Gwendolyn had a whorish reputation, despite her denials contrary to popular opinion. Pointing the finger externally, she blamed the peerage of her youth, branding her promiscuous, wild, dirty, and perverted, for her plight. She lamented their judgment. Never mind that she loved to fuck; both myriad men and a plethora of women have succumbed to her constantly-horny, feminine wiles. Her hot, dripping cunt was always hungry, and it feasted on willing flesh, hard cocks, wanton fingers, and molten pussies.
That’s exactly what it was, a cunt. Gwen didn’t call her vagina a pussy, Kit Kat, kitty, slit, va-jay-jay, or anything else like that. Such monikers were far too tame for her personality—the same sensual, desirous attitude she pointedly ignored when lamenting being labeled a slut. It was her cunt, her slutty fuck hole, her dripping gash. Simply put, Gwendolyn Christina Ardmore was an insatiable, horny pervert whose sexual aggression matched her sullied reputation. That is to say that Gwendolyn didn’t just lean into her sluttiness or sexuality; she embraced it, devoured it, and ran into it with wild abandon, all while bleating that her notoriety was undeserved.
A person’s attitude and personality are subtly conveyed through their wardrobe choices, posture and body language, carriage, and the ephemeral aura, which is a summation of one’s character, giving abstract, untenable clues to our true nature. Some women, and you know this at first glance, are obvious, surly bitches. Others are demure and timid, and a simple gaze will give you an accurate approximation. In Gwen’s case, everything about her screamed, “Horny rebel who likes it nasty, dirty, rough, and constantly.” While some people projected an aura of purity, class, or shyness, Miss Ardmore’s screamed, “Horny, nympho slut.” It didn’t matter what she wore, her entire essence, mind, body, and soul, radiated horny, wanton sexuality.
Fate had dealt her a somewhat winning hand, depending on one’s goals in life. Natural red hair, rare enough in the world to make her exotic, set off her smooth, vibrant skin. Her facial features, with their pronounced cheekbones, green eyes, and somber, thin lips skewed into a perpetual pout, gave her the look of a horny vixen in the midst of a soul-searing orgasm; her visage advertised passionate, heated, uninhibited sex. The rest of her body not only matched but edified and strengthened that initial impression.
Gwen’s body was built for sex. She was tawny in figure, but the young woman sported succulent, ripe, smallish breasts that never required a bra. Fate had been extra generous, giving her puffy areolas and nipples that were constantly erect. On her lithe frame, her B-cups looked largish, as if somebody had pasted overfilled balloons onto a stick. Perfectly shaped, her tits, as she called them, were round and plump, perfect for giving her that undeniable, feminine silhouette.
The woman’s smooth, flat stomach gave way to a nymph-like but extremely sensual lower half. Her slight hips had just enough swell to make her athletic form purely womanish, and her toned, lithe, gazelle legs were topped by a perfect, inverted, heart-shaped ass that stopped traffic. Dainty feet with healthy, always-polished toenails and smooth, sensual hands, capped her sultry, suggestive, slutty mortal coil. Just viewing her physical form inspired rutting desire.
Gwen’s personality not only matched her slutty looks and body; it surpassed them. Her permissive, romantically inclined parents spoiled her rotten, and she was a brat, then a rebel, and, finally, a bratty rebel. When womanhood gave her the tits and ass to attract attention, she couldn’t get enough. Her alabaster-smooth skin became a canvas, inky tattoos covering her back, thighs, and arms. Every stitch of clothing she owned enhanced her slutty vibe, and while she still denied that she was a slut, she definitely dressed, looked, and acted like one.
The redhead’s choices in clothing never mattered, though. Regardless of what she wore, her soul radiated wanton sex, and others picked up on that immediately, treating her like the slut she was. She had a brain, but few people seemed to be interested in her life’s philosophy or vast and varied interests. Her sweet ass received the lion’s share of attention. Accepting but outwardly loathing her fate, Gwen lived her life knowing that sex for somebody such as her was bountiful. Rather than study, she sucked and fucked her way through college, earning her degree on her knees and back.
The gods of fate had decreed that Gwendolyn was put on this planet to fuck, and they gave her the looks, body, mind, and personality to love each and every thrusting, lust-addled second of her existence. Gwen had a whorish reputation, and it was an accurate appraisal. She denied it, for the sake of avoiding the creeps that want to treat highly sexed women like fuck-trash, but it was true. Everything even remotely sexual turned her on. Thinking about sex, talking about fucking, watching porn, reading erotica, or just seeing somebody sexy was enough to send her libido skyrocketing into the stratosphere.
Being a sultry vixen with a slutty vibe and hard-on-inducing looks had advantages. She could fuck anyone she felt like, and she often did. Men, women, groups, and couples all fell before her, begging to taste her cunt, to suck on her tits, or to spank her epic ass. While she publicly decried her reputation, she lived and embraced every accusation that had been whispered about her. If the gossipers had only known that, sexually, she had no limits and plunged herself into sexual encounters with wild abandon, they’d have been stunned.
A trust fund kid, Gwen did not need to work for a living; the money poured in bi-weekly. She idled away her time, combining her love of computers with her love of sex; Gwen web-mastered a couple of adult sites for a few of her online friends. She’d built the sites herself. She also, although infrequently, moonlighted as a cam girl, but that was only when she wanted to get off and didn’t feel like going out to find somebody to fuck. Miss Ardmore didn’t care about the money; she just liked being watched. She also ran a sex advice blog that was slightly popular and even picked up as a feature by a few websites.
Most of her days, however, were spent in pursuit of personal interests and getting stoned. Other than sex, which topped every one of Gwen’s lists, getting lit on some fine, green herb was her second passion. The sultry vixen loved the tingling, euphoric effects, and, of course, getting high made her horny as fuck, so the two pursuits went hand-in-hand, or, rather, finger-in-cunt. To her, smoking the ganja aligned with her rebellious self-image. Society deemed her to be a slut, so she dressed and acted like it. Popular opinion saw her as an attention whore; she adorned her body with insubordinate ink and heavy makeup, dressing to attract other’s focus. Other than everyone thinking that she was a nympho slut, she loved her life, her lavish but small two-bedroom home, and her multitude of pursuits. She also loved “playing the field” to get hot, kinky, wild sex.
Her nights were often spent in pursuit of sexual pleasure. Despite her vehement denials, once Gwen got into a sexual mood, she turned into the insatiable, nasty slut everyone assumed she was. Deep within her subconscious, she knew this, even reveled in it, but she had fooled herself into pretending that she was simply a sex-positive young woman. Gwen avoided the reality that everything got her into a sexual mood, though.
On one particularly warm summer night, the full moon crowding the night sky, her sex drive had exploded into a horny eruption. Her cunt needed to feed. Gwen’s spare bedroom was devoted to her “clothing-whore” hobby and a few other pastimes she enjoyed. Without any conscious thought, she chose a very slutty ensemble. Instinctively, she applied multicolored, slutty makeup, giving her erogenous features a higher octave of overt sexuality. Gwendolyn teased out her hair, making it big and wild, that just-got-fucked-hard look.
Her attire, as always, matched her horniness. Black, leather, adventurous boots enshrouded her feet; skin-tight, midnight-hued tights adhered to her lithe legs and plump, scrumptious behind. A horizontally striped halter, nearly backless with just some colorful strings for a collar, showed off her ink and erect nipples. Other than a tiny, black purse, that was all she wore. Even though Gwen owned a fancy sports car and a motorcycle, she opted to call a private chauffeur. Outwardly, she thought it was because she was very intoxicated, but, inwardly, it was because she wanted to present herself as affluent. A uniformed driver bespoke of wealth.
A club called The Darkness, secreted away in the demilitarized zone between the bustling, affluent city and the suburbs, was her destination. Originally a large church, the previous use of the sprawling complex lent a naughty, taboo feeling to the atmosphere, making it a perfect gathering place for the rebellious, goth types, and others prone to wildness. One of the first places to shift toward a members-only privatization, when recreational drugs were legalized, The Darkness was a bit Boho, a bit Goth, and a very happening place. An orgiastic rave broke out nearly every night, the top-quality booze and drugs facilitating uninhibited attempts at finding willing flesh for the night’s pleasure. It was Gwen’s sort of place.
Gwen was neither popular nor unknown at The Darkness; she was a familiar face among scores of frequently-attending members. Sometimes, she’d just dance or mingle; at others, Gwen was prowling for a hard cock or wet cunt along with all the others. Sexually, she didn’t know what she craved, but the vast and varied perverted miscreants that frequented the club in search of hedonism offered a full menu for every taste. However, before she found her partner for the night, she had to stop at both bars.
On either side of the towering cathedral, a long, ornate bar. One was devoted to obscure, rare, and very expensive liquid refreshments, the busier one dedicated to herbal-infused edibles and smoke. The rowdy, party-like atmosphere affected everyone, and every sort of debauchery imaginable was taking place in the various nooks and crannies, on the balconies, and even on the dance floor. Patiently waiting her turn, she first loaded up “house hookahs,” single-use water pipes sold exclusively for on-premises consumption. One of her favorite drinks was the Atom Bomb, a highly intoxicating drink that was sweet, tart, and glowing with the glow-stick stirrer left in the glass.
She saw him as he approached. As she was leaning over the bar, shouting her drink order to the harried bartenders, he slowed his pace as he walked by, staring at her perfect ass. He was cut, sexy even, so she shot him a demure, knowing smile, acknowledging his interest, then turning her head to allow him to approach. If a guy wasn’t courageous enough to approach her, he wouldn’t be confident enough to handle her sexual kinks.
“Did it hurt?” he queried, raising his voice over the driving, bass-heavy music. His handsome features were smiling, a veneer of poise over his face.
Gwendolyn smiled at that, quickly making her face neutral. “What?” she began. “When I fell from heaven or last night when my lover savagely fucked my ass while flogging me with a cat-o-nine-tails ad telling me what a dirty, perverted slut I am?”
“Um,” he stuttered, flustered.
“Well, you’re hot enough. Tell you what.” Gwen paused and looked him over.
