Sugar and spice and everything nice, that’s what the Nursery Rhyme tells us girls are made of. Tits and ass and everything crass, that’s what Krystal is made of. Regrettably, there is the truth and what we wish were true. We never actually know our composition until our mettle is truly tested. My trial by fire came in the form of ovarian cancer, that blackened curse of the gods that incinerates you from the inside, destroys your body, and rends your soul. The life-altering news came to me just before the Holidays. As the divine that is nature has its own style, not beholden to the whims of us mere mortals, The Goddess, or whatever you choose to call it, gave the test first and the lesson later. I failed the test but learned the lesson.

I’m not telling you this for sympathy; I’m all better now, due, in large part, to the support I received from my friends, both online and in real life. I shall be forever thankful to all of you, and I’ll probably never find the proper words of gratitude. I’m telling you this because if I hadn’t gone through it, I’d probably have never gained the personal fortitude to confess my actions in context.

I’m not the first, nor shall I be the last person to deal with the “Big-C.” Unlike them, who stood strong against the horror and kept their morale up, I fell to miserable, little pieces. Anyone that knows me will agree that I’d probably been headed, full speed, toward a mental break. I didn’t just have an emotional fracture, my soul shattered.

Around others, never once denying that I had good and bad moments, I tried to act cheery, nonplussed, and optimistic. I amplified my slutty, sexual demeanor; latched onto anyone that would give me the time of day, aggressively flirting; and I couldn’t stand to be alone. Having an idle second to myself was the absolute worst; that was when the dark demons of doubt came to gnaw at my heart. I alienated my husband and friends, annoyed those that didn’t run away screaming, and I made a complete and utter fool of myself. All of that was simply me begging, “please pay attention to me.”

The cancer was removed in a highly successful surgery, my surgeon calling it “baby cancer.” The only baby was me. I didn’t feel heroic or amazing, although everyone told me I was. All I did was worry and then lie there while the doctor did her work. I’m great at worrying, and even better in bed. I can sleep for hours! Despite a couple of later scares and a follow-up removal of some more junk in my body, I was physically fine.

Mentally, I was in anguish. Post-surgery, I was almost unable to move and was ordered to rest and do nothing for weeks. That’s when reality, in the form of introspection, crept into my psyche. I tried to stay mentally busy and chatted with everyone constantly, annoying them to no end. But the sad and bitter truth is that having cancer fucked up my head, and I was looking for diversions. It screwed up my emotions even more than they already were. I mulled over my life, especially my recent behavior, and realized that I’d lost my sense of identity. I was no longer certain of or confident about who I am.

Who am I? That’s the question that burns. Subjectively, I always viewed myself as the accursed woman of your every fantasy. I definitely play that part, and I play it well. I’m old enough to know exactly what I want and to strive for it without shame. I’ve escaped the clutches of time and gravity, looking, feeling, and acting half my age. I’m sexually wild and promiscuous, and I live a romance-novel life. As a saving grace, I’m blessed with just enough self-awareness to know how over the top I am and have just enough self-loathing to not take myself seriously.

If you want a sexy redhead with a fiery attitude who’s constantly horny and not only willing to try anything sexually, but who is the one that suggests it, then I’m your girl. If you want a woman that would rather watch Game of Thrones or Star Wars than The Notebook, guess who? I’m a horny geek that will drain you and still be wanting more. But, as a true, pagan child of nature, I am all things, both good and bad. Along with that insatiable sex drive and amicable personality, I am also dark, morose, and in constant need of validation.

Those five words, “please pay attention to me,” ruled every facet of my life. Sexual attention, especially when you’re an attractive redhead, is the easiest sort of attention to get. The epiphany that I’d structured my entire identity around my sexuality destroyed me a thousand times more than cancer could have. I am sex? Having weathered the slings and arrows of great misfortune, I found myself laid bare before me, and the mental fracturing was complete.

By inches and millimeters, I clawed my way out of the self-pitying pit of despair. Still, though, my behavior was forced. I found myself referring to the idea of me to dictate my responses and actions. “What would Krystal do,” governed my behavior, not my heart, mind, or soul. Devastation such as this can either define or destroy you. The aftermath did both for me. The constant, needy, sexual arousal that warms my core began to reemerge. At first, a trickle of desire, then a tiny flow of lust, and my entire core was eventually flooded with ocean-like depths of horny passion.

My surgeon, and I think she’s a sadist because of this, disallowed any sexual activity on my part for six weeks. That meant no making love, no sex, and no fucking. I wasn’t even allowed to suck off a hard cock, lest my internal sutures rip. Being unable to do something makes us crave it a hundred times more than choosing to not do it.

That left me in a mental quandary. I wasn’t happy with the way I’d conducted my life, and having faced the potential end of it really put things into perspective. However, my body was screaming for sex; my mind was solely focused on passion, and my eyes saw only things I could fuck, hump, and grind against until I exploded in orgasmic rapture.

Slowly, imperceptibly, as sexual desire slowly filled my essence, I saw the barest glimmer of that piece of myself that was cut away along with my cancer. In my youth, I quested to be normal, to see things as either/or, not all things at once. Craving acceptance, thus the mote root of my constant attention-seeking, I mirrored the attitudes of my peers to my folly. While six weeks of lying about, getting fat, and doing nothing may sound like a dream to some, for me, it was torture.

As my libido came back, on overdrive no less, the inability to quench those lusty fires only made them burn all the hotter. On top of that, my body grew weak from inactivity and my lithe, toned, sexy figure ballooned out with nearly twenty pounds of gained weight from being forced into a sedentary lifestyle. If at least some of it had expanded my too-small, not-quite C-cup breasts, I wouldn’t have minded so much. My taut stomach with that muscular line down the center became a tummy. Those slim, well-shaped pillars of lust that were my thighs became wide pipes of flab. I no longer looked or felt like myself.

Regardless, second by second, I grew into a shadow of my former self, albeit a larger shadow. My focus slowly changed from not trying to die to learning how to live once more. The realization that I am not just sex crept back into my mind. I am a business owner with lots of friends that appreciate me for more than my traffic-stopping ass. Well, at least they pretend to tolerate me when I’m around. Constricting myself to being only sex when I’m like nature—all things, all at once—was simply my own self-doubt being the last demon to be exorcised.

However, having been through the trials and tribulations of despair, I realized that it wasn’t that I doubted who I was; I was simply terrified to face my true nature. I knew what I had to do to reclaim my identity. Announcing it with all the fanfare and pageantry I could muster, I became determined to plunge myself off the cliffs of insanity and right into the lusty rocks of passion below. As soon as the last second of my surgeon-imposed sexual exile ticked off the clock, I was going to embark on a sexual journey of rediscovery and fuck and suck until I was fully myself once more.

Still uncertain if I could continue upon the path I’d blazed for myself, the first leg of my journey, my descent back into the world of horny debauchery, was walked alone. My friends were with me in spirit, of that I am certain. It’s impossible to keep yourself down when everyone around you is lifting you up and cheering you on. Regardless, I was faced with the choice of either embracing my true nature or eschewing it. I tried denying myself in my past and spent decades in misery; I’d had enough despair to last a lifetime.

The night before, the moon of the Spring Equinox growing to fullness, I conducted a sex ritual of sorts. My chest of sex toys, having been locked in case I was tempted to give in to the temptations of desire, was finally opened. Each and every toy, my dildos, my vibrators, my grinders, my anal toys, and my high-tech gadgets that synced to smart devices or live sounds, were lovingly cleaned and sanitized. My self-love accessories that had batteries were fully charged, causing a rolling blackout across my locale. Massaged to sleep by my loving husband, I awoke the next morning to sunshine, bird calls, and that sweetness in the air that only a nascent Spring brings.

Nude, I sat in bed, eating my breakfast that is always awaiting my awakening, and reading the supportive, thoughtful love note that always accompanies my morning repast. Heading to the bathroom, further delight washed over me. My husband had cleaned the entire house, paying special attention to the tub. Everything sparkled with cleanliness, and soft towels, some waterproof toys that I prefer, and a large jar of fresh rose petals had been set aside for my leisure. He’d even cleaned the stray strands out of my hairbrush.

Having taken the day off work, which I can do whenever I want because I'm the boss, I brushed out my hair, the soft, wavy curls of the previous day uncoiling into straightness, and decided to walk outside to finish my coffee. Nude, clad only by the sky, I traipsed through the mud, steaming mug in hand, and sat on the wooden bench of my gazebo.

The miracle of life filled my soul, birds dancing in the sky just for my pleasure. Clouds morphed into sexual imagery in my mind’s eye as I sipped my java and took a retrospective moment of meditation. I hadn’t beaten cancer; I lucked out, and it was discovered and hacked out of me, an ovary along with, it before it could destroy me. The months-long mental journey had sunk me into Hell, but I clawed my way back out. The only thing left was the lingering fear that I could no longer function sexually, the inability to be the person I so recently was.

Pushing that negativity from my mind, I focused on the sounds of a woodpecker off in the woods. The “pound, pound, pound…pause…pound, pound, pound” washed over me. Birdsong and the natural sounds of nature filled me. With closed eyes, a chilling breeze stiffening my nipples, my hands explored my nude flesh.

As I relaxed into the gentle caresses of my fingertips, it was as if a crushing weight was slowly lifted off of me. When my hands squeezed my breasts, I exhaled a loud, exalted sigh of relief. As I ran my hands down my now-soft torso, those sighs grew into languid moans. Upon reaching my thighs, I marveled over the heat of my flesh and the wetness between my legs. My sexual dew was far wetter than the morning’s, and I’d already soaked the seat in anticipation.

The doubt that I’d no longer be able to get horny disintegrated with the first plunge of my index finger between my velvety folds. My fears that I’d need to force my sexuality after what I’d been through were drowned out by my earth-shattering moan when I touched my swollen, sensitive clit. My voice turns husky and breathy when I’m highly aroused, and I sounded like I’d just smoked a carton of cigarettes and washed it down with two bottles of bourbon.

But was I still sexy and desirable? I am not only sex, I am all things. Fury and fornication, passion and dedication, creativity and carnality, and intellect combined with horniness are all parts of me. Like The Goddess, Mother Nature, I am serenity and fury, sanity and devastation, and the miracle of life still runs through me. I could once more envision myself as I always did. I’m the woman your mother warned you about because she wants me for herself. As soon as a finger plunged into my soaking hole, fucking myself as I fingered my clit, I knew that for certain.

My thighs, spread and quivering, were growing weak as I fingered myself in the great outdoors. However, the question still haunted me. To prove to myself, one way or the other, that I was still desirable, I slowly sauntered to the front of our property, enjoying the morning sun on my nudity as the cool, morning air chilled my exposed flesh. Though my feet and ankles were covered in mud, I felt another heightening of personal elation as I didn’t ask myself what the “old Krystal” would do; I knew what I was going to do.

I waited, the small, faux-stone pillar near the end of the driveway perfect for rubbing my cunt against, until I heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. The two-lane highway we live on seldom sees traffic, but I needed this, so I had to wait. Of course, it being barely eight-thirty in the morning, it was far too early for there to be any mail in the mailbox, but it was a handy excuse. I timed my reveal to perfectly coincide with the vehicle coming around the bend.

A huge semi-truck, carrying a heavy load of logs, rounded the curve at the precise moment my nude body left the cover of the trees. Feigning shock and embarrassment, which I probably pulled off considering that my pale, freckled skin was flush with arousal, I distorted my face into a mask of humiliation, then just shrugged and waved as the poor teamster swerved dramatically. He wasn’t avoiding me, he was shocked.

I stifled a laugh as I felt my pussy gush at the sexual attention, then turned toward the mailbox and bent forward to look inside. Obviously, there was no mail, but I arched my back, deeply, sticking my ass out to display it. The loud, repeated bursts of the driver’s air horns startled me, at first, then made me smile and wave. I was still sexy.

With extreme haste, I sloshed through the mud to retrieve my coffee mug and raced inside, leaving muddy footprints all over the floor. I lit the candles in the bathroom, wanting romantic lighting, and ran a hot bubble bath for myself, adding the rose petals when the water was half full. Due to my surgery, I’d only been recently allowed to bathe, and the sensual luxury of it all consumed me.

I lay there in the bath, smelling the sweet scents of roses and oils, and slowly explored my entire body. Only stopping once to take a quick snapshot of my pussy, so I could show off my slutty self to anyone I felt like showing, I relived flashing the trucker as I gave into temptation and began fingering my dripping cunt once more.

Every person I’ve ever fucked or had sex with danced across the stage of my fantasies. My hands were plunging into my cunt with a frenzied, urgent need, and my body was writhing all over the place, splashing gallons of sudsy water onto the floor. I didn’t care. Every person I’d chatted with online was now with me, fucking me, licking, sucking me, and even abusing me as I screamed for more.

My resistance to my kinks melted away, the self-induced exile of that part of my sexuality bursting forward with horny ferocity. I no longer cared that I was the creepy, raincoat version of a woman; I’m fucking horny, live with it. Stopping on the verge of an orgasm, I grabbed the bottle of waterproof lube, specifically designed for wet environments, and lubed up a tiny anal plug.

I screamed in delight when it popped into my ass, my efforts on my cunt redoubled. Sloshing more water out of the tub, even snuffing out a candle, my clit-sucker was snatched off the nearby table and quickly applied to my burning nub. In less than ten seconds, I exploded in an orgasm so intense that my vision blackened, stars exploding behind my eyelids.

The discomfort from my surgery was intense, but so was my desire. With that orgasm, the dam that held back my true nature crumbled, and the waters of unrepentant lust washed over my soul, calming my fears, and filling me with the sexual power that I advertise in all I say and do.

My toy, which resists water but is not proofed against it, frizzled out after my second orgasm. Not bothering with towels, in a sexual frenzy, I jumped out of the tub, nearly slipping on the soaked floor, and ran into the bedroom. The plug fell out of my ass along the way and bounced across the hallway floor.

What followed was an hours-long masturbation marathon. I finger fucked myself to orgasm, as the things I’d done in public raised my love of exhibitionism from the dead. A small dildo plunged into my cunt as I fingered my clit and sucked on a toy as my incessant need for group sex destroyed my shame of acting sexually in front of everyone. A gossamer-thin wrap adorned my body as I fucked my ass with a vibrator, clamps stimulating my nipples. With a large plug inserted in my asshole, humping my tentacle dildo, and vibing my clit, I called my husband and dirty talked to him, describing what I was feeling, as I got myself again and again.

Still horny, but hungry, I stopped long enough to drive to a local café, wearing only a thin, short dress, and had a light lunch. My sexual boldness was still in doubt, so I couldn’t resist quietly fingering myself to a gentle but fun orgasm there in the booth. I was still getting off on the risk factor, each orgasm bringing me more into alignment with who I truly am. Like an onion of shame, each orgasm peeled away doubt and confusion, slowly revealing my true self at its core.

The foothills of Appalachia are always beautiful, but as Mother Earth awakens from her wintry slumber, it is a special, miraculous time. On the way home, I pulled onto a dirt road and headed up to a higher elevation. I pulled my car off to the side, threw my dress into the seat, and walked, naked once more, into the forest. Still horny, stopping every few yards to edge my dripping pussy, I found a convenient boulder and leaned against it.

As the wildlife slunk about in the underbrush, I sang to them. My fingers played my clit as the music, and orgasmic moans were the lyrics. As I wantonly displayed my sexual intensity to the Goddess, she filled me once more with mirth, the joys of being both an intellectual creature and a primal, lusty animal. Still not sexually sated, I returned home, driving the distance nude.

Hours passed as I fucked myself into oblivion. I was sweating in my sexual heat, covered in my cunt juice, and licking my nectar off my fingers as I fucked myself, fingered myself, and even humped the couch’s arm. The entire house smelled of my sexual perfume, and I urgently needed more and more. I proved to myself that I was still sexual, but not just sexual.

I don’t know how many orgasms I gave myself; I lost count, somewhere between twenty and thirty. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that each cum I bestowed upon myself stripped away some of my doubt, a little fear, or some insecurity I’d developed.

“Fucking fuck, that feels good. I so fucking missed myself.” Dirty talk, check.

My husband, Mr, Perfect himself, arrived at precisely the time he promised. I knew he was due home, I checked the time on the clock just shortly before I ran some sanitizer over its contours and humped it to orgasm. That was a timely orgasm. All smiles, I wanted him to catch me. I needed to see that unfettered lust in his eyes as he gazed upon me. My wish was granted.

Still afraid to fuck him, as his cock is huge, and I had a plan in place, I did as he bade as threw on a slutty dress, so we could go out to dinner. Down the road we drove, me fingering my dripping cunt, soaking the car seat, all the way.

At the restaurant, we were quickly seated, my favorite wine already poured, and our friend, the assistant chef, came out to greet us. He and I have played before.

“Hi, Luke,” I said to him, noting his eyes lingering on my half-exposed breasts with my hard nipples sticking out. “I’m super fucking horny. Can I suck you off, please?” Now that is a true Krystal greeting.

Less than a minute later, we were in the kitchen with me on my knees, his hard cock fucking my face while I fingered my snatch to another orgasm. He, at my insistence, fucked my mouth so hard that I gagged, slobber dripping from my lips. When he came, I sucked and plunged for all I was worth, pots and pans clamoring to the floor, but I didn’t care.

Kissing him on the lips, so he could taste himself on my tongue, I thanked my friend for letting me suck him and returned to dinner. We drove home with me feeling at peace for the first moment in what seemed like many lifetimes. I’d managed to break free of the chains I’d hung upon myself, but that was only solo. Could I handle sex with others, other than blowing them and swallowing cum?

I begged and pled, but my husband was the voice of wisdom. The plan was to work up to him, one baby step at a time. I did, however, let him make me cum a few more times. I still had some phantoms of uncertainty about who and what I am, but I hoped to work through all of those in the coming weekend. I had something special planned.

To be continued…