I'm a slut. You can call me a hussy, harlot, whore, tramp, wench, or freak, but I prefer slut. I like it down and dirty, thank you very much, and the nastier the better. Whatever you do, don't bore me in the bedroom with feathers and furs, or soft little kisses. I'd rather be alone. I'm a slut, damn it, so treat me like one.

I wasn't always a slut. Not until I met Bobby a few summers ago. We had one of those hot, moth-to-the-flame flings. He was married, so we would meet for lunch and end up fucking in the restroom of the nearest gas station. It's not like we planned it or anything. The first time it happened, he had stopped for gas and I went to use the john. Just as I was about to close the door, he slipped in behind me. 

I couldn't believe what he had in mind at first when he started unbuttoning my blouse. But his lips were electric and even the stench of the urinal couldn't distract me from his mouth on my nipples as he pressed me against the cold tile wall. When he produced a cock too big and hard for a girl with any conscience to ignore, I knelt on the dirty linoleum and serviced him right there. That was one of the hottest sexual experiences I had ever had.

It seemed Bobby was always out of gas when I met him after that. We would find a new gas station and slip into the bathroom for a quickie after lunch. It was on one of these dates when I found myself bent over the sink watching him in the mirror fucking me from behind that I finally realized I was a slut. 

That candid camera image of me fucking like bitch in heat inside a grease-laden bathroom was forever imprinted in my mind along with Bobby's words just before he came. "You love being a slut for me, don't you, baby?" A few weeks later Bobby broke down and got us a hotel room because he said he wanted to make love to me right. That was the last time I saw him. In bed, he fucked just like all the other men.

It was hard to find another slut lover after Bobby. The nice boys who fell in love with me wouldn't be the bad boys I wanted to fuck. I would try to bring out their bad boy sides in the bedroom, but usually it didn't work, and when it did, it changed the relationship. Like Roger who said he didn't want to see me anymore after what I thought was our greatest night of sex.

"I've never acted like that with a woman," he professed. "Jesus Christ, you had me so out of control - growling like a dog and biting you on the back of the neck. You make me crazy, girl. That ain't right. You're gonna turn me into Marv Albert. No baby. You bring out something in me I don't like." I had half a mind to send him a pair of ruffled panties.

For awhile I went to biker bars where the real bad boys hang out. I didn't have any trouble finding a man to give it to me down and dirty there. Mitch saw the slut in me the first night we met and knew what to do with it. I could relax knowing that he was going to give it to me bad and never the same way twice. 

We were so rough with each other that I would often end up with bruises from our lovemaking. Even a simple blow job left my lips bruised from his fist as he pumped the shaft of his cock while I sucked the head. I was intoxicated by the power of his hand around his cock and the way he would push my face into it and take my mouth the way he took everything - hard.

The trouble with Mitch was he was a bad boy all day, not just in the bedroom. When he called me from jail one night to come and bail him out for nearly beating to death a man-loving-guy who approached him at the bar, I never showed up with the money. I may be a slut, but I'm not stupid.

When I complained about my lack of a sufficient strong hand in the bedroom to a friend, she suggested I try one of the alternative lifestyles. She took me to a D/s club filled with men and women leading their collar-bound lovers around by leashes. 

I laughed and said, "No girl, this ain't it." I wasn't looking for a man to train me to roll me over so he could scratch my tummy. And if anybody was going to give up control in the bedroom, it wasn't me. I want an equal fight between the sheets, thank you. I do not want to be controlled or treated unkindly. I just want some raw sex.

I want a man who is in touch with his primitive instincts and isn't afraid to act on them. If he wants some pussy and I'm in the mood to make him work for it, he's gonna do the work. Sure he can be sensitive and cry at movies all he wants. But if he's sitting in the theater with a hard on, I want him to reach over and weave those thick fingers through my hair and say, "Come on baby, suck this bad boy for me."

A Slut by Any Other Name by Salty Vixen

I'm a slut. You can call me a hussy, harlot, whore, tramp, wench, or freak, but I prefer slut. I like it down and dirty, thank you very much, and the nastier the better.

I'm a slut. You can call me a hussy, harlot, whore, tramp, wench, or freak, but I prefer slut. I like it down and dirty, thank you very much, and the nastier the better. Whatever you do, don't bore me in the bedroom with feathers and furs, or soft little kisses. I'd rather be alone. I'm a slut, damn it, so treat me like one.



A Slut by Any Other Name by Salty Vixen

I'm a slut. You can call me a hussy, harlot, whore, tramp, wench, or freak, but I prefer slut. I like it down and dirty, thank you very much, and the nastier the better.

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Salty Vixen

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