Slowly and imperceptibly, awareness and responsibility crept in, both of them having the prefix “self-.” Objectively, which was all but impossible for me, at that time, I didn’t have too terrible of an existence. It just wasn’t the life I needed. I had been on the planet for less than a score of years, and I already had a large, modern house without a mortgage. Even better, the fact that Dave gave me the deed to the house infuriated his parents; that gave the both of us endless pleasure. No income from Dave’s IT business had trickled in, so I was on my own for living expenses.
I’d tried various things to find myself, including a stint in a Christian congregation. Other women my age were rebelling against their parents by experimenting with Wicca and other forms of paganism, but I, being raised by devout pagans, had to cozy up to mainstream faiths to rebel. It was short-lived, as my upbringing made sense to me, and I had issues with the new church’s core precepts.
I also tried acting and dressing differently, adopted the local, Southern twang, and made myriad attempts to fit in. None of those worked for me; I either loathed myself even more for faking things, or I couldn’t keep a straight face. The serendipity of finding a new job, hours after quitting my old, shitty occupation, gave me hope, strength, and inspiration. Suddenly, my self-absorbed life of tragedy seemed filled with hope and possibilities.
The day I quit being a waitress, I had a few dollars in my pocket, and the sun was shining in a cloudless sky. I felt like treating myself to lunch, just not at the restaurant I’d just left, so I was walking down the street, looking for a quaint, little café or some other place to dine. Just as I was walking past a small insurance agency, the owner was putting a Help Wanted sign in the window.
Curious, I entered. The owner, Frank, and his son, Frank Junior, were discussing, from opposing points of view, the advantages and disadvantages of hiring some office help. Not being the most customer-service-oriented men to have ever existed, they ignored me when I walked in. I was slightly surprised at that, as I’d grown quite used to men looking at me with lusty stares that ran the gambit of quick glances up to drooling, perverted, lecherous leers.
“What’s the job pay?” I asked them, interrupting their tête-à-tête.
Then, they noticed me. Four eyes scanned me, running down my torso, then back up, lingering on the outlines of my hard nipples poking out through my shirt and feasting on the exposed flesh of my scrawny legs. My skirt was a lovely, little wispy, gypsy affair, just above the knees. It flared out a bit, making it seem shorter and more risqué than it was.
The older Frank seemed charmed and delighted; the younger version, however, seemed skeptical. I couldn’t blame him. I was dressed somewhat suggestively, definitely not job-interview attire unless I was auditioning to be an erotic dancer. Of course, had I been trying out as a dancer, I’d probably have put on some underwear. I was on my own, now, and I hated doing laundry; that was just one more excuse to not wear any undergarments.
“Do you know what an office assistant even is?” The arrogant, condescending Frank Jr. asked me.
I was used to people treating me as if I were a brainless bimbo. Not only did I have about two decades of weathering such affronts, but when one has a modicum of physical attractiveness, the typical assumption is that brains and beauty are mutually incompatible.
“Office assistant? That’s like a combination secretary, records department, receptionist, and janitor, all on burger-flipping pay, right?”
The older Frank, a handsome, older gentleman with graying sideburns and just a bit of a paunch, laughed. Junior, a swarthy, chiseled man with a muscular torso and tiny waist, glowered at me.
“Do you know how to use a computer?”
“No,” I teased with scathing sarcasm. “I come from a primitive, mountain tribe, and we don’t have those mysterious, magical things. We have, however, upgraded to triangle wheels instead of the old, square ones. They eliminate one bump.”
Big Frank, as he was called, laughed at that. “Here’s the job, Miss…”
“Greene. Krystal Greene.” I felt like Jane Bond.
“Well, Miss Greene, we’re a small life, home, and auto insurance firm, and we need some help with greeting customers, filing the paperwork, scheduling, setting up new accounts, and things like that.”
It was a five-day workweek, and the pay was quite low. They couldn’t afford a trained, competent person, so I got the job. Oddly, despite no training or real education, I excelled at helping to run a small business. To my surprise, I had a knack for reading people and putting them at ease, which made the long wait times much more pleasant for the clients. I also kept on Frank Junior about filing his paperwork and nagged Big Frank about his schedule. Under my guidance, the tiny office flourished.
As there was no formal dress code, and I’d gotten hired dressed as a slutty tramp, I wore some of my less-revealing witchy and Bohemian-styled clothes to work. Those were happy months for me. Big Frank was a leering pervert, always making improper comments. Had I been the type to take offense at the drop of a hat, I probably could have sued for sexual harassment to cover my expenses, but it was all in fun. He never once made me feel uncomfortable or threatened.
Frank Junior, on the other hand, was too shy to say anything. His eyes, however, roamed all over me whenever he thought I wouldn’t notice. Once he got over his dominant-male routine, he was quite the fun and pleasant man to be around. Junior was in his late twenties, physically fit, and quite handsome. The exhibitionist tease in me looked forward to his lusty stares.
By then, I’d resigned myself to my slutty fate. No matter how I dressed or how I behaved, it seemed that my choices of peers had no bearing; people judged me to be a slut. If I was going to face the ire of society, I might as well embrace the role and enjoy it. I ceased worrying about whether I looked slutty and began cataloging my various looks. “Office slutty,” was the designation for my work wardrobe. The stages of slutdom went from “hint of sluttiness” up to “look-at-my-mostly-revealed-body-and-fuck-me-hard cum-slut.” When one goes to a rave and bimbo’d-up floozies, high on X and wearing ass-revealing micro-dresses, slut-shame you, you’ve mastered your slutty wardrobe.
Junior had a long-term girlfriend. They’d been dating for almost five years and living together for a little over eight months at the time I got hired. Her name was Bethany, and she hated me for some reason. Her first words to me were, “Who the fuck are you?” Her words dripped with scornful venom. Her demeanor and attitude reminded me of high school. After that, it was all condescending, negatively judgmental stares of intimidation and crass, spite-filled half-sentences.
It wasn’t my place to mention that she was just a vile, spiteful creature who felt the need to put everyone else down to feel superior. So, I never voiced my low opinion of the woman. They were family, and I was the hired help. However, whenever she’d drop by, checking up on Frank under the pretense of dropping by to visit with her boyfriend. I went into teasing-slut mode.
Bethany noticed, and she hated me for it. I enjoyed it, and my teasing fueled many masturbation marathons in the comfort of my own home. Had we not worked together, I’d have wantonly fucked Frank Junior. The fact that his girlfriend was a psychotic twat just made him all the more desirable. My budding self-awareness told me that it was just because I didn’t like the woman, so I wanted to return the treatment she gave me by showing her that I could take what she had. The pagan upbringing of my youth kept me from seducing my coworker and boss, as one does not lash out at others for any reason, but it didn’t stop me from playing.
If Bethany was in the office, which was regularly, I’d suddenly need to stretch and bend, picking up papers from the floor, addressing my aching back from the uncomfortable chairs, or stretching my arms way up high to address some random thing above my station. I teased, enticed, and distracted, making Bethany fly into an indignant rage on more than one occasion because her beau wasn’t paying attention to her.
The truth of the matter was that I loved the attention. All I’d ever wanted in life was acceptance and the attention that goes along with it. So long as I hid my intellect and wit, Frank Junior gave me attention every time I’d move or shift position. Bethany was symbolic of my prior tormentors, and it felt like sweet revenge. Big Frank, although he never made a move, lavished horny attention upon me. He never hid his ogling, and I let his eyes feast on me.
“I wore that green blouse you said you liked,” I told him one morning, “but no bra, because I know how much you love staring at my tits.”
“I’m so sorry, Krys,” he apologized. “I promise you, I’m harmless. It’s just that you’re so beautiful. I appreciate a well-proportioned woman.”
“I know,” I explained. “It’s no problem. I like you looking.”
That was all that was ever said. Every so often, I’d catch Big Frank looking at my ass. When I did, I’d smile at him, knowingly, and continue working. It became our silent game. He’d leer at me, barely containing his lust, and I’d see how hard I could get him. His son also surreptitiously drooled over my body.
I discovered that I didn’t just enjoy the attention; I craved it. I began dressing slightly differently. Rather than choosing publicly acceptable clothing that hid my feminine curves, I began intentionally picking clothes that enhanced it. The attention-whore in me had blossomed.
Around my birthday, All Hallow’s Eve, I suggested that they use a Frankenstein character for their radio ads. It was a play on the firm’s name, “Frank and Son Insurance.” That idea embedded me firmly into the company’s fold. I had even entertained the idea of staying there, long-term. In my off-hours, I even began studying to become an insurance agent. However, my slutty nature got me fired, and it was worth it.
The office was on the smaller side. When one entered, my station, a long counter in its alcove, faced the front. I had full command of my area, and it separated the dual offices from the waiting area. A single, multipaned wall of glass spanned the width of the office, behind me. My rear wall was transparent, as if I were on display. My area, being the front counter as well as the records room, was jammed with file cabinets, printers, and other office sundries. Because of that, I had a long table, my surrogate desk, against the glass wall, so I could do my policy filings and other paperwork.
The two offices on the other side of the glass partition also had glass walls facing mine. The two Franks had a full view of me as I worked, and I could readily see them unless they closed the privacy curtains. This facilitated my teasing game, and I took full advantage of being under their gazes. By the time I lost my job, I’d mastered the art of seductive, graceful, attention-getting gestures and body movements.
One day, shortly before Yule, which is Christmas for the rest of you, the office was gearing up for its annual party. The heat in the small office had two settings, Hellfire and Off. Despite the frigid temperatures outside, it was so infernally hot inside that I had taken to wearing just a T-shirt when there weren’t any customers around. I had a cover-up frock for when we had customers. I was wearing a thin, light blue scoop neck, no bra, and a short, cotton skirt that was about one or so inches away from being scandalous club wear. Because it was so scorching, I had gone without panties, which had been my preference since high school, anyway.
We had a few hours until the next client was due to come in, so I was catching up on updating policies. Junior and I had been chatting on the intercom system, the headsets on. It was much easier to just tap my foot on the “talk” pedal than it was to wave my arms in the air to get his attention and shout through two layers of glass panes or call him on his extension. We’d been discussing various clients’ needs and chatting in general when Bethany walked in.
From the way she stomped through reception, it was obvious that she was highly agitated. I’d endured her personality for a few months, and she was prone to viewing molehills as Mount Kilimanjaro.
“Open the damn door!” Bethany had never once called me by my name. She deigned me unworthy of recognition.
“Oops. Sorry. My hand slipped,” I politely responded. I counted, slowly, to ten, then flipped the switch that unlocked the door to the two offices. I’m petty that way.
Bethany, all quilted coat, in the South, no less, scarf, and stupid, little stocking cap, stormed into Frank Junior’s office and began gesticulating, wildly. I couldn’t discern her words, but I caught snippets of her tone and the occasional harpy-like shriek to accent syllables. Her back was to me, and even her coat-hidden rear view irked me.
Junior looked confused, then aggravated, but family matters were none of my business, so I sat back at my poor excuse for a desk, facing them, and went on working. I ignored her as much as I could and tried to not hear her whining. Soon, I was humming a Bon Jovi tune, rocking my knee back and forth as I tend to do when I’m focused intently on something. I happened to glance upward for half a second, and I caught Frank staring up my skirt while with live-in girlfriend lectured him over what I was positive was something trifling.
My first, reflexive reaction was to snap my thighs shut, remembering that I was without panties. Leering over my clothed body was one thing, but flashing my bosses crossed the line. Still, though, knowing that he’d seen my horny pussy made it wet, and my body caught on horny fire.
Bethany sealed my fate. Focused more on whether Frank was staring at me, I was paying more attention to them than my work. As I raised my eyes, I saw his girlfriend gesture behind her, pointing in my general direction, and I heard her migraine-inducing voice say, “And that bitch there…”
War had been declared.
My foot tapped the intercom talk pedal as I spread my legs wide. “I saw you looking up my skirt, Frankie,” I said to him. I’d habitually been calling Junior that, and his father was simply Frank. “Did you notice I wasn’t wearing any panties?”
His face reddened, and his jaw dropped.
“Look again. I know you want to. I’m spread nice and wide for you.”
I ignored the wailing bitch and concentrated on my work. My legs swung from open to wide-fucking-open, and Junior’s face lit up when he saw my promised land. The thrilling sensation of exhibitionism reverberated through my body. My pussy poured out liquid heat, and my breathing became erratic.
“Don’t react,” I whispered into the intercom. My voice came out in moans. “But, I’m fingering my hot, wet slit for you. Ignore the bitch and focus on me.”
There was hardly any skirt there, so it didn’t require any maneuvering to plunge my fingers into my steamy sex and finger my clit.
“Ooh, that feels so good. I’m, so fucking wet, and it turns me on knowing that you’re watching. Do you want me to cum?”
Frankie nodded, vigorously. Bethany was on some self-righteous tirade, her arms swung about, wildly, making her look as if she were directing runway traffic at the airport.
“Oh, fuck. I feel so slutty doing this in front of you. Is your cock hard for me? Oooh, ummm, aaah.”
The “look at me” game had escalated. It was now every office man’s fantasy in technicolor porn. Over ten minutes or so, I got myself off twice, Frank Junior watching me. When I reached orgasm, I’d tap the talk pedal and scream, curse, and moan into his ears, telling him that I need his cock. However, Bethany had to rain all over my horny parade. She chose the midst of my second orgasm to turn around and see why her boyfriend was ignoring her.
“You skank slut!” she shouted loud enough that it rattled all the glass walls in the vicinity.
She was so rowdy and loud, slamming the door to Junior’s office in her mad dash to kick my ass and screaming like the banshee she was, that Big Frank poked his head out of his cubicle just in time to see Bethany storm into my area and physically attack me.
“What the hell is going on out here?” Frank Senior inquired. Frankie was rushing out of the office, trying to verbally tame his shrew.
I’m a pacifist, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to scrap. It’s just that I’m a lover of life and peace, especially my own. The jealous bitch—who was actually in the right that one time—charged at me, her talons out, her teeth gnashing. I’m both a country girl and a tomboy, among other things, and I never liked her or the way she condescendingly treated me as less than human.
The rabid harlot launched herself at me, and I countered, pushing her tone side. Filing cabinets clattered and crashed with the impact. Screaming at me, manically, she charged again, attempting to lacerate me with her perfectly manicured claws. She was a clawing and biting, hair-puller sort of combatant, whereas I was a left-cross, right-hook sort of scrapper.
I blackened the twat’s eye and split her lip in self-defense, and she’d torn my shirt half-off. I was moving in for the kill when I felt large, manly hands wrap around me and pull me away from her. I let it happen, but Bethany was kicking, struggling, and screaming to be released, so she could “teach the slut-whore a lesson.”
“I’m sorry,” Big Frank began as he released me, “but we have to let you go. You can no longer work here.”
“I’m fucking fired?”
He nodded.
“So, you’re not my boss, then?”
He nodded again.
“Then you won’t get into trouble if you do this.”
His hand was still on my arm, holding me back from further humiliating Bethany, the whining cunt. I grabbed his hand, shoved it under my skimpy skirt, and humped my wet slit over it.
“I’ve been wanting you to do that for months. Too bad I’m fired. I always wanted to fuck my boss.”
I held my head high, smiling, and walked past Bethany and Frank Junior. “You can do much better than that harpy,” I told him.
Then, just to piss her off, I bent down and stroked his erection through his pants. “You can do much better than that, too, little fella.”
I walked out, boobs bouncing, and, somehow, feeling victorious. Not only had I learned the fine art of flaunting my wares, but I’d stood up for myself for the first time in my life. Granted, I’d wronged her by teasing her boyfriend, but she had no right to treat me like a sack of shit from the very beginning. If Bethany hadn’t been so volatile, I’d never have felt compelled to escalate things to that level. Nonetheless, Pandora’s hot, wet box had been opened.
Less than one week later, Big Frank called me and asked me to come back. While I did refuse the offer, it made me feel good about things. That Yule was the first one I’d ever spent alone. I was at odds with my parents, so I really didn’t feel like rubbing shoulders with the coven or hearing my mother go on and on about what a tragedy I’d made of my life.
Instead, I spent the time thinking about what I wanted out of life, how I managed to fuck myself up so much that I was just a slut with a house, and deciding how I’d reinvent myself. Two men, Johnny Walker and Captain Morgan, helped to keep me company. It wasn’t depressing; I was drinking to celebrate what I thought was an epiphany of maturity.
As it turned out, I discovered that I didn’t have any moral or ethical compunctions against being a nasty, dirty slut. I loved the sexual aspects and couldn’t get enough of that. The fact that men wanted me made me horny. Seeing women respond positively to my antics made me so fucking wet that I had to masturbate over it. I decided that there was nothing wrong with me; it was everyone else.
My mother had told me the same words often enough, but I had to arrive at that juncture on my own, which she knew. The fact that she knew she could only show me the path, and I’d need to walk it myself just pissed me off, further. I loved both her and my father; we just weren’t seeing eye-to-eye at the moment. So I indulged in introspection and plotted my life’s course. Of course, I promptly ignored all my plans in the ensuing months.
But, at that moment, I felt liberated and whole. I even looked at myself in the mirror and said, “I’m a slut, a fucking slutty slut, and I like it,” over and over until my soul stopped feeling reviled at the words. Then, because it’s what sluts do, I had to see how many times I could cum in one night. I even had a new sex toy, a dildo as big as a Yule log.
To be continued…
