A. Introduction. 

This is Chapter II of my account of how I gradually became addicted to the thrill of showing off my nude or nearly nude body to groups of strange men while subjecting myself to varying degrees of humiliation for their amusement (often with a healthy dose of physical abuse as well). It is my lifelong obsession with seeking out opportunities to engage in this activity that eventually led me to start doing topless and then nude waitress gigs in my late thirties (as I still do today), even though I do not need the money and risk losing everything if I am discovered. 

This obsession did not take control of me overnight, however, and I am still trying to understand why this type of activity has become so exciting for me. That is why I started looking back on certain experiences and events starting in my senior year of high school that were gradually molding me into becoming the hopeless exhibitionist, submissive slut that I am today. By examining these events, I began to see how each of them had taught me important lessons. Such as learning how to put myself in a position that might lead to an opportunity for this type of activity and learning what it was that men enjoyed doing when they had complete control over a nude woman. Just to be clear, I am not talking about gang-bang situations, but a situation where anything other than intercourse or oral activity is allowed, as far as I am concerned. 

I have found it helpful to write about each of these events because it helps me organize my thoughts and, more importantly, it helps me to remember all of the details of these events when any one detail could be the key to learning how I became this way. 

Chapter II chronicles my next step to becoming the submissive slut that I am today, who is constantly in search of her next chance to be treated like a piece of meat. This chapter and the next recount some of the predicaments I managed to get myself into in my summer job before college as a pool attendant. One thing to keep in mind in reading these Chapters is that these incidents occurred when I was just graduating high school and about eighteen-and-a-half years old. Even though I had 36D breasts, I still had a round baby face with a few freckles on the bridge of my nose and under both of my eyes. I had strawberry blonde hair down to the top of my tits, slightly broad shoulders for a girl, and at this point I still had never worn makeup. So even though I was living in semi-rural New England, I looked much more like a naïve, midwestern farm girl. I put my high school graduation picture in my private photos if that helps anyone to picture what I looked like.  

 B.  Getting the Job

When I was about to graduate from high school in June of 2000, I wanted a job where I could show off my body to men. To accomplish this goal, I looked through every newspaper and every penny-saver type flyer, as well as scoured all of those bulletin boards outside of stores where people posted ads with thumbtacks and small pieces of paper. I finally found an ad for a pool attendant job for a motel that was posted at a local supermarket. That finally sounded like the job I was looking for, so I called and set up an interview. 

The day of the interview, I left my driveway with high hopes using the directions I had gotten over the phone. My mother had recently given me her rust-bucket car because the dealer wouldn’t give her any money for it as a trade-in. As I took the second-to-last turn on the printed directions, however, my high hopes evaporated because I realized the motel where my dream job was located was on what we locals called the Turnpike. 

The Turnpike, or Pike, was an old four-lane parkway (two lanes in each direction) that cut through our rural area about five miles south of my house. Long before I was born, the Pike had been bypassed by much larger Interstate highways, but by the time I was a kid it had somehow reinvented itself as the premier location for big-box stores, chain restaurants, and even some small businesses. The one exception to all of this commercial success was the motel business. People did not need motels if they were just going to the Pike for shopping. So as far as I knew, the only motels left on the Pike were the ones that rented rooms by the hour.  Nonetheless, since I was almost there anyway, and since this was the only job that offered any opportunity to put my body on display, I decided to make the last turn given on the directions into the motel’s driveway. 

Although most motels on the Pike were built close to the road, this driveway was about two hundred feet long and went up a hill through an attractive lawn area.  Near the top of the hill, I could see a large pool complex with a pool and two outbuildings, all of which were enclosed in a fenced area. Behind the pool complex was an L-shaped, two-story motel. I could see it was an old-style motel where every room was accessed from the outside, and you basically parked in front of the door to your room.

About one hundred and fifty feet up the driveway, I came to a level spot with a small building that was separate from the rest of the motel. A neon sign identified it as the office. I parked in front and went inside. There was a tall guy with a muscular build behind one of those thick plastic panels with a hole in the center to talk through and a rectangular hole in the bottom to pass money through. He looked startled that someone had actually come into the office, and asked me what I wanted. I told him that I had an interview for the pool attendant job.  He laughed and told me that I was the only one with guts enough to actually show up once they found out that the motel was located on the Pike. He asked me to wait a second, and after fiddling around with some locks and bolts, he came out from behind the plastic panel. 

We shook hands, did the standard introductions (his name was Ed), and then he told me to follow him to the pool, and we could talk on the way. We walked up the driveway for about fifty feet, then turned left into the parking lot for the motel itself, and kept walking until we arrived at a pathway that ran through a small grassy area and led to the gate for the pool area in the center of chain link fence. The grassy area ran for the entire length of the pool fence and was about twenty feet wide.  Ed stopped briefly to point out that as part of my job I would be responsible for mowing this grassy area as well as any grass inside the pool fence with one of those old-fashion, push-blade mowers.   

As we walked, Ed had been telling me that there were sixty rooms in the motel and they definitely did not rent by the hour. Most of the motel’s business consisted of weekly or monthly rentals, and they were at about sixty percent occupancy now. The only reason the motel still had a sign up for overnight stays was so the owners could keep their license to operate as a motel, which they thought would be important since they were selling the place. In fact, however, the motel rarely had overnight guests. 

The monthly and weekly rentals were possible because each room had a decent-sized area beyond the sleeping area with a sink, small fridge, cabinets, a microwave, a small table and chairs, and a huge closet. There was also a common laundry area with coin-operated machines.  But the real secret, Ed told me, was that he had arranged for tenants to get a significant discount with the nearby self-storage facility -- so they could keep most of their things there without much additional cost. 

C. I Learn About My Potential Audience

As a young exhibitionist slut, I was (foolishly) willing to put myself into any risky situation if it might give me a chance to show off my body to groups of men. Yet, even as adventurous as I was, I still wanted to be sure that I wouldn’t be brutally murdered if I took this job. So, I asked Ed about the people who were staying there. It turned out to be a wide range of people that you don’t often think about, that is, unless one day you unexpectedly find that you are one of them. 

Ed said about three-quarters of the guests were monthly renters. About one quarter of these three was made up of guys who came home one day to discover their wife had just changed the locks on them, and so they needed somewhere cheap to live on short notice. While some of those guys left after a month, most were staying for the duration of their divorce proceedings because that is all they could afford after all the legal bills. The second quarter of the guests were between jobs and had been evicted from their apartments, so they too needed somewhere cheap to live on short notice. The third quarter of the monthly renters not only lived at the motel, but ran a small business out of their rooms using their phone and maybe a computer. It turns out that a monthly renter, like any other residential renter, could force the phone company to install a private line in his room. 

Of these business guys, the most successful was Phil, who had lived there for years distributing low-budget instructional and exercise DVDs. He was barely scraping by until he expanded into distributing home-made adult DVDs to retail adult stores in the area, and then expanded to distribute nationwide. Ed said Phil was the go-to guy in this area if you wanted to get your homemade adult video made into a DVD and distributed, but Ed assured me that Phil was not doing anything illegal, or he’d be gone tomorrow. 

As far as weekly rental guests, apparently those guys consisted mostly of two groups. First, there were truck drivers who did not own their own rig, or guys in the construction industry who were waiting for their next job, which might end up being in a different part of the state, so these were guys who didn’t want even a monthly rental. 

Secondly, at any given time during the summer, there were usually about four or five salesmen camped here for a couple of weeks. These guys were heavy hitters who were trying to land large wholesale orders from regional buyers for products they were selling. They didn’t get a salary, but did get a daily stipend for food and lodging. Any part of the stipend they didn’t spend they could keep. So renting here at low weekly rates was a way to make a little money even if they didn’t make any sales during their stay. Of course, if they did manage to write a couple decent orders, then they could easily make fifty or sixty grand in commissions during a two-week visit. So these guys were not typical salesmen.  

I then asked if all of the guests were men. Ed told me that currently they were because, although the area was safe during the hours when I would be working here, it could get really dicey for a female after dark when all the stores in the area were closed.

D. I Get a Tour of  My Stage--the Pool Area

With that, Ed began the tour of the pool area while describing my job. As we walked through the gate, I learned that I was responsible for enforcing the Pool Rules that were posted on a sign on the gate. From the gate, we walked down a sidewalk about twenty feet to the center of the pool. The pool was a decent size, about forty feet long and twenty feet wide. The forty-foot length of the pool ran parallel to the parking lot. The pool was surrounded by a ten-foot-wide rectangle of concrete, which was then itself surrounded by a ten-foot-wide rectangle of grass. 

There were two buildings in the pool complex. One was to our left and one to our right. Each one was on an opposite end of the pool. The one on the left was called the “Pavilion,” which was located on the far edge of the grass that surrounded the pool.

It was rectangular in shape and was not insulated, so it was more like a shack than a building. The longest part of that building ran parallel to the twenty-foot width of the pool. There was no front wall, so the entire front ten feet or so of the width of the Pavilion was open. It was just a roof with three walls where people could put their lounge chairs and stay out of the sun. The back wall of that open area had a huge mural of a tropical beach in the center that looked like a photo more than a painting.  

The rear fourteen feet or so of the width of the Pavilion was fully enclosed with a door on each end. The door facing the parking lot led to the pump room, which housed the pumps that circulated and filtered the water, as well as various pool chemicals, a water testing kit, the pool vacuum and the skimming net, and a scrub brush for me to use every morning to scrub the six inches of the tile that was above the water line around the entire perimeter of the pool.  There was also a box of disposable latex gloves that I was supposed to wear when adding chemicals. As we were leaving, Ed pointed out a small refrigerator in the corner that I could use. 

On the other side of the building, there was a small bathroom with just one sink and toilet, but it also had a small changing area with a nearly full-length mirror. That door locked from the inside, so Ed said he would put up a sign that said “Ladies Room” if I took the job. 

At the opposite end of the pool area was a nicer building. It was the same size as the Pavilion, but it was insulated and enclosed. There was an open area about twelve feet by twelve feet in size that was carved out in the center of the front wall that created a niche that held an ice machine, a snack machine, and a soda machine. There was also a motel phone on the back wall in the niche. Ed said if anyone gave me any grief, I could call him on that phone and he’d be there in a minute to put them in their place. 

On the side of the building furthest from the parking lot was the door for the gym, which was a room about twenty-four feet by twenty-four feet. The interior walls were floor-to-ceiling mirrors (except for the area around the door). At the opposite end of the room from the door was the only equipment in the room, namely an old weight bench set that had a bar with some weights on it. Ed told me that the owners had fixed up this room to show potential buyers of the motel that it could be a gym, but after they got the bill for all the improvements, they could not afford any gym equipment, so he donated his old weight bench. As we left, he mentioned that this was the only room in the pool area with A/C, so I could come in and wipe down the mirrors if I needed to cool off on a hot day. 

This building also contained a supply closet with mops, brooms, dust pans, a yellow mop bucket on wheels, some scrub brushes, lots of other cleaning stuff, and a hand-push lawn mower. I then learned that part of my job was also to keep the entire pool area clean, including the men’s bathroom, which occupied the rest of that building. We did not tour the bathroom because it was in use at the time. 

Ed then announced that this was the end of the tour. He then ran down the job details. The job was six days a week (Mondays off ), and the hours were 8:30 a.m. to 5 p.m. with thirty minutes off (unpaid) for lunch. Pay was minimum wage (six dollars an hour), with no overtime or holiday pay. If it was raining in the morning, then I didn’t work or get paid for that day. He then asked me if I still wanted the job. 

Looking back, I realize I should have courteously declined. I remember my thought process because it was so dangerously reflexive and did not involve any conscious thought.  I knew this was a sketchy area. I knew that while weekly and monthly renters could just be really nice guys down on their luck, but if only one guy were a serial killer, then I could be killed. Yet, I just did not care. All I knew was I wanted to put my body on display for groups of men, and this job might give me that chance. 

We went back to the office for the paperwork. Ed handed me a whistle and a big red shirt with the words “POOL” and “STAFF” on it -- one word on top of the other --in big white letters. He said I had to wear it so people knew I was the pool attendant. He apologized it was so large. He told me he thought only a guy his size would take this job. He did mention if I went to Jimmy’s just down the Pike, I could have the same shirt printed up in my size, but I’d have to pay for it.   

E.  Showtime

I started work on a Tuesday in the middle of June. The first few days were boring. Every morning I changed in the small bathroom that was now marked as the “Ladies Room”, put on my official red shirt that said “Pool Staff” over my nondescript mom-style swimsuit.  My plan had been to buy some sexy bikinis if I got the job, but there was no point in doing that if I had to wear this red shirt that came down almost to my knees every day. All you could see when I was wearing this shirt was my baby face, and since the shirt was so overly large, it made me look like a little kid at the beach. 

There were about four or five guys there at a time, and most only stayed an hour or so. All of them grumbled among themselves, but loud enough so that I could hear, that the red shirt hid my assets. I tried to show off some of my butt as I knelt on the side of the pool to scrub the six inches of tiles above the water line, but that really wasn’t much of a show. Some of the divorcing guys would come by toward the end of each day. They were nice to talk to, but I didn’t take this job to talk. 

The first Saturday on the job started out the same boring way, except there were quite a few more guys around than during the week, and they were much more vocal about wanting to see what was under that damn shirt. At lunchtime I went into the ladies' room, took off the red shirt and tossed it inside-out on the bench in the changing area. Then I put on my regular T-shirt and shorts for lunch at a nearby McDonald’s. I couldn't lock the ladies' room from the outside, but I figured that I wouldn't miss that red shirt if anyone stole it. 

When I came back thirty minutes later, the pool area was packed. I assumed that was just the way it was on Saturday afternoons. I went to the ladies' room and tossed my shorts and t-shirt on the bench, put on the red shirt over my baggy one-piece swimsuit, and headed out to the pool.  As soon as I left the ladies' room, I was met by about six or seven guys with cameras. Most of them had film cameras, but some had cheap digital cameras. I looked behind me to see what they were shooting, but there was nothing there. I kept walking toward the other building to get some cleaning equipment. All of the guys I passed were laughing and pointing at me, but I had no idea why.   

I passed by a couple of guys who took pictures of me and told me I was the dumbest slut they had ever seen. I just assumed they were just being mean, so I ignored them. But then the next small group I passed were laughing about what a really dumb slut I was and asked me if I had ever thought to look at my shirt. 

I looked down, and it was not the same shirt I wore that morning. It was the same size and color, but the white letters on this one said, “POOL SLUT” instead of “POOL STAFF.”  I started to cry. Everyone with a camera then scrambled to get in front of me for photos of an innocent, naïve-looking girl crying uncontrollably while wearing a shirt identifying her to the world with the words “POOL SLUT.” 

I just froze. The more their cameras clicked, the harder I cried. I am still not sure why I was crying because I probably would have liked to be called something as degrading as “pool slut” if it were because the guys thought my body was hot. I guess I was just upset because I had been so easily tricked. Anyway, the harder I cried, the louder the guys cheered and the more they made degrading jokes about me. 

I finally ran back to the ladies’ room, turned the red shirt inside out, and put it back on to finish out my day. But the guys around the pool were not letting this go. They kept calling me “pool slut.”  I did not want to let on that I actually would enjoy being called that name because I was afraid that if I did, then once the guys knew that, they might stop. 

On Sunday I wore the red shirt inside out again. The guys were relentless in calling me “pool slut” but at this point I thought it best just to ignore them and do my job so I didn’t lose it.  When I came back from lunch on Sunday, however, there were paper signs posted all over the pool area featuring a picture of me crying in my “pool slut” shirt. Under my photo, the signs said things like, “Employee of the Month,” but with the word “Employee” crossed out and the word “SLUT” written over it.    

I started taking down all of the signs, and I can remember that I noticed that all of them used photos of me crying. I recall that I was thinking to myself that I had noticed how excited all the guys became once I started crying. I am fairly certain that this is when I first learned an important lesson. I realized that once guys humiliate a poor, dumb female, they derive an exponentially greater thrill from it if the poor, humiliated slut starts crying. Although I do not believe that at that point I had yet figured out why that was true, I do recall thinking it was a lesson I had to keep in mind the next time I was fortunate enough to be in a situation where I was being humiliated by a group of guys.   

I took down a few more signs and ran to tell Ed. I showed him the shirt the guys made at Jimmy’s and the photos they were posting. He said I didn’t need to wear the red shirt again. I went back to the pool area in my baggy, mom-style swimsuit, and a lot of guys started booing and chanting, “Take it off slut, take it off.” I knew I couldn't really do that, so I just ignored them until quitting time.

F.  The Birth of the Pool Slut

The next day was my day off. After the events of the weekend, I had to figure out what I was going to do. I knew that to minimize my physical risk, I should show up the next day in my baggy, one-piece swimsuit. I also knew if I did that, then this would become just a boring and hard summer job. I vividly recall the wheels turning in my young, exhibitionist-slut mind to try to figure out some way to use this red t-shirt debacle to turn this job back into my dream job. 

Thanks to this prank, guys were already calling me a “pool slut” after only a few days. At this point, they had already dehumanized and objectified me, but without me having to earn that reputation. So, I remember that I started thinking, what if, instead of trying to change their perception of me, I leaned into it instead? I figured that if these guys had gone to this much trouble to make me look like a pool slut despite the fact I had not worn or done anything provocative, then they would almost certainly actively embrace having a real pool slut. So why not give them a real pool slut to humiliate and abuse? 

From my first experience (in Chapter I), I had learned that men are far more inclined to pay attention to a slut that they can feel superior to in every respect. So if I wanted these guys to ogle and make comments about my body, then I needed to make myself look dumber and clumsier than the dumbest of these guys; and do that while exposing as much of my body as possible so that they would have something to comment on! 

Using my graduation money, I first got all my nails (hands and feet) painted hot pink. By hot pink I mean street-walker pink. Then I went to the discount shoe store and bought two pairs of espadrilles (open-toe sandals with heels made of rope) with four-inch-high, wedge heels and ribbons that tied around my ankles. Four-inch heels may not sound like stripper heels, but since these heels were basically made of rope, they were pretty unstable, and in trying them on I realized it was going to be pretty hard to walk in them without looking drunk or clumsy.  Even worse for someone like me who was built more like a farm girl than a Victoria’s Secret model, walking on a pair of these would make me look really awkward and stupid. That, however, was exactly why I wanted them!

I had my choice of sizes and ribbon colors because any girl who was not a stripper (or did not want to look like one) would never wear shoes like these. I chose one pair with hot pink ankle ribbons that you tied in a big pink bow around your ankle, and a second pair with dark red ankle ribbons. Since no girl with an ounce of self-respect would buy these, they only cost me about $8 a pair! 

I soon discovered that the sluttiest clothes were often the cheapest because no one wanted them. So next I went to a Marshalls store looking for outrageous string-tie bikinis. That is the kind of bikini where the bottoms tie in a bow on both sides of your waist using long strings that dangled down and could easily be tugged and pulled by anyone walking near me. In this style, the tops also tied around your neck and back with the same big bows and long dangling strings. I bought four bikinis in this very provocative style, selecting only the ones with the really tasteless patterns and colors on them that were instantly humiliating to whoever was dumb enough to wear them. 

Then I looked on the bargain racks for the string-tie bikinis that were labeled as “irregular,” meaning that they were not cut properly.  I found one, probably from the end of a run, missing two inches of fabric from the lower half of each side of the bikini top. It was as if some pervert had cut the lower two inches of fabric out of an otherwise average bikini top, exposing the lower two inches of the boobs of any woman dumb enough to wear it. When the woman at the register saw it, she pointed out this glaring defect and asked if I was sure I wanted it. When I said I did, she mumbled something about how this should never have been put out on the racks and ended up giving it to me for nothing.   

For the final touch, I bought big, bimbo-style, hair bows in pink, red, and white to use to make my long hair into pigtails on some days and into a ponytail on other days. In addition to all of my other bad fashion decisions, I thought that incredibly stupid-looking hair bows would make me appear even more naïve and dumb to the men at the pool. I thought that final touch would encourage them to feel superior to me and make them feel that they could easily control me. 

The next day I wore just a T-shirt and shorts out of the house and carried my outfit in a plastic bag because I didn’t want to take a chance that my mother would see any part of this outfit. I got to the ladies’ room at the pool about thirty minutes early, locked the door, stripped nude, and covered my entire body in suntan oil (not lotion, but oil) that had glitter flakes in it. I rubbed the oil in well because I wanted to look oiled up, but not oily. 

I then put on a string-tie bikini made of sheer white material except where it was covered by three hot-pink colored hearts. There was one pink heart about two inches wide on each boob, and a larger five-inch-wide pink heart on my butt. There was no heart on the front side of the bottoms, probably because there was an interior lining in the crotch area. All of the tie strings were hot pink. 

After I put on the bikini, I realized that all of the sheer white material was totally see-through when wet. Since I had soaked myself in oil, all of the sheer white fabric on my suit was now totally see-through. By this I mean that wherever that fabric was, it was the same as wearing nothing at all. I realized it would probably remain that way for the rest of the day because the oil had soaked into the fabric. So now the only parts of the suit that covered any part of my body were the pink hearts and the narrow lining in the front of my crotch area. 

As you can probably see from my photos, my areolas are larger than two inches, and the hearts on my bikini top only measured two inches at their widest parts. As a result, there were sections of my areoles (large enough to be noticeable) that were clearly visible through the sheer fabric. The same was true of my butt except for the area covered by the five-inch heart. This suit turned out to expose much more of my body than I had intended for my first day as a real pool slut. However, as this was the only suit I brought with me, and the oil had already soaked into the fabric, it was too late to turn back now. 

I then combed my hair and split it down the middle to make two school-girl-type pigtails. Although they were held in place by elastics, I doused both pigtails in hairspray to be sure they held.  I then took a dumb-looking piggy bow (hot pink, of course) that was four inches wide and clipped it over each elastic so it looked like the big pink bows were holding the pigtails in place. 

Then for my final touch, I put on my open-toe espadrilles with four-inch-high wedge heels, and tied the bright pink ribbons from the shoes around my ankles in a big pink bow. As I did that, I noticed that the pink color of the ribbons matched the hot pink nail polish I was wearing on my toes and fingers. 

I took one final look at myself in the nearly full-length mirror before going outside. I realized that if I had seen a girl who looked like me, I’d think she was a really dumb slut who was trading her last shred of dignity for even the slightest bit of attention from men. For about ten minutes I stood there and stared at that nearly-nude, oiled-up slut in the mirror who was shamelessly putting almost all of her glistening, glitter-covered body on display for strange men to stare at and make degrading comments about. 

I then realized I was slowly hypnotizing myself into actually becoming that dumb, submissive slut for the rest of the day; and probably for the rest of the summer. Worse yet, I also realized, even then, that in this environment, putting almost my entire body on display like this while acting incredibly dumb and naïve could get me into serious trouble. Still, somehow I was willing to take that chance if it meant I might have opportunities to get the thrill of exposing myself to a group of men at various times during the summer. 

I took a deep breath. Having now completely internalized that nearly-nude slut in pigtails in the mirror, who was dressed in big pink bows and hot pink nail polish, I had literally become that dumb slut in my mind. As I headed to the door, I stumbled awkwardly on my high heels, which made me realize how foolish I was about to look stumbling around nearly nude in these high wedge shoes.  But once again it was too late to back out now. So I opened the door and headed out into the bright sunlight to do all of the really degrading cleaning tasks required by my job while almost nude. I clearly recall thinking that if nothing else, this was going to be an interesting day!  

Coming in Chapter 3 –My Debut as the Motel “Pool Slut.”