The word, “slut,” holds a life-defining impact. The monosyllabic phrase has power over me, you, men, and women. No matter how one disguises or makes light of it, the negative connotations remain. Even in today’s culture of tolerance and acceptance, being labeled as a slut is the death knell of society.

Women use it as a word of condescending judgment or, sometimes, to mark an impassable barrier, the territory beyond which they’ll never tread.

“She’s a slut,” carries disdain and marks the speaker as feeling superior. In just that single word, women condemn others as beneath them, scandalous, trashy, and useless, except for what’s between their thighs.

“I won’t wear that; it’s too slutty,” communicates that the woman speaking refuses to cross whatever imaginary line she’s set as her boundary. To dress in such a fashion is for the plebeian women who have nothing to offer except sex; she is not one of those.

The refrains of, “I’m not a slut,” are used to differentiate a woman from the crass, callous masses of sex-fiendish trollops looking for sex—those that have no self-respect and rely on their pussy for a sense of value. In the world of femininity, there are only two types of women, regular, classy women with self-esteem and trashy, worthless sluts.

Men bandy the word about, arbitrarily applying sluthood status to any woman for just about any reason. Ironically, if a woman refuses a man’s advances, he will often call her a slut. If she wants sex, she’s most definitely slutty. If she has sex, then she’s a full-on nympho slut tramp. Of course, men being men—sorry guys—if she doesn’t put out, then, she’s either a prude or a cock-tease. The Madonna-Whore complex lives on in the echoes of men’s denigration.

Even now, the double standard is on glaring display. If a man takes on multiple lovers and sows his wild oats as much as possible, then he’s a stud. How dare a woman enjoy sex or multiple partners? If she does, she’s a slut. If a guy breaks up with his girlfriend, and she moves on, she becomes an instant candidate for slutdom. “That whoring slut is fucking Bobby Crenshaw!” What did he expect? She’s no longer with him, and Bobby just happened to say and do the right things.

Conscientiously or not, most women measure themselves by their own, arbitrary slut-ruler. Every word, deed, and piece of clothing must fall outside the realm of slutty, because, once one has entered the infernal kingdom of Slutopia, they are forever marked. But, as loathed, disdained, hated, and shamed as we sluts may be, we are in high demand.

The word “slut” holds great power. It has the power to destroy a person, both mentally and emotionally. It can rend one’s soul, shame them, make her shunned by her peers, and be treated like a worthless piece of meat. Slut-shamers take great joy in trouncing the “little whores,” really putting them in their place, which is beneath the accuser's station, of course.

But, despite the stigma and second- or third-class oppression the label brings, being a slut can be empowering. Regrettably, not every woman with “Slut” tattooed across her forehead evolves beyond the shameful, negative stereotype. Many will adopt the “fake it until you make it” mien and pretend to be happy with their socially-imposed lot in life, but only the proud few can own their sluthood and wield it like a weapon of mass seduction.

Being at peace with society's spiteful conventions turns a generic slut into a goddess of passion. Let’s face it; well-behaved women are habitually lost in the annals of history. While history will ultimately decide my legacy, I like to entertain the notion that I am in the proud slut category. I brandish my slutty slutdom before me; it’s a shield, deflecting the unworthy away from me and weeding out the curmudgeons that just want to sink their cock into a slut’s treasure box. Being a slut warns away the timid, empowers me to surrender to my hedonistic urges, and gives me complete and utter control over the masses.

My name is Krystal, and I’m, most definitively, a slut. Women slut-shame me, scandalized by my dirty, filthy, kinky, perverted antics. Men lust after me, one hand reaching out to grab my perfect, round, plump ass while the other strokes their hard shaft. I’ve come to peace with my urges, incorporating them into my essence. I could humbly brag that I’m the sluttiest slut in all of slutdom. My friends are all sluts—maybe a cheap tart or a trollop thrown in here and there, for good measure—and the very gods, themselves, fated me to play this role long before my birth.

While I still retain a modicum of class and style, and I do have a quick wit and enough intelligence to not fall for every would-be Lothario’s pickup lines, acknowledging that I am, by almost any standard, a slut, was not an easy journey. I went from hating the label to ignoring it, and, finally, owning it. Now, I define the word differently than the rest of the universe.

To me—and thanks to my husband for coining the phrase—slut means "Sexually Liberated Uninhibited Temptress." That’s S.L.U.T. If you think I’m a trashy whore for hardly ever wearing a bra and never wearing panties, I have an entire ass that you can kiss. Plus, because my pussy is always pouring with wetness and I never wear panties, you have easy access, so pucker the fuck up and get each cheek.

If people think I’m a skanky, trashy vixen for enjoying multiple lovers, that judgmental vitriol they hurl upon me just removed them from my potential to-do list. That’s their loss. I used to pander to others, hoping that if I became what they felt was acceptable, that I’d fit in and be included in their groups. Now, I just laugh at the pathetic haters and shake my slutty ass, so they know what they’re missing.

All I need to do is wiggle my butt or bat my eyelashes, and men come running from the ends of the earth to earn their shot at me. My lady lovers, friends, and playmates are comfortable with my promiscuity, and I have a constant supply of eager, wanton women that want to grab handfuls of my long, natural, red hair and press their engorged clits against my lashing tongue. Simply put, you can call me a slut all you want, but I’m the one having all the fun… and mind-blowing sex.

When I graduated from high school, the first thing I did, mere hours after graduation, was to move away. My only goal in life, at that moment, was to escape the slut-shaming of my peers. Maltreated, quite unjustly, the onerous, accursed word had been attached to me before I even knew what a slut was. It defined me through negative reinforcement; I was the victim of constant, harsh bullying because I wasn’t just a slut, I was a pagan-raised slut, the Devil’s Daughter, Satan’s Whore, and, my personal favorite, the Slut-Witch. 

I entered college and quickly earned the nickname of “Hippie Chick.” Shortly thereafter, the saying, “Oh, Hippie chick? She’s a slut, a sure thing,” became commonplace. It wasn’t true, but the truth never matters when one is hurling slanderous accusations at others. It bothered me because it wasn’t true. I wasn’t any more trashy or promiscuous than Molly Big-tits cheerleader; I just had that slutty aura about me.

However, the collegiate atmosphere was different enough from the tiny, little village of my youth that there was an ample supply of people that wanted to hang out with me because I was a slut, a pagan, and my parents were stoner hippies. The fact that my father had been perpetually stoned since the second I was born also aided in finding some people who wouldn't rather die than be caught hanging out with me. My parents’ monthly visits almost always included a paper shopping filled with about a pound of weed, enough to put the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir into a coma.

I soon learned that being sexually desirable gave me all the power. I could have sex whenever I wanted, with whoever I felt like, and nobody would mind. I could dress like a cheap, tawdry stripper and people would leer, stare, whistle, and proposition me, but I wasn’t shamed. It was liberating. Furthermore, a scant few people began to appreciate me for my mind and sense of humor. I was even invited to join the local campus Neo-pagan group. Being a third-generation pagan, raised within a nature-faith, put me in demand, as if I held some truth or wisdom about their Wicca above and beyond the normal college Freshman, “I saw a witch in this one movie that one time,” expertise. It was during that phase that I discovered the power of being a slut.

At that time, I had something that I’d never had, before, in my life—a boyfriend. I was by no means a virgin, just the rite of passage known as dating had eluded me. Young men in my hometown didn’t date sluts due to the social stigma. The few high schoolers who dared to ask me out were quickly targeted with insults, ridiculed, and ostracized, the same treatment I received every waking moment of my formative years.

But, in college, young men would boldly tell me how sexy I was and ask me out on a date. Feeling some compulsion to be partnered, I readily accepted. Hippie Chick Krystal quickly worked her way through several young men and women, even one sexy, perverted professor, enjoying the carnal pleasures of them all—the professor multiple times. Before I realized it, though, I had a boyfriend, Brent. A first date, ending in sex, led to another date that both began and ended with horny, lusty passion. On our third date, it was just fucking. 

Brent was, by all metrics, good-looking and kind. He was also deep in the throes of young manhood, which meant that he was constantly horny. Who better to have for a girlfriend than a slut? Even better, how about a natural redhead, raised as a free-spirited pagan, with a body that stopped traffic, and who was almost always horny? I knew that Brent wasn’t my Mister Right, but he more than sufficed as Mister Right-Now. 

After that third date, I’d pretty much stayed at his apartment, full-time. His roommate, Tom, was a childhood friend of Brent’s and didn’t mind me cavorting about their tiny, basement abode dressed like a cheap slut. I’d long ago discovered the joys of flashing, and I got off on it. I was wearing panties back then, at least sporadically, because the trashy slut connotations of going without were something I wanted to avoid. Of course, my constantly-soaked pussy drenched them, but, still, I tried to adopt the norms of modesty.

One Friday night after midterm exams, I dropped by Brent’s place shortly after classes. It being a weekend, we’d already fallen into a routine of sorts. To me, it was what couples did, and I looked forward to getting stoned, then going out and acting crazy, followed by some crazy sex when we got back. I even had sleepclothes over at Brent’s place, despite his roommate stealing my panties on two occasions.

“I’m sorry,” Brent told me when I arrived. “But my friends from back home are coming by and staying the weekend. We can’t hang out. You can drop by tonight if you want, but we’ll probably be going out, just the guys.”

Internally, I was crushed. Why didn’t he want to show off his sexy, flame-haired girlfriend to his buddies? Was he ashamed of me? I had mirrors; I was smoking fucking hot. Guys are supposed to parade their girlfriends around, show them off like trophies, and bolster their masculine image by decorating their arms with a centerfold model.

“Oh, no problem. I completely understand. I might drop by, maybe not.”

I did more than that. I may have been only eighteen years old, but I was raised by stoner swingers; I knew how to entice if I felt like it. It was just such a pity that nobody in my hometown wanted to be seduced by me. My dorm had a communal kitchen area at the end of the hall. I’d never used it, before, but I did that afternoon.

First, I went shopping for clothes to stun, then for some of those pre-packed, just bake, cookies and some other items. A long shower, my trusty razor caressing my flesh and leaving only supple, smooth skin, followed. Having mastered the art form of witchy makeup, I laid it on heavy and thick, hiding my ugly freckles and smoothing out my skin. By the time I was done, I looked ready for a fashion-model shoot. 

There was this lovely, little “head shop” just off campus. Long, flowing, feminine dresses, wispy skirts, and tie-dyed tops galore occupied seemingly endless racks of clothing. They also sold pagan-light supplies, books, incense, essential oils, and various paraphernalia for smoking weed; you know the type of place. There, I’d discovered a crocheted, hemp halter top that was revealing enough to be slutty as fuck and a handkerchief skirt, in green, that flowed around my too-skinny thighs like a gossamer wind. 

Armed with a devastating one-two-three combination of lusty fire-stoking, I left my on-campus shanty, about the size of one’s average broom closet, and made my way across campus to Brent’s apartment. Just for the thrill of it, I counted cat-calls. According to an unofficial, campus polling, I possessed a fuckable ass, the way my tits bounced in that slutty top was delicious, and I was advised to not break it as I shook it.

While the process had been ongoing, I was just beginning to become aware of my feminine, slutty magnificence. Subconsciously, the sting of constant ridicule had subsided. In pain’s wake, the realization that people sexually wanted me led to a sort of sexual confidence, which evolved into the beginnings of self-confidence. Lust and desire, unfettered and displayed, made me feel wanted.

While it wasn’t the attention I’d always wanted in my life, it was attention, nonetheless. While my sexual journey into being a torrid, dirty slut was only beginning, I’d already surpassed most young women in the scandalous, slutty behavior category. I had a penchant for flashing my nude, trimmed pussy and supple ass; I masturbated almost constantly, sometimes in public, just for the thrill; and I’d already warmed to the attention I received by dressing in slut-wear. I had three main looks at the time: slutty whore, slutty tomboy, and slutty, Bohemian, witch gypsy. 

Unscathed and feeling like the hottest tramp to ever march across the quad, I made it to my boyfriend’s place and knocked on the door. Brent’s roommate, Tom, answered, and that’s when the fun began.

“Who the fuck could that be?” I heard through the too-thin door. “I’ll get it.”

I waited.

“Brent, it’s Krystal,” he shouted over his shoulder.

Then, he opened the door wide, letting me waltz in. While Tom had always ogled my physical charms, the poor boy’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. His eyes locked onto my war-painted face, then meandered to my mostly-exposed boobs. His gaze stayed there for time eternal before passing over my taut, exposed stomach, and lingering at my overheating cunt. The treatment I received crossing campus, plus his appreciative and open lust, had my nipples so hard and erect that they were poking through the loosely woven top. My pussy was so wet that I could smell my liquid arousal. I knew that my light blue panties were saturated, probably a dark blue, by then.

I didn’t walk in, I strutted. I held the cookies and sundries before me like a trophy. Hanging from one hand, I also held a bag of green, herbal goodness. In my other hand, I held a bag that contained my polyhedral dice, used for role-playing games, and a three-pack of condoms. I was bearing gifts, junk food, and drugs, and I looked not only like a slutty fuck toy but also as if I were the horniest woman to have ever lived—quite prophetic.

“Hi, guys,” I purred in a sultry voice. My voice is naturally a bit husky unless I go into my shrill “little brat” voice. Given that I didn’t have the local, Southern twang, I sounded more exotic than the local sluts. “I’m Krystal, Brent’s girlfriend.”

“Dude, you have a girlfriend?” one of them said, amazed.

“There goes the party,” another lamented. 

I was prepared for that. 

“I’m not here to go all Yoko Ono on your Beatles,” I assured them. “I baked cookies for you and your friends.” I smiled at them all, sticking my not-quite C-cup breasts out for them to drool over. In the hemp, crocheted, scanty top, my tits looked awesome. 

I continued. “Now, I know I’m not welcome tonight, boy’s night and all, but, since Brent won’t tell me what you’re doing, here are some goodies for you and your friends, Brent. I think I have all the bases covered.”

Brent shrugged and approached me, finding the nerve to passionately kiss me in front of his friends. More for my horny thrills than to build up Brent, I writhed in his embrace, rubbing my mostly-exposed body against him, and I moaned into his mouth.

“Here’s a box of condoms,” I took the little parcel out of the bag. “I know we haven’t discussed anything serious, yet, so I don’t own you.”

“Dude!” his friends collectively moaned, enthusiastically.

I pulled out my dice bag. “Here’s my D&D dice in case you guys are into flying your geek flags like me. I like to play druids, personally.”

“Fucking awesome, Brent.”

I went on. “Here’s a big bag of my dad’s weed, if you guys want to get stoned. Now, there’s nothing worse than a clingy girlfriend that won’t give you any space, so I’ll head out, but…”

“Dude! She’s fucking awesome. Why didn’t you tell us about her?”

“But,” I continued, “I’m going to go out and have a good time, myself. If you hook up with a hot, sexy coed, use the condoms, and I expect you to tell me all the details while you fuck me later. The same goes for me. I might be able to find somebody that wants to sleep with me. If you go the other way and game, the druid class is still reserved for me, though. You’d make an excellent sorcerer, Brent.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but my slutty little tactics had made Brent a sex-god among men. His friends were awed by my slutty presence. 

“See you later, boys. Nice to meet you.” I turned on my heel, intentionally doing so to make that wispy little rag of a skirt flair out, exposing my thong just a tiny bit.

“Stay here with us!”

“Dude, marry her!”

“If you don’t I will.”

“Um, sure guys,” Brent had finally found his voice. “This is Krystal, my girlfriend.”

I smiled and struck a sexy bimbo pose. My hip jutted out to one side, my head careened to the other, and the movements caused my tits to jiggle. “I don’t want to cramp your style.”

“Come on! You have to. Hang with us bros.”

I’d tasted my slutty powers and hungered for more.

“Yeah, cool,” Brent finally said. He grabbed me by the arm, keeping me from leaving. “Hang with us.” He paused. “That is if you want to.”

“I don’t know,” I musingly teased.

My hands went to my hips, arms akimbo, and I took in a deep breath, sighing in mock frustration as I raised then dropped my shoulders. As if deep in thought, I let my right leg wander around, my sandalled foot making random tracery on the stained carpet. As I did this, I saw Brent’s friends’ eyes bulge out. They were entranced by my body’s movements. I suppressed a giggle, growing heady and horny with the power rushing through me.

“I’m all dressed up to go on the prowl, and I don’t want to be a…” I paused, pretending that my brain had abandoned my body, counting. “… sixth wheel.”

My hands went to the small of my back, pushing my hips forward as I arched backward. It looked as if I were merely stretching my back, but my high, pert breasts jutted out from my thin torso, and the macramé top drew itself tight over my mounds. My pussy thrust itself forward as I leaned back, the thin, pixie-like material highlighting my satin-clad pussy.

“If you guys really want me here, and Brent and Tommy don’t mind, I guess I can hang out a little. But you’ll have to beg me.” They begged.

During the next few hours, I sat on the threadbare sofa, Brent’s arm draped possessively around me and got to know my boyfriend’s high school friends. The three of them, Mike, Arnie, and Tobias, hung out with Tommy and Brent. While the recollections of their antics were nothing new, typical among reunited friends, for me, it was a new experience. I’d only had a tiny handful of friends in my youth and only one close friend, Jennifer.

All the while, I stretched and posed provocatively. The fact that five young, virile men were drooling over me had me in an aroused stupor. I noticed that every time I’d shift my legs, at least one of them would attempt a clandestine up-the-skirt gander. The fact that these guys were going out of their way to gaze upon my flesh caused many physical and mental changes within me.

Mentally, I was becoming more and more turned on. I couldn’t fathom exactly what had changed; it didn’t even cross my mind at that moment. Somehow, my mind had taken my shame over being labeled a slut and turned it into a force to be reckoned with. I was no longer insulted, ridiculed, or excluded because everyone thought I was a slut; I was being revered, paid attention to, and not only accepted, but enthusiastically included.

Physically, my body responded with a passionate heat that I’d never experienced before. I’d been uncontrollably aroused before, but this was different, more intense, all-consuming. Shortly after I received my driver’s license, I developed the habit of driving to the public library to study. One memorable evening, wearing only a thin top and patchwork skirt, no underwear, I accidentally flashed an older man while I was focused on my studies. The thrill of that moment unlocked a major kink that still gets me off to this very day. Flashing a complete stranger made me so lustfully aroused that I’d barely made it to the library’s parking lot and into my dad’s truck before my fingers were fucking my dripping pussy and flying all over my clit. That overwhelming, horny sensation vibrated through my body, with additional sensations of aroused bliss.

This was similar, yet still incredibly different. I was wearing panties, although my tits were basically on display. They were interacting with me, carrying on a rambling conversation, drinking with me, and, still, their eyes devoured me. My body responded on a primal level, making my skin hot as fire, my loins as wet as the ocean, and every nerve in my body tingled with lust. It was the thrill of being desired, the physicality of having a captive audience lusting over me, and my awareness of the events unfolding that put me in control. I had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom, several times, to mop up the puddle in my panties.

Of course, any time the pipe burnt out or somebody drained a beer, I volunteered to repack the pipe or fetch their brews. I’m not subservient; I did it for the visual effects. The apartment’s floor plan was mostly open, which allowed me to take full advantage 

The apartment was an elongated rectangle, only those little, basement windows near the ceiling. One entered from the kitchen area, the door to the only bathroom on the right. The cooking area gave way to the living space, a hallway leading off of that, at the edge of the kitchen area, that led to a small bedroom on either side. Just past the living room, Tommy’s bedroom was on the left and Brent’s on the right. Brent’s room jutted up against the tiny bathroom, and there was a door that connected the two. Like all slum-lord-owned campus properties, this apartment had paper-thin doors and only the cheapest of appliances and fixtures.

Due to the kitchen and living area flowing together, anybody in the living room had a perfect view of the kitchen and me in it. If I kept the light off, the light from the refrigerator, the door opening toward the sitting area, illuminated my body, in profile view to them, as I bent deeply into the fridge to retrieve the cheap beers. Unknown to them all, I could see their reactions and facial expressions through the refrigerator door's gap, and, if I glanced upward, I could see the reflection of myself in one of the small windows. The dim light shone through my thin skirt; the cold air from the ice box made my already taut and sensitive nipples stick way out, little goosebumps forming on my excited areolas. The loose, web-like weave of the crocheted top took on highlights and shadows, enhancing the sexual appeal of my juicy tits.

If I was packing a pipe, I’d turn on the little light over the kitchen sink. Intentionally leaning on the counter, sticking my incredibly shaped ass out, and rocking back and forth, just the barest bit of my ass cheeks were exposed. A little back arching here, some boob jiggling there, and the occasional moan while I made a dramatic fuss had a devastating effect. I basked in the warm glow of their horny desire and found myself getting bolder by the minute.

As the evening wore on, everyone was feeling no pain and having a fantastic time. Finding myself the center of their horny attention, I began entertaining fantasies of fucking all of them. I mentally admonished myself for such filthy, dirty desires, but, then, some inner mote, a strong sense of my essence interrupted that line of thought with, who cares what everyone else thinks? Go for it. I’d just begun peppering my speech with some innocent innuendo when a turn of events changed the night’s trajectory.

Arnie, a stereotypical long-haired nerd type, was helping me in the kitchen. His help consisted of standing there, staring at my boobs, legs, and ass while I pulled out a box of wine and poured it into plastic cups. We’d just run out of beer, and that was the last of the wine. I took three cups, and Arnie scooped up two others. 

Unfortunately, I moved to my left, taking a step toward the living room, and Arnie moved to his right to avoid me. The collision resulted in the two, center cups I had the barest grasp upon spilling onto my chest. Not to be outdone, both of Arnie’s wine-filled tumblers earned their namesake and tumbled the contents all over my slutty top and barely-there skirt. My skin was as drenched as my pussy.

“That’s alcohol abuse,” Tobias laughed.

“If you’re taking volunteers, to help you clean up…” Mike chortled.

“That really sucks, guys,” I lamented. “We’re out of booze.”

“Beer Run! Beer Run!”

“Alright, let’s go to the liquor store. Want anything, Krys?”

“A bottle of sweet wine, please. How about I stay here and grab a quick shower since I’m covered in cheap wine?”

“But your clothes are ruined.”

“I have some pajamas here if you guys don’t mind me lounging around like I live here.”

“She spends the night? Duder!”

“I think I’ll stay here, too,” Arnie announced.

“Me too.”

“Me three. We’ll keep the party going until you guys get back.”

Thinking nothing of it, Tommy and my boyfriend left, cash in hand, for a beer and booze run. That left their three, out-of-town friends and me all alone. With forbidden, naughty thoughts running through my mind, I had to struggle to resist the temptation to cheat on my first, official boyfriend. Instead, I took what was, for me, a more exciting route. I decided to ride the teasing high I’d been on and torture the horny, young men. Just the very thoughts of my nascent plan made me need to cum.

As far as I knew, Brent’s friends had no clue that the bedroom was also connected to the bathroom. As soon as I got into my boyfriend’s room, I stripped off my soaked clothes and panties, dried off the still-wet wine from most of my skin using a red towel, and wrapped my nude body in a large, clean towel. Carrying my sodden clothing on a hooked finger, panties on display, I exited the boudoir, walked down the hall rather than using the adjoining door, and waltzed past the three very intoxicated guys.

All conversation ceased as I sauntered across their field of view. With my skimpy clothes hanging off my finger, there was no doubt that I was nude under the towel.

“Don’t mind me,” I sang out. My voice had grown even huskier, tempered with my highly aroused state. “I’ll just be a minute or two.” I caught a glance of slacked jaws as I turned and walked through the kitchen to enter the bathroom. Luckily, I held my slutty smirk long enough to turn my back to them. I was struggling to not laugh, giddy in my power over them.

That had been the end of my diabolical plan, but the rush I felt was incredible. As soon as I’d closed and locked the bathroom door, I ran some water in the sink and soaked my wine-drenched outfit. Having showered in there before, I knew that it took a few minutes before the hot water ran anything other than frigid. I turned on the shower and then took the other door into Brent’s bedroom. My overnight bag was under his bed, and I grabbed my sleepwear.

Then, I heard the sound of Brent’s friends talking. My name was mentioned. I had to close the door to the bathroom to quiet the roar of the shower, and then press my ear against the bedroom door before I could clearly hear them.

“She’s like the coolest chick, ever. I’m transferring to here if the women are like that.”

“I hope she’s smart enough to break up with Brent because I want her. She’s so fucking hot.”

“Yeah, duder. Did you see her tits? Arnie, you rubbed up against her. Is her ass as tight as it looks?”

“I hope she didn’t notice my wood when we smashed together. I know she’s our friend’s girlfriend, but I want some.”

As I listened, my fingers ran over my boobs, pulling on my hard nipples. I had to stifle a moan when Tobias said that he wished he could lick my cunt all night long. By the time the trio of slut-lovers were discussing the assumed pleasures of fucking me hard, my fingers were deeply embedded in my overheated cunt. Horny vibrations, their lusty power exponentially increased by all the weed I’d smoked, overtook my body. I hadn’t planned on it, but I had a quiet but powerful orgasm as I listened to the guys talking about how sexy they thought I was. A monetary panic followed, and I ran into the bathroom and jumped into the shower.

I was only under the warm, soothing spray for a few minutes. I wrung out my soaking clothes, wrapped myself once more in the towel, making sure my nipples jutted out, and walked back through the apartment to the bedroom. Then I pondered my only remaining clothing.

I’d packed those pajamas with the intent of arousing Brent, so he’d slam his hard cock into my pussy. They weren’t lounging around in front of newly-met friends clothes. The top was a thin, white cotton camisole tank with lace spaghetti straps for shoulders. The shorts were also a matching, thin cotton. Designed for comfort while sleeping, the material became translucent in decent lighting, and the leg holes were quite wide. Furthermore, the back of the shorts ended right about where my thighs met my butt. If I took even the smallest of steps, my ass was on display. If I bent over, it was cheek city. I didn’t have any panties there, because, why would I? So, it was either loose, flash-facilitating shorts or nothing at all.

My skin was still damp, even wet in spots, from my quick shower and hurried drying off. When I pulled on the two, thin articles of clothing, the wetness of my flesh plastered the material against my skin. My damp hair also maintained the stiffness of my nipples. Even though my hair was raggedy from the shower, I looked like hot sex ready to go. It took three tries before I got it right, but I discovered that if I pulled the waist of the shorts up just enough, a hint of the bottoms of my ass cheeks were showing and the seam of the crotch pressed itself gently between my pussy lips.

Dressed like a rutting slut and grabbing my towel as a prop, I bounced out and down the hall, pretending to dry my hair.

“Miss me?” I said to the trio of stunned, college-age boys. The comfy top molded itself to my breasts, revealing their contours, how my nipples tilted upward, ever so slightly, and how, even as small as they were, they looked prominent on my smaller frame. 

They just sat there, staring.

“What? You’ve never seen a girl in her PJs, before? Pass the damn pipe; the shower sobered me up too much.”

On hands and knees, I climbed onto the sofa, took the pipe, sucked down a huge hit, then lounged as if it were no big deal that my body was on display. Just to add sexual cruelty to my teasing, I leaned against the arm of the couch at an angle. That way, I not only faced them, but it allowed me to comfortably drape my arm across the arm of the davenport. It also meant that I had to spread my thighs, hanging one leg over the cushions. This, of course, caused a large gap between the loose fabric and my legs. From almost any angle, at least one of the boys had a perfect view up my shorts to my exposed, drenched pussy.

Brent and his roommate came back, bearing alcoholic libations, and I stayed like that for at least another hour. Getting bolder and hornier by the minute, I flashed, teased, and aroused, just barely staying behind the line of plausible deniability. I loved the attention, and the sexual overtones made me feel like a goddess among mortals. Finally, after consuming almost half of my wine bottle, I announced that I was feeling a bit “tipsy” and excused myself, saying that I was going to go lie down.

I was going to lie down, and I was more than tipsy, but those weren’t the reasons for me leaving the party. The truth was that I was so worked up, so fucking horny, that I needed another orgasm. I didn’t bother undressing; there was no need. I closed the door, lay on the bed, and my hands went right up the loose legs of my pajama shorts, attacking my pussy with a fervent need.

I imagined myself being taken by them all. Their eyes lusted after me; their cocks penetrated me. My hands abused my tits, squeezing them so hard they nearly bruised. I fucked myself with one finger, then two. I struggled to not scream in blissful agony, to not moan, and to keep from shouting my desires. 

My legs were spread wide, the crotch of my shorts pushed to one side, and I was on the verge of an incredible, intense orgasm when I heard Brent, right outside the door, say, “Good night, guys. See you in the morning.”

I couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t. As soon as Brent’s head turned, and he saw me on his bed, fingering myself, I came hard. The orgasm was so intense that my entire body convulsed. He just stood there, expressionless.

“I’ve been waiting for you. Take off your pants. Fuck me, and I want to hear how much you want me.”

“Huh?” 

“Shove your dick in my mouth and tell me what a great cocksucker I am.” It was my first attempt at being sexually assertive, and it had the effect I was hoping for.

Brent stood beside his bed, his half-hard shaft near my face. Being young, he didn’t realize that my open invitation was to be taken literally. So, I sheathed his cock with my lips and began sucking on it. He stood there, silently, his cock growing in my mouth.

“That’s so good,” he whispered.

I thrust my hand back between my legs, fingering my clit. “Louder. I want to hear your passion echo in my ears.”

“Suck my cock, baby.”

“Louder,” I moaned.

“Suck it! That’s it! Yeah.”

I giggled, still bobbing on his manhood, but continued sucking Brent's cock. When he was hard as a rock and covered in my saliva, I turned around on all fours, stripping off my shorts and throwing them on his dirty floor.

“I want you inside me. Take me, and be loud about it.”

I was so soaked that he slid in on his first jab. Brent pounded into me, hard and wild. He tried reaching around to grab my boobs, then his fumbling fingers sought my clit and failed. He settled on squeezing my ass as he drove into my dripping snatch from behind.

“You’re so tight.”

“Louder! Scream it.”

“You’re so fucking tight,” he shouted.

“Oooh… aaah,” I moaned, loudly. 

“You feel so good.”

That moment broke something within my mind. I knew his friends were listening. I knew they wanted me. Each one of them was wishing they were my boyfriend. What none of them knew was that their mutual desire, being taken, and all their lusty, horny admiration had me in such a fury that I needed to be fucked, to cum, more than I’d ever needed anything in my life. The fact that they could hear me through the thin walls and doors just pushed me over the edge.

“I love you inside me. Take that pussy. Fuck it. Oh, shit! Oh, fucking shit!”

My feeble dirty talk was too much for Brent. He shot thick streams of heat into my quivering cunt. I’d reached between my legs and had been furiously masturbating. His orgasm made me erupt with my own, and I screamed, “I’m fucking cumming!”

Then, he kissed me softly and lay in bed, covering us both. I counted to one hundred, then said, “I’m dehydrated, I’m going to pull on my shorts and get a glass of water.”

He just snored in response.

I did get a glass of water, but I purposefully forgot to put my pajama shorts back on. Instead, I walked out, past the three still-conversing young men, with my bare ass and cunt on display, Brent’s cum slowly oozing down my thighs.

“Good night, guys,” I said.

Red-faced and smiling, I pretended that walking around bottomless was perfectly natural for me. I poured myself a glass of water and went back into Brent’s room.

“Dude, she wasn’t wearing anything other than a shirt. Did you see that ass?”

“I want to marry a horny slut like Krystal.”

I lay in bed for almost an hour, fingering myself to multiple orgasms, as I listened to them go on about how much they wanted me. That morning, I woke up my boyfriend with oral sex and more, loud fucking. 

Brent and I only lasted a couple of weeks after that night. He never realized that I had been intentionally showing off to his friends and that I wanted him to be as loud as I was, so I could get off on them knowing what a nasty slut I was. However, I’d tasted my slut powers, and I suddenly realized that others could only shame me if I let them. By the time Brent and I had parted ways, I was developing my nascent powers of slutdom. Let them scorn me; I had grown into my own.

To be continued…