to realize that I wasn’t the ugly duckling I’d been led to believe. That slow epiphany came through constant attention paid to me by every heterosexual male in a thousand-mile radius. It further confounded my inner turmoil; I had several identities that included a socially-acceptable, quirky but normal young woman, a confused and aimless girl trying to find her way, and a sex-hungry slut that could never be satisfied. Adding sexy and desired to that mix just created more chaos.

When young, being a pale, freckled redhead is a horrible curse. Given my reputation as the Spawn of Satan and a dirty slut, I suppose it would have been a whoreable curse. I was always either reed-thin or chunky, depending on whether my angst caused me to lose my appetite or eat my feelings. However, although it happened later than with most young women, the Goddess blessed me with a face and body that others find not only sexually desirable, but it brings out their primal urges.

Despite being an instant target of everyone else’s lusty focus, I never thought of myself as attractive. I struggle with my body image to this very day. I loathed my reflection, and the bitch in the mirror detested me back. She was always slut-shaming me, just like my peers had done, ridiculing me during constant lectures about my kinky wildness.

My red hair, like a beckoning bonfire of horny lust, was despicable. In the cooler months, when the sun hibernated, it would grow to a deep, luxurious red, which I liked, except for the color. If the sun blazed down on my head for a nanosecond, my hair would fade. The fact that my hair is so lush and thick was also a source of agitation. The sun, the lighting, the mood of the sky, and even my recent diet all affected my hair color. At any given moment, it could be a carrot-like orange up to a lush, deep crimson. 

Other than my ass, which was the stuff wet dreams are made of, I had nothing but denigrating opinions about the rest of my body. My breasts, while round, plump, full, and refusing to surrender to gravity, were a constant annoyance. I’m almost a C-cup, but not quite. Off-the-rack bras usually didn’t fit, or I had to tighten them so much that it became a source of physical duress. If I didn’t eat well, they’d shrink just enough to make wearing a bra a tragic form of dark comedy. If I pursued gluttony, they fill out the bra, nicely, but the rest of my body plumped up as well. 

While I usually had a thin, taut torso, thanks to my dedication to physical exercise and adopting my mother’s Yoga routines, my legs looked like slightly tapered sticks. They looked much better in heels, but I’m so clumsy that wearing anything with heels was treacherous. I’m more of a pair of sandals or tennis shoes kind of woman.

The bitch in the mirror gave me my daily dose of abuse. “Your lips aren’t pouty enough. Your freckles make it look like you’re too much of a skank to wash yourself. Your ribs are showing, you anorexic slut. Your eyes look like somebody melted a bunch of differently-colored green crayons together.”

Sure, I had those curvy hips and a succulent behind, but the rest of me straddled so many lines between one type or another that I often didn’t even look like myself in my pictures. Even my clothing size straddled the lines between two sizing groups. Clothes that fit me on Monday might be too loose or too tight come Wednesday.

I’d resigned myself to being a slut. The very last lifeline I threw myself, during a very self-destructive, drunken fit, caught hold. I loved to fuck, and that was that. I had no idea how I’d ever manage to cope with a life of sluttitude, but it was my lot in life. That side of me was easily embraced, and I grew in slutty confidence, whorish attitude, and tart-like, sexual cravings.

The rest of me was still a lost, lonely, miserable mess. The Jekyll side of me was an emotional train wreck, feeling self-pity and endless mental carnage; Hyde was a man-eating slut, and she knew that if she couldn’t have happiness, she could at least enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. This uneasy peace between the splintered parts of my soul remained for decades.

Oddly, this counterbalance was somehow liberating. While the emotional side of me atrophied, I quested for physical pleasure with the wild abandon of the invulnerable and immortal. To be perfectly honest, which is a luxury I can afford, today, I was a hellion.

My maternal grandmother was, or so I was told, a hereditary witch. I never gave the claim much credence, as each author of every neo-pagan book, up to and including Gerald Gardner, claimed to hie from hereditary witches, and they skipped the generation before them, as we pagans supposedly do—which was news to me—due to safety reasons as" thou shalt not suffer a witch to live," and all. Additionally, Mom painted her estranged mother as a slutty, oversexed, always horny, man-using sex freak.

“Like mother like daughter, dear,” she told me, “which is exactly why The Goddess built you to love sex above all earthly pleasures. Sexuality is for us to taste the divine by embracing our animal nature.”

My mother was, by her account, even a bigger slut. She proved that, daily. Sexing up guests was her substitute for offering them a drink. Men and women, Pagans and Christians, married and single, even all of my would-be boyfriends, easily fell under my mother's horny spell. A young man would come to see me, and she’d be dressed like a cheap slut, flashing her bare pussy, showing off her hard nipples, and letting innuendo drop with every syllable. She had her reasons, and they were good ones; the execution of her “motherly wisdom,” however, bordered on the perverse.

According to my family, as Dad affirmed her every word, I was not only a third-generation pagan, but also the same in the slut department. While others inherit wealth, property, or prestige, my legacy was an eternally wet, needy cunt, and a mind so sexually fixated and perverted that guys told me that I was too wild for them.

I love sex, so fucking sue me, was the thought that summarized my mindset. My life may have been in shambles, but I could enjoy all the sex I wanted. Almost every man I encountered, and a few women here and there, were more than happy to supply me with all the fucking, sucking, and sexual adventure I craved.

During the spring after my twenty-first birthday, I was minding my own business, just walking down the street near campus in the city. My emotional scars served as outer armor, allowing me to ignore, riposte, or accept any of the endless come-ons, attempts to fuck me, and requests for dates.

Perhaps, it was the thin, gauzy, miniskirt I was wearing or the tight, skimpy top that molded itself to the contours of my braless breasts. Maybe, it was my rock-hard nipples, jutting up and out through my thin top, or the fact that I was so fucking horny that I had to stop, sporadically, and wipe my sexual honey off my thighs. For some reason, I couldn’t take more than three steps down a public street without hearing about how I just met the man of my dreams, or that the person in front of me could rock my world. Then, Greg entered my life; he got a riposte instead of being shot down.

“Are you a model?” A confident, deep, masculine voice asked. At least I hadn't already heard that line, yet, that day.

I stopped and turned, pleased with how attractive he was. The cheesy pickup line he’d used on me was nothing new. For some reason, guys think that if they disguise their desire to slam their dicks in me, that it will somehow seem innocent. One can put a tutu on an elephant, but we can still that it’s an elephant and not a ballerina. But this guy not only had a camera around his neck, his aura made me horny.

“Let me guess,” I began. My face held a friendly smile, but my words dripped with a modicum of venom. “You just happen to be a professional photographer, and you’d love to shoot me. A little booze, maybe some weed, some innuendo and compliments to make me feel good and sexy, then, poof, the young, naive model loses her panties, and you get some sex.”

“Umm…”

“Too bad for you; I’m not wearing any panties, today, so you can’t talk me out of them.” I turned on my heel, intentionally flashing him my ass as I spun, and smiled with satisfaction as I began walking away.

“I just wondered if you’d pose with this rose near your hair. I wanted to capture the vibrancy and texture. Sorry!”

I stopped and faced him. “You’re serious? Like a real photographer?”

“Yes, I am.” He fumbled with the little satchel hung on his belt and held out a business card.

I knew better but chose worse. That’s a running theme in my life. “Okay,” I said. “I’m all yours.”

Greg was three things that I find attractive. He was fucking sexy, respectful, and hung. I’m by no means a size queen, but I do like my hot cunt feeling full. I agreed to one or two pictures, which became almost two hours of me posing for him around town, followed by a nice, candlelit dinner.

Greg had actually studied photography, and he was quite good. He was also quite attracted to me, just too shy to say or do anything about it. During my first photo shoot, he truly did make me feel desired and sexy. I took the initiative and asked him to accompany me back home for a boudoir photo session. All I knew was sex, so I used that to lure him to my lair. I even said, “So I can have something sexy to show my boyfriend, if I ever get one,” to let him know that I was available to be seduced.

At my house, inside, out in the yard, and even in the woods behind the rows of McMansions, Greg was slowly vanquished by my seductive wiles.

“My pussy’s not wet enough. Finger me a little and get me soaked. That will make a hotter picture.”

“Does my ass look good with my back arched like this? Should I stick it out further?”

“I know! Stick your cock up my pussy and get some pictures of me being fucked.”

Greg wouldn’t make his move, even after being told, so I had to take matters into my own hands. I threw myself onto the floor, my hands between my thighs, and I shoved two fingers into my soaking wet cunt, fucking myself. My other hand ran up and down my body, squeezing my tits, caressing my cheek, and, finally, exposing my swollen clit to Greg and his camera.

“Give it to me! I need your cock.”

“But, we just met.”

“Are you fucking hard for me?”

“Yes.”

I turned the tables, using man logic on him. “I’m horny, and you’re hard. Fuck me with your cock.”

He just stood there, staring. I turned over, my belly on the floor, hips humping against it, and slowly crawled over to him, reaching out for his pants. Greg’s camera fell from his grasp, the neck strap saving it from destruction. With his pants open, Greg’s enthusiasm grew along with his impressive member.

“What? Are you some sort of slut or something?” Luckily for Greg, his tone was one of wonderment, rather than spite. “Just wanting to fuck like this.”

“Yes,” I purred to him, feeling powerful, in control, and possessed by lust. “I’m the witch, queen goddess of sluts, and you are my victim. Be a good sacrifice and fuck this slut’s face.”

Something within me, the tiniest fracture in my mind, gave way, and a torrential tidal wave of horniness drowned me in lusty pleasure. It was, I believe, the first time I’d called myself a slut and meant it. Telling myself that I was a slutty vixen didn’t bring serenity; being called one only further wounded me. At that moment, on my knees, begging for cock, I realized that I was not only a slut, but it was a source of heavenly pleasure for me. I loved being slutty; I realized that fact at the most opportune time.

I drew myself up to kneeling and forced Greg’s impressive meat into my mouth. Grabbing him by the hips to steady myself, I pulled his cock into my mouth, then pushed him back and repeated until he got the idea of what I meant by face-fucking. When he began moaning, I pulled off his cock, letting the sexy tendrils of saliva bridge the gap between my lips and his manhood.

“Tell me what a slut I am,” I suggested before plunging my lips over his shaft and gurgling in its thickness. His cock was over seven inches in length and very thick. It was the biggest one I’d had, up to that point. 

Greg told me that I was a slut, which made my pussy pour out sex juice. When he placed his hands on my head, holding me in place while he slammed his cock down my throat, it freed up my hands. For my pleasure, not to turn him on, I fingered my aching snatch while I feasted on his cock.

Pandora’s box not only opened, but it also went right on and released the sexual Kraken to boot. My attitude suddenly, instantaneously transformed from being afraid that I was the slut everyone had accused me of being into a wanton, horny, insatiable nympho. All it took was me aggressively pursuing sex, a guy who didn’t overstep my boundaries, and me admitting what I was to myself. I’d developed major sluttitude.

I took my time with Greg’s yummy cock, savoring it, seeing how far I could take it into my mouth, and how loudly I could make him moan. I was so wet that my self-fucking fingers made sloshing sounds, and a puddle of my nectar pooled on the floor. I gave myself three orgasms and even fingered my asshole a little because it felt heavenly. My lust boiled over, dirty thoughts ran through my mind, and I began fantasizing about the types of sex I wanted to have while I fingered myself and sucked my photographer's cock.

“Fuck me. I want your dick in my pussy. Fuck me hard,” I commanded.

Greg lowered himself, covering my prone, writhing body. Gently and slowly, he positioned his cock at my love tunnel’s entrance and delicately thrust the head inside. 

“I’m a fucking slut! Slam it in and pound me hard! Your dick is in my pussy; your dick is in my pussy.” I’d forgotten all about worrying if I sounded stupid or silly and just let my mouth runneth over, nasty, dirty expletives pouring out of it. “Fuck me. Fuck me like the slut I am. Make me cum.”

Greg had a nice, big cock, but he was far from the best lover I’d had. I resumed fingering my clit and playing with my tits to provide extra stimulation. That was a mistake; it triggered him.

“I’m cumming, you slut.”

I pulled off of him in a frenzy, wanting to see my reward for being such a whore. His hard, long shaft quivered in pre-orgasmic spasms, and I stroked it hard and fast, aiming it at my mouth.

“Shoot your love in my mouth, then cover me in your cum. Do it. Cum for me, please. I want your cum.”

I was mildly disappointed when his ejaculation didn’t shoot geysers. His first spurt didn’t even shoot into my mouth. It shot out a couple of inches and landed on my chin. Taking the initiative, I slammed my eager mouth over his cumming flesh and sucked the jizz from the source. Just to show him what a nasty, trashy slut I was, I let some dribble out of my mouth and stuck out my cum-covered tongue.

“Now eat my pussy, finger me, and play with my ass until you can get it up again. Then, you’re going to fuck me until I’ve cum enough.”

I wore the poor man out long before I was sated. I left him snoring on the couch and went to my bedroom, and fucked myself with my toy until I was relaxed enough to get some sleep. In the morning, I made coffee and toast, then woke him up by sucking him to hardness, riding his now-erect cock until he simply couldn’t’ fuck me any longer.

Greg and I became an unofficial couple after that. Everything was fun, exciting, and wonderful for the first two weeks. We were inseparable and fucked every chance we could get. I’d fuck him in my house, in his car, behind the bars or nightclubs we went to, and even once sucked his cock at our table inside the club. I was banned for ninety days over that but never returned after my exile. 

Greg loved the fact that I was always horny and always looking for more, wilder, sexual excitement. He was happy to follow my lead, and I was always wanting to try something new. He even got off on me talking about what a slut I was while he fucked me. I loved it even more and habitually babbled during sex. 

We’d never once referred to each other as being the other’s boyfriend or girlfriend. I’d assumed it since he stuck around after he fucked me, but nothing was ever done to formalize it. I quickly discovered that the only thing more fragile than my ego was the typical male’s. 

While the reasons why I have extremely low self-esteem and major insecurity are obvious, most men are also like that, specifically when it comes to their women being highly sexual and wild. The grim reality of my life reared its ugly head. Everyone wants a wild slut, but they want to cage me, keeping her all for themselves. Not only was I raised amid polyamory, but, for me, the concept of monogamy didn’t make sense. Furthermore, I was barely twenty-one, and I was designed to be a sex machine. 

Greg first took issue with me going out in public without a bra or panties. I acquiesced and once more began wearing the restrictive, uncomfortable garments. Panties were useless for me; all they did was quickly become supersaturated, and it was like walking around with a cold, wet cloth plastered to your skin.

Then, I couldn’t wear my regular clothes. He began attempting to dictate my wardrobe, so I didn’t look like a cheap slut. I went out and bought some socially acceptable clothing, and tried wearing them for him, but Greg felt that just because I asked him to slam his cock into me that it gave him some claim of ownership. I’d had enough of that.

One night, at a cheap restaurant for dinner, Greg was getting angry with me because I not only wore my “trashy slut clothes,” but I also went without panties. Then, just because he was pissing me off, I eye-fucked a sexy guy sitting across from us, and I spread my legs wide enough to give him a cheap thrill as he stared at me.

“Are you flashing your pussy?”

“It’s my pussy,” I said, fed up with his domineering attitude. “I’ll show it or give it to anyone I please.”

“No girl of mine is going to run around looking and acting like a dirty slut.”

“I’ll show you what a dirty slut I can be.” My tone was acrimonious.

Without another word, ignoring his protests and demands that I behave, I got up from my seat, walked over to the guy, and said, using my sultry, husky voice, “You’re hot, and I’m horny. Do you want to come back to my place and fuck my brains out?”

“Krys,” Greg warned, “this is your last chance.”

“No, asshole, this is your last chance. I’m a fucking free spirit, which I thought you loved, and nobody will dictate my identity to me. Nice knowing you.”

The target of my exhibitionism laughed at that and flipped Greg the middle finger. I grabbed his hand and led him outside. That’s how I met my next ex-boyfriend, Will.

Will was a kinky pervert, more than willing to help me test out sexual acrobatics to see if I liked them. Other than a hard cock, there wasn’t much else about him that I liked. He was cute in a rough-and-tumble fashion, but he was all about getting stoned and drinking and acting crazy. That appealed to the wild child in me, but I also have a more intellectual, homebody facet, and I was simply too complicated for him.

Will also didn’t give me the respect I wanted. His roommate, Stephan, however, treated me like a lady. I dropped Will, hooked up with Stephan for a week or so, then moved on.

That phase of my life allowed me to see that I could be a slut and still be worth more than my tight, wet, multi-orgasmic hole. No longer afraid, my sluts-rule attitude became a part of my essence. Still, I loathed myself for what I was, but I could at least get as much pleasure out of my plight as was humanly possible.

Finding men or women to fuck me any way I wanted wasn’t a challenge. I was a slut, and sluts are to be fucked. However, sluts are the way we are because we love to fuck. I didn’t just love it, I craved it, and it consumed me. My daily masturbation sessions grew to hours-long marathons, sometimes several times each day. I went back on the prowl, a few times each week, and embraced my libidinous nature.

By the time I’d turned twenty-two, two important things that shaped the rest of my life had happened. I still despised being a slut and hated who I was, but I’d grown comfortable enough with my sex drive that I no longer denied it. Publicly, I’d don a socially-acceptable mask, but, in private, I was a sexual force of nature. My outer, mortal coil seemingly stopped aging, but my soul matured to the point that I could begrudgingly accept my lot in life.

The other thing that rattled my soul was that my heart found the courage to finally speak up. “I want somebody that loves me for who I am, everything I am, and shares my hopes and dreams. Hot sex is fine, but we need true love to survive.”

It was true. I still felt like an outcast, but now it just seemed like a self-exiling, slut-imposed hermitage. I ruminated over my clashing desires for weeks, if not months. I wanted what every person, especially every woman, desired. I wanted to be unconditionally accepted for who and what I was. I yearned to be appreciated for my wit and intellect, as well as my stunning ass. I craved romance and Hollywood-level adoration, and I needed somebody worthy of my complete, unwavering devotion. 

That revelation plummeted me deep into the bottomless pit of despair. When I added in my physical preferences, wonderful eyes, long hair, confidence, humor, and a bad-boy exterior with a heart of gold, I realized that I wanted a person who simply couldn’t exist. Finding a manly but still sensitive man held worse odds than me discovering Atlantis while chatting with a unicorn while I rode a dragon. 

I was a slut, and I was doomed to live a miserable life and die alone. At least everyone wanted to fuck me, so I could distract myself.

To Be continued…