“Hello. My name is Krystal, and I’m a slut… a fucking horny slut.” The bitch in the mirror stared back at me with indignant condescension; she’d heard my chant a hundred times in the past week. “My pussy is always dripping wet.” I flashed my reflection, fingering my cunt. “And… oh, fuck…I cum…so hard, so fast, uh, aah, aah!”

The bitchy image of me called me all sorts of vile names. Bitch, slut, whore, skank, witch-slut, and countless other profanity-laden insults spewed from her mouth, yet I still moaned my pleasure at her, making myself cum. Knowing that the daily ridicule would pour in from every jealous housewife’s hateful stare, every man’s creepy leers of lust, and every thought in somebody’s mind, my morning ritual, a few bouts of masturbation before I start my day, now included a reminder of what I would encounter during my day.

Shame and acceptance had swapped positions in my psyche. Instead of zero self-acceptance and infinite shame, I was now at peace with myself and my essence, and those constant pangs of humiliation no longer had a place in my heart. It wasn’t as if those feelings had fled; my despair, shame, and self-loathing were still there, just mostly under control. I had merely accepted these things as existing within me, noting them, but unapologetic.

My self-centeredness, attention, validation seeking, and unprovoked emotional outbursts still remained. They were a part of me, just the same as my long, red hair was a part of my physical essence, for better or for worse. But a Taoist-like peace ruled my psyche, so long as I kept my calm. Embracing all of myself, not just the parts I idealized, gave me a sort of peace and balance. To quote a spinach-eating sailor, I was what I was. The most difficult flaws for me to deal with, however, were my insanity and brokenness.

Knowing why I was a clingy, needy, emotional train wreck, who flipped out at the slightest provocation and went entirely off the rails, didn’t change the fact that I was. That behavior, still running in hot currents through my veins, put me deep into “crazy ex-girlfriend” territory. I wasn’t “afraid to go to sleep around her” insane, but crazy enough to scare away a lot of potential mates. Even if I hid my intellect, didn’t come on too strong, and pretended to let them seduce me, my damaged essence sent them into a hasty retreat. 

Being utterly broken was insurmountable. I was unlovable and unable to maintain a relationship, and my feelings erupted like a nuclear explosion at the drop of a hat. Introspection revealed that even I wouldn’t be able to put with me. 

While I still partially blamed my parents for making me the way I was, either directly or indirectly, and the townspeople of my hometown definitely played a starring role in fucking me up forever, the ultimate onus lay on me. I knew that, but couldn’t change the past. I could, however, work around my flaws and no longer let them dictate my fate.

That morning, after masturbating to three glorious orgasms in bed, two more in the shower, and once in front of the mirror, I was in high spirits. I’d been looking forward to this weekend. A lover of all things involving lovely maidens, armor, and swords, I was not only finally going to my first-ever Renaissance Faire, but I was planning on indulging in one of my favorite kinks, exhibitionism. I’d learned the pleasure of delaying gratification through previous attempts to deny my overpowering, sexual urges.

A naughty, slutty, kinky urge, something I wanted to try or do, would spring into my mind and consume me. I’d admonish myself, knowing that only a horrible slut would get horny and soaking wet from thinking about doing such a depraved, perverted thing. Promising myself that I’d never lower my self-respect to that extent, I’d constantly chastise myself for being such a dirty pervert.

Knowing that my desire was forbidden just made me want it more. Bit by bit, I’d slowly surrender my will to my whims. First, I’d fantasize about it, because there’s no harm in masturbating to the idea, just actually doing it. Then, when the kinky hotness of something I’d denied myself grew too overwhelming, I would slowly advance toward my sexual desires.

Not allowing myself to plunge, headlong, into the pits of slutty depravity made me want it more. Mental justification, usually logic-defying, just built up anticipation. By the time common sense finally raised the white flag, the slut-goddess was in a horny fervor. I’d given up resisting my temptations years ago, but the ritual was a mental and emotional form of foreplay.

Years ago, my good friend, Jen, now married to an asshole named Jim, sent her stepson, James, to stay with me during his internship, shortly after graduating from college. James was my best friend’s stepson, but I was possessed with lust and attraction toward him. As I was, “Aunt K,” seducing him just felt wrong; fucking your best friend’s stepson is also a pretty inconsiderate thing to do.

Over the weeks, I fantasized about it, cumming my brains out. That led to innocent teasing to further fuel my orgasmic self-love. Innocent teasing evolved into touching, then some naughty steps just barely into horny territory. Finally, I couldn’t fight my horny urges any longer, and I fucked him into oblivion. For the remainder of his stay with me, all we did was fuck, suck, and play with each other.

I felt so guilty, as it was a severe breach of friendship, that I didn’t tell Jen until years later. As it turned out, Jen had been a naughty stepmother, so we laughed at how slutty we both are.

The spiritual foreplay of denial and surrender always got me so hot and bothered that I went completely insane. Granted, I was a lunatic to begin with, but it was a torrid, sexual insanity, and nobody ever once complained that their lover was too fucking horny in bed. This time, I knew exactly what I was going to do. Rather than deny myself the pleasure, I anticipated it, which was just as hot to me.

I no longer cared if anyone thought I was a slut. I could easily admit that I was constantly horny, needed at least a dozen orgasms each day, and loved nothing more than a big, hard cock pounding into my cunt while I licked and kissed a wet pussy. I’m a sex-positive, horny slut; sue me. So what if the idea of flashing my wet pussy to strangers got me all hot and bothered; I loved doing it. If others wanted to condemn me for having threesomes, taking it up the ass, or dressing to entice, just for fun, they could languish in their superiority until the end of time for all I cared.

My good friend and coworker, Marcy, was a quiet, timid church mouse. Her short, bobbed, light brown hair, big-rimmed glasses, sheepish demeanor, and preference for loose, frumpy clothing always reminded me of Thelma from the original Scooby-Doo cartoons. She was introverted, soft-spoken, studious, and shy—my complete opposite. I didn’t decide to go to the Ren Faire; she asked me to be her wing-woman.

A customer in the store, Jacob, was trying to flirt with Marcy, obviously enamored with her. Marcy liked him back, but the two of them were both too insecure and scared to do anything about it. Finally, Jake braved the volatile waters of possible rejection and strolled in one day bearing two tickets to the medieval festival his group was putting on. She begged me to not only go with her but to also help her dress and style herself, so they could hook up. I eagerly jumped at the chance.

The anticipation of going to a Ren Faire and flashing nerdy cosplayers had me in a constant state of heat. Monday began with almost a dozen self-inflicted orgasms, plus two more on the drive to work. Every idle moment, be it in my office in the store, in the midst of the rows of bookshelves, or at the front counter, was spent with my fingers up my twat. Handing out change to customers with my fingers coated in cunt juice was worth a giggle. That evening, as soon as I got home, I stripped nude, went into my backyard, and fingered myself, musing over the reactions to my pending, horny exhibitionism. 

The rest of my week was a repeat of Monday, with additional lust and trying on outfits. Of course, I had to look as if I wasn’t dressing for attention, so I tried on dozens of outfits and combinations. Each wardrobe change necessitated a “flash check,” so I could determine if the ensemble was adequate for flashing my ass, showing my pussy, and drawing attention to my braless breasts and erect nipples. That made me even more aroused, and I’d need to masturbate over what I was planning to do. The cycle continued, and I was constantly wet and needing an orgasm.

On Friday night, I found the perfect outfit. A simple, white poet’s blouse, with ties in the front instead of buttons, and matching, bloused sleeves went perfectly with a long, flowing, green, gypsy skirt. It had a bit of swoop to the hem along one side, so it wasn’t optimum for flashing, but I could make it work, especially with the heat wave giving me an excuse to pull up the hem and fan my scrawny legs. A red sash, while I don’t often wear red due to my hair, added a nice splash of color and gave the garments some sexy style. I’d wear my hair long, using my crimping iron to give my hair that alluring kinkiness, and my makeup would be all witchy, giving me that smoldering sensuality that draws men’s eyes.

I played with the ties of the blouse, finding the perfect tightness to enhance the fact that I wouldn’t be wearing a bra. When I found the perfect tightness or looseness, I celebrated my victory with an orgasm. Some bending, stretching, and squatting practice made me proficient enough in directing the skirt to flow the way I wanted got me so wet that I had to rewash the quasi-medieval frock to get my wetness out of it. I ended up sitting on the floor in front of the mirror, fingering myself so furiously that my orgasmic fluid soaked the back of the skirt.

Saturday morning, I discovered a pair of seldom-worn sandals that were perfect. I’d chosen some plain flats, but the sandals, which laced up around the ankles, looked more medieval. I intentionally curtailed my morning ritual to keep myself at peak horniness. I only allowed myself three orgasms, which served as an appetizer, increasing my sexual hunger. With my wenchy slut look perfected, I picked up Marcy, and we went to the Ren Faire.

Having done some internet research, I felt that I had a solid idea of what to expect. Geeks, nerds, and hopeless romantics would dress in silly costumes, and pretend to be medieval, and, otherwise, it would be any, standard, themed festival. I was gloriously incorrect. Once I stepped foot onto the grounds, it was as if I was transported into an entirely different world. Despite myself, as I was a woman on a mission—two missions, actually—I found myself getting caught up in the ambiance and atmosphere.

Marcy and I had wonderful fun, together, seeing the sights, watching the performers, shopping, and snacking on medieval-themed food and drink. We called each other wenches and used medieval-sounding words such as “verily,” “M’lord,” and “forsooth.” Eventually, Jacob found us and set about completing my first and primary goal of the day. The both of them were too shy to do anything about their mutual attraction, so I physically forced them together, made them confess their attraction, and then made myself scarce, so they could be alone and get to know one another. That left me to my own, naughty devices. The slut in me was horny, further aroused by the environment, and she needed to find her next victim.

My problem was that I was outclassed and outslutted by the staff and guests of the festival. No matter where I looked, nubile, sexy women, and manly, muscular men milled about. These were not the nerdy geeks I’d anticipated. Being a nerdy geek, myself, I was ambivalent about it. However, the women were, by far, younger and prettier than me. Even at thirty-eight years old, I was always mistaken for being in my early twenties, so their fresh, bright, sexy faces, long hair, and curvy, toned bodies didn’t overly bother me; I could compete with that. Their costumes, though, were amazing, and their clothes outshone my meticulously chosen attire by leaps and bounds.

No matter which direction I pointed my eyes, gravity-defying boobs threatened to burst out of sexy bodices. Chain mail bikinis, revealing flesh beneath, alluded to the perfection of the body, as well as adding sexy, kinky fantasies about the sort of person that would proudly wear such skimpy metal. Loincloths and flowing dresses, all of them incredibly sexy, provided a constant feat for one’s lusty eyes. The best I could do, feeling suddenly like the most conservative person in the entire realm, was to knot the hem of my skirt, far above the middle of my thigh, to expose my legs.

The people who populated the event catered to my preferences in physical appearance. The women were very feminine, and so powerful in their comfort. One would never guess that they were also regular people with mortgages and jobs. They celebrated their femininity. The men were manly, with a lot of long hair, swagger, and a roguish, swashbuckling air about them.

My breasts were swollen with arousal, my nipples were erect and tingling, and my pussy was flowing like a leaky faucet. Caught up in the revelry, enjoying the sights, smells, sounds, and, especially the pagan-oriented wares for sale, I purchased my fourth tankard of honey mead and went to watch the knights fight. The combat drew a large crowd, so I figured that it would be the perfect place to “accidentally” expose my body for some kinky thrills.

Just as the best-laid plans of mice and men often go astray, the most-perverted intentions of flashers and sluts suffer the same vulnerabilities. I had my leg propped up on a hay bale, ready to flash my bare pussy, but, even though the group of medieval whores standing next to me in the crowd foreshadowed, I wasn’t prepared for what happened.

Four sexy, beautiful, young women, obviously part of the group putting on the festival, were next to me, also watching the action in the arena. I couldn’t help but overhear them, growing more interested by the second. The defending tournament champion was some guy with a stupid name, Glade. From their conversation, all four of them adored the man, were announcing their intentions to compete with each other to bed him, and three of them had already fucked him.

They were collectively informing the woman who hadn’t had sex with him that sleeping with this Glade character was some transcendental, life-altering experience, simply the best sex one would ever have in their life. Furthermore, this guy was the sweetest, most thoughtful romantic to have ever existed, and, “To know him is to love him.” I yawned.

The advantage of having sex with well over a hundred men and at least half that many women was that I’d seen and heard it all. The women were young, naive, sluts, and they’d collectively fallen for his macho bullshit. I instantly pegged this Glade asshole as a showoff, a womanizing Lothario, a polished seducer only interested in bagging another lady, and an ego-maniacal narcissist. In my mind, I nicknamed him Rock Star Knight, and I hadn’t even met this already legendary figure.

Contrary to popular belief, women are not less sexual than most men. In truth, we’re kinkier, hornier, more perverted, and we objectify others infinitely more than our masculine counterparts. The reason why this isn’t common knowledge is that it takes more than just a handsome face or an amazing body to stoke our fires. There’s also the social stigma that women shouldn’t act this way.

However, the people that ran the event were kindred spirits—sluts like me. They were openly lusting for this Glade person, and discussing the slutty things they were going to do to catch his eye. They were just caught up in the make-believe realm they’d created, nothing more. No person alive, especially a man, could be as sexy, charming, and perfect as Glade’s Groupies swore. I assumed that they were full of bullshit, and, once I saw him strutting about like an arrogant celebrity, my determination to no longer chase anyone would be vindicated. 

This Glade’s opponent took the field, a towering, hairy beast of a man named Sir Maris. That knight wore shining plate mail, wielded a sword as long as I was tall, and had an arrogant, standoffish air about him. I thought he looked perfect, but the sluts beside me loathed him. They did, however, state that the two men were rivals, so it should be a great fight. The Ren Faire all but shut down when the news of the impending battle spread. Medieval-garbed people came running from all over, and their kiosks and shops instantly closed. Then I saw Glade take the field.

The decades of being objectified, treated like a body with holes to fuck, were suddenly seen from an entirely different perspective. The chattering sluts beside me had painted a picture of this Glade person in very negative hues. I had already begun hating the idea of this man, but when I saw him, my mind shut down and my horny, slutty urges took over. 

The fighting arena was a huge rectangle, ringed with straw bales, and, even from the opposite side of the battlefield, just the sight of him stunned me and made my pussy spasm. He wasn’t at all as I’d imagined, definitely not like the other knights, not in dress, armor, or mannerisms. My mind splintered, my heart stopped beating, then raced, my flesh ignited in slutty, horny lust, and my body screamed in need.

So that’s the rock star knight, I mentally told myself. I NEED to fuck him. I can feel my juices running down my thighs, he’s so fucking hot.

Just like that, the lessons learned from decades of chasing after people who caught my fancy were completely ignored. The thing was, he was just too fucking sexy. Suddenly realizing why guys get tongue-tied in front of me and stampede toward the bedroom, my mind suddenly snapped out of its daze and reminded me that any guy that fucking gorgeous would be full of himself and treat me like shit. My burning, volcanic arousal didn’t care. He was that fucking hot; I needed his cock.

Rather than salute or just ignore the crowd as the others did, this sexy, elfin man embraced the crowd, interacting with them. He began at one corner of the arena, and went around the perimeter, talking with the men, flirting with the ladies, and playing with the kids. He even let them “slay” him with his sword. He was at least ten times sexier than the men I played with, so pussy-drenching hot that I felt he was way out of my league. Besides, he was more than likely an arrogant showboat, performing for the crowd. He’d use me, fuck me like the slut I was, then never speak to me, again.

Yes, fucking, please! My boiling lust screamed. Please, fucking use me.

I watched him play to the crowd, insulting his opponent. When he got to the quartet of medieval trollops vying for his attention, he delightedly greeted them, each by name, kissing their hands, embracing them, and squeezing their butts, which they fucking loved. I hadn’t even met the man, and my mind, experience, and common sense told me that I should hate him, but I was jealous of them.

He greeted me, just another random woman in the crowd drooling over him, and my soul shattered. This overpowering, sexual aura emanated from him, going light years beyond just being the sexiest man I’d ever seen. That unruly, long blond hair framing his perfectly chiseled features and impish, hypnotic hazel eyes rimmed with gray, betrayed his inner essence. He wasn’t the self-centered narcissist I’d assumed; he was genuinely just enjoying himself. If that wasn’t disconcerting enough, there was something about the way he looked at me, that slightly crooked, roguish smile and the warmth and understanding it was imbued with, that made me feel safe, protected, and adored.

“Greetings, my wonderful lady, I’m…”

“Glade, yes. I heard,” I snapped, my voice dripping with venom. “What kind of stupid name is that, anyway?”

He laughed with genuine mirth, and I found myself smiling, my mind conjuring visions of him fucking me hard, deep, and rough.

“The stupidest name in all stupidity!” He countered with delight. “It seems the room stank when momma named me.”

He brazenly looked me over from head to two, then back again, finally settling on gazing into my moss-green eyes. He was so bold, so cocky, that I should have been angry. How dare he, a stranger, openly stare at me with lust, naughty visions of giving me endless orgasms playing over his features.

“Humph,” I scowled, which was far better than my first choice of words, which was to plead, “Please fuck me,” while I dropped to my knees.

The fucking bastard reached out to kiss the back of my hand, all cocky presumptuousness and romantic swooniness. My heart skipped beats, my thighs caught steamy fire, and my nipples, already erect, poked out so far that they tingled. His touch was warm and electric, his black leather armor sexy as fuck, and I had to fight down the urge to pull him away from his fight and feast on his cock. No person, throughout my entire life, had ever had that effect on me.

Instead of allowing his lips to touch my flesh, mainly because I knew if that happened I’d lose my resolve and fuck him silly, I pulled my hand away, sharply, rolling my eyes at him. The heat of blushing arousal warmed and colored my pale cheeks; I even felt the hotness spread over my heaving chest. Holy fucking fuck, the man just dripped sexual sensuality, and I’d instantly fallen for him. That was precisely what I wanted to avoid. I knew my pattern. I’d find somebody I lusted over, fuck them, convince myself that I was in love, and repeat my cycle of self-inflicted tragedy.

Glade the pussy-drenching hottie, his new nickname, all black leather, moccasins, and long hair, emanating this sex-god vibe, winked at me and then shot me a self-aware smile that made my clit vibrate. Then, he just strode away, leaving me panting. 

Okay. I’ll fuck him, but I will not fall for him.

“No fair,” one of his groupies lamented. “You’re a redhead and so hot.”

“Huh?” I shrugged, revealing my lack of intellect. “He was doing that with everyone.”

“You don’t understand,” a giggling, brunette groupie sighed. “It looks like he made his choice. I love your hair, by the way. Is it natural?”

I nodded as the herald announced the fight. Unlike the other knights, Glade was dressed as a demon, which was fitting, considering he fought like one. The other tournament bouts weren’t as dramatic as I’d hoped, but this fight was. I was impressed, and the action sped up my heart. Glade played to the crowd, taunted his foe, and did feats of acrobatics that were stunning and thrilling to watch.

Halfway through the exciting battle, Glade was countering an insult Sir Maris hurled at him, the ubiquitous, “Fuck your mother.” My demon-helmeted, sexy warrior was going on and on about how Maris’ mother was a kind, sweet woman, also multi-orgasmic, which he and she had discovered last night after she touted the merits of retroactive abortion. The towering knight, standing almost a full foot taller than Glade, gave him a hefty wallop that sent him careening to the edge of the battlefield, rolling on the ground, a piece of his armor damaged and flapping. He landed right between my legs, gazing up my skirt.

I had one leg propped up on a hay bale; my intention was to catch the attention of some medieval-dressed nerd and flash them. This stunning, eye-candy Glade and the excitement of the fight had made me forget all about it. As soon as his roll ceased, and I saw him staring up between my legs, I remembered that I was pantiless, and he had a perfect view of my legs, exposed ass, and dripping pussy. He was covered with dust and dirt, and it, somehow, made him ever sexier. I piece of his right arm armor was badly damaged, and his arm was bleeding.

“Are you okay? Do you need a doctor or something?”

He just laid there, snickering. His arms moved up to his head, his blood reddening the dirt, and he pulled off his helmet, still lying between my legs. He mumbled something.

“What did you say? Are you alright?”

“Paradise.” He was smiling, broadly, his laughter inflecting his syllables. “I have seen paradise!”

I realized that he was brazenly staring at my cunt! I couldn’t believe his presumptuous nerve. I quickly removed my foot from the hay bale and stamped it down onto the ground. My legs snapped shut, just like all the other mothers instructed their daughters to do—mine never did, she gave me condoms.

“Do you fucking like the view?” I scolded with all the indignation I could muster.

In truth, I was terrified that if he didn’t stop staring at me like that, I’d have a spontaneous orgasm. There was something about him that went far beyond his perfect, sexy looks or the fact that the gods custom-designed him to look and act exactly how every man in my masturbatory fantasies did. His confident swagger and bravado irked me; I knew that guys like that were just putting on an act to cover their insecurities. My volcanic flesh, overheating body, heart, and soul refused to listen to my mind.

“Paradise,” he repeated. 

Glade jumped to his feet, making the movements pussy-convulsing-hot, and turned to face me. Reminding myself that I loathed him—I had to hate him, lest my slutty, catastrophic habits repeat myself, I commanded my body to step back, out of his personal space. All I could do, however, was to stand stock still, feeling my heart pound and my cunt gush, and lose my soul in the depths of his mirth-filled smile and soul-seeing eyes. I knew, beyond any doubt, whatsoever, that he could see my real essence, and he liked it.

“You’re bleeding a lot and your armor’s broken.”

A large part of me wanted to be upset, offended, at the very least, over his next move. Those hypnotic eyes diverted their attention from me for a millisecond, glancing absentmindedly at his flowing wound and broken armor. His strong, masculine hands suddenly reached around my torso and pulled me against him. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t respond, instinctively, with a loud, sighing moan. That volcanic heat he’d caused in my loins went supernova, my entire body erupting with explosive need.

His audacity made me try to frown, but my mind was no longer in control. I felt his fingers tug at the red sash I was wearing, then, he deftly unraveled it from my waist. 

YES! Fucking yes, I don’t care. Strip me nude right here and fuck me in front of everyone. I want them to watch; let them be jealous that I get your cock. Fucking, fuck me; I’ll do anything.

I pondered kicking him in the balls when he stopped stripping off my clothing at just my sash. How dare he deny me?! No man can resist me, a natural, green-eyed redhead with a teenager's body and a perverted, kinky streak wider than all of outer space. He paid me no mind and used my sash to bind the broken piece of armor back into place.

Slapping the repaired section so hard that I could feel the force of the blow, he turned to face the crowd, giving me a sweet view of his perfect butt covered in leather pants… leather fucking, hair-metal pants!

“Maris’ blow made me see paradise,” he said, triumphantly, to the crowd. He turned his sexy, elvish face back to me, giving me a naughty, knowing wink. 

“I’ll return this fine cloth that has the honor of touching the perfection that is you as soon as I trounce Maris.”

“Shall I punish the Blackard?” he screamed to the crowd, riling them up as he donned his demonic helmet and strode back into the fray.

Glade’s groupies doubled down on him choosing me. Their expressions communicated that they were happy for me and wished that they were in my place.

“The bastard stole my sash. That’s all, I fucking swear.” I swear prolifically when I’m horny or upset; I was not the least bit angry. Their chorus of sarcastic, Mmm-Hmms only made me smile with arousal. 

Glade won the fight, and I remained frozen in place, each heartbeat a new opportunity for my logical mind to command me to just leave before my folly repeated itself. He’d somehow made me unable to take a single step. I knew why; I was afraid to admit that I was overcome with horny desire. I needed to hate him, walk away, and then celebrate my personal victory of finally having learned my lesson.

I built up my courage, practicing all the nasty, vile rejections I was going to use to let him know that I was not interested in sucking his cock, stroking his hard shaft, and letting him cover my body with cum. I mentally practiced telling him that if he were the last man on the planet, I’d go lesbian. I told myself that it didn’t matter. Glade’s groupies were all over him, kissing, pawing, groping, and slutting it up as if they had zero self-esteem. As much of a scandalous slut as I was, they were literally begging him to fuck them in the kinkiest, most perverted, torridly descriptive ways imaginable. 

“None the worse for wear,” he smiled at me, unwinding my sash from his arm. It was bashed, tattered, dirty, and covered with his blood.

“You bled all over it,” I observed. Why was my voice so flirty? I needed to hate him. 

Krystal, stop shimmying your shoulders back and forth to make him stare at your tits! Stop being such a fucking whore. You are not going to fuck him! Just tease him, then go masturbate. Danger! Warning, Will Robinson…ego-maniac. Oh, fucking fuck, those eyes, that smile, that fucking body. Why is he so fucking nice? Run away, you slut. There be dragons—sexy, eye candy, perfect dragons that look like they have a big, fucking cock. I wonder if his ass feels as firm as it looks. Oh fucking Goddess, take me right the fuck now; he’s peeling off his armor. I think…I think I just came! Holy fucking shit, he’s even hotter without the damn armor. I think I’m in love.

“Shut the fuck up!” I screamed aloud. He just smiled at me, looking so sexy, so amused. I moaned, ran my hand through my hair, and started again. “I mean, keep the fucking thing. I don’t want it anymore.”

“Then honor dictates that I owe the woman of divine paradise,” he paused, letting me know that he meant the cheap flash I’d given him through his impish expression, body language, and pussy-melting, heart-thundering smile, “who inspired my victory a new belt.”

I struck an annoyed, aggravated stance, stomping my foot, arms akimbo, with my hands on my waist. I even stomped my foot to show my ire, which made my boobs bounce to his visual enthrallment. Glade turned on heel, acknowledging his fans’ congratulatory words and hugs, and strode off, leaving me there. I stood there like a lust-struck idiot for two seconds, then hurried after him. My brain was giving me a non-stop lecture to not follow him, realizing how futile it was.

“I don’t know what kind of asshole you think you are, but why the fuck should I fucking follow you?”

“Walk with me; don’t follow. We’re buying you a new belt.”

“And I suppose that you’re going to lay the charm on thick and sweet, tell me how beautiful I am, and seduce me.”

He laughed with genuine humor. “A belt, but I love how you think.”

Despite my best efforts to hate him, I’d met my match. I knew I couldn’t dare let myself think I loved him, but even the part of my psyche that was warning me away fell under his seductive spell. Not only was every square foot of the festival grounds a new adventure, giving me an inside view of the mentality of the medieval group, but I found myself saying and doing things in an attempt to delay the inevitable purchase of a replacement sash.

Every woman we encountered had seemingly hooked up with him in the recent past; each lady would run up to him, bouncing and showing off, stroking his package, touching him, and letting him know, in no uncertain terms, that if he wanted sex, they were available. They also assumed that I was going to fuck him, which I vehemently denied with every fiber of my being. I was even lying to myself; I knew I had to fuck him; if I didn’t, I’d regret it for the rest of my life—he was that fucking hot, and he checked off almost every single requirement in my lengthy list of traits for my ideal mate.

“Let me guess,” I mused to him as we were eyeing up musical instruments one merchant was selling. “You’re a fucking musician or something, too?”

“I was,” he stated in passing, strumming a guitar designed to look like a lute. “Just hair metal type stuff. I was fucking awful.”

I swooned.

“Oh, I see!” Scorn and ridicule dripped from my voice. “You’re buying me booze, so you can lower my inhibitions and take advantage of me, you fucking creep.”

“Creepy Glade,” he countered with real humor, striking a funny pose, coming at me with a limp and his hands extended like talons. “No, I never take advantage. In fact, I refuse to share pleasure with anyone who’s intoxicated unless sex is determined before they imbibe. “ He shrugged at me, muscles bristling. I swooned. “It’s a personal honor thing.”

“What if somebody, say, me…just for example…wasn’t positive and won’t decide until after they’ve imbibed.”

“Then she would, for example only, tell me ’Maybe,’ and I would assume negative on kinky, naughty fun time until she says otherwise.”

Fuck!

“I see you have a harem,” I said with condescending judgment after the fourth or fifth band of slutty groupies came to molest him. “Are they all your love slaves?”

“Not all. I stake no claims on anyone. That’s not how we are. However, I refuse to hide my affection for another from anyone or pretend that the connection doesn’t exist.”

“What if they paw at you like that, then run off with somebody else?”

“Why would that bother me or anyone? An' it harm none, and all.”

“So you’ll fuck somebody, but only if they also want it, and then they can just fuck and suck anyone else they feel like. That doesn’t bother you at all?”

“Unless I’m invited to join or watch, it’s none of my business.”

“Okay, Mr. Free Love Air Freshener, what if you two are together?”

“Same answer.”

“No fucking way!” 

“Yes, way, dude! Just because two or more people are sharing their hearts and souls does not transfer ownership.”

“I don’t want a relationship, but maybe, I want to fuck you.”

As soon as I said those words, my last, surviving bits of self-respect went into hiding. I knew what I had to do. I needed to feed the slut, and he was the hottest thing I’d seen in my life. Even better, dozens of bodice-bursting wenches came from everywhere, hoping to bed him. We could barely walk a half-dozen steps before some young, sexy babe, dressed like a whore, would try to fuck him. That meant, objectively, that no matter what else, he was at least nice enough to not be avoided, as well as a great fuck. 

It wasn’t just him, I realized; it was everybody in this group. I felt like a kindred spirit; they were just so much better at it and happier than me. He was just the sexiest, wittiest, and most charming of the lot of them. That charm was making me swoon. Throughout the rest of the day, I met everyone in the group and followed him around like a little puppy, and my determination to hate him was postponed. I’d seduce him, fuck him, then hate him. His medieval persona was just that, an act. I chanted that to myself. He was just like all the others, and I knew exactly where it would head. I could, however, use that sexy, arousing body of his for my sexual pleasure.

We spent hours doing Ren Faire stuff together, finally stopping at one of the big, staff-only pavilions to eat. Despite being on full guard, I lost myself in the reverie. I was soon laughing along with them, feeling accepted, appreciated, desirable, and very well-fed. To the person, they attacked life with a gusto I had seldom seen.

The Renaissance Faire ended and the guests, who they called “muggles,” left. I stayed, in a huge tent with a few dozen others, partying. The entire time, I’d been trying to get him to make a move, touch me, or do something, anything at fucking all, to let me know that all my slutty powers of seduction were working at least a little bit. I’d descended so deep into slutdom that even the goddess of sluts, herself, was ashamed of how slutty she was acting.

Glade stole my pussy power. First, he had to be the sexiest, most physically arousing man on the planet. Then, that audacious motherfucker had to be self-aware enough to make a big joke out of himself; that hinted at a complexity that I wasn’t used to. If that wasn’t enough, he caught every pop-culture or classic literature reference, and Glade was so sweet, obviously a hopeless romantic, and gallant that I never wanted the night to end. Those myriad other women were still sluts, but I couldn’t blame them. I wanted those moments to never end.

The after-party, which they called a post-revel, made the carnival atmosphere of the actual faire seem like an incorporeal practice run. It was simply wild. Conversation, each of them celebrating the other’s exploits, rang throughout the tent. Food, drink, booze, and green herbs were everywhere, and people carried on conversations, seductions, and even sexual activity in plain sight. I’d changed my strategy; I was convincing Glade that I wasn’t worth his efforts.

He’d somehow coaxed my entire life story from me, and I poured my heart out to him, finding him to be an empathetic, understanding, and engaging conversationalist. He inspired me. I felt seen, truly seen, appreciated, respected, celebrated—which was new for me—and, above, all desired. I was at least a hundred times hornier than I’d ever been. It was his fault, mine, and because of the way everyone else treated each other, even me, an outsider.

“And I’ll never, ever, fucking get married again. So, there’s no Mrs. Krystal whatever in my fucking future. I’m just going to find somebody I want to fuck, drain them, and move on.”

“I admire how you’ve found your balance in life. That shows that you are in tune with who and what you are and know exactly what you want.” It wasn’t just his words; there was something about his aura, the way he spoke in this poetic, quasi-medieval sort of way, that set my cunt on fire.

“But you wouldn’t want a girl like me. I’m a slut, the biggest fucking slut you’d ever meet. Nobody wants a slut for anything other than getting them off. I’m cool with being a slut.”

I spread my legs as I spoke, letting him see my pussy. I was aware of everyone around me and the fact that some of them could also see my fiery pubes and arousal-slicked pussy, but some of them were fondling each other openly. One woman was jacking off her lover’s cock in plain sight, so I didn’t feel as if I’d be shamed.

“Paradise,” he repeated. “Slut,” he echoed, his voice filled with respect and wonder. “Like a sexually liberated, uninhibited temptress?”

“A what?” I bobbed my head back and forth, repeating his phrase until I understood. “Oh, witty. In reality, nobody wants a slut; we’re damaged goods, and I’m so emotionally wrecked that I’m just fucking crazy.”

“Of course you’re crazy, but, you’re my kind of crazy.” Glade stood up, his massive, leather-covered package inches in front of my face. He was either already hard or very well-endowed. I remembered one of his groupies referring to him as Mr. Skintimate, explaining that he’s bigger than a can of shaving gel, the lying floozies.

“How many of you fine, beautiful, wonderful ladies here would call yourselves a slut?” he addressed his friends.

“I’m a slut.” “I’m so slutty that I need at least two cocks.” “I’m a slut and so is my wife!” “Free Brian!”

Glade continued. “How many good Lords and ladies here love sluts? Let’s toast our ladies.” To a man and each woman, they all drank to slutty women.

He turned to me. “To us, the word slut is the same as being a stud, somebody that enjoys sex. If you’re looking to be shamed, you’re in the wrong place. So long as what you want doesn’t infringe on anyone else’s fun, anything goes, but self-responsibility rules.”

“That woman over there is sucking that guy’s cock, and people are watching.”

“Like I said.”

“Really? So I could just flip my skirt up and flash you and nobody will mind?”

“Exactly.”

Feeling victorious, I pulled the hem of my skirt up over my waist, exposing my nectar-soaked legs and wet pussy. I laughed and blushed when some applauded, one of them saying, “Natural redhead.” Glade looked, openly admired, and his eyes traveled over my exposed, convulsing sex, roaming all over me, then looking me in the eyes.

“You’re not going to touch me, finger me, not even going to call me a whore?”

“You, my lovely goddess, are what one dreams of as far as whores go. Your wit, dazzling intellect, and sense of humor are only matched by the perfection of your sensual, physical beauty, and only surpassed by the feminine power and huge heart I sense within you.” I swooned once more, and he paused. “Only the goddesses in the heavens would dare to call you a whore, and, then, only out of jealousy over the perfection of your outer coil.

Oh, my fucking goddess! He called you smart, funny, and witty, complimented everything about you, and made you feel like the only woman alive, all while staring at your cunt. That’s like twenty swoons all at once. Stop looking at me like that; you’re making me want you for more than just your cock. Krystal, get control of yourself. You cannot do this! I repeat; you cannot, will not, fuck him. You’re fucking doing it, again. Don’t you dare start thinking he’s the one. You’ve gone too far. Your slut tactics don’t work on his; stop upping the ante and acting like a worthless whore that needs to be fucked like a dirty slut. Leave now, before it’s too late.

“What if I was just such a horny slut that I got off on being watched and decided to finger myself right here?”

“I’m a huge voyeur. I’d love to see that.”

Talk about Swoon City; he just confessed that at least one of his kinks enhances mine. I knew how men were. They talked a big game but ran away like immature cowards when somebody called their bluff. I plunged my hand between my legs, soaking my fingers as I spread my cunt lips to show him how turned-on I was.

“Challenge accepted.”

One finger plunged into my sopping-wet hole and my nectar poured out, some of it dripping to the ground. Glade’s face emanated horny lust; he smiled at me, and sat there, appreciating my wanton display, but not moving. 

What do I have to do to get him to fuck me? Is he not into women, or just not into me?

“Do you want to fuck me?” I moaned. I added a second finger, then a third, fucking myself furiously. 

Everyone else took note of my slutty endeavors. Some watched, which made me fucking hotter than I’d ever felt. I’d flashed people before, sometimes escalating it to masturbating for them, but this was the first time I was openly watched. People applauded and others shouted appreciation and enthusiastic comments. All of them were respectful, although some were crass and horny. I even inspired one tunic-wearing guy to stroke himself to my show, but another woman pounded on his cock, taking over for him. It was surreal.

My other hand stopped playing with my nipples and gave my clit some much-needed attention. While Glade’s eyes were fixed on me, all of me, I still hadn’t won. He needed to touch me, forgetting his lofty words of chivalry. I’d done everything I could think of to get him to take me, but all he did was to arouse me further. He wasn’t playing fair; I needed my pussy power back. I’m the one in fucking control, not this godlike man whose every question or comment could be truthfully answered with the statement, “Please fuck me now.”

My last-ditch effort as I writhed in my chair, in full view of over twenty strangers, fingering myself was to wrap my ankles around his head and pull his face just inches from my cunt. I held him there, cursing and chanting, “Oh, fucking fuck, I’m going to cum while everyone watches me get myself off.”

I came so intensely that others, including Glade, sprung up from their seats to steady me. Their hands, there to support me, not to grab my naughty bits or ravage me, just made my cum even stronger. I felt dizzy, blacking out, the entire world going away. Reality faded back into my senses, alerting me of applause, ratings of at least nine out of ten being shouted, and other sex-positive reactions. As soon as my eyes opened, Glade released his strong but gentle grip on my shoulders; he was still smiling.

“Why the fuck didn’t you touch me? I was spread wide open, fingering myself for you, and you just sat there. What the fuck?”

“Everyone, why didn’t any of us touch her?” he shouted, his arms gesturing to everyone.

“Consent must be given, first.” “Consent is sexy.” “We shall plunder no booty until yes says the cutie!”

“Fine, then,” I shouted loud enough for everyone to stop what they were doing and stare at me as I stood up so abruptly that my medieval-looking chair scooted back. I grabbed his hand with all the force I could muster, dragging him to his feet.

“Let’s go outside,” I told him. My voice made a perfect impression of orgasmic moans as I said that.

“Give the lady one for the road,” he jeered to his friends. “It appears that I’m accompanying her to her chariot, so she may leave us scoundrels and retire to her castle.”

“Oh, no, Stimpy,” I countered. “We’re going to fuck, and you’re going to fuck me like the fucking slut I am!” I said it loud enough that everyone could hear. Through the applause, I was offered booze, ale, wine, mead, and weed. I partook and dragged his sexy ass out of the tent.

To Be Continued…