Oscar Wilde was a wise and witty man. He’s the one that mentioned that women should be loved, not understood. Ironically, that means that he understood women. My boyfriend is like that as well; he both loves and understands women. Most guys will say that they love women, but they actually mean that they love fucking women. Glade loves women, through and through. I love that about him.

Mr. Wilde also stated that there are only two tragedies in life--not getting what one wants, and getting it. While I’m fully aware that I am the architect of my own disaster, Oscar’s words outline the travesty of my situation. I suffer the tragedy of having to deal with getting what I want.

My tragedy is that Glade is everything I ever fantasized about in a man. I have been living for seven months in a constant state of shocked disbelief, constantly pestering my friends over every bit of minutia. I could, and often do, go on and on about his exploits, his life of constant adventure, and the fact that being in his orbit guarantees that you’ll experience a dream that you’ll never want to end. Everything about him is everything I’ve craved. The fact that he seems oblivious about how amazing he is, only adds to his sexy, roguish charm.

The greater tragedy is that all of these wonderful traits, the generosity, the tear-inducing thoughtfulness, the extravagant gestures, the ability to adore you like a cherished friend, respect you as an accepted equal, and fuck you like a trashy slut, all while making you feel like the most treasured person in the universe, are also the very same things every other fucking woman on the planet craves. Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t be so…so, fucking, Glade.

Those were my thoughts as I ran into the bedroom on a desperate quest to out-slut the invading whore-army. In my own house, abandoned nearly a month ago so I could sink my wretched claws into Glade by forcibly inserting myself into his life, I had a huge wardrobe of clothes that ranged from sexy to fuck-toy-slutty. Here, I had only the barest necessities; I didn’t even have a bra or pair of panties.

I wasn’t worried about undergarments. I once asked him what he thought was the sexiest thing a woman could wear. “No underwear,” was his succinct response. He also mentioned that he preferred women who were “naturally slutty.” Further probing queries revealed that he meant slutty women that naturally radiate their sensual, sexual nature. If they manufactured the aura, it lost its magic. I can be slutty, the sluttiest slut in all of slutdom!

Thinking quickly, I grabbed his dagger off the bedroom table and stabbed a hole in his t-shirt about several inches above the bottom hem. Ripping it by hand, the long shirt shortened into one that barely went to my waistline. The torn, ragged edge drew attention to my hips and would expose my stomach, still looking shapely after thirty-nine years, if I stretched or raised my arms.

Hacking and slashing at my new jeans, ones he had purchased for me, I ripped, tore, and shredded them, strategically. Knees, thighs, a bit of hip, and cuffs were opened to view with plenty of white threads visible to add to the allure. A few hasty slits, less than an inch from where the swell of my ass meets my thighs, finished up my impromptu distressing exercise.

Trying them on, the bitch in the mirror showed me that my skin was far too pale for it to be sexy. Lace garter-hose, which are like a garter belt and lace stockings all in one piece, not only hid my paleness, but put a big thumb on the slut-scales, tipping them way over into the realm of “naturally slutty.” They were faded a bit from washing, from their original stark-black to dull charcoal, but it looked sexy and slutty at the same time. I even teased my hair into that “just been railed hard” look.

Properly armored for the battle ahead, slutty Krystal descended the stairs, pondering whether or not she should have grabbed the dagger, just in case. Et Tu, Krystal? I had only traversed a stair or two when I hear them. The Battle of the Bimbos had already begun; I was coming late to the party.

Glade’s jovial voice could be heard, retelling the tale of capturing Goatmez Addams. His self-debasing humor and entertaining style were shining through. His zeal for life peppered his words, making a fascinating tale. Above his mirth-filled bard’s tale could be heard the annoying, fake cackling of the great whore army.

Stomping down the stairs, not so my breasts would bounce enticingly and freely beneath the loose, thin t-shirt, which they did, but because I was pissed and jealous, my feet announced my return. Luke, the chef, was off at one end of the kitchen, an interesting mix of faux stonework, medieval accenting, and modern appliances. He was laying out a lunch fit to feed an army, an army of sluts, it seemed. The half dozen women were gathered around my boyfriend, hanging on his every word, as well as his arms, his chest, his neck.

Doe-eyed faces, filled with lust, each one attempting to subtly shove the other one out of the way, stared up at him, pressing their naughty bits against my man. Glade knew each one of them by name, on sight, from the front or behind, by the sounds of their voices, even by the way they walked. I sort of knew their names but choose, instead, to label them by the nicknames I’ve given them.

There was Marie, the half-Asian-looking, early-twenties hottie that was the restaurant hostess most nights. Petite with long, shiny black hair, a firm behind, and pert little breasts that have boner-inducing separation, her nickname was the “friendly slut.” Her line of attack was to show him how sweet and loving she is, all while showing a submissive streak. I kind of liked her.

The tall blond one, wearing skin-tight leggings under a tight cleavage-revealing V-neck top, aided by a push-up bra, was Diana. She has large breasts, maybe fake, and reminds me of a Shield Maiden or an Amazon. Her nickname is the “slut that always shoves her tits in his face.”

The sensual-looking, short, dyed-redhead with killer legs and tiny waist was named Tina. She has swollen, pouting lips that I’d kill to have, high cheekbones, and an extremely toned body. She showed it off in a thin, wispy, gauze skirt that allowed the firm jiggle of her ass to show whenever she moved and a black Metallica t-shirt, tied into a knot at the hem to show off her muscular abs. I dubbed her “the slut that never wears underwear.” I nicknamed her that because she always made it a point to tell Glade that she wasn’t wearing any.

Lisa, that slut, had her black hair in little side braids, pigtails, playing up the country-girl next door look. An open flannel shirt over a ribbed, white, wife-beater tank and faded blue jeans that looked like they were airbrushed on, showed off an all-around excellent figure. I wished I had brought down that dagger when I saw how she had her arm over his shoulder, pulling him in possessively. “The slut trying to impress him with her intellect” was about to be my first victim.

Finishing out my slutty platoon of foes was Aubrey and Joan. Aubrey was a brunette, working on her Master’s Degree in Veterinary School, also known as “the slut that sits beside him and strokes his arm and thigh.” Joan, a bottled blonde, wearing far too little clothing for December, was dubbed “the slut that always talks about how often she masturbates.” She also overshares her techniques and likes to mention that she just got done making herself cum. Pardon me mixing genders, but the balls on that woman!

When my boyfriend saw me, he stopped talking and stared at me with delight. “Did you just get even more beautiful than three minutes ago? Every time I see you, I’m stunned!”

Suck it, whores! I thought to myself. “Come here and give your horny girlfriend a kiss,” was what I said aloud.

He started with a loving, gentle, soul-felt kiss; I would have none of that. I forced my lips into him, kissing him passionately, hands roaming over his torso, squeezing his tight, muscular ass, knowing they were jealously watching. Pulling me into him, wrapping me with warmth, protective strength, and lust, his body responded to my conveyed passions, in kind. As we kissed, I debated the wisdom of wearing jeans.

You see, there are kisses and then there are KISSES. The latter kind makes your body erupt into a soulgasm, makes you melt, causes your heart to beat fiercely. His kisses encompass and transcend that, cause you to willingly, immediately surrender all of yourself to him in any way, at any time. I hoped my wetness wasn’t visible on the crotch of my jeans. You might cry bullshit at that, but the first time he kissed me, I knew that I was his forever and that there was nothing I could ever hope to do about it.

Kiss broken, me out of breath, knowing stares exchanged, he turned back to his merry band of slutty groupies to finish his story.

“I’ll take the first shower,” the slut that masturbates said. Shooting me a jealous glance, she went upstairs. Krystal one, sluts zero.

Meandering over to Luke to help with preparing lunch, I exchanged pleasantries with the five remaining, man-stealing whores. It’s not they are bad people; we’re just at odds when it comes to my boyfriend.

One might suggest that I’m jealous, insecure, and perhaps overreacting. I am not. I know exactly what they’re doing and why. I know this because they’re pulling not only the same shit every other woman he encounters pulls, but the very same shit I pulled to get my clutches into him. When others are doing the exact same things that you’ve done, for the exact same reasons, the game is not only afoot, but the stink of rot permeates Denmark.

“Glade, oh Glade, did you do all of this work in here, yourself,” Boob-slut sang out, giving her huge bosoms extra bounce because I lack that sort of endowment up top.

“You did? Tell me how you made this,” she cooed with her voice dripping like orgasmic heat, bending over to show how the tight fabric of her leggings showed off the swell of her pussy from behind. Damn her, that’s my move! Whores one, Krystal one.

My lover peeled away from the herd, I talked with Luke. Luke is tall, with a muscular, swimmer’s body. Shaggy, short-cropped blond hair, a perfect smile, and a sweet demeanor made him a wonderful man to be around. Additionally, he’s a chef, so that makes him quite the catch. I slutted myself to him; he pretended to not notice. Worse yet, Glade’s hopeful whores didn’t seem to mind. Fucking-whores two, Krystal one, damn it.

One by one, the horde of whores made their way up to the shower. Each one of them found some excuse to come down in various states of undress to try and catch his eye.

Some of my thoughts were:

Really, boob-slut, did you need to come down in just your shirt to ask which door led to the bathroom? You were obviously in there. Yes, you have a nice ass, thank you for sharing. No, he didn’t notice because slutty lace under denim seems to be more enticing than you, you evil whore.

Come on, masturbating slut, you didn’t need to come downstairs in just your thong and demi-bra to ask if it was okay to use the toilet. He doesn’t like underwear, that’s why I’m not wearing any, and made sure he knows.

Intellectual slut, coming down in just your wet wife-beater to hug him for letting you use the shower was obvious to everyone! I think even Glade realized your ploy, and he’s oblivious to how slutty you all are.

The goddess smiled upon me at long last! Bill called and needed some more help. He had to leave.

Glade, ever the super-hero, kissed the ladies’ hands, making them shimmy and sigh, kissed me deeply, clutched at my ass, told me how much he loved how I looked, and sped away to aid his neighbor. This left me alone with Luke and the great whore army, wearing even less than when they arrived.

“Oh my God, “ thigh-caressing-slut began. “He’s so hot. He’s like stripper hot, sex-me-up hot!”

“Yeah, he is, isn’t he?” I added with an impish laugh. “You should see him naked! He looks even better after he strips, and that cock! You have no idea! Last for hours.”

Choke on that you fake, countrified, bimbo.

I was nice, don’t get me wrong. But I was fuming inside. During the hours it took for all of them to shower, make their attempts at stealing him from me, and pretend to be nice to me, I had popped on and offline, lamenting my situation to my friends. I apologize for that. I swore that if one more bimbo came downstairs in a wet shirt to rub their slutty fucking bodies up and down him that I was going for his sword. One redheaded berserker-bitch against the slutty waitress brigade, but I seemed to be holding my own without resorting to physical violence. I did, however, keep that option open.

With Glade gone, they more or less lounged around like a slutty sorority, somewhat including me into their hen-party. Then the questions began.

“Are you two, like, really serious? How serious?”

“Is his dick as big as it looks?”

“Is he always so perfect?”

“What’s it like having sex with a guy like that?”

“Is he rich?”

“I’ve never met anyone like him. Does he always treat everyone like that?”

I won't bore you with my answers to the affirmative, except that I don't care about money. Suck it, sluts, was my sole thought.

Having discovered the joys of copious amounts of honey-wine, a free lunch, and dance music, the troupe of sluts, I mean waitresses, turned the living room into a makeshift dance floor. I watched them, amused, for a short while, noting that some of the dance moves emulated sex, others emulated the very same visions of what I had intended to do as I danced over their bloody bodies, fallen in the Battle of the Bimbos.

Luke, who has already seen my bare breasts because of a horny restaurant-flashing escapade, hugged me, eyed me up, and told me that he was going to shower. Eyeing up the downstairs, towels everywhere, I decided that Luke needed fresh towels. I gave him enough time to get undressed and start the shower.

I had to have sex; that’s all there was to it. Any one, or all, of the ladies would have done nicely, but they only had eyes for Glade. It wasn’t the first time I was so horny for my boyfriend that I pounced on the closest willing body as an appetizer. It probably wouldn’t be my last. Luke gave me the “I want to fuck you” look. It was his lucky day. What can I say? I’m a slutty whore; live with it.

Sneaking away, unnoticed, was easy. They were engrossed in some slutty dance-off, all talking about how dreamy my boyfriend is. I didn’t even need to creep up the stairs; with the shower running and the music blaring out some soulless twaddle, I could have been banging a drum and have gone unheard.

The door was unlocked; the room was hot and steamy; I was hot and steamy. The door quietly closed and locked behind me, towels set down, clothes quickly discarded in a heap on the floor, I drank in the sight of Luke showering.

His back was turned to me, facing the shower. His back muscles were well-defined, hardly any fat on him. His leg muscles could be seen. His hands were on his head, shampooing his hair, which showed off that wonderful taper to his torso. Spinning around, putting his back towards the water, not seeing me, he leaned back into the cascading shower. His chest was amazing with pectoral muscles bulging, horizontal lines on his stomach, and an impressive penis. His manhood was nowhere near as huge as my Glade’s, but it would do more than fine. Luke was packing an impressive lightsaber, just not a cock that is a thing of legend.

I took the three steps to the shower door and opened it, startling him. Luke first gasped in surprise, then eyed me up, then eyed me back down. I returned the eye-fucking with interest.

“What are you doing?” he said with genuine surprise and concern in his voice.

“You were taking too long,” I moaned out, hoping he’d get the hint. He didn’t. “Move over; give me some room.”

He did as I commanded, averting his eyes.

“Don’t be shy,” I whispered into his ear, taking a cue from touching-slut and caressing his arm and back. His muscles were big and hard. There was one muscle in particular I was hoping to see big and hard.

“If I didn’t want you to look, I wouldn’t have joined you.” To make sure he got the hint, I reached around and groped for his cock. At least I was rewarded with feeling it jump to life as soon as I touched it. It seems that Luke is a grower, not a shower.

“I, ah, I can’t,” he stuttered. His cock was getting hard, betraying his words.

“Why? Do you have a girlfriend? Are you gay? I think you like it.”

“Glade will kill me!”

“No, he won’t,” I corrected. “I can fuck anyone I want; right now that’s you. Besides, I need to thank you for lunch.”

“No,” he pleaded, “We can’t. It’s wrong.”

I had had enough of that! “Being wrong is what makes so hot! Shut up, give me your cock, then fuck me hard!”

Dropping to my knees, the hot water raining down on me, I thrust my mouth over his shaft. Having grown more proficient at sucking on a cock that’s as big around as a can of shaving gel, I felt like a deep-throating queen. His trepidation disappeared as soon as his cock disappeared down my throat.

His hot, wet hands grasping the back of my head, I grabbed two handfuls of that hard, amazing ass of his and pulled him all the way into my mouth, as hard as I could. No finesse, no technique in my need, I just fucked his hard manhood with my mouth until I could feel it swell and pulse in my mouth.

Quickly standing up, bending over while I spread my legs as wide as the shower stall would allow, I fingered myself in my heat. At that moment I was so horny, so frustrated, that I had to have cock, even if it wasn’t my boyfriend’s.

“Fucking fuck me,” I whined out. My voice demonstrated my burning desire. “Put on this condom, fuck me hard, and come all over me.”

One hand steadying myself against the shower wall, the other fingering my cunt, I felt the head of the shaft press against my pussy lips. Hips bucking and humping against it in anticipation, my wetness overpowering the water from the shower, my ass backed into him. I moaned in lust as the head found its way into my velvet tunnel, caressing my insides with heavenly animal pleasure.

One of his strong arms wrapped around my waist, slamming me with brutal force with every thrust. His other hand groped my breasts, squeezing them, pulling my nipples so hard it hurt.

“I’ve wanted you since I first saw,” he whimpered out to me. “You are the hottest fucking woman I’ve ever met. Your pussy feels so good.”

My hand pounded my clit faster and faster until I was humping and gyrating with abandon. My moans echoed through the shower stall. I announced my orgasms and came in buckets, my juices shooting out of my well-used cunt with every convulsion. Luke lost all control, furiously pounding his hard cock into me, the pounding, slopping sounds increasing my heat, causing my orgasm to shatter my soul.

Still in the throes of cumming, Luke announced that he couldn’t hold back anymore. I forced myself to pull my dripping snatch off his cock. Facing him, kneeling once more, I tore off the condom and plunged my mouth over his pulsating meat.

I could easily thrust my lips down to his scrotum. Fondling his balls, my other hand between my legs, fingering myself, he lasted less than a dozen thrusts from my hungry mouth before he erupted.

His muscles bulged; his hips humped against my face; my hand could feel the contractions in his sack as he filled my mouth with more cum than I could hope to swallow. His volume was astounding.

The first squirt filled my mouth completely; the second one dribbled over my lips, down my chin. His third orgasmic spasm happened as I moved my head back, causing his cock to pop out of my mouth and paint my neck. The next and next and next spurts covered my boobs with geyser force. It was a good thing that I was in the shower because I needed a shower after that!

Telling him to go and that I’d be down on a short while, I waited until the door clicked shut and fingered myself once more, thinking about what a nasty whoring slut I am. Taking inspiration from the great whore army, I only half-dried my hair, making sure that the water seeped into my shirt, showing off my braless breasts beneath it.

By the time I made my way downstairs, things had calmed down a bit. The slut-brigade was primping and posing, Luke was serving more food, looking quite relaxed, and Glade had returned. As soon as he saw me, Glade bounded the stairs, rushing to meet me. I basked in their spiteful glowers.

“You have that sexy, naughty look about you that I so dearly love,” he said to me, his arms holding me so tightly that I felt adored and safe.

“That’s because I’ve been a bad girl,” I whispered into his ear.

“Bad?! How?” he exclaimed with delight, causing all eyes to turn to me.

Taking the better part of valor, discretion, I merely said, “Well, let me tease you. My online friend just posted a spanking story. How about I tell you all about what I did later? Then we can read the story together and you can paddle me for being a bad girl?”

“I don’t own a paddle,” he told me. “I’ll need to make one.”

“Ah, but we were hoping to hang out, make a party out of it. You know, get really crazy,” Always-masturbating slut lamented.

Glade laughed with joy at that, then responded in his usual manner. “As much as I’d love to get real crazy with you, we’ll have to reschedule. I doth believe that somebody wants a spanking.”

Eventually, the great whore army got the hint and admitted defeat. They piled out, the setting sun likewise happy to see them go. They hugged and thanked me, giving Glade extra-slutty thanks, the bitches. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if they stabbed me in the front, like a true friend! Luke received my extra-slutty thanks and a promise to play again as Glade’s face lit up with comprehension.

Yes, I finally got that gargantuan, magic cock of his, his arousal heightened by my slutty escapades. Yes, we read my friend’s story and he made a paddle in his workshop just for the occasion. However, that is another story.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the sluttiest of them all. That would be me; suck it bitches!