While my short tenure on campus blazed the path my future would take, the life of a college student was not for me. Unlike high school, which was a daily ordeal of ridicule and torture, even the teachers joining in on the fun of tormenting me, my collegiate academic record was impressive. I just couldn’t fathom why the other students whined so much about how difficult their classes were. All I needed to do was to read the books, and I loved reading.

However, although I was far too self-centered to realize why at the time, changing my locale and peers did not have the effect I craved. Before the middle of my first, Freshman semester, my nickname, Hippie Chick, had evolved into Hippie Slut Chick. My promiscuity became a local legend. I cannot say that I was proud, but I, at the very least, pretended that it didn’t bother me. I had become two separate entities, a budding, intelligent young woman discovering herself and a dirty, kinky, insatiable slut on an endless quest for sex.

Over those months, I began distancing myself from nearly everything and everyone. My parents, X-rated cartoon characters lost in the fairy tale of their lives, became a source of embarrassment as well as the reason that I was the way I turned out. By making myself the victim of their circumstances and pointing the finger outward, I could manage to live with myself. Within that mindset, I wasn’t responsible for my place in life, it was other people’s fault.

Still, my self-loathing continued to grow. Along with it came the knowledge that something inside of me was terribly broken. Other, regular people, the type I was trying to be accepted by, could go for more than a couple of hours without an orgasm. Sane women didn’t have emotional outbursts at the drop of a hat, and they also didn’t prowl the campus bars every night, looking for a hard cock to please them, sometimes two or three times a night.

Tommy and I became friends, very close friends, soon after my first ex-boyfriend, Brent, found out that Tommy and I not only remained friends but also used the optional, benefits rider. It was through Tommy that I met Dave, and, while it may seem a little shallow, or sad and weepy, Dave was the final, slutty straw that broke the bimbo’s back.

By that time, I’d developed a physical preference for my myriad lovers. I liked masculine, lean, and muscular men with hypnotic eyes, a bad-boy aura, and a respectful outlook. The hundreds, if not thousands, of romance novels I’d absorbed formed my ideal of the perfect man. Mister Right did not exist on campus, but there were plenty of beginner models for me to test drive.

Contrasting with my penchant for manly men with golden hearts, especially if they were musicians, had long hair, or, better yet, were long-haired musicians, I preferred my female playmates to be very feminine. I liked women who were iconic in their femininity. Long hair, symmetrical features, and an exuberant personality were my preferences for ladies. As I added about a dozen girl-on-girl encounters to my list, I still convinced myself that I was merely curious and experimenting, because that’s what one did in college.

Dave wasn’t masculine, nor did he have long hair. He was effeminate, his brown locks cut extremely short, always perfectly trimmed. He was tall and lean, with no muscles to speak of, and he was prim, proper, and polished around the edges, the polar opposite of my preferences. What Dave was, however, included being kind and sweet, accepting of me, having a razor-sharp wit, and he was into a lot of the same things I was. He did look cute in his bifocals, though, just not pussy-dampening sexy.

Tommy, not only played role-playing games, but he also returned the dice I’d lent to Brent, and then, he invited me to join his gaming group. Dave played a wizard character, Lord Escavael. Dave was a grad student who had recently finished his Master’s Degree in computers and was hanging around as a teaching assistant while his company startup was getting underway.

Dave was both one of the best things to happen in my life and my worst decision. Dave was unlike any man I’d ever met. He had real goals and was taking action to fulfill his life’s ambitions. He also came from major money, whereas I grew up so poor that the clothes I wore were older than Dave’s luxury car. He also treated me with chivalry, honor, and respect.

My little, shoebox-sized dorm room was on the way to his luxury apartment, so we’d walk home, together, after game nights. I learned that he wasn’t very experienced with sex, was bisexual, and didn’t know his way around a woman’s body. I was more than happy to teach him, as I was still discovering what I liked, both mentally and physically.

When his teaching-assistant obligations ended, Dave readied to leave campus, but he had one major hurdle before he could launch his business. Dave was relying on his parents’ money for his education and the funding of his entrepreneurial endeavors. Their stringent, controlling conditions were nearly met. Dave would receive no business financing until he had graduated with at least a master’s, had everything fully set up, and had gotten married. As an aside, I met his parents on more than a few occasions, and they were as domineering and vile as their conditions sounded. They held their money over their son’s head to control him.

After a stoned, drunken threesome, which marked a few firsts for me, Dave proposed, and I accepted. That night marked my first threesome, the first time I’d let a guy cum on my face, the first time anybody ever licked cum off of me—which was fucking hot—and the first time I ever saw two males pleasing each other.

When I agreed, I knew it was a terrible mistake. My intellectual parts warned me that something was wrong. Sure, Dave and I were great friends, even lovers, but something was amiss. The rest of me told that voice of reason perched upon my shoulder to fuck the hell off.

My walks across campus were growing increasingly uncomfortable, and my slutty reputation was becoming the talk of the quad. Escaping my old life didn’t cure the accusations, tittering behind my back, or the guys thinking that I was a sure thing. Rather than change my slutty behavior or own up to it, I abandoned my collegiate life and became Mrs. Dave for a few months. It was ill-fated from the onset, and we both knew but denied it.

I hadn’t even turned nineteen years old, and I was already exactly where the romance novels ended, the happily ever after stage. All the warning signs were there, stereotypical signs, but I ignored them. As a wedding gift, his filthy-rich parents bought him a newly built house out in the country. It sat on a few acres of land, atop a hill that overlooked the countryside.

Dave’s parents hated me, which mirrored my feelings toward the Harpy and Beelzebub, as I called them. They felt that a “poor, trashy slut,” in their actual words, was beneath Dave. They didn’t find my comment, “He likes me on top, so he’s usually beneath me,” anywhere close to the hilarity that I did.

Their wish that their only son not marry a cheap slut from the wrong side of the tracks was granted a short time later. Sex with Dave was comfortable, that’s the best thing I could say about it. I didn’t mind, at the time. I was married to a man of means who was going places, and we had this new, gargantuan house that cost more money than my parents made in their entire lifetimes. If the sex was lackluster, I had fingers, and Dave didn’t mind buying me a couple of toys. If his parents only knew that he bought a special one for his ass!

We had sex only once during our honeymoon, and getting some cock after that took the vast majority of a bottle of booze, some weed, lots of begging and coaxing, and divine intervention. Within weeks, I’d grown accustomed to taking care of business myself. I’d wake up horny and masturbate, masturbate most of the day, and my evenings, after Dave went to bed, always ended in a marathon masturbation session. That led to my first episode of cheating.

I was lonely, bored, and very disillusioned. Rather than fix myself, I sought validation elsewhere. I took a part-time job as a waitress, following in my mother’s footsteps, just to have something to do. A guy my age, Rich, was into a lot of the same things I was. He loved 80s Hair Metal, just like me, and knew all the bands. We had similar senses of humor, and he was ruggedly built, with lean muscles, hot as fuck, and he appeared to be well-endowed.

Email conversations turned into real-time chat, which led to some keyboard-typed romance during one slightly drunk, extremely stoned evening. With my husband leaving early and working late to build his company, our online activity became a physical affair less than forty-eight hours after his typed words got me off. My confession to Dave, two weeks later, did not have the effect I had assumed.

I was seated at my desk on that fateful night, fingering myself while I looked at erotic pictures. My fervent, physical needs had finally conquered my need to be accepted in society’s eyes. The slut had vanquished the prim and proper lady of my aspirations. I’d forced myself to gain the courage, from weed and alcohol, to confess my extra-marital tryst. From the look on his face, I knew he was in a serious mood when he got home, but I forced the issue.

“Dave,” I said, sternly, as soon as he’d loosened his tie, “we need to have a serious talk.”

“I know what this is about,” he began.

“You know I’m having an affair?”

“You’re what? Does he have a big cock? Tell me all about it. That’s hot.”

As it turned out, the reason for Dave’s glowering was that he had also been struggling with a confession of his own. Unknown to me, Dave had been struggling with his identity for a long while—for years. He’d kept up a public facade, hiding his true self from everyone. Perhaps that’s why we felt such an affinity toward one another; I was doing the same thing, concealing my true nature to gain acceptance.

Dave had decided that he was no longer bisexual; he came out to me, right then and there. He’d also been having an affair with his friend and business partner, Jeremy. Dave finally admitted to himself that he was gay. The massive blowout, rage, and heartbreak I’d been expecting from my trespasses didn’t occur. Instead, Dave and I agreed on every front. We were wonderful friends and loved each other, just not romantically. We discussed staying together, me letting him suck and fuck as much cock as he wanted, provided I received that same luxury.

Over the night, which we spent laughing, drinking, and smoking, we’d worked out a plan that solved both of our problems. Having been married for almost zero time, we’d annul the union. However, that still kept his parents lording their money over him, and Dave’s IT business was just beginning. It looked promising, because he and his partner, now his lover, were very talented. I had college money left over, so, in exchange for the house, which his parents put into Dave’s name, I’d give him all my cash to save his business. Additionally, I get a few percentage points of all profits, in perpetuity, once the money from Dave’s business started rolling in. The house and residual income were Dave’s idea; I would have been more than happy to just fund his endeavor, but he insisted.

The result was that Dave could finally openly admit his sexuality without his parents exerting forceful control over him, and I had a paid-for house and residual income. However, I couldn’t even legally buy booze, yet, and I realized that I was an utter failure. My already-spiraling self-esteem nose-dived into despair.

Not only was I such a torridly dirty, trashy slut, but I was such a terrible woman that the one man who gave me a shot at happiness went gay in lieu of fucking me. On top of that, I was destitute, except for the house, and couldn’t afford to re-enroll in school unless I sold the mini-mansion, which would have left me homeless. I could have crawled back to my mommy, but the relationship with my parents was already strained, made worse by my insistence on marrying Dave, despite them both telling me that it was a huge mistake.

Being young, lost, aimless, and having already scuttled your life is an odd sensation, especially when it’s coupled with emotional damage and rock-bottom self-esteem. What little money I had left was spent on ill-begotten booze. Rather than eat my feelings, as I had done before, I drank away my sorrows. It was more like I drank until I passed out, so my troubles no longer materialized in my brain.

Dave moved out and away, and he and Jeremy rebuilt their life, together, on my dime. They moved to the Midwest, one of the least-friendly places for homosexual men, but their business ultimately flourished, as did their love for one another. That, however, left me in a very lonely, miserable place. Some might be jealous, or tell me to count my blessings, but I didn’t see any positivity. I had nothing, was nothing. I possessed two things: a house and my freedom.

I used the freedom to embrace my slutty side. I loathed the fact that I was a slut while reveling in its power. I hated being labeled a slut while never being able to get enough sex. I found the accusations of being a nasty, dirty whore abhorrent, but just thinking about the things I did or wanted to do made me so fucking horny that I had to finger myself to orgasm. Nobody needed to slut-shame me; I was ashamed of what I’d become. Every insult and ridiculing jibe hurled at me had become a prophecy.

I won’t lie; it took over a month before I could face the world, once more. Had I been any more efficient at destroying my life, I’d have made a record book, someplace. My heart was fractured, my soul was shattered, and I was both friendless and filled with self-loathing. Of course, that didn’t stop the slutty slut within my psyche; it didn’t even slow her down.

My waitress job grew to be too uncomfortable. When Rich and I were fooling around behind Dave’s back, it seemed to be all fun and games. I had a hunger for the forbidden and slightly taboo, and it was just taking root in my essence and blooming quite nicely. Once the naughtiness of cheating was removed, it just became awkward and uncomfortable. I didn’t want a love affair; I’d realized that I was sexy enough to get almost any guy I looked at to fuck me. I wanted the forbidden aspect as well. Later in life, I realized that I craved sexual adventure. I was just too young, inexperienced, and naive to realize it.

I quit that shitty, little job and another one, less shitty, within an hour. I bid Rich and the ass-grabbing patrons adieu and went to a live-music bar to celebrate my new career in the exciting world of Office Assistance. The place was a bit run-down, with a true Bohemian vibe to it. Most places adopt the look of a true, beat-nick establishment, but, the fact that it’s contrived, automatically disqualifies the atmosphere. This place was just a dark, dilapidated nightclub with a hot band and even hotter food.

I forget the name of the band, but I remember Amos, the guitarist, perfectly. He was a stereotypical, bad-boy musician, and his girlfriend, Amber, was a full-blown heavy-metal-hottie. Being at a very low point in my life, all I felt I had left was sex, and they were both willing to fuck my brains out. It was frivolous, but it was instrumental in me owning my sexuality.

During that era, music, especially rock, was in a state of flux. Arena rock, hair metal, and album-oriented rock were ebbing, and a new breed of music, hot on the heels of post-grunge, was taking over the airwaves. Still, concert halls and every bar, club, and festival featured rock acts, so there was no shortage of the music I grew up listening to. To my ears, my parents’ music suited me better; I had a completely different vibe and personal energy than most people my age, and the over-synthesized, formulaic pop-rock, under the banner of hard rock, didn’t energize my soul.

Amos’ band played some hard rock originals and a lot of covers. Both long and short hair, as well as a variety of wardrobes, occupied the stage. The lead guitarist, though, was just my type. He was muscular, with beautiful, complex tattoos on his arms. His long, wavy hair was a light blond, and his chiseled facial features and piercing eyes soaked my pussy. He was wearing skin-tight, ripped denim jeans and an open, leather vest. There was an aura of passion emanating from Amos, his passion revealed as he soulfully played his instrument.

I watched the band from my perch atop a swiveling bar stool. I was seated at the bar’s corner. Despite it being a weekday evening, the bar had a decent crowd. After my job interview, I changed into my slut-wear to go prowling for some sex. I felt like an addict, hating my addiction but powerless to do anything but feed it. Having concluded that, no matter what I wore or how I acted, I’d still be sequestered into the slut category, I gave up trying to wear panties and, usually, a bra. That night was not an exception; my body was unencumbered by pesky undergarments.

I was dressed simply but provocatively, my makeup covering my unsightly freckles and accenting my uncommon features. A light, thin T-shirt in stone gray and a gauzy, knee-length skirt were all that I was wearing. The skirt was slit on the left up to almost the top of my thigh. If I spread my thighs a bit or climbed off or onto my bar stool, I could very easily flash my constantly-wet pussy to anybody that bothered to look. I figured that if I was going to receive society’s and life’s punishment for being a horny tramp, I might as well enjoy the thrills and pleasures of my accursed existence.

I was drinking my third glass of wine, compliments of the hunky bartender who was chatting me up when my long, red hair fell into my face. I casually reached back, brushed the offending lock away, and shook out my tresses. Amid a head-shake, I saw the guitarist staring at me. When I turned my head toward him, he smiled, not averting his eyes.

A test of sorts had developed for me. If a guy caught my eye, I’d glance at him, occasionally, until he was looking at me. If he dropped his gaze or quickly turned away, he would no longer be up for consideration. After dozens of men, I’d quickly learned that those who were too shy to meet my stares were also the worst in bed. Amos not only met my eyes, but he smiled at me and then went back to his performance. I was smitten.

As the band played, I turned in my seat to pay closer attention. He was a good guitar player, and the way his fingers deftly moved up and down the neck of his Stratocaster made me want to feel those gestures on my nude flesh. He’d look at me sporadically, and it wasn’t long before we were eye-fucking each other. I liked his style, his looks, his body, and his aura made my libido choose him as my next playmate.

Assuming that he had multiple women to choose from, I slowly, intentionally spread my legs a bit, knowing that he’d have a good view of my hot, wet cunt. Before he’d even gotten back over the side of the stage I was near, the thought of him seeing my molten honeypot had my body trembling with desire. My nipples jutted out like beacons, and my entire body quivered with those now-familiar horny, lusty sensations.

“Another wine, HC?” the bartender asked me when the band took a short break and left the stage.

“Yes, please, Tim.”

I couldn’t legally buy booze at my age, but I could legally fuck the bartender, which I did once or twice, before. That got me free drinks, although I neither asked nor expected them. I turned back to the bar, accepting my complimentary libation.

“I hope my playing wasn’t too bad,” a sexy, masculine voice said from behind my shoulder. “Some hot redhead was flashing me her beaver, and it distracted me.”

I turned, delighted when I saw the guitarist. Close-up, I noticed that he was older than I’d originally thought. I shrugged that off to the somewhat dim stage lighting. He was probably in his early thirties, but that just made him sexier in my opinion. I had been growing aware that the college-aged boys I’d been playing with didn’t have the longevity I preferred. Men, however, lasted long enough to make my pussy purr.

Being shy and timid in my vain attempts to fit into polite society had never worked well, so I followed my instincts, letting my primal impulses have full rein. My stool spun around, putting one of my outstretched thighs on either side of his sexy body. This caused my skirt to widely part, giving him a spectacular view of my dripping pussy. One hand shot out, touching his hard pectoral muscles, then moving down his torso.

“I’m Krystal, and I think you’re fucking hot,” I sighed, making my voice extra husky.

He smiled and boldly looked me over.

“Amos.” The guitarist slapped his chest. “Are you staying for our second set? We go back on in about twenty minutes, and I’d love to see more of you.”

“Twenty minutes?” I asked, putting a naught lilt into my voice. “Meet me in the ladies room.”

I slid off the stool, patted his crotch, and slowly walked toward the restrooms. I could feel his eyes on my hips and ass as I swayed them back and forth, hoping to entice the rebellious-looking guitar player. He followed me into the tiny, tiled bathroom, and locked the door behind us. Turning to face him, I pulled up my wispy skirt and showed him my fiery, trimmed pubes.

“Is this what you wanted to see more of? You can have it if you want.”

I planned to drop to my knees and suck him to hardness, but Amos took the lead. His strong, muscular, inked arms wrapped around my waist, and he deftly lifted me off the floor, seating me on the counter. Then, smiling at me, he gently parted my legs and knelt in front of me. His face was eye-level with my dripping cunt.

His strong hands gripped my sitting butt and pulled my runny snatch against his mouth. His tongue flicked against my pulsing love hole, then, his tongue zigzagged its way up and down my slit, finally going into tornado mode right on my swollen clit.

“Fuck!” I screamed. “You’re making me cum, already.”

I was surprised at my mouth. I’d said a few naughty or dirty things during sex, before, and, with the professor, I felt safe and comfortable enough to match his dirty talk directed toward me. In that scenario, though, it seemed like the right thing to do. If I was going to surrender to my sluttiness to the point of inviting a musician I’d just met into the ladies’ room for sex, then a dirty mouth seemed to be warranted. What truly shocked me was the fact that my dirty talk heightened my arousal, as did Amos’ reaction.

As soon as I announced my pending orgasm, he moaned into my pussy and added his fingers to my holes. My thighs were shaking, and my stomach was undulating as pure, dirty, sexual bliss consumed my body. With his mouth still over my clit, he thrust a finger up both my cunt and my asshole. Liquid sex had been pouring out of me, so he invaded my backdoor with ease.

“Fuck… oh, fuck. Harder. Finger me harder. Keep the other one right where it is.”

My daily masturbation sessions had reached the level of obsession, and just one orgasm would never sate me. I’d grown used to cumming multiple times, never once ceasing my fingering and toying. Because of that, my body trained itself to cum hard, fast, and repeatedly. The nasty, dirty situation had me so overheated that I grabbed his head and shoved it hard against my humping cunt, using his face as my personal sex toy. A second orgasm shot through my core, a third one hot on its heels.

Amos stood, his still-smiling face soaked with my nectar.

“Pull it out and give it to me.”

“Give you what?”

“Your dick. Take me.”

“Dick? You mean my cock?”

He undid his jeans, revealing a nice, larger-than-average-sized cock that was already fully erect.

“Cock, yes. Give me your cock. I want your cock. Cock. I fucking need your cock. Fuck me, please. Fucking take me.”

If fate had resigned me to being a dirty slut, I may as well talk like one.

“Well, since you said please.”

He gripped his hard shaft in his hand, aimed it at my creamy cunt, and slammed it in, all the way, with a single thrust. It was big enough that his cock stretched the walls of my pussy enough to set my hole on horny fire. I didn’t need to instruct him to fuck me hard; he was driving into me with a force and passion I hadn't experienced, before. Within minutes, I was cumming on his cock, my first vaginal orgasm during intercourse.

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Fucking, fuck, fucking hell. More, more, more.”

I felt my inner walls tighten around him, pulsing and spasming. My legs crossed at the ankles, ensnaring him within my sexual fervor, and I pulled him deeper inside of me.

“I’m going to blow,” he grunted.

“Shoot your cum all over my pussy,” I begged. “I want to feel it burn my skin.” Yes, it was a stupid thing to say, but I was just beginning to learn how to talk dirty.

Amos pulled his cock out of me, leaving me feeling empty, and rapidly stroked it, shooting streams of hot, white cum over my pussy, pubes, and thigh.

“Now, when you play and look up my skirt, you’ll know what’s all over my body,” I giggled.

“Shit,” he exclaimed, looking at his watch. “We’re on in like one minute.”

I made it back to my perch and drank more wine as the band played through their second set. My legs were open wide, the guitarist’s cum drying on my flesh. Whenever Amos was looking, I’d spread myself wide for him, finger my pussy, or otherwise distract him. It wasn’t surprising that he asked me to go up to his hotel room for the rest of the night. I agreed because that was exactly what I wanted. Amos had some excellent oral skills, and he fucked me better than anyone else had. I wanted more of both. What surprised me was his girlfriend, Amber.

We’d gotten to his room and were in the shower. I was on my knees, finally getting his cock in my mouth, and she walked right in on us.

“Sorry, I was so late. I just got in. How are you… oh.”

“Shit!” I finished for her. “I’m so sorry,” I began, apologizing. “I didn’t know. I thought that he was single, and…”

“Don’t sweat it, sweetie. Got room for one more in there?”

She began disrobing.

“Krystal, this is my girlfriend, Amber. Amber, meet Krystal.” Amos’ tone was calm and unworried.

Rather than introduce herself, she entered the spacious shower stall, held out her hands to me, helped me up, and hugged me, her hands roaming over my body. Her full, supple lips sought mine, and we kissed, passionately, beneath the hot, cascading water. My hands mimicked her, exploring her flesh, caressing her breasts, and fingering her hotness until she came on my fingers.

That night, the next morning, and for the following night, Amos and Amber were my playmates, and all we did was drink, fuck, get stoned, fuck more, and talk about fucking while we drank and smoked. The dynamic between those two was very inspiring.

I grew up with swinging parents, and they never hid their sexual appetites from me. They also didn’t expect me to hide my sexual hunger and urges. Embracing all of oneself is ingrained into our faith, and that includes our primal, sexual facets. But, seeing how Amber was, so strong and happy and sexual, without a care in the world, was truly inspiring.

Because Amos and his band had to do setup and sound checks, Amber and I spent more time together than he did with either of us. We talked and played, and her wisdom helped me regain some of my floundering confidence, though it did very little to alleviate my shame and sense of worthlessness.

Her words, “Slut is what others call a woman who has more fun than them,” still echo in my mind.

The band, and both Amber and Amos by proxy, were only in the area for a few days. Though brief, their presence in my life had more influence on me than I’d have thought possible. Although my mother had preached it to me since the day I was born, the thought that it was okay to be a slut hadn’t been seriously considered.

Amber gave me hope that I could be happy and find somebody, no matter how promiscuous or slutty I may be. Amos was just an extremely nice guy in addition to being a great fuck. Amber dressed ten times more scandalously than me, and her aura of sluttiness was overpowering, especially with her Heavy Metal Bimbo mode of dress. If a real catch like Amos could love her, and they were very obviously in love, then there was hope for me, yet.

To be Continued…