Chapter 01:
How it all began or: first college experience
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We all wear a mask. An image we project to the others, to the people we know and who know us. We wear a mask to fit into society, to get accepted and respected. For them, we are a rising politician, a housewife, a doctor, a cashier at the local Walmart. Those are all good roles, recognized and uncontroversial. We may even have different masks for different groups of people, a diversity of roles for us to play. But most of them are a lie.
Beneath our masks lies our true self. Our true nature is mostly hidden from the outside looks and it only comes out when we are either alone or when we don't fear any consequences. The politician paints D&D figurines in his basement. The housewife reads every book on serial killers, fascinated by their psychology. The doctor is on a life-long quest to try out as many drugs as he can while off-duty. The cashier spends her evenings writing smutty stories which she is too afraid to ever publish.
We all wear a mask, and I'm not an exception. For my family, my friends, my colleagues, I'm Laura Thompson, a successful woman in her late 30's. I have a degree in business and management, a husband, and two kids. I was promoted to deputy head of department in the firm I'm working at, but two years later I decided to leave the career ladder and only work part-time, using the rest of my time to tend to my family and home. I'm an active member of our neighborhood association, always there to help the community. I'm a perfect little cog in the perfect machinery of our perfect society.
Also, I'm a slut. Beneath the suburban facade of happiness and warmth, I'm a cock-craving, ever-horny, leg-spreading slut. I pondered about the right term for a long time and decided that this one fits me the best. I'm not a whore - I don't demand money for sex, even though some guys tip me on their own. I'm not a nymphomaniac - sex itself is not the thing I need, but of course, I'm the first to admit that I want it more than the average woman. No, I'm a slut - I enjoy offering my body to men (and sometimes women) for them to get off and then go about their lives. I don't orgasm from penetration or rubbing alone, I climax at the feeling of being used. I don't expect cuddling or romance after I got fucked - once the guy is satisfied, our ways part.
Does my husband know? Of course, otherwise, he wouldn't be my husband. What does our life look like? Perfect on the outside, even better on the inside. Our relationship includes a free pass for both of us, an occasional 'business trip' by me to another city or even state, and 100% honesty between both of us.
But you're not here to read about my world-views or my own psychoanalysis of myself, right? You want to hear some smut, to read about my adventures. You want to get off while I perform a mental striptease, while I offer you not my body but my memories. In a way, this is another way for me to be a slut.
***
When did it all begin? It's hard to pinpoint the exact time when I first saw myself as a slut, but I know that it was in college. Of course, I wasn't a virgin by the time I hugged my parents good-bye for the next few months and got on a plane to another state. I already had two ex-boyfriends and the according sexual experience that came with being a normal 19 y.o. girl. Still, I never had any sexual contacts outside of relationships. I also had no idea that it was about to change in less than 24 hours, while I looked out of the window at the passing clouds, glimmering orange in the early sunrise.
The journey was as eventless as one could wish for. The plane landed; I hailed a taxi which brought me to the college campus; I found the dormitory and my dorm room; I unpacked my luggage. The clock showed half-past 2 p.m. when I closed the last drawer and looked around. The place wasn't much, but my parents saved enough money to afford a one-person room with its own little bathroom for me. The bed was broad enough for one person to sleep comfortably in, the cupboard offered just enough space for me to put my clothes and shoes inside. A desk with a chair and a small flat-screen on the wall rounded it all up. The bathroom was similarly spartan - a sink, a WC, and a shower all crammed together.
Only then did it hit me. I was alone! This little apartment, these four walls that could awaken claustrophobia - I was alone there! No one would disturb me, no one would judge me, no one would even see me here! Even though my parents were far from being strict, I remember how heady this little gulp of freedom made me. I felt like I had two shots of tequila followed by a shot of whiskey and I did the only sensible thing I could do at that moment - I fell down on my bed and laughed for ten minutes straight.
The rest of the day was equally boring as the journey. After I calmed myself down enough, I walked around the campus and the block to get accustomed to my new life there. On my journey, I discovered that there was a party at my dormitory to welcome the freshmen and immediately decided to attend it.
As night fell down and the sound of music started to penetrate the thin walls of the building, I picked my clothes and looked one more time in the mirror. My slightly curly, jet black hair fell down freely all the way to my waist, with a few hairpins on my head to keep them somewhat under control. I put a minor amount of make-up on my face, mostly to accentuate my green eyes and my lips. My torso was clad in a navy shirt with a rather liberal cleavage, just enough to attract attention to my firm B-cup chest, but not enough to be inappropriate. The skirt a similar shade of blue snuggled around my round hips, reached down to just above my knees and showed most of my tanned legs. On my feet, I put a pair of black stringy sandals with a modest heel, my accurate pedicure visible through them. Some glitter on my fingernails, a bracelet on my right wrist, and a golden thin necklace finished my outfit. I winked to my reflection and left my room, following the music.
All in all, the party was exactly how one would expect a college party is. Bunch of people, bunch of booze, loud music. Since the party was mainly aimed at freshmen, they made up most of the population in the dark room, but there were also a handful of older guys and girls, mixing among the newcomers.
Being a social person, I had no problems when it came to building contacts with others and the alcohol surely helped. I moved from one end of the room to another, exchanged some words with different people, and nodded enthusiastically whenever someone offered to refill my cup. I wasn't a lightweight but I soon discovered that a college party was on a whole other level when it came to alcohol. Even though the wide desk at one wall was full of beer bottles, multiple bottles of harder liquor made the rounds around the room, being passed from one person to another. At some point, I got a bottle with some clear liquid pressed into my hand and took two hearty gulps out of it to the cheerful chants 'drink, drink, drink!' around me.
Two or three hours passed and I was in the wonderful intoxicated state where every idea sounds great and even the lamest jokes appear funny. The faces around me were almost familiar by now, but then I found myself in front of a guy I couldn't remember seeing before. Or maybe I saw him but already forgot about it, it didn't really matter to me at that point. What mattered was the way he looked like. I never had a special type of man I felt attracted to - in fact, both my ex-boyfriends looked as different from each other as possible - but something about his whole appearance made me glue my eyes to him. I don't know whether it was his dirty blond hair with the 'I lost my comb and don't care' hairdo, his three-days beard, or his piercing black eyes. Or, probably, his clothes: his shirt and pants were more fit to be alone at home than at a party. Later, I discovered that the longer one lived the student life, the less one cared about what to wear to a party. But for now, I was taken aback by the confidence this stranger radiated while looking like he took the wrong turn on the way to his room.
He chatted me up. I can't remember his name, probably something with an 'A', at least this is how I call him in my mind. It wasn't the first time a guy was hitting on me, but it was the first time someone did it as A. did. It wasn't even really hitting up, he just kept talking with me as if we were already best friends, and at some point, he caressed my shoulder and asked whether I wanted to dance. My mind fogged up by alcohol and his unprecedented confidence, I nodded and let him pull me to the improvised dance floor where we began to move our bodies rhythmically. Well, at least that's what it felt like in my state, but since everyone around us was similarly drunk it didn't matter how it really looked like.
We kept dancing and the distance between us dwindled with every passing song. Eventually, I had my arms around his neck while he held me by my waist and more than once my hip brushed against his pants. Whenever it happened, I could feel the tension inside. I was neither a virgin nor a little girl, I knew exactly what I felt. Usually, I would never go as far as that. Dancing with a guy was okay for me back in high-school, grinding against his hard-on was a line I never crossed. But the alcohol, the feeling of freedom, and A's self-assurance made this line blur.
"Want to go to my room?" he asked me at some point, his lips almost kissing my ear.
I wasn't dumb, I knew exactly what he wanted and it surely wasn't to show me his stamp collection. It wasn't the first offer I ever received - back in my hometown, there were always one or two guys at a party who would try to take me with them. But I never agreed to anything like that. Not only because I didn't want to get a reputation, but also because I knew that my parents wouldn't be too happy with that. But they weren't here right now. For all they knew, I was in my bed right now, fast asleep. They would never know. I looked A. in the eyes and nodded, biting my lip. A glimmer in his eyes, he took me by my hand and I followed him through the moving and dancing crowd, out of the hot room.
The way to his room got lost in the alcoholic blur and the next thing I remember was him closing the door behind after we entered. A. pressed the light switch but I was in no state to look around his room. With the same confidence he displayed on the dance floor, he took me with one hand by my waist and gently grabbed with the other the back of my head. Without much effort, he pressed my back against the wall and lowered his head to kiss my neck and the place behind my ear. Fuck, since when was this a sensitive spot of mine?
"Mmhmm... Oh shit..." I moaned and dug my fingers into his shoulders. His lips moved up and down my neck and once in a while he carefully bit me, forcing more moans out of me. My knees got weak and my legs shook, making it harder for me to stand. It took me some moments to realize that it wasn't so much the lust doing it to me, but A's hand on my shoulder pushing me down. I looked into his face and he only smirked at me, nodding in approval. My better judgment was buried by the alcohol while I slowly sank to my knees until my face was on the same level as the visible bulge in his pants. Acting on an instinct, I fumbled with the button and the zipper and half a minute later I pulled the pants to his thighs, together with the underwear.
A's cock jumped out and the tip hit my nose. I squinted and heard A. chuckling as he placed his hand on top of my head. He wasn't really pushing me, but I still felt an aura of dominance, a silent demand to get to business. The thought that I knew the guy for less than two hours tried to force its way into my mind, but I ignored it and wrapped my fingers around the shaft. I stuck my tongue out and gave the hard flesh in my hand a gentle lick from down to the top. As I reached the tip, I held my tongue pressed against it and gave it a kiss. A's moan of approval was enough for me to continue and I wrapped my lips around the first inch of his dick. My tongue swirled around the tip. The first drop of precum escaped the tiny hole and A. pulled my head closer towards his body.
I knew how to give a blowjob - I trained on my boyfriends and they always gave me tips on how to improve. But none of them was ever active during it. I always chose the pace at which I wanted to continue on my own. But A. was different. His hand didn't leave my head and even though he wasn't rough, he still controlled me, subtly but definitively. He left me enough freedom to give an illusion of control, but deep inside I knew that if I would stop he would force my head to continue. I didn't mind. I wanted to suck him and if anything, his confidence only turned me on.
