My Debut as a Slut

by Jean Roberta

"Crystal," said Brock, listening to herself as she studied my alert, cotton-covered breasts. "That's what I want to call you. I want you to be clear and open to me, nothing fancy." She stretched a bare, smoothly-muscled arm across the table to reach for my hand. Her grip was hot.

I looked at the biker dyke for whom I had given up an afternoon in the university library. My parents, the historian Abraham Chalkdust and the linguist Anna Parle Chalkdust, had named me Athena before I was even a footnote in their lives. Now I was a thirty-year-old teaching assistant taking a break from my Ph.D. thesis by drinking vile coffee in a fly-specked cafe because Brock had brought me here. I wondered if she would take me on a bike trip to hell, and how long I would hang on.

I dared to look into her compelling grey eyes. "I don't know how to be a chick named Crystal," I confessed. "Will you show me?" I pulled the brass clip out of my long chestnut hair, hoping this was a start.

Brock grinned wickedly, squeezing my hand. The yellowish light from a hanging lamp gave her short wood-brown hair a perverse halo. "You know how, baby, you just don't want to admit it," she told me. You should act like the slut you are when I show you to my friends. It's not your literary theories that'll make an impression. Even when I'm not touching you, pretend I'm squeezing your ass and pinching your nipples whenever you're with me. You like to show off, Crystal. I could see it when I met you at the club."

I had ventured out to the dyke bar for a drink, consciously hoping to meet some compatible Women's Studies majors. Brock had claimed me instead, or I had found what I was really seeking. It was like a serendipitous experience in the library, such as the time my mother's book on eighteenth-century sexual slang fell off its shelf and hit me on the head.

Brock slid close to me in the leatherette booth, pressing a hard thigh against mine. "Put your jacket over your lap, honey," she muttered into my ear. She didn't really seem to care who heard. I focused on my breathing as I carefully covered myself.

Brock's tanned, expressive face looked radiant. "Did I tell you my old buddy Keith is back in town?" she asked conversationally. "He wants to meet you." One of her hands was sliding over my hip, then pulling down the zipper of my pants. Her hot fingers burrowed under my panties on a downward expedition over my quivering belly.

"Brock," I whispered. "We can't do it here."

"Sssh," she grinned back. "Do you want everyone in the place to hear you?" Her fingers reached my clit. After a dramatic pause, they teased it like a cat playing with a mouse.

I was in exquisite distress, as usual whenever I was in Brock's company. I felt my wetness gushing over her determined fingers, making it pointless for me to deny the obvious. I clenched my teeth to hold back a moan.

"You're too quiet," she warned me. "If you're not going to talk to me, make some noise." She pushed in until two of her fingers were knuckle-deep in my cunt. Their insistent stroking pulled my attention back to where she wanted it.

"Keith?" I babbled desperately. "Is that the guy who sells --?" I spread my legs and tilted back to give her more room. A man at the next table seemed to be watching us, but I couldn't afford to look at him.

Brock's fingers sank in as far as they could. "Yep," she remarked, and in a lower voice: "sit forward." I obeyed, and the resulting friction brought me to a crisis-point.

"Quiet," smiled my tormenter in a classic dykey monotone as though talking around a cigarette. "Don't hold back. Go for it, baby." The pressure on her fingers must have been considerable, but she didn't seem to mind.

I gripped the table with one hand while holding my jacket with the other. My urge to ride her fingers had to be suppressed, so I did inner aerobics by squeezing her with my muscles. "Can't do it here," I told her between clenched teeth.

In response, she moved her fingers in spirals, then ran a fingernail in circles over and around my swollen clit. A series of spasms spread outward from there like ripples in my flesh. I covered my panting mouth, trying to pretend I was yawning.

Brock eased her wet fingers out of me, wiping them on my skin with a satisfied air as she pulled them back into public view. I already missed them. "You are so easy," she smirked. I felt my face grow hot.

The man at the next table stood up, scraping his chair, and faced us. "Next time, get a room," he snarled down at me in the distinctly Canadian style of a man who minds his own business until some unbearable circumstance forces him to speak. He looked shabbily genteel in a way I recognized, though I was sure we had never met in academic circles. He didn't wait for my answer.

"Crystal," Brock soothed me with her voice. "Let's go."

Outside the cafe, hot sunlight hit us in the face. I felt prickling sweat all over my body, and wished I could run naked through a fountain. Brock looked at me as though she could read my mind.

"We're going shopping," she told me, approaching her bike at the curb. "You need some new clothes." She threw a leg over the saddle. I slid on behind her, and we were off.

Holding onto Brock's waist with the wind in my hair and a vibrating motor between my legs was such a tease that I was disappointed when the ride ended. She parked the hog in front of the Treasure Chest, a shop that sold Indian cotton clothing, hash pipes, rude bumper stickers and cheap jewellery. Brock smiled familiarly at the slim brown man behind the counter as she walked in. I followed her, and he gave me a long look. For a moment, I wondered whether I would be offered to him as payment for the merchandise.

Brock found what she wanted. "You wear size eight, don't you, girl?" she asked, sizing up my curves with her eyes. I agreed, she nodded, and she progressed to another rack.

Armed with a scrap of smooth black leather and a red-and-white striped knit top that reminded me of an old-fashioned barber pole, she herded me into a fitting room. "Take everything off," she ordered, then watched with amusement as I did.

I could feel my breasts jiggling with each breath I took. Under Brock's eyes, I was proud of their firm shape; for once, B-cups seemed big enough. She reached for my butt, and spread her fingers to get a firm grasp on each cheek. She pulled, and I took the hint, shamelessly pressing my bare crotch into her denim. Her clear eyes, the color of a late afternoon sky, looked thoughtfully into mine. I saw a flash of pain. "I've never been to college," she reminded me, "but I'm not a fool."

I hoped she could find comfort in my chocolate-brown eyes. "I know," I told her. "I've never lived on the street, but neither am I."

Brock barked with laughter, then held me and pressed her full lips to mine as if to test my non-academic skills. Her tongue teased mine and her hips pressed her center seam rhythmically into my opening slit until my breathing showed her what she wanted to know. She pulled away to look at me. "Want me again?" she taunted. "So soon, Crystal?"

"Mhm," I mumbled.

"Good," she approved, casually sliding her sweaty hands down my hips. "Stay ready for me." She handed me the two skimpy items of clothing. "Put these on."

I wiggled into the tight skirt, pulling it up, then tugged the knit cotton down over my head and my bare breasts. My nipples hardened under the touch of clinging fabric as I shook my hair out of my eyes.

Brock held me by the shoulders and made me face my image in the mirror. I licked my lips and tried to suppress the shiver of vanity that ran down my spine. I thought I looked like a hot babe. Judging from Brock's grin, so did she.

"You need lipstick," advised Brock, my fairy godmother. "Cherry red." She ran a salty finger around the edges of my lips. "You don't need stockings, but I want to see you in high-heeled sandals. Nothing flat. Stand on tiptoes." I did, feeling my shoulders pushing up into her palms. I felt like a little girl playing grown-up. "That looks like about four inches," she commented, studying my bare feet. "That'll do. With red polish on your toenails. You'll be wearing your new outfit tomorrow when we go to the woods."

An image of myself as Little Red Riding Hood being grabbed by a drooling wolf jumped into my mind. I reminded myself that fear before the fact wouldn't help me, and that all would be revealed in due course. I knew that in any plot, real or fictional, timing was crucial.

Brock playfully swatted my ass. "Put your shoes back on. We're going to the shoe store." She paid for my outfit as I stuffed my other clothes into a bag. I sauntered out of the store ahead of her, swinging the bag in a girlish style that was new to me.

"We're not riding," she told me on the sidewalk. "It's on this street." She guided me to the shoe store, where she soon found a dangerous pair of strappy black leather heels which she seemed to have willed into being. I found a pair in my size, eased into them, and watched Brock watching my calves as I tottered through the store. Brock approved, told me to keep them on, and paid the smirking salesgirl.

Back on her hog, I clung anxiously to her sweaty back as we whizzed around corners. She took us to my apartment building, parked her hog in my parking spot, and guided me up the stairs ahead of her with a hand on my leather-covered ass.

Inside my apartment, she pulled me close with a gentleness that made me want to cry. She kissed me as though tasting my lips for the first time. At length, she pulled away so she could look questioningly into my eyes.

"You know how important this is to me," she warned me.

"Yes, I know," I assured her. "For me too. I guess I want to find out my limits."

"Greedy bitch," she crooned. "You figured out that you can't live in the library – can't get fucked enough in there."

"You'd be surprised," I defended myself. "But anyway, I've never lived only in the library. Even when I was a teenager with a reputation as a nerdy bookworm, I dreamed of being a famous stripper or call girl. I bet you dreamed of being an Amazon warrior."

"More like a magician, babe," she explained. "Or a spy. I found out where to get what I wanted, including slut princesses. There are things you don't know about me." It went without saying. I knew that coming to know another person is a lifetime task, and that we had only started reading each other.

Another thought tickled her mind. "Poor little wannabe whore," she snickered. "I wonder how well you'd really like that life. I could sell you if that's what you want, but we'll have to discuss that later."

I wrapped my arms around her, touching the hollow at the small of her back. She reached behind to take possession of my wrists. I decided to file her latest comment in the back of my mind for future reference. I couldn't keep my hips from moving, as big jolts and little shivers of excitement ran from my tormented nipples to my awakening clit. "Bitch in heat," she stroked me with her voice. "I wasn't planning to do this, but I will. I want you naked and on your knees."

A thin film of sweat covered my skin, and I felt breathless. It didn't take me long to pull off my new clothes and kneel in front of her. I was amazed at my own desire to be what she wanted for as long as I could.

Brock smoothly unzipped her own jeans and pushed them down along with her panties. She stepped out of one denim leg, then the other. Her natural brown bush popped into view, untrimmed and uncovered. Since she usually packed a strap-on when I was with her, I felt honored by the sight and smell of her own center of energy, her holy well. "This is me," she reminded me. "Kiss it, Crystal." She touched herself with two hands, pulling her own lips apart so I could see her fat, rising red clit and her purplish folds that glistened like wet petals.

I approached her first with my nose, breathing in her essence. Her hot flesh moved like a live oyster when I touched it with the tip of my tongue. Her hands held my head lightly but firmly, so I could move just as much as she wanted. "No hands, girl," she prompted me.

My lips and tongue had to be versatile and responsive to her unspoken needs. I licked, nibbled, then thrust my tongue into her salty depths until I felt the strain in its roots. A quiet, satisfying moan came down to me like a blessing. I pulled Brock's clit into my mouth and vibrated it with my tongue. "Ah!" she gasped sharply as her grip tightened on my scalp. I knew she wasn't finished, so I licked her clit insistently between forays into her lush wetness. I could taste her rising tension, then her whole cunt clenched. "Uh!" she gasped. "That's – it." She breathed so loudly that I could feel it in my own lungs. "Damn, Crystal," she praised me, coming down. "You're good."

I closed my eyes, feeling the sweat cooling on my skin. My own pussy ached with the need for release, but I didn't want to stop wanting Brock.

Her strong arms pulled me up, and she held me against her damp shirt. Her small hard breasts underneath reminded me that she was female like me, but powerful. "Honey," she called me. "You're mine, but you have to keep working at it." She slid a hand down my back and into the crack between my ass-cheeks. "You can't come tonight, Crystal," she warned me. "You have to save it for tomorrow." The prospect of coming harder and later appealed to me. I hoped that my lust-fueled dreams would allow me to sleep.

"When I pick you up tomorrow," she reminded me, "you have to call me Mistress." I smiled my consent. She squeezed my shoulders and pinched my butt so that the sting would stay with me for a few heartbeats as a souvenir. She gave me a slow, hot, tormenting kiss before turning away and grunting a farewell. The sound of her boots echoed in the hallway of my building as she descended the old wooden stairs.

I was awakened in the morning by the golden light that poured into my bedroom through my wheat-colored curtains. I sat up and relished being naked in the summer air. My skirt lay on the chair where I had left it, eerily holding the shape of my hips. My halter top clung to the chair back, waiting to hug my breasts. The sight of my simple outfit made my life seem as clear as fresh water.

Brock arrived on schedule, slipping into my building when one of my neighbors opened the security door in the morning. Like a woodsy spy, she announced her presence by whistling outside my apartment door. I opened it to find her looking unusually formal in red pants and a black sleeveless shirt. She carried a cloth jacket in spite of the heat.

I dutifully strapped on my new sandals and tried to follow her gracefully down the stairs. This felt like my first ordeal of the day. Seated behind her on her bike, wearing her jacket as a sign of her ownership, I had no choice but to hang on for dear life. We sped through traffic, out of the city, and onto a dirt road.

Two other bikes, parked in a clearing in the trees, looked like a sign of human culture in the wilderness. Brock slowed to a stop near the vehicles of her tribespeople, to whom I had been offered as a human sacrifice. Looking as if she knew how I felt, Brock offered me her hand to help me land on my feet.

A short fat man who reminded me of one of Robin Hood's merry men called out: "Brock! Is that the slut?" He was stuffed like a sausage into a T-shirt and leather pants. A tall, lanky woman with a long raven ponytail and ripped jeans gave me a knowing smile. I tried not to blush or to stare at the couple who were staring at me.

"This is Crystal," announced Brock with pride. "Master Keith and Mistress Veronica," she told me.

"Is she bi, Brock?" asked the tall woman coolly. She seemed to be the equal of her man. Instead of speaking to me, she touched my hair and ran a finger appraisingly over my lips until I pulled it into my mouth and sucked, wanting to please and to learn her flavor at the same time. Veronica laughed.

Keith watched this scene without cracking a smile. "I'm doing you a big favor, Brock," he reminded her. "It's not like I need help finding some tail." I realized that I was a form of currency, Brock's payment to her friends for some mind-bending substance.

"Keith likes blow jobs, baby," Veronica instructed me. "I hope you're half as good as me." He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly without changing his expression.

I panicked; I had not had male meat in my mouth for at least six years, but I still remembered my impulse to gag. I didn't think this man would want to sheath his tool in latex, and I was afraid of what might be living in his fluids.

"You don't want to do it, do you, Crystal?" Brock asked me. I heard a hint of pride in her voice; obviously I was not a man's woman, and I was unlikely to desert her for any sperm-spouting stud. On the other hand, she wanted to show that I could follow orders. I had expected to be tested for physical endurance, but this situation obviously required finesse as well.

"I –" I started unsurely. Keith looked amused, in spite of himself, under a mask of annoyance.

"You could give him a hand job instead," Brock assured me. "Would that be all right?" she asked Keith.

His expression made it too clear that he considered this equivalent to the offer of an inferior grade of dope.

"And take a spanking," smiled Veronica, "for not using your little mouth." Under the circumstances, that sounded safer to me, even though I suspected that I might regret my choice very soon. A spanking sounded relatively dry and unlikely to make me vomit.

"Yes," I agreed. "Would it please Master Keith to spank me for my lack of skill? I'm not very good at blow jobs." I looked quickly into his eyes to read his temperature before looking as humbly as possible at my uppity shoes.

The man seemed tickled in spite of himself. "Yeah, sure, what the hell," he growled. His eyes were twinkling. "Get your clothes off, girl." He looked around, saw a large rock and seated himself on it. As I struggled to pull my top off and my skirt down as gracefully as possible, he gave me a meaningful look and patted his thighs.

Veronica watched with amusement. "Hairy bush," she remarked to Brock. "Don't you ever shave it, Brock?"

My Mistress was unfazed by this subtle dig. "I like a woman's hairy bush," she explained. "It's naturally curly, see?" She grabbed a fistful of my pubic hair and tugged it reassuringly.

Keith's eyes on my body didn't give away any secrets as I walked to him and stretched face down across his lap. He ran a connoisseur's hand over my bottom, and paused thoughtfully for a moment. His first slap seemed to bounce rather than sting, and I relaxed slightly. "She's a big girl, Keith," sneered Mistress Veronica. "You don't have to baby her."

His hand came down smartly, and the sting rushed into my cunt and thighs. I couldn't keep quiet or hold myself still, but I tried. The earthy smell of the man's sweat was all around me, mixing with the smell of my juices.

Master Keith gave me four businesslike whacks. Then he gave me two more that felt as if they were burning through my skin. The two Mistresses chuckled in appreciation.

When the man shifted his thighs, I realized that he was finished and that I was supposed to stand up. "What, you want more?" he growled down at me.

I mumbled something like "No thank you, Master," as I scrambled off him. My face felt as hot as my behind, which still pulsed in rhythm.

"You should teach your girl to use her mouth, Brock," he remarked. He stood up to pull his pants down, removed them and handed them to Veronica.

"She does, Keith," grinned Mistress Brock. "But she'll pet you nicely with her hands."

Master Keith beckoned me to the thick red cock that rose from a nest of matted hair between his spread thighs. I knelt between them, keeping my heels away from my sore bum, and held onto his knees for balance. Then I gathered up his balls in one hand and began stroking his shaft with the other. Holding a cock gave me a sense of déjà vu, as though I were revisiting the funky small town of my youth.

I stroked him increasingly faster, and his breathing speeded up too. Soon his cream was spurting over my hands as he half-moaned and half-grunted. My Mistress looked amused. I hoped she enjoyed watching me cause her friend or supplier to lose control of himself, even if that was his wish. "Good job, baby," he assured me, but his voice sounded patronizing, and he was looking at his woman. I was being dismissed.

Mistress Brock pulled me up by one arm, looking very pleased. "Wipe your hands, Crystal," she smirked. This order confused me, since there was no towel in sight. On impulse, I bent over to wipe my hands on a patch of wild grass. From between my legs, I saw Mistress Veronica arranging her long, pale body on Master Keith's lap as her hair hung over his face.

My Mistress' lips were close to one of my ears. "Don't move," she ordered.

I heard the metallic purr of her zipper, looked at her from between my legs, and panicked. I wasn't sure I could hold my position while being fucked with the big strap-on she was wearing. "Brock –" I protested.

The hard smack of her hand against one of my sensitive butt-cheeks took me by surprise, and I wailed. "What do you call me?" she demanded.

"Mistress!" I wondered if I had lost all the credit I had gained with her by following her plans so far. "Please, Mistress!" I added, afraid to say more.

I felt her relenting as she pushed me forward by the hips. "Brace your hands against this tree trunk, honey," she told me.

I gripped the rough bark, afraid of slipping up in any way. I tried to plant my dangerous shoes as firmly as possible on the uneven ground. I hoped they would provide more leverage than bare feet.

I could hear the combined moans of Master Keith and Mistress Veronica in the distance as my own Mistress held my cunt-lips open and eased her slick tool into me. The cool air in my bush showed me how wet and hot I was, how eager for the comfort she was giving me.

"You can let go, Crystal," she encouraged me. "Don't hold back. The neighbors won't complain about the noise."

I felt something melt inside me as a loud "Ohh!" came out of my mouth to mix with the songs of birds and insects. I pushed back as she thrust into me to the rhythm of her breathing. The rubbing of her thighs against my sore bum almost took my breath away, but it also raised my temperature. My Mistress was working hard to claim me as hers and to bring me to a grand finale. Knowing this made it hard for me to get over the edge.

I was so wet that my Mistress' cock made a slurping sound as it pumped in and out of me, and I could feel the juice sliding down my thighs. My fear of not pleasing her and not being able to find my own release brought tears to my eyes.

"You – a stubborn – little brat?" gasped Mistress Brock. I was vastly relieved to hear the affection in her voice. "Okay then," she ordered, "don't come." She reached under me to roll my clit insultingly between hard fingers.

That did it, and my overwrought pussy squeezed and squeezed around the dick it loved. Judging from the sounds she made, my Mistress was getting enough stimulation to come with me.

After she withdrew, she held me for a long time. I felt as if time was standing still, but eventually, we both remembered the other two.

"Hey, Brock," called Master Keith. "We can't stay. I'll try out your little slut next time. I think she needs my belt." I was aghast at this challenge to my Mistress as well as to me, but she let it pass.

I was allowed to stand up as my Mistress discreetly shook off her tool, then tucked it back into her pants. I watched Master Brock and Mistress Veronica casually pulling their clothes back on. I realized that everyone around me was climbing back into their daytime roles and preparing to go about their business. I was being left behind, left with my still-red behind and wet bush and pink nipples on display for the amusement of the grownups who had better things to do than to play with me.

I watched Mistress Veronica sliding her long thighs, one by one, into her ragged pant-legs. When she saw me watching, she laughed aloud. "I'll get to know you better next time, honey," she reminded me. "I like chicks too, but I'm fussy. I hope Brock trains you well."

This time I saw my Mistress' jaw tighten for an instant before she willed herself into a state of calm control. "Don't worry about it, Ronnie," she returned. She strode to my scattered clothes, picked them up, and held them in a tight bundle. I could see that my new outfit meant as much to her as it did to me, but she liked keeping me naked as long as possible.

I sensed that Mistress Brock's friends or associates both looked forward to playing with me on another occasion, but for now it was too obvious whose property I was, and the straight couple didn't want lukewarm leftovers. The glances they both flicked at me showed that I still had value as a form of currency.

Everyone exchanged goodbye hugs as a peace offering. "Brock," muttered Master Keith, apparently as an after-thought. "You want to make money on this one?"

"We'll talk," she promised. Now that prostitution had come up as a real possibility, I felt relieved that my Mistress seemed reluctant to share me.

The Master and the Mistress mounted their bikes and roared away from us. "Ready for the ride home?" Mistress Brock asked pointedly. She handed me my clothes.

"I hope so," I groaned. I wondered briefly if she would let me walk home instead of bouncing on her hog, but I knew that there was no point in asking. It was too far.

"Try this," she offered, folding her jacket so that I could sit on it. I knew that being her girl would mean having to develop greater physical tolerance, and that this would be good for me. In the meanwhile, though, she was willing to let me toughen up by degrees.

As I climbed on behind her and she kicked her motorcycle into life, I felt that serendipity was still with me. I knew that Brock hadn't had her fill of me for the day, and that we still had many miles to travel together. I had faith that even in the long years of my academic future, I would never regret letting her officially bring me out as a slut named Crystal. That weekend still shines among my memories, even though nothing happened exactly the way I expected. But then, every debut includes some surprises.

_______________

Jean Roberta lives in Canada and is also notorious in other places. Her erotic fiction has been widely published in print anthologues, magazines and websites. Her story in "Best Lesbian Erotica 2004" (Cleis Press, San Francisco) is her third in the series. Her book reviews appear regularly on websites such as "The Dominant's View" and "Blue Food."

My Debut as a Slut
Copyright 2004 by Jean Roberta