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?"
