Once upon a time, a long, long time ago--almost twenty-three years ago--there lived a foul-mouthed, fire-haired tomboy and she was very unhappy and very lonely. Like most fairy tale beginnings, she was sweet, had a gentle soul, and was very beautiful according to others. Unlike most of Grimm’s tales, she did not have a wicked, evil stepmother, no villainous siblings. She had loving parents and a good home life, as well as a beat-up Honda minibike that she rode recklessly all the time.

This miserable tomboy had flaming orange-red hair, pale skin, more freckles than stars in the night sky, and the rigors of adolescent body changes had been extremely kind and generous to her. She had no magical Fairy Godmother; the only fairies that had ever visited her were the boobie fairy and the ass fairy. They gave generously. Countless hours of riding her cycle, walking, and running had formed her childhood posterior into an ass that could, and sometimes did, stop traffic. The titty fairy blessed her with high, firm, round globes, looking like balloons about to burst, stuck onto her thin frame. Her breasts were not huge, barely a C-cup, more of a C-minus. However, on her, they seemed massive and succulent.

Moss green eyes and that ghost-like skin that bruised easily and burnt after a nanosecond in the sun, made her feel like the ugliest duckling to have ever lived. High, somewhat pronounced cheekbones and slightly pouting lips detracted from her chicken legs, but none of that mattered because she was forlorn. She was sixteen years old. Her name was Krystal.

Hello. That’s me, Krystal. If you don’t know me, that pretty much describes me from the moment puberty singled me out for extra-special torture until I looked in the mirror just a few minutes ago. This is all true, especially the miserable, lonely, and forlorn parts. I grew up in small-town America in the South. Not the Deep South, just barely south enough to be called the South; more akin to the Shallow South, really. Yes, we say “y’all” but we don’t speak Cajun French or have grits with every meal.

Why was I miserable? Was I abused or abandoned? No, nothing like that, thank the gods. I was miserable and lonely because of sins, the sins of the father…both the father and the mother in this case. On the surface, I lived in the American Dream Mayberry of small-town America, the sort of place that would make Norman Rockwell jizz his pants. The problem with small towns is that they tend to be populated with small minds. My parents not only did not fit in, they also refused to fit in; they weren’t normal. By proxy, this made me the Devil-spawned heathen child of the poster-children of sin. Exactly the sort of person the offspring of the Bible-thumpers loved to thump on, in kind, to make themselves feel superior.

The town has a name, but my childhood nickname for the place suits it much better. I grew up in Hell. My parents were hippies, swingers, and non-Christian pagans. They did not join the local church, which I surnamed Our Lady of the Iron Underwear. My heathen parents had a child, me, out of wedlock. I was never baptized. To make matters worse, my parents’ friends joined them on our land just outside of town, an old campground that was reputed to be haunted because of all the slasher movies at the time, and worshiped the divine by communing with nature, conducting spell-like rituals skyclad, which is nude, under the full moon. This caused quite the scandal through the entire town. The mayor, himself, married to the minister’s daughter, condemned them publicly for their nude orgies.

Rumors of a Satanic, demonic sex-cult and incest with their succubus daughter, me, abounded. Those were patently false. My parents were accused of being nudists, committing adultery, holding orgies, and smoking the reefer. Those rumors were patently true. The end result was that their only daughter was a social outcast, ridiculed, shunned, and ostracized.

Outside of my parents’ pagan coven, I only had one friend, Jennifer. The only times children my age spoke to me was to hurl insults. “Witch” and “Burn her, she’s a witch” were some of the more common quips. After being visited by the titty fairy, the insults included the word “slut.” I was now “Slut Witch” and the “Jezebel whore.” Adding injury to insult, the necessity to wear long, loose skirts arose.

I have what one might call a constantly, extremely wet pussy. My pussy doesn’t get a drop or two of dew forming to make me say, “Oh, look how wet I am.” My pussy leaks, gushes, oozes, and pours. Because I’m so emotional, this happens constantly. My parents are unrepentant swingers and hedonistic perverts; they never hid their sexual activities from me. I grew up around sex, in a sexually permissive environment. Sexuality was to be celebrated, embraced, and explored; it was not to be hidden, ignored, or denied. I had more sexual thoughts than all the oceans combined have drops of water. This caused me to be a constant waterfall of lusty juices.

If I’d see a handsome boy or a hot girl, my pussy would drench my clothes. After many pointed fingers and accusations of peeing myself, I turned to dark, loose skirts. Panties were useless; they’d become soaked with my juice, reeking of sex, shortly after I put them on. By necessity, I adopted the witchy look for my wardrobe. I dressed like a gypsy, a ginger clone of Stevie Nicks. Long, flowing skirts and tops, either likewise loose and flowing or very tight, added to my ill-begotten reputation.

I was far from a virgin, my first lover being my friend, Jen, and my second being the son of my parent's friends in the coven. I was, however, far from the slut I was accused of being by the local yokels. Honestly, I would have been a terrible slut if only they would have accepted me. All through high school, only a few boys ever showed interest in me. Those budding relationships were always short-lived as they’d either succumb to peer pressure or my mother would thrust her wanton cunt in their faces. Yes, my mother is a hedonistic slut with a penchant for new lovers.

On this most formative day for my sexual identity, I was, as I mentioned, a very miserable, lonely, and forlorn ostracized sixteen-year-old. I was trying to research for a history paper and headed to the local Public Library. Our high school allowed access to the school library up until nine at night, most nights, so the students could study. I had quickly learned that the cool kids hung out there, lying in ambush to bombard me with ridicule and insults.

I couldn’t study at home very often because my parents lived in a state of constant partying. The noise, the moans and groans of their orgies, and the smell of the Goddess’s Green herb wafted all around me. I won’t even talk about the loud music! However, the local library was far off the beaten path of the elitist social cliques. My parents, ripped right out of a quirky sitcom, provided that the writers were Elvira, Cheech and Chong, and Hugh Hefner, allowed me to take our beat-up, ancient pickup truck and study there whenever I pleased.

I was sixteen, had my coveted driver’s license, and enjoyed the peace and quiet of the library. Wearing a knee-length, patchwork skirt and a tank top, no bra, no panties, I shoved some notebooks and all my prized possessions--five dollars, my house key, and my aforementioned coveted freedom card that proclaimed I could operate a vehicle--and headed to the library to do some research. It was only about a half-hour drive from home, as the crow flies or as Krystal speeds.

Firm breasts barely bouncing, my nipples doing their best imitation of “it’s freezing,” despite the town I called Hell being as hot as Hell, I parked dad’s rusting Chevy and sought my regular seat in the library. My “sanctum” was a long, flat, four-legged table nestled in the back. It was one of those science-lab tables with the thick, black top and sturdy legs. Unpacking my wares from my also-patchwork bag, one that Mom and I had sewn by hand, I began researching, taking notes, and dreaming about how I’d be eighteen in less than two years and could finally orchestrate my escape from Hell. I’d leave my parents and their pagan, swinging ways behind; I’d cut all ties to my former self and blend in with the normal people, finally becoming accepted.

The library was quiet, mostly empty. Grace, the head librarian, was there. I liked her; she was like an aunt to me in some ways. Another high school peer of mine also worked there, part-time. She was one of the nerds, a geek. Her name was Mindy and while we were not friends, she never tried to build herself up by tearing me down like the others. All the sluts in school tore me down to make themselves feel better about sucking Johnny Quarterback’s pathetic, tiny wiener in the church parking lot then taking communion at Our lady of the Iron Underwear the next morning.

Even at that young age, I had already started manicuring my pubic hair. My fiery bush had been the object of even more ridicule in the gym showers.

“Look at slut witch’s pussy! It looks like you got period blood all over yourself, you fucking skank. Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary!”

One might ask, as an aside, if, being raised a witch and living in a sort of coven-commune, I cast any curses upon such cruel, pathetic girls. I plead the fifth!

At first, I tried shaving all those stark red pubes off but I looked like a little girl with big boobs. I resorted to trimming and shaping my pubic hair, as I had seen some of the women my parents committed adultery with had done. For the record, it is not adultery if everyone is aware, condones it, and enthusiastically supports it. My pussy was neatly trimmed, shaped, and clean.

Lost in thought, planning my blessed exodus from the Hell I was living within, I paid no heed to any other library patrons. I have this habit of rocking my right knee back and forth when I’m worried or lost deep in thought. I should also mention that modesty was not a virtue I was ever taught.

Nudity, being skyclad, and foreplay as a way of life were standard fare for me; modesty has no place when one is taught to celebrate everything with perfect love and perfect acceptance, including their sexual urges. Not at all concerned about whether or not I was sitting in a ladylike manner, knee rocking back and forth, chewing on a pencil, sometimes running my tongue up and down it, and never noticing the man seated directly across from me, scant yards away, you can imagine what happened next.

My thoughts had wandered. I was intently focused on my paper, at first. Afterward, my mind drifted to the general population of Hell, how much I loathed them, and how I’d never miss any of them, except for Jen.

Jennifer was my only true friend and also my lover. Mom knew that she and I were experimenting sexually. Mom knew because she walked in on us when we were trying out oral sex. Oral sex had become a habit; that’s where my mind was. No less than three days earlier, Jennifer had licked my red-haired pussy into not just one orgasm, but into multiple orgasms, each one more intense than the last.

My right hand was idly caressing my stomach, feeling the heat welling up in my core. My left hand held my gnawed pencil up to my slightly pouting lips, my tongue flicking out now and then, emulating my pussy-licking endeavors, the eraser a surrogate clit. With my knee rocking idly back and forth, my skirt had ridden up, well past mid-thigh. Further slouching, not caring about sitting up straight like a proper lady, had caused my legs to spread open a bit more than I had realized.

My sexual reminiscing was interrupted by a loud thud, a book falling to the floor. In the mandated quietness of the library, it sounded like a startling explosion. Startled, I gasped, my thoughts fleeing my mind as I looked up. A very red-faced man, dressed in casual business attire, sat a few yards away from me in a lone, comfy chair, facing me. He had a partially folded copy of the Wall Street Journal in one hand and was leaning over the side of his chair to retrieve a fallen book, the source of the rowdy, errant noise; it had fallen from his lap.

I smirked and went back to studying. The man was old by my youthful standards. By God--sorry, mom, by the Goddess--he must have been at least thirty! To me, he represented “the man,” the type of societal conventions my father refused to capitulate to. My studies turned once more down that familiar daydreaming road. The pencil once more became the object of my cunnilingus and fellatio practice; my pussy gushed; my knee rocked.

We all get that occasional feeling that we’re being watched. Growing up pagan, I was tutored on how to accept and rely upon my feelings, impulses, and instincts. I had that feeling; it grew from a fleeting intuition into an overwhelming premonition. No longer able to ignore the sensation, I stopped flicking the eraser tip with my tongue and slowly raised my eyes to survey the scene. I had the feeling that some of my teenage tormentors would be standing in front of me with some new insult, a knuckle-dragging version of sharp wit. Instead of needing to brace myself for another round of degradation, all seemed well, except for one thing.

The man sitting a few yards away from me seemed to be intently staring directly at me, his eyes peeking over his paper, wide as saucers. Suddenly very self-conscious, I glanced down at my top to make certain I wasn’t exposing myself. My mother seemed to purposely dress so her boobs would fly out without provocation. My nipples were extremely hard, straining against the fabric of my tank top, betraying my arousal. From my vantage, I could even make out the little bumps of my areola, see them faintly through the light fabric. Maybe he was wondering if I was ill or something because my hand had been rubbing my stomach. I stopped my self-caressing and let my hand drop lazily into my lap.

My hand hit skin, not my skirt!

Drawing in a shocked, hard breath, I realized what had happened. Looking down confirmed my fears. Oh, my Goddess! Not only was the back of my skirt and the seat of the chair soaked, but my skirt had ridden up so high that I could plainly see my red, trimmed pubes. That meant that he could see it quite plainly from his vantage point, facing me, his eyes almost at table-level.

Stunned and embarrassed, I snapped my thighs together, thankful that my wetness didn’t make a splash or sloshing sound. Smoothing my skirt back down, I picked up the closest open book, I had several of them arrayed on the table, and held it upright, hiding my red face from view. I had to quickly turn the book around as it was upside down.

Commanding myself to forget about it and study, I just couldn’t. What captivated my young mind was that he didn’t insult me. He didn’t call me any names; he didn’t tell me that I was “Satan’s whore.” He had been smiling, his pants showing a bit of an erection. I’d only handled two penises at that point in my life; only had one inside me. However, I had seen more cocks than a chicken farmer due to the lifestyle I grew up around. I knew what a hard cock inside trousers looked like and I had a shining new example before my sixteen-year-old eyes.

I was four things at that moment. I was embarrassed and slightly scared. What if he was a perverted rapist or pressed charges for indecent exposure? The third thing dominated my body psyche entirely; I was incredibly turned on and horny! I felt dirty and slutty by inadvertently doing something so taboo. I also felt empowered and free. An “old” man was seated less than thirty feet away from me, hypnotized and enthralled by my young pussy.

I could feel my lubrication soaking my thighs, smell it as my knees, both of them now, spread themselves wide, then slowly closed again. My nipples stuck out like the pencil eraser I was now sucking and licking. I was all but fellating the number two pencil at that point. I couldn’t have quelled my arousal even if I had wanted to do so. I felt ashamed that I was getting so aroused over a random stranger looking at my naked pussy. I felt more ashamed that I was getting off on it.

If he wants a show, I’ll give him a fucking show, I thought to myself.

Slamming my book down dramatically, I arched my back, placing my hands behind my head at the base of my neck. This caused my breasts, too small to be impressive but still too big for my body, to raise even higher, causing the thin material of my light tank top to mold itself tightly to the rounded contours of my breasts. I pulled off the scrunchy hair tie that had bound my hair back, shaking my head to let my fiery hair cascade over my face and shoulders.

A surreptitious glance proved my audience of one horny businessman was still paying attention. His business newspaper was forgotten, discarded on the floor beside him. Pretending to pay attention to my books once more, I abandoned my pencil and grabbed my much bigger, pink highlighter. I sucked on it like a cock, just as I had seen my mother do countless times. Unbidden, my hips undulated with every thrust of the highlighter into my mouth. As I ran my lips slowly over the pink plastic, my pussy thrust itself forward, just as it did when Jennifer was licking me close to orgasm.

My legs had spread very wide, my bare pussy on full display. My breasts were heaving up and down with my ragged breath. My tongue caressed the tip and shaft of the marker. My captive audience just sat there, unable to move, not even blinking. Lust and horny desire to cum filled me, much more intense and more urgently than ever before. I was in control, powerful, not shunned or avoided. It was so fucking hot.

Barely even realizing that I had dropped the highlighter, my teeth chewed on my lower lip in sexual need. Soft moaning whimpers escaped my mouth. I had never been this turned on in my entire life. In my heated excitement, I had completely forgotten to pretend I was unaware. Our eyes locked, him dropping his gaze quickly then raising it back up.

My gnashing bite released my bottom lip as I stared him directly in the eyes, smiling and licking the hot saliva from my lower, pouting lip. Running my hand down my torso, making sure that it touched my nipple, I rested it on my right thigh. My skin was burning hot.

In my defense, what I did next was only because I was just sixteen and nervous. Rather than prolong my first foray into exhibitionism, I quickly stood up, thrust my belongings into my patchwork bag, and ran out of the library as fast as I could. I couldn’t even bring myself to look my voyeur in the eyes! Emotions borne of shame and lust filled me, melding into a singular emotion of taboo heat.

Running full-speed across the parking lot, I fumbled with the keys and pulled the truck’s door open, hearing the groaning creak of vintage metal protesting. My bag thrown onto the passenger side, the heavy door had barely closed before my skirt was pulled up over my waist and my fingers assaulted my cunt. It was hotter and wetter than I ever recalled. In the parking lot, not caring who might see, actually hoping they would, my left hand thrust two fingers, deep and fast, into my dripping cunt as my right index finger ran frantic circles around, then over, my clit. No ceremony or teasing myself into arousal, just me pummeling my cunt with furious abandon.

It only took ten or fewer seconds before my entire body convulsed there in broad daylight. The huge, heavy truck rocked with my spasms as my mouth, now freed to be loud, I screamed out incoherent moans and grunts. Hornier than I’d ever been in my life, my orgasm didn’t sate my lust, it only fueled the flames of passion higher and higher.

Three fingers inserted now, all my other fingers cupping my pussy lips and flicking my clit as hard and as fast as I could, I relived every moment in the library. Drawing close to another orgasm I wondered if the “dirty old man” was going to go home and cum to me. The thought of him stroking his cock over me brought me off once more, my hands a blur between my legs. I cursed and swore loudly, announcing my orgasm to the empty parking lot.

As soon as the after-quakes of my second, amazingly intense orgasm subsided, I was wracked with guilt. It was wrong, taboo, and it shouldn’t turn me on. I promised myself that I’d never, ever do anything like that again. I scolded myself to the point of almost crying.

Comfort food was the only thing that could give me solace now. I started the truck despite its grinding stubbornness and drove the few minutes, at the Krystal speeds, to the ice cream stand. My thoughts collected, my thighs cleaned up with three, now-soaked paper towels, I spent two dollars of my treasured five to buy a large chocolate and vanilla swirl soft serve cone.

Yes, even Hell has a small-town ice cream parlor, complete with the occasional troop of bigots-in-training having just won their little league game. This time, there was only me, the vile and pretentious senior staffing the place, and a man with his wife. The couple was from out of state, as told by their license plates. I wondered if they were lost. The girl staffing the stand was named Amanda or something; her father was the local dentist. She had a reputation for taking the entire baseball team’s spunk over those perfect, pearly whites of hers, yet they called me a slut.

I sat alone at one of the picnic tables to the side of the small kiosk outbuilding. From that vantage, I was hidden from the view of Amanda, the road, the tiny parking lot, everything. The only person that could see me was the man, his wife hidden by the corner of the ice cream stand, just outside my view. He had glanced at me once or twice with appreciation; I paid him no mind.

My tongue, so recently torridly hot, having recently screamed out, “fuck yes, I’m cumming,” was cooled by the sweet ice cream. As my tongue lapped up and down I thought of my voyeur. He was kind of cute in an old-man kind of way. I wondered if he had a nice, big, thick cock, like my large twisty cone. Lost in sexual thought, my tongue slowly slid up and down the sweetness of the chocolate side, then quickly down the vanilla side. Rubbing the icy coldness against my lips, I pretended that I was sucking him off while he stared at my nude pussy. Glancing up, I saw the strange man staring at me; that feeling of horny power washed over me again, this time without any hesitation.

My lips caused the tip of the swirl to break off the cone. It’s sweet coldness dropped onto my left thigh, sending cold shivers through my heated body, causing my nipples to poke out once more. My nipples coming to attention caused the man’s eyes to pop out of his skull, copying a cartoon character; all he needed was a Zoot suit. Smiling at my "accidental" clumsiness, I reached down and scooped up the ice cream, drew my messy finger to my mouth, and slowly, seductively licked and sucked it off my index finger. Overacting in my enthusiasm, I parodied a look of surprise when I glanced down and saw more of it on my thigh. Legs spread into a very unladylike position, worthy of the slut moniker I was burdened with, I reached down and slowly rubbed the stickiness into my inner thigh, my hand trailing upwards towards my now-exposed pussy.

I kept up the tease to both my incredible arousing satisfaction and his delight, his wife droning on and on about their itinerary, oblivious that he was staring at my dripping, exposed pussy while I pretended to give head to my ice cream. Just as before, the thrill of the taboo, the slutty naughtiness, and my sexual heat consumed me. Guilt? What guilt? I was hooked!

This time I was bold enough to hold eye contact. I knew he was looking; he knew that I was aware. It was a shared moment, the best sex I’d ever had involving a male, although nobody even touched me. Well before I had finished my ice cream cone, I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw at least half of my purchase in the bin, shot my random lusty stranger a mischievous smile, blew him a kiss while licking my lips, and then sped away in dad’s old truck. I made it just barely out of town before I had to pull over and finger fuck myself to another orgasm.

Back at home, ignoring the parents' inquiries about my study session, I paused only long enough to toke on mom’s offered pipe and ran upstairs, locking myself in my room. Promising myself that I’d never again flash anyone, let alone get off on it, it took all of ten minutes before I had arranged my notebook and books on my desk, as close to the library layout as I could, and relived the experience over and over and over. Each orgasm brought more filth to my mind, more desire to repeat my actions, and more burning neediness to cum again. My parents heard my moans; that was fine with me. Goddess knows I’ve yelled at them to keep it down plenty of times.

Since that day I’ve always gotten off on the thrill of exhibiting my body to responsive, live, appreciating strangers. When you’re out and about, if you see a flame-haired, chicken-legged, green-eyed vixen with an impish smile, dressed to tease, pay attention; you might be in for one Hell of a show. If she gets off, hard, it just might be me.