When I woke the next morning, the sun was beginning to rise, and I instantly knew that something had changed. The tone was different. Before, I had been singularly focused on what was happening to me, so terrified and worried, that I ejected myself from the flow of nature, the world, and locked myself away in a tiny, bleak micro-universe of solipsism. While most people live in their own little self-centered world, it’s a sad, dark, cramped existence of despair.

I had become a staccato burst of primal, unthinking reactions, mere descriptions of myself and my actions. Fight or flight, life or death, triumph or despair, the list of extremes went eternally on. I forced out the idea of me, displaying only a single facet to the world, descriptions of thought or action substituted in place of where my heart and soul should be.

With the different octaves of tonality flowing through me, beauty and poetry were restored. Each beam of sunlight was a sculpture, each bird call a poetic stanza. My entire essence had devolved to “I thought this, I did that, repeat.” Retrospectively, it was evident in everything I’d said or done. Terrified of showing my true state, I only presented a shallow shadow of what I thought people perceived me as being. My external self had become a contrived role play, “what would Krystal do” being the impetus.

Now, though, I was no longer the presentation of a singular action, I was grace, mirth, life, and alive. The abysmal prison of despair no longer contained me, no longer forced me to present a truncated, blurred copy of myself. I breathed in life, once more in the world instead of observing it. Along with that bliss-filled elation came self-awareness, introspection, and a barrage of internal analysis.

Again, it was the tone, the notes that drove the beating of my heart, the breath in my lungs, and the heaving of my tits. My tonality had been morose and serious, and I had ignored all the joy of life, only putting a tiny fraction of myself into everything. Far worse than the physical ravages, that blight on my soul darkened me.

I’d proven to myself that I was still a complete woman of hot flesh and boiling blood. My mind was once more active, no more soulless regurgitating of actions in word, deed, and in my writing. Although I still loathed my body, I could, at the very least, accept it once more.

It was true; I despised my mortal coil. I felt incomplete and horribly betrayed. The fingerprints of Death himself sullied my age-defying flesh, marring my lady bits. Therein lay my identity crisis, and being able to confess the summation of all those negative emotions to myself was agonizing beauty. Lacking the fortitude to remain stoic in the face of disaster, I’d closed myself off with darkness, puppeteering my traitorous body in a parody of normalcy.

I lived, breathed, and felt once more; the rhythm of nature called to me, beckoning me to lust for life, surrender to wanton desire, and appreciate the miracle of life. However, I still didn’t feel like a horny miracle. I could go through the motions, surely, even pleasure myself—a thing I was truly thankful for—but nobody would want to fuck or lick or finger me after the blackest of plagues invaded my cunt.

“Fake it until you make it,” seemed to be a wise course of action, slightly better than hiding in my own universe and shunting everyone and everything away, so I threw off the blankets and fingered myself to orgasm, concentrating on being able to feel, as the sun caressed me with its heated fingers. I screamed with lusty release when the golden globe topped the mountains outside my window, fucked myself with a large dildo to the tune of the morning breeze, and fucked my ass with a suction-cup dildo in the shower while my clit-sucker throbbed my nerve centers and the warm water rained on my heaving tits.

Outwardly, I seemed normal, again. Internally, I was almost normal, except, while my mind was more than willing to embrace carnal delight, I doubted anyone would have me. Nobody wants to fuck half a woman whose sex is tainted by pestilence. Instead of ruminating on that reality, I focused on another major issue, my husband.

Having retreated into the void, at least let me not need to deal with that gargantuan bundle of insanity. The problem wasn’t him, it was my inability to cope with him. He’s so perfect, thoughtful, and incredibly fucking sexy that his brilliance eclipses me. Since this is my honest confession, I need to add that I was warned. When I was told that he was “too perfect,” I ignored it.

I tend to thrust my sexuality before me like a shield. I inherited that habit from my very wise but screwed-up mother. But, I am guilty of my actions and cannot forsake her for my mimicry. As mentally unhealthy as it may sound, people that can only see or fixate upon my brazen promiscuity aren’t the types I need in my life. Furthermore, those that can’t handle the heat can stay right the hell out of my kitchen. I learned that the hard way, and my mother’s voice still rings in my head. “See, Kryssi, I told you so. Mother’s always right.” She’s also an unrepentant slut; like mother, like daughter, I guess.

My issues with my husband weren’t that he’s pussy-drenching sexy, or thoughtful and insightful to the point of being psychic. It wasn’t that he does romance on a godlike level, or that every day with him has been just as wonderful and more intense as the moment we met. I couldn’t even fault him for instantly casting my sexuality shield aside with an appreciative laugh, grabbing my heart in one hand, my soul in the other, and igniting my passion to a level I’d never even dreamed of.

I felt inadequate and unworthy. He saw me, the real me, and wasn’t scared off, only enticed. He accepted my wanton craziness and all the insecurity and self-created drama that goes with it. Furthermore, he not only condoned my sex-crazed spirit of adventure, but he was also a wanton accomplice, getting off on me getting off.

I lost myself in him, and, while it gave me peace, happiness, and a fairy tale life that I’ll no longer apologize for living, I had to put myself on equal footing. He could be Mr. Perfect all he wanted, showering me in love and understanding, always seducing me to the point that I can’t get enough, and giving me the best sex I’ve ever had. But, I’d no longer stand in his shadow, no matter how big of one he cast.

I summarized all of this self-analysis and determination into a single text. “I’m not putting the cock on a pedestal.” Mission accomplished, with a side note to myself to also work on my sanity.

Still, the war waged within me. Two days passed, and the facade of the vapid bimbo, my sexual shield to preserve my fragile emotions, reemerged. I could pleasure myself, even pleasure another, but I couldn’t shake the feelings of desolation that ate at my soul in the very spots where cancer ran rampant. That internal terror was amplified during the week when “precancerous” masses were discovered in a post-op examination and quickly cut out.

I was medically clear, finally one hundred percent cancer-free. I was living instead of trying not to die, and I could feel the miracle of life, the wonder of creation, and the lusty fires of passion all around me. I just couldn’t bear to have those fires inside me, despite my mind wanting and needing them.

However, Friday night was my planned all-girls night. My strategy was to ease back into the debauched world of sexual abandon. My marathon day of masturbation was just the first, largest step. Three of my friends, all of whom I’ve played with, and I would spend the evening at my home and do whatever we wanted. My husband would be there, but not be involved.

The four of us, me and my friends Sylva, Elsa, and Ursula, spent that night together. While the purpose was to reintroduce me to sex with a partner, our camaraderie took up the majority of the evening. My husband, always graciously entertaining, was decked out in compression shorts and a bow tie. He was our personal Chippendale’s hunk to objectify. He also cooked a wonderful dinner for us all, kept the drinks flowing as we requested, and provided company and moral support, but otherwise stayed out of the way.

A study in contrasts, each one of us looked very physically different but were all beautiful and sexy in our unique way. Finally open to others getting close, the world took on a more vibrant sheen. Although I’d been surrounded and supported by friends, I hadn’t allowed myself to feel for months. Cradled in Sylva’s arms as we chilled on the couch, her blond hair cascading over my flesh, I delighted in observing the joyful banter between my goth friend, Elsa, and the gentle, solidly-built Ursula.

Conversation flowed with the wine, and laughter wafted about the house along with the smoke from our shared, recreational pipe. I was feeling again: kinship, friendship, unity, love, and even passion. For the first time, I felt no pain.

“Quit hogging the pipe, bitch,” Elsa, who is short, thin, and frail of build, laughingly spat to Ursula, who is a raven-haired, muscular woman with just the hint of a belly and of partial Asian descent.

“Take it, then,” she coughed out, white smoke pluming out of her mouth. “See if you can.”

They wrestled for the pipe as my husband noted the change in mood and made himself disappear. The pipe forgotten, the larger, stronger Ursula had the struggling Elsa pinned in record time. They were both panting, but not from exertion. Just then, I felt my friend’s hand cupping my breast. My body tensed, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

“Relax,” she whispered into my ear, her tongue darting over the lobe. “We’re all friends. You're fine and safe.”

Framed by the roaring fire, my other two friends were locked in an embrace on the floor. Their lips were passionately touching, occasionally breaking the kiss to lick at each other’s tongues. Elsa’s hand was between my Korean friend’s thighs, rubbing up and down. As the beauty of the two of them giving each other passion filled my vision, I felt Sylva’s hand leave my breast and travel over my stomach.

The anticipated act of her being repulsed by my surgery scars, which were at least quickly fading when her fingertips touched them did not happen. Instead, she moaned and told me how wet she was for me. With a sigh of relief, still frightened to be touched by another, I leaned back into her body, my legs spreading. Then, the dam burst, and all of my fears, my self-pity, and my insanity were washed away in the flood of the waters of self, the tempest of passion.

With my eyes closed, I turned to kiss Sylva on her pouting lips. They were hot and moist, giving me the attention, the passion, and the desire I so craved. It wasn’t just me seeking attention, it was the both of us giving freely to one another, taking pleasure in its giving, giving pleasure by its taking.

Tears of release poured from my eyes, and I moaned into her wanton mouth, surrendering my body, giving my heart, and never wanting the sensation of her hands probing my wetness to subside. An ear-shattering scream of passion poured from my mouth when she flicked my clit and then moved her hand to squeeze my ass.

“I want you,” she stated, dissolving my fear of not being worthy.

At that moment, I felt hands on my legs, and lips on my arm. My other two friends had joined us, pulling me off the couch and onto the floor with giggles. The top of my seductively sexy dress was pulled down, exposing my bare tits, as Ursula smiled devilishly and positioned herself between my spread thighs.

“Lick me, please. Make me cum,” Sylva begged as she straddled my face. Her burning thighs warmed my cheeks, and I grabbed her young, supple ass and began licking her wet cunt. She writhed and moaned, reaching up to cup her ample breasts and squeeze those perfectly puffy nipples that I’m so envious of.

Feeling totally at ease and natural, I gave in to the pleasure of my blond friend grinding her cunt into my face while another friend licked my pussy. Elsa had bent over my torso, her apple-sized breasts pressing into my stomach, as her tongue snaked out and writhed over my clit. Then, more fingers and another tongue warmed my most sacred of places. Ursula’s kink is rimming, and she softly plunged her long tongue down my soaked pussy to rest it on my asshole, then swirl all over it, finally plunging inside. She feasted on my holes, making me shiver and moan.

As I got Sylva off so intensely that she collapsed over my face, I felt another world of anguish disintegrate. I voiced my need for more flesh and was rewarded with Elsa swinging her light body over mine, putting us into a sixty-nine. I heard my Korean friend moan her appreciation and stopped savoring pussy long enough to note that Sylva had crept between Ursula’s legs, fingering her pussy while she feasted upon my ass and drenched slit.

One by one, we got each other off, giving and receiving, making sure that each of the four of us was in the spotlight, getting all the attention. We daisy-chained each other, licking and fingering and loving until we had all erupted in our friends’ mouths. We kissed, caressed, and fondled, stopping to drink, snack, and then returning.

In the heat of my passion, I’d forgotten all about being afraid of being touched or whether they’d recoil from accidentally touching me where cancer once dug in. Another weight was shrugged off my heart as we lay in a group embrace, nude bodies tangled, musing over nothing and everything.

Girls’ night became a girls’ weekend. I and Sylva had to work that Saturday, but we reconvened the following evening. After dinner at a fancy restaurant, so we could all dress to kill and act slutty, we repeated the previous night’s performance, only this time including my husband. I’d tried to give him some relief during my sickness, but he refused in an act of solidarity. With me finally out of the woods, he was content to let me get comfortable once more, never pressuring me.

However, four drunk, stoned, and extremely horny women cannot be denied. We converged upon him, stripping him, taking his cock in our hands and mouth, sharing his body as we shared ourselves. Finally, after all four of us women had received more orgasms than could be counted, I begged and pled with him to fuck me with that mutant cock.

In the missionary position, but with one of my friends sucking on either breast and Ursula licking my sensitive clit, he slowly worked that hard, long, thick cock into my ignored snatch. At first, I was horrified that I wouldn’t feel right to him, or that somehow my lost ovary affected the way I’d feel or respond. I was terrified that he’d loathe sex with me, but I was gloriously wrong.

Ursula moved behind my husband and indulged herself, feasting on his shapely behind while she stroked his cock and fondled his balls. Her hand rubbed against my labia with his strokes, adding more physical sensation and emotional eroticism to the act of sex. Elsa plunged her mouth over mine, kissing me passionately while she kneaded my breasts with one hand, the other busy between her legs. My blond, best friend lay off to one side, fingering her cunt, shouting encouragement between lust-filled moans.

Finally, the walls of my canal were stretched enough to fit that monster inside, and the last missing piece of me shot into place with violent force, almost fully completing me. He fucked me like he was possessed by demonic arousal, with me screaming for more, needing more, and wanting him to pound my body into the floor.

“Fuck my cunt, I love your cock. Fuck me; please, fucking fuck me. I’m fucking cumming, again.”

When he came, I begged, pled, and commanded him to shoot his wad all over my tits, so my friends could lick it off. I cried out in horny fury as they did, my fingers probing wet cunts as they lapped the sticky gift off my flesh. Then, we relaxed with no uncomfortable silence, just close friends sharing pleasure. As one, the four of us pulled my husband upstairs and into the bedroom and had another round of everyone pleasing everyone. My husband, Mr, Perfect, exhausted us all.

Throughout it all, I felt the influx of my true, primal self, mixed with my humanity, with every orgasmic release. Thoroughly exhausted, Sylva fell asleep first, then Elsa, and then myself. Whether Glade, my husband, and Ursula carried on was not an issue. I remembered who I was.

I am woman, all things, all at once, and I am an insatiable sexual being while also being a powerful and independent icon of femininity. Cancer didn’t take me; it had no chance due to my excellent surgeon and the love and support of my friends. While it shattered my mind and broke my soul, I am perfectly broken, gloriously insane, and at peace with it. My fractured soul had been reforged and repaired in Kintsugi, the faults in my essence now glowing objects of art, made more beautiful by highlighting the fractures, and more complete having shaken off the fires of despair.

With hugged promises to repeat the weekend, soon, my friends left, and I traveled across the state to my parents’ house. It was Ostara, and I was required to be there for the ritual.

“Oh, Kryssi,” my mother beamed as soon as I pulled up. “Your aura’s changed. You’re almost yourself, again. Where’s that hot stud you call a husband?”

“He can’t come, mom. Good to see you, too.”

The comfort of the coven put a glossy veneer over the prior week’s events. Nobody treated me any differently. The stigma of the plague was no longer with me, only consuming my mind. I knew that I had only one more hurdle to jump, and I could possibly find it within me to be myself once more, or at least close enough. Horrible terror still haunted my psyche, but I was now determined to reclaim all I’d lost and take back my soul.

Well past midnight, I returned home. The phantom of illness still stalked me, but I felt my inner balance returning. I still didn’t know if my sexual therapy had allowed me to regain my full self, but the shattered shards were mended, and I only had to discover if I could once more plunge myself into the sea of carnal lust again, enthusiastically drowning in its horny waters.

I did know that I wanted more of that cock, and I’d worry about whether or not I had to turn in my slut card after the following weekend when I had my orgy planned.

To be continued…