My Transition into Homosexuality Ch. 02

This is a continuation of my last story. If you simply want to spend an afternoon in your bed reading a story in leisure, then go ahead. But if you really want to echo with my thoughts, understand my language, then you should read part one before this.

Wikipedia defines 'slut' as someone, a woman who is of loose morals and engages in promiscuity. It categorises a woman as someone with multiple sexual partners. It never began as something perverse. In the 14th century, it started as a term to refer to a dirty, untidy woman and somewhere in the 20th century, it began being used as a term to define a sexually promiscuous woman.

The funny part is that it refers to only woman even now. As in, it does not include men within its definition. I believe it should. Women can be sluts. Men can be sluts. Anyone can be one. Slut is not a derogatory term anymore. It is not restricted by genders anymore. It is a universal adjective. It should be worn with pride. It is but a way of life. Being a slut is a challenge; it is a slap in the face of the age-old society that believes that monogamy is the way of life. Life is not defined by some 1000-year-old sermon laid down by men posing as Gods. The 21st century living is living by your own definition.

It is living without limits. It is finding who you are, accepting your life, fate and desires and giving in to it. Morals don't matter, it is just a catch word for people to use to shame people who are different to them. The definition of morals has changed many times over the years. It has changed to accommodate the dynamic nature of the society it is based up on. Morals at one point meant duelling for your king and country. Before that, it meant serving and protecting the women of your tribe and raping women from rival tribes because women are the cradle of life. In the industrial age, it meant holding down a job and raising a family. Now, among all the cacophony going about in the world, I'm not sure what morals are right and what are not.

So, find yourself. Sculpt yourself. No one can define you, least of it all, a bunch of texts written a thousand years ago.

I found myself through my father's driver. He shattered my inhibitions. He showed me that sometimes self-restraint is pointless. He exposed me to limitless living.

He unwittingly set me on a path from which there was no return. I'm a slut now. I go down on my knees and blow men willingly, without them ever asking. I enjoy being on all fours, letting them have their way with me. I wear panties and flash men shamelessly in every situation. I walk around with a dildo up my ass when I can't find a decent cock to ride. I enjoy being dominated by men of all ages. I enjoy being cummed on by multiple men, enjoy being treated as a personal fucktoy.

See, I'm a slut. Plain and simple. I have my morals. I've developed them from scratch to suit me and my needs.

When I started out, I wanted to feel like a woman. I wore panties and I walked like one. I shaved my legs and kept myself smooth. I hid my cock under layers of clothes so that I'd feel more like a woman. I dreamt of having a man between my legs, to take me deep and hard and make me squeal like a woman.

I want more now. I don't just want to be a woman; I want to be the woman. I want to be the woman men ogle at. I want to be the woman men would dream of being with. I want to be the woman men would desire to spread and fuck.

He had me for 6 months. He fucked me every which way possible in that period. I never said no. I never hesitated to open my legs. I took his seed every time like an obedient slut.

Every day he fucked me often and he fucked me hard. I took his seed on every occasion I could find; the car, in the backseat and on the bonnet on moonless nights. In my home, on my parents' bed and on every other space we could find from the kitchen table to the luxurious sofas my dad had paid a fortune to procure. On the terrace on cloudless nights. By the side of the river on the soft, green grass. He would gift me panties that I'd wear for him. He enjoyed stuffing them on my mouth while fucking me. He loved it when I went down on him. He enjoyed it every time I took his member and stuffed it down my throat. Most of all, he loved cumming all over my face, making me feel like a slut.

You see, I was his fucktoy. But even fucktoys want better lives.

He helped define who I was. He defined my limitlessness. And so, I decided one day that I wanted more. My identity wasn't born. It was being born. I found that I could not be anything more in that place. I needed a new environment to enable me to be more of myself.

One evening when we were at it, I began the conversation with him. He was deep inside me doing his usual thing. I told him that I wanted to leave, punctuated by his animalistic grunts. He expressed his dissent by pushing his cock all the way in, forcing a moan out of me. But it hardly did its bit in stopping me from saying what I wanted to say. I was pissed though. I have been fucking him for 6 months now, when he wanted and wherever he wanted, never resisting. Always willing, every time he came around and pulled my panties down. The least he could do was to hear me out. I was going to be heard.

I pushed him off. He was surprised. I'm a slut. I'm a fucktoy. I'm not his. I never was. I was in no mood to submit. I got him on his back on my parent's bed and got on top of him. I pushed his cock inside me and as he grunted, I squeezed his nipples hard. He moaned out.

'Are you listening to me? I want to leave'

'Yeah?'

'I want to study more. I want to go to the city. I'm going to Bangalore. I want more out of this. I want to expand my sexuality, feed my desires and experience things.'

'Uh uh'

That was the end of our conversation. He creamed inside me in a few minutes, passed out with his limp cock burrowed in my wet hole. I couldn't sleep though. I then realised that I don't his permission. I never needed it. I knew what I had to do.

My trail of thoughts was broken as he stirred in his sleep pushing his limp cock inside me and began fondling my nipples. I was silent. I was thinking. The last 6 months of my life had revolved around him. I needed it to revolve around me.

So I applied to business schools in the big city the next week and a couple of months later, I had gotten one. I was excited, exhilarated. I was going to live my dream. I was going to learn and experience things I've never before seen.

A day before I was set to leave, I met him for the last time. I was a bit sad to leave. I treated him extra special that day, sucked whipped cream off his cock and rimmed his ass too. When the time came, I held on his shoulders tenderly and kiss him hard. I wanted to make love to him this time. I wanted him to know what he meant to me. In a swift motion, he had me on my hands and knees with his cock buried deep inside me. He was dispassionate, his usual synchronised grunts expressing his feelings aptly. When he was done seeding me, he brought his cock up to my mouth to clean. Five minutes later, he was gone into the darkness and I was alone in my terrace.

He had created a void in me. An incurable need to be noticed, showered in ogles and loved tenderly. I initially thought sex was love. I soon realised that it wasn't. I was hoping Bangalore would fill that void, somehow.

That was about six years ago. My time in Bangalore laid the foundation stone for what I'm right now. Once again, this is not a sex story. This is a story of my life, my transformation and my realisations.

I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Do share with me your valuable comments, I love reading them.

Until then!