Stories From a Slut Pt. 01

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons or events is entirely coincidental. Don't expect much realism here, folks. Commentary is appreciated as always!

*****

Hi there! My name's Kate. I'm forty-four years old, married for twenty of them to the love of my life, and mother for nearly nineteen to an incredible daughter of whom I couldn't be more proud. Although I have my bachelor's in human resource management, I've been lucky enough to be able to spend my daughter's life as a full-time mom, thanks to the generous income my husband earns as an aerospace engineer. Now that she's getting ready to head off to college herself, though, I suspect I'll end up looking for something part-time, to supplement our finances and keep myself busy.

I'm also quite proud to consider myself a slut.

A lot of women view the term "slut" as something degrading and offensive. I'd never judge them for that—obviously, there are entirely valid reasons to feel that way, and everyone has the right to decide what they want others to call them or not call them. But to me, personally, "slut" is a term of honor. When I apply it to myself, it's to signify that I'm entirely in tune with and unashamed of my sexuality, that I celebrate it and enjoy it without concern for the arbitrary limits and manufactured guilt that society is so determined to pile on that part of human nature.

I wasn't born a slut, of course. Indeed, part of why I'm so proud to call myself one is because of how much work it took for me to fully embrace my sexuality. I didn't have what you'd call a progressive upbringing; my Vietnamese immigrant parents may not have gone out of their way to demonize sex, but it was always an intensely private subject, and they made it quite clear that they expected me to keep it in my pants until I was married. I didn't quite make it that far, but I did manage to reach my sophomore year of college with nothing more than a couple of furtive, hesitant kisses under my belt. That's when I met Martin. His upbringing was in almost every way the opposite of mine. His parents had been polyamorous and sexually progressive since before he was born, and had passed their liberated attitude down to their children. From the moment Martin and I became a couple, he made it quite clear to me that he had no expectation we'd be monogamous, and as far as he was concerned, I was free to pursue sex and intimacy with anyone I pleased—so long as I was comfortable with him retaining the same freedom.

Before I met Martin, I hadn't known that concepts like polyamory and open relationships even existed. And I fully admit, it was a hard thing to accept, at first. I loved him, that much I knew early on, and the idea that he was unwilling to be sexual only with me made me feel inadequate and used. But for the sake of the connection I sensed between us, I gave it a chance. And it was the best decision I ever made.

It was a real epiphany for me when I understood that Martin's desire for sex outside our relationship had nothing to do with me being inadequate or not enough for him. On the contrary, for him, it was a gesture of how much he really loved me. By giving me permission to enjoy my sexuality however I wanted with whoever I wanted, he was showing me that he trusted me completely, that he knew nothing I did with anyone else would ever threaten what we had with each other. That he wanted me to have everything I wanted out of life, and didn't believe our relationship should give him the right to own me or control me. And once I stopped thinking of it as a question of being "enough" for each other, it became easy for me to accept him having the same freedom. Why shouldn't he, after all, if we were supposed to be equal partners? Why couldn't I be just as happy about him enjoying himself as he was about me doing so?

Of course, it wasn't like I became a total slut overnight, even then. Even with that hurdle clear, I still had a lifetime's worth of shyness, romantic inexperience, and body shame to contend with. But, slowly but surely, with Martin's loving encouragement, I dug my way out of the shell I'd built. It was a journey of baby steps. Standing in front of the mirror and forcing myself to look honestly at the body I'd always tried to ignore, and to tell myself what I loved about every part of it, until I started to believe the words. Shedding my old concealing wardrobe piece by piece, in favor of clothes that showed that body off. Learning to look at men and women who made my desire stir, and instead of clamping down on that feeling, to let it move through me, to accept it, enjoy it, and, more and more as time went on, act on it.

The first time I had sex with another man while Martin and I were dating, I felt guilty. But when I told him about it, and he smiled and told me how happy he was for me, and listened as I slowly shared with him the details of what had happened and how it had made me feel, each word made the weight lift off my shoulders a little more. When he and I made love that night, it was the best I'd ever had. And every time after that, it got easier and easier, until it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

We've never told my family; they were already unhappy enough about me marrying a white guy, though I think they've mostly gotten over that. After all, from what they know about Martin, he's exactly the kind of man they love, apart from that one little issue. For a long time, the idea of them finding out about our lifestyle terrified me. Now, it just makes me laugh. Maybe some day I'll finally tell my parents what kind of woman I really am.

Anyway, that's all in the past, and I'm not here to talk about the past. No, the reason I'm here is because I thought it'd be fun to share with you all about some of the more exciting moments from my life as the proud slut I am today. If I'm lucky, some of you might be inspired to get out there and enjoy yourselves a little more. Or maybe you'll just get off to my stories—which is great too! Either way, I hope you enjoy.

*****

On Saturday morning, I woke up in the mood for some exhibitionism.

It's a common occurrence for me. Most every time I go out, I dress to show off my body—even if I'm not specifically looking for attention, it feels nice to know I look sexy. That day, though, I felt like making an outing of the showing-off part in particular. Easily enough done! I had no other plans for the day, and the June weather looked as gorgeous out the window as the forecast had predicted.

Martin had gone home with a date the previous night, leaving me the bed all to myself. I took a moment to stretch as I rose, before heading to the full-length to indulge in a spot of vanity. As always, I'd slept naked; I almost never wear anything at home. We're not exactly naturists, though we are all fond of nude beaches when the opportunity for a trip arises; even so, all three of us often go without clothes in private, though I definitely do it the most.

I surveyed my image in the glass. At 5'3, I'm not the most imposing figure—Martin likes to refer to me as "fun-size," which always makes me smile even as I roll my eyes at him. By gift of genetics, my build's always been somewhat pear-shaped; while my regular gym visits have sufficed to keep my tummy tight into my fifth decade, my hips persist in flaring out into a natural hourglass, leading to soft, full thighs and an ass that retains enough jiggle to clap softly when I twerk. For most of my life, those curves made for a contrast with my upper body, where my blessings had amounted to scant B-cups. However, for my thirty-fifth birthday, Martin fulfilled a longtime wish of mine and gifted me breast implants. The results were everything I'd hoped: my augmented D-cups are just short of being too big for my frame, and have the perfectly round, perky shape that only good implants can hold without a bra. My caramel-toned skin was, at the moment, evenly tanned from head to toe, bereft of any lines. As usual, I was thoroughly waxed from the neck down. My pussy is rather modest as they go, a neat little slit with just the tips of my labia occasionally peeking out.

Bringing my eyes up, I met my reflection's gaze. I won't claim time has left me totally untouched: I can't help but notice the crow's feet that have begun to show up around my brown eyes lately. Still, I feel pretty good for forty-four. High cheekbones give my face an angular quality. I've been wearing my black hair in a jaw-length bob for a while now, and I think it's my favorite style yet.

Looking at myself like this always makes me smile and turns me on at the same time. Without any makeup, my hair still messy from my pillow, I feel so relaxed, so natural, and it's wonderful to see that I'm still beautiful in that state. I felt my nipples hardening, my pussy moistening up. Thrusting my chest forward, I ran my hands down over the curves of my breasts; my left lingered, gently cupping and squeezing. God, I love playing with my tits since I got them done, feeling that incredible firmness. Meanwhile, my right hand continued downward, trailing over my stomach, fingertips finding my lips. Gently, I spread them, feeling my inner labia within, warm and already slippery. I spent a few lovely minutes there, putting on a show for myself—not fully getting off, but just feeling good, enjoying these pleasant sensations my body could bring me, and how hot I looked doing it.

Hunger and the need for caffeine eventually pulled me away. The bedroom door was already open—we seldom bother closing it. Outside, I could hear my daughter, always an early riser just like both her parents, already at work in the kitchen. One of the reasons we've always been able to get by on just Martin's income is because we've stayed well within our means as far as our home goes: the 1200-square foot two-bedroom condo we've been in for the past sixteen years isn't grand by any stretch, but it's always been the perfect amount of space for the three of us. The fact that none of us need all that much privacy certainly helps.

I found Victoria pouring coffee from the French press. What can I say about my baby girl? It's not just that she's the best daughter I ever could've imagined; as she's grown up, she's become one of my best friends, too. I can't help but think that in some ways, she's the kid I wish I'd been at her age. While I'd love to take full credit for her fearlessness, her independence, her fierce self-love, and her determination not to let anyone or anything keep her from being happy, it's always seemed to me like she hardly had to learn those things at all, like they came to her as naturally as breathing. You can see both me and Martin in her. She got a good bit of her dad's height, taller than me by the time she was fifteen and now a good four inches ahead. Her skin tone is halfway between his and mine, though she got my dark eyes and black hair. Apart from the extra height, she's built a fair bit like I was at her age, but more slender all over than bottom-heavy like me. Lately, she's been quite open about her envy of my implants.

As I entered the kitchen, she was in one of her sleep shirts; though it came down just past her butt, I knew she wouldn't have anything on under it. She gave me a slightly-sleepy smile as I approached. "Morning, ma. Want me to pour yours too?"

"Sure," I said, returning the smile. "Thanks, honey." I started a bagel in the toaster as Victoria prepared my coffee the way I like, with cream and one spoonful of sugar.

"Got anything going on today?" she asked as she took a seat at the table, handing over my mug on the way there.

"No big plans," I replied with a shrug. "Think I might go flashing. You wanna come?"

Victoria grinned. "Ooh, fun. But I can't today, I'm going to the movies with Brittany and Maya." Victoria had been well aware of my exhibitionist hobbies for a long time, but it was only recently that she'd started to dip her own toes in. Ah well, maybe another time.

I should be perfectly clear, since I know some of you are probably wondering: there's absolutely nothing sexual between me and my daughter, nor would I ever want there to be. I respect her as a sexual person, and I'm proud of her for embracing that part of herself as eagerly as I do, but that's all there is to it. Sorry to disappoint a few of you, but this isn't that kind of story.

We chatted about little things as we worked on breakfast—how her friends were doing that summer, the movie they were planning to see, the possibility that Maya might come back with Victoria for some sex afterward. While sipping my coffee and munching on my bagel with one hand, I absently tugged on my nipples with the other, feeling my skin tingle as they stiffened.

Victoria likes her showers in the evenings, so the bathroom was mine first. Shampoo, wash, a few quick swipes with my razor, moisturizer. Blow-dry, toothbrush, makeup—mascara, eyeliner, natural-toned brown lipstick just a few shades darker than my lips. As I worked, I thought about where to turn for my exhibitionist thrills that day. Any errands that needed doing? I had been in the mood for a trip to the big Barnes & Noble location at the mall lately. Good enough.

I went with one of my favorite outfits. For my top, I wore my dark blue crew-neck sweater, the Merino wool one that hugs my body like a glove, outlining every curve and making it perfectly obvious when I have nothing under it—especially with the hard nubs of my nipples that it leaves perfectly visible. It may not show much skin, but I might as well be wearing nothing but body paint when it's all I have on up top. Of course, I have plenty of skin to show below the waist, and I did so that day by pairing the sweater with one of my black G-string thongs as my only bottoms. With my sweater just barely falling past my navel, the fact that I was bottomless but for a tiny triangle of fabric and a couple of strings was plain as could be. For my shoes, I selected my favorite black stilettos, the classic design with the three-inch heel and the closed toe.

Looking in the mirror again, I felt like a goddess, unstoppable and irresistible. On an impulse, I retrieved my phone off the bed and, striking a pose with hand on hip, snapped a quick selfie. Turning around, I arched my back to thrust my butt into view and snapped one more. I will admit, I have a bit of a problem with selfies, especially when I'm really feeling myself. I wasn't sure at the time whether I'd end up posting these ones online like I often do, usually to Reddit. Even if no one else ended up seeing them, just the act of taking them added fuel to my building excitement.

Victoria was playing on her phone in the living room when I came back in. Seeing her glance up, I stopped to give her a look at the outfit I'd picked. "Good?" She'd seen it plenty of times before, but her thumbs-up always makes me happy.

"Perfect," she said, beaming. "Have fun!"

"You know I will!" Grabbing my purse, I headed out the door.

The only person I ran into on the way to the building's parking garage was Diane Reed, a sixty-something woman from one of the units on the floor below us who's strongly disliked me ever since the first time she spotted me heading down to the lobby to check our mailbox naked. She was coming back into the building as I was leaving the elevator. As usual, she rolled her eyes at me with obvious disgust as I passed, but said nothing. Likewise as usual, I answered with my brightest smile, not about to give her the satisfaction of thinking I cared about her opinion.

A few minutes later, I was on the road in my Hyundai Sonata. By then, thinking about the fun I was planning had me pretty damn wet, as usual. I was sorely tempted to take one hand off the wheel to reach into my thong and rub my clit—it still wasn't noon yet, and there was hardly any traffic—but I resisted the urge. Masturbating while driving is firmly against my personal rules. Instead, I contented myself with pulling my sweater up over my tits, leaving them bared to anyone who chanced to glance my way as we drove past each other. Opening the window a few inches, I let the air play over my skin, my nipples instantly hardening again at its touch. I couldn't be sure anyone saw, but God, it felt amazing anyway.

With great reluctance, I made myself pull my sweater back down as I rolled into the mall parking lot. Less than half the spots were full, but it still looked like there'd be a decent crowd. Perfect. Easing into a spot close to an entrance, I hopped out, bringing my purse along. Rather than head for the door right away, I went to the back of my car first. Setting my purse on the ground beside me, I put my hands on top of the trunk door, set my feet wider apart than my shoulders, stuck out my ass, and began to twerk. I'm proud to say I can twerk with the best of 'em—which is great, since I love doing it so much.

Closing my eyes, I focused all my attention on the sensations in my body. The warmth of the sun, on bare skin and through fabric. The tension in my legs and hips from the exertion of my movements. The jiggling of my ass, completely bare in my G-string, the soft slapping of my cheeks hitting each other. The arousal running through my whole body, raising goosebumps on my skin, hardening my nipples, making my pussy swollen and juicy. I found myself smiling. Fuck, this felt so good! My body was so awake, so sexy, so alive, and here I was giving it exactly what it wanted, shaking my ass and feeling it bounce, right out here in the open where anyone could see.

I hardly cared if anyone actually did see, but a moment after I started, I heard a sound from what I guessed was the next row of cars over: a feminine gasp, as if of surprise, and a pair of muttering voices, the other one masculine-sounding. Glancing over without pausing, I saw a young couple, a strawberry blonde woman in stylish sunglasses and a tall man with shoulder-length hair in a band t-shirt I didn't recognize. They were both alternating between staring open-mouthed at me and peering around the parking lot, maybe looking for a camera or something else that would explain what I was doing.

I didn't say anything, but I offered them a cheerful smile. The man's eyes widened in response, and while I couldn't see his girlfriend's behind her sunglasses, she seemed to have a similar reaction. Without paying them any more mind, I kept on twerking for another ten seconds or so; while I didn't look over again, I didn't hear any sound that would indicate they'd gotten back in their car. Finishing my display by reaching back with my right hand to squeeze and spread the matching butt cheek, then lay a slap on it, I stood, retrieved my purse, and headed toward the mall entrance without so much as another glance back at the couple. It was an effort not to—I would've killed to see their faces—but acting casual about it just made the whole thing feel so much better. Like I hadn't even been doing it for them, but just for myself—which was true, to an extent. Much as I like the attention I get for displays like that, I honestly don't even need an audience to enjoy them; I spend at least as much time shaking my tits and ass or groping myself alone at home as I do in public. I love the way it feels to just play with my body, in every way, not just the ones that lead to orgasm. One of the most important things I've learned in my life is to never deny myself that pleasure, no matter where I am or who's watching.

I entered the mall through the Macy's, finding myself in the women's summer fashion. The sight made me grin. I didn't really need or plan on buying any new clothes that day, but this presented a great opportunity to show off some more. And, of course, it would be fun just to window shop.

For a few minutes, I wandered from display to display, admiring the colorful, breezy little items on the mannequins and hanging on the racks. The store was pretty quiet, just a couple of sales staff with only a handful of customers to help. At first, no one really gave me a second glance, my state of undress hidden from most angles by the displays. I didn't do anything special to draw attention until I spotted something that really called to me, a short-sleeved surplice top in a light peridot green that looked like it would fall to just above my navel and would certainly show plenty of cleavage. Even better, it was hanging on a rack just off the main aisle between sections, where, standing by it, I was visible from almost every direction.