I Am a Slut

Winter is in full swing. The trees, even in this urban paradise, are stick-like at this time of year, even though it's not that cold. They've thrown their leaves to the ground, as if in disgust. I understand disgust; it's my way of life. I know that I don't figure in the lives of these trees, but sometimes I imagine that they're watching me. Laughing at me. I probably look like something they'd find easy to despise, in my silly little human costume: my black boots and my tight top, breasts on display through the thin material. My too-short skirt, and the words written in marker on the back of one thigh: SLUT. Big letters, for all behind me to see. "Look," I imagine the trees saying to one another. "Look at the little slut." Then they'll ignore me. Like a speck, no longer worth noticing. I have no doubt that I'm nothing to something as grand as a tree. Therein lies the enigma that is me. I've been taught that I'm nothing, but I know the power of my body.

Gazing up into the branches of an old conifer, I think about all it must have seen. How many like me has it seen? Do trees understand lust, or shame? Can they feel the ways they burn inside me? I've just been reassured, once again, that I'm less than nothing, a filthy slut. It shames me and it excites me at the same time. Would a tree, I think, one who's seen everything, even begin to comprehend the swirl of feelings inside my head?

Too much reflection, another of my faults. I pause and run a hand up my thigh, almost absently, close to my bare pussy. I know I'm wet. What am I doing fantasizing about trees, I think? I've been sent out on a mission. Sexual degradation. That's my assignment, but more: it's a chance for me to excel. Never one to shirk my duties, I aim to please, until it hurts. Often, it hurts. A little physical pain is good, though; it serves to prove that I'm exactly what he thinks.

I glance back. No sign of him. Is he there, somewhere? An unseen pair of eyes, watching, fascinated? Or does he now have such trust in my ability to demean myself that he doesn't care to witness it any more? In the past, he's always been there, recruiting men, and sometimes women, to degrade and humiliate me. This time, he tells me, I'm on my own. This is my solo, he says.

He just doesn't know how many times I've done this alone, or the real depth of my lust.

He'll be there when I get back. I know this. There'll be tenderness at first, and kisses, and the safety of his embrace. There'll be tears; my tears, and the stabbing shame of confession, and I'll feel him grow against me. He'll ask me questions, ask me to describe my feelings while I was doing it. And he'll grow, and he'll harden, and I'll feel it, and I'll be drawn to it, like a good slut. As I take him inside me, he'll make me tell him in detail what happened, and the more I tell him the harder he'll fuck me. The telling of it will bring us both to climax. I'll cry again, and maybe he'll slap me; tell me I'm even less than he gave me credit for. And he'll take me again and again, for the knowledge of what I am will keep him hard for hours.

I hear a whistle. Two young men, one on a bicycle, are looking at me, and I leak against my thigh. I smile, timidly, because I've learned that that's what they like, and look away. Then I steal another glance, to see if they're following me.

More shame. They don't think me worthy of their efforts. My pussy is slick with reproach as I walk, a musky swamp. I throw a little more wiggle into my walk, and it merits another glance. An older man, walking with a woman. I wink. I'm a whore, and I want him to know it, even though I know he'll only turn it over in his mind, afraid to say anything out loud. He's normal, after all; happily married for many years. What would he want with a slut like me? Still, I know his thought processes. He'll imagine me naked before he pushes the thoughts from his mind, primly.

I can smell myself, now. Musky. Dank and fetid, like my thoughts. I'm feeling nasty, unable to scratch the itch that aggravates me so. I need that scratch, and I need it quickly.

I wish he were here. He'd speak to someone on the street, barter with him. Promise him I'll do anything he wants. Take a token bill or two. It matters just how much ... oh god, it matters! Less is more in my world, but he has to get something. He has to be able to label me a whore, even if he's complaining about how little I earned him. Less is more proof of my worthlessness.

A man. Middle aged, good looking, in a business suit. He stares openly at me, and I smile shyly, in contrast to his confidence. He thinks he knows what I am. He only knows what he's had, and he hasn't had me. Not yet. A quick swipe of glossy lips with my tongue seals the deal. He nods his head at me. Now all I need is a room, he's thinking. I'm thinking about the alley behind him.

"Hello." Tentative, feeling me out.

He waits to see if I'll approach him. Of course I will. I'm eager. I've been anxious to have him see me for what I am, but now I remember that the dance is part of the game, the foreplay. It defines what we both want, and heightens it. So...

"Hi," I say as I walk slowly up to him. I turn my head, biting my lower lip. Then, "I know you, right?" Coquettish.

He shakes his head. "I should be so lucky," he says, hopefully, and smiles his best smile. I want to tell him not to work so hard. It's yours, silly! You only think you have to work for it. I imagine his cock inside me.

I smile, and murmur, "Oh, that's sweet." I won't look him in the eyes, now. It's part of the game we play. I'm the suddenly innocent, waiting to be bowled over by his charm; to have the slut inside me magically released by his mere touch. I'll let him work at it. The thought arouses me even more.

We make small talk; very small. I'm Stace, the college student, naive and friendly. He doesn't offer a name. He's the mysterious man in the suit, in town for a conference. How could I not be charmed by him? He doesn't feel me gauging the length, the thickness, of his cock. Will he fuck my ass? I try to keep my gaze one of interest, of wonder at the words he uses. Wow, Mr. Businessman, I could learn so much from you! At long last, he says it: "So, Stacy, you want to go have a drink ... or something?"

"I don't drink..."

I disappoint him, but only for a moment. "...but if you just want to go somewhere, that's okay." I smile brightly, a hint of the nubile nymph he dreams about. The one he'll gladly corrupt. I can be had with a verbal command, but I'll make him think he has to spend some time, instead. I can almost feel his erection stirring.

We end up at the lounge in his hotel. No surprise there. I let him buy me a salad and an iced tea, and he comments that this must be how I keep my trim figure. He keeps referencing my body as he talks, a constant reminder that he's aware of me. Me, I'm wet with awareness. Soaking. During the conversation, I squirm in my seat, pressing my thighs together. It's no relief. Finally, he broaches the subject.

"Listen," he says seriously. "I know I'm a little older than you." I'm twenty eight, he's forty if he's a day, but I don't react.

"Would you like to ... come up to my room?"

There it is! The moment we've both been avoiding, yet anticipating so much. I try to look confused, like I'm considering the consequences. He leans forward suddenly, attempting to placate my fears.

"Hey, you know ... I didn't mean ... I wasn't trying to say...." His eyes are pleading: Please, just spend a few hours with me, little girl. "I just like you, you know?" he says suddenly, and looks at me.

Now I have to say the words. I've been instructed in how to do this. It's time for me to turn the tables to turn, to actually admit to what I am. My shame kicks in, full-force. My lips tremble as I force the words out.

"Do ... you have any money?" I ask. I wait for him to pull back and reconsider me, but he surprises me instead.

"How much do you get?" He's still leaning forward, his eyes holding mine. He's had a hooker before. I'm just another whore. It's business, but it's not like he thinks. Now I get to surprise him.

"You got a five on you?"

He laughs, sure I'm kidding. I part my legs and look down, leading his eyes to my naked pussy. "Look," I say, "just take me upstairs." I spread my legs a little wider, hoping he can see how wet I am. "I'll pay you, if you want."

The check paid, I let him lead me to his room, conscious of what's written on the back of my thigh. He hasn't even seen it yet. Neither one of us speaks until the door is closed and locked, then he makes a joke. "You drive a hard bargain, you know?" I ignore his humor and sit on the edge of the bed, holding out my hand. Not smiling, just looking at him, feeling lousy. My stomach is doing flip-flops.

He makes me feel better. The fact that he's paying me helps, but his hand on the back of my head really gears me up. As he hands me the five dollars, he unzips and pulls me to him. He's already hard. When he says, "Suck it, bitch," I slide my lips over him and suck his cock like it's the biggest, thickest piece of meat I've ever had. He holds my head firmly, pushing himself into my throat. He knows what I want. It's what he wants, too, of course. He wanted a cute young girl to turn into a slut, and I don't disappoint. I don't even take my top off, just pull it up over my breasts as I give him head. When he throws me back on the bed, I yank my skirt up around my waist and get onto my knees, head on the bedspread. I still wear my boots, and my naked cunt stares him in the face.

"Fuck me dirty," I say into the mattress, and he does.

For the next hour and a half, I learn to appreciate the value of Viagra. And him. He's inventive. He's seen a lot of porn. He fucks me from behind, holding my arms above my head. He yanks at my hair. Later, on my back, with my head and shoulders hanging off the bed and my hands clutching at the industrial carpet, he fucks me from above. He doesn't cum, but I do, again and again. He fucks me through each climax, then pulls out. He grabs my ankle, pulling me over, and tells me he's going to fuck me in the ass. No lube. His greasy cock slips past my sphincter easily, and he force-fucks me, half on the bed and half off, and I cum again. By now I'm sweaty and screaming aloud.

Finally, he pushes me off the bed and comes around, his still-rigid cock wanting more. So do I; I'm as crazy with lust as he is. I take him in my mouth and taste my own ass. I feel nasty, and I like that. I slurp and suck greedily, until at last he stiffens and grabs my hair with both hands. He pauses in my mouth, as if debating whether to cum, but he can't stop it, and he thrusts forward. His first torrent splashes against my tonsils and I swallow as fast as I can, cupping his cock with my lips as he pumps away.

"You didn't lose a drop," he says, afterward. My newest admirer. He's still standing over me, looking down at my flushed face. "God, you're beautiful." I groan, hoping he's not falling in love with me, but I smile just the same.

"Thank you."

Now I want to leave. I have a report to give, another fucking to receive. He has other ideas. He goes into the bathroom, and I hear him popping the lid off a prescription bottle. I'm hoping it's not more Viagra. I don't need his heart to give out! I straighten my skirt, pull my top back down over my breasts. I lick his taste off my lips. As I'm about to call out a goodbye, he reappears, his face red and his cock swinging.

"Uh-uh. Get naked." It's an order, and I obey, as I do all orders. This time I even take my boots off.

He lays on the bed, propping himself up on the pillows so he can watch, and tells me to suck his cock. I lean over him, hold his semi-rigid dick in one hand and cover the head with my mouth. It tastes different; there's an oily bitterness to it as it hardens against my tongue. I swallow the ooze and lick my way down his shaft. His hand slides around my hip to my ass, and he finds my pussy with his middle finger. That feels good. I move against it, inviting his stimulation. I start to bob my head, taking him deeper with each stroke. Breathing hard against his thighs.

I can't explain my arousal. I should be leaving by now, but I want him more than ever. Perspiration coats my forehead, and my head is buzzing. I put one foot on the side of the bed next to him, giving him better access to my throbbing pussy. It's the leg with SLUT written on it, though the letters are sweat-smeared. He pulls it across him, and I settle onto his face, straddling it and the pillows.

When his tongue touches my labia, I groan and take him deep in my mouth, all the way to the hairs. I love this position; I can take him deep in my throat, and concentrate on the feel of his mouth on me. My pussy is tingling, a distant but distinct sensation, like the buzzing in my ears. Soon it's all I can feel. My mouth moves of its own accord, but I'm only conscious of my own pleasure.

I lose track of time. I'm half-sitting on the bed, my legs wrapped around his hips, as he holds me up and thrusts slowly, deeply into me, watching my face all the while. Then I'm on my back again, and he's holding my ankles in his hands, working his hips in circles as he grinds his cock inside me. It all feels wonderful, but I can't seem to cum. His eyes study me. I'm aware of this, but I can't focus on them for more than a moment.

Now I'm over the dresser, hanging on for dear life as his belly slams against my ass, over and over. The air seems full of his grunting and breathing. Then, I hear someone's footsteps outside in the hallway, running. A child. I hear her voice, calling "C'mon, Mommy!" impatiently. I'm between two worlds, barely conscious of both. His world feels better, and I concentrate on the feel of his cock as it rages inside me.

When he cums this time, I'm right with him, and we grind together, twitching and spasming against each other in a kind of off-balance, nasty dance. He pulls from me with a sucking sound, and I crumple to the floor. I don't hear him leave me, but when he comes out of the bathroom, he's dressed.

"You need to leave," he says. His voice is cold. I'm in a fetal position on the floor, conscious only of the fact that I'm sore and soaking wet. It's sweat and it's cum, and there's some blood, as well. He drops my clothes onto me, and I pull them on, numbly, then stagger to my feet. I pull one boot on while leaning against the dresser, but I can't find the other, and he seems frustrated. Big sigh. He retrieves the other boot for me, and I manage to get my foot in it before stumbling to the door. My mind is scrambled, but I maintain, and make my way down to the lounge.

The bartender lets me use the phone behind the bar, and I call my husband. He and his father pick me up twenty minutes later, take me home and bathe me, then take me to bed.

Mission accomplished.