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Reagan had always dressed to be attractive, to be popular, to be desirable – but she had never consciously set out to seek male approval.
But now she did exactly that.
She started by practicing with her father. When she emerged from her bedroom in the cramped family apartment, on the morning after she started her approval book, she was wearing a simple dress and high heels.
“Daddy, what do you think of my outfit?” she asked.
He looked up at her. He looked so much older, these days, after his financial bankruptcy, and he rarely smiled. “You look fine, honey,” he said, without enthusiasm.
Reagan bit her lip. “How would you *like* me to dress?” she asked.
He paused – taken by surprise by her question, and genuinely thinking. Then he said, “You always look so *mature* these days, honey. I just miss the little girl who used to sit on my knee. You’re too grown up now for me to have a place in your life.”
She walked over to him and gave him a hug. “You’ll always have a place in my life, daddy,” she told him.
But the next day she chose her morning outfit with care. The family finances might be in poor shape, but Reagan still had a sizeable wardrobe from their days of wealth. She picked out a simple, innocent white sun-dress, and put a hairband in her hair. Checking in the mirror, she decided that she looked significantly younger like this. She would definitely have trouble convincing someone she was 18.
And when her father saw her, his eyes lit up. “There’s my girl!” he exclaimed. “That’s what I’m talking about! You look so pretty like that!”
She blushed, and felt a surge of pride. She had never really realised that pleasing men was so easy. You just asked what they wanted you to do, and then you did it. And it felt *so good*.
“How else could I please you better, daddy?” she asked.
“Well, you probably wouldn’t want to wear it this way now,” said her father. “But I miss when your hair was in pigtails.”
And so the next day it *was* in pigtails. Reagan was aware that she was infantilising herself – undoing much of the work she had done to be an “independent woman” in her parents’ eyes, and returning herself to the position of a child – and yet the delight in her father’s eyes was real. That night she even sat in her father’s lap on the couch and watched TV with him.
At least, she did for a while. She was feeling so exceptionally happy as she snuggled up to the warmth of her father, and let him stroke her newly-pigtailed hair, that she almost forgot where she was. And then he whispered lovingly in her ear, “You’ll always be daddy’s perfect little princess.”
And as soon as she heard it, she had to jump up and run away. Not because of anything her father had said. Through everything, he had shown her nothing but appropriate fatherly affection.
But when he had said those words, they had sounded so *good*, so *approving* that she had felt her pussy throb with sudden lust.
She had never blushed so deeply. She couldn’t sit in her own father’s lap with a wet pussy. And so called the evening short. She would keep seeking her father’s approval, of course, but she would have to be careful not to let her mischievous cunt have another reaction like that.
But nevertheless, that evening, she opened her approval book, and wrote down “You’ll always be daddy’s perfect little princess.”
And then she decorated it with love hearts, and sparkles, to make it special in her list.
And then she moaned, and worked her hand into her panties, and buried her fingers in her snatch, and masturbated to a powerful, humiliating orgasm while looking at those words.
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She tried her new tactic in school, too – first with her teachers. She asked each of her male teachers how she could please them more. She was already calling them “sir” – a change they had noticed – and most simply told her to pay attention in class, and put more work into her schoolwork – so she did. And her grades improved. And her teachers told her how pleased with her they were. They said things like, “Good girl,” and “I’m so proud of you,” and they made her beam with happiness, and made her cunt throb with need, and she wrote them in her approval book and masturbated as she stared at them.
Mr Grady, who taught maths, gave her more explicit advice. He had a reputation for groping the pretty girls – although he had never groped Reagan, which Reagan took as a kind of personal insult. He said the same things as the other teachers – work hard, pay attention – but he also gave her specific advice.
“Get your posture right,” he told her. “Back straight, chin up, tits out. Rest your arms so the wrists face outwards – it shows vulnerability and submission. And unbutton your shirt down to your bra – you’ve got great boobs, Reagan, you shouldn’t be afraid to show them off.”
Frankly, unbuttoning her blouse that far made Reagan look like a slut – but she immediately noticed she got even *more* approval from her other male teachers, so she did as she was told. And focusing on her posture in Grady’s class was surprisingly enjoyable. Constantly adjusting herself to be pleasing to her teacher kept her mind focused on the fact that she was seeking male approval – and that just made her wetter and wetter, until she would find herself leaving maths class with a soaking, throbbing need between her legs, that could only be satisfied with a quick session of masturbation in the female toilets.
On the second class after she started following Grady’s advice, he put his hand on her ass as she was leaving his class, and squeezed. “Good slut,” he whispered.
That one got a special entry in Reagan’s approval diary – and then there was another one the next day, when she got a maths test back from Grady. She had scored a C+ – and beneath it, Grady had written, “Acceptable maths work, for a woman.”
She stared at that one for a whole minute, fighting the urge to masturbate right there in class. That night she cut it out – grade and comment both – and pasted it into her approval book on the next page. She had to stuff her own panties into her mouth to stop herself screaming as she finger-fucked herself to a brutal, squirting orgasm while staring at it.
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Trying her new strategy with her male friends was a little harder for Reagan – because her male friends definitely wanted her to do more than just pay attention in class.
Outside of school hours, whenever she asked the boys she was friends with how she could improve her appearance, the answers would be the same – show more skin. Shorter hems. Lower bust lines. More cleavage. Tighter clothes. And it didn’t seem to matter how much of her flesh she exposed – they always wanted more.
She found herself wearing her sluttiest clubwear in even the most casual social settings. The lines of these dresses exposed cleavage, sideboob, underboob. None of them permitted her to wear a bra.
But the reactions she got were worth it. More and more often, boys would spontaneously say, “You look hot, Reagan!” or “God, you look sexy today.” And very occasionally they’d go further, and say the things that made Reagan sopping wet inside her panties, the things that went down in her approval book with additional little love hearts.
“Wow, Reagan, you look like a slut.”
or
“You’re going to get raped, dressing like that.”
(Reagan didn’t want to be raped – and hoped she wouldn’t be – but knowing that was what people thought when they saw her – that that was what she was *good* for – drove her wild.)
She changed her behaviour, too. She was already calling boys her own age “sir” – and she noticed how it changed their behaviour towards her. They asked for her opinion less. They didn’t ask her to do things – they just *instructed* her. They instinctively made her do chores for them that they were capable of doing themselves – bringing them drinks and food, fetching small objects.
One day during a school lunch she spilled the contents of a pencil-case on the ground near the seats where her friends were chatting. As she went down on her knees to pick them up, a boy said, “You look cute down on your knees like that, Reagan.”
Reagan blushed – but that phrase went straight into her approval book, and Reagan started finding excuses to kneel on the ground when her friends were seated. It felt weird – and she got some strange looks – but it felt good, too, like she had a special place that was all her own. Plus the boys clearly loved it. One of them even went so far as to stroke her hair as she knelt, in the way that one would stroke a pet, and Reagan almost melted with happiness and arousal.
She was talking less, too. It had come about when she had been telling a long gossipy story to a friend after school one day, and a boy who was present had finally said, “God, Reagan, don’t you ever just *shut up*?”
Reagan had jerked, as though slapped. This wasn’t approval. This was the opposite of approval. And she had taken it to heart. She’d begun trying to actively talk less – thinking, before opening her mouth, “Do I really need to say this?” She was quieter. She listened more. When she wanted attention, she bounced a little to signal she had something to say, rather than interrupting. Or she reached out and touched the person whose attention she wanted. If they ignored her, she just stayed silent.
Over time, she felt this having a profound effect on her. Her brain spent less time thinking of responses, and things that she might say – and it opened up, taking in more of what she was hearing. Sometimes when she searched her mind for her opinion on her subject, she’d find herself thinking – and saying – the exact words that a boy had said on the topic, with zero input from her own critical faculties. She heard her own thoughts in authoritative male tones, telling her what to think.
It was scary. It was frightening.
But she liked it.
Despite her intentions, though, there were still many suggestions from men that Reagan was just too nervous to accept. When she asked boys how she might look more attractive, from time to time they would say, “You should get bigger tits.” It made Reagan shudder, remembering the offers from patrons in the club to buy her a boob job, and remembering Bunny’s gorgeous surgically-enhanced fuckballoons. But if she got bigger tits, she wouldn’t look like *Reagan* anymore. And it would be permanent. And….
… and she was just too scared. She ignored these suggestions, suppressing the guilt that she now felt for refusing a male suggestion.
And of course, from time to time, boys would ask her to actually undress, in a joking-not-joking kind of way. While hanging out with friends at a boy’s house one weekend, someone suggested, “You know, Reagan, you could just go topless.” There was laughter – but Reagan briefly considered it. Exposing her tits, in front of all her friends, right here…
It made her wet, but she also knew that it would be crossing a line that she wasn’t ready for yet. Stripping at the club was one thing. Stripping in front of her school friends was another. So she just laughed, and kept her tits covered, and tried to pretend that she didn’t feel guilt and embarrassment at her cowardly decision to protect her modesty.
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There was one person that Reagan was scared to seek the approval of. Not scared in the sense of being physically frightened – but scared that she would disappoint him.
That was Mr Riggs, her guidance counsellor – the man who had first introduced Reagan to the club.
But when she finally did attend his office, two weeks into her new approval diary, it turned out to be surprisingly easy. She knelt at his feet, ignoring the chair intended for students, and looked up into his eyes, and said, “Hello, sir.”
“Hello, Reagan,” smiled Mr Riggs. And Reagan could see that he had an erection, tenting his pants.
“I was just coming by because… I wanted you to approve of me,” said Reagan, blushing. “And I wondered what I could do to earn your approval.”
“I already approve of you, Reagan,” said Riggs. “… or should I call you Kisses?”
Reagan blushed, and coughed. “I’m only Kisses in the club, sir,” she said.
“Really?” asked Riggs. “So it’s Reagan kneeling at my feet, not Kisses?”
Reagan just kept blushing, and stayed silent.
“I already approve of your Reagan,” said Riggs gently. He reached out and stroked her hair, with genuine tenderness. “You’ve become a very good girl over the past month.”
Reagan felt herself glowing with embarrassing pride. “Isn’t there anything I can do to be better, sir?” she asked
Deep down, she knew what answer she wanted. She wanted him to tell her to strip. She wanted him to guide her head over to his crotch, and take out his cock, and make her suck on it. She wanted him to confess that she needed to be spanked, or humiliated, or fucked.
But all he said was, “What I want, Reagan, is for you to keep working at the club – and keep taking the bonuses. You’re a natural born whore, Reagan – and I can’t wait to see what you do next.”
Reagan began to shake. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the floor, avoiding Riggs’ face, and her guidance counsellor must have thought Reagan was crying, because he reached out to stroke her hair again.
But Reagan wasn’t crying. She was cumming – silently orgasming, as those words echoed back and forth from her brain to her pussy.
She would eventually stagger from Riggs’ room unsteadily, with a muttered, “Thank you, sir,” her face flushed deep crimson.
But that night she devoted an entire page of her approval book to that one sentence. She wrote it in large letters, right in the middle of the page.
“YOU’RE A NATURAL BORN WHORE, REAGAN.”
And then she decorated around it by writing “slut” again and again and again, until it covered the whole page.
“slut slut slut slut slut slut slut slut slut slut”
The fingers of her free hand mauled her pussy, squeezing and rubbing and thrusting and violating, as she wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. She could hear Riggs’ voice. She could see his face. She could see him watching her, as she masturbated nude at her bedroom desk while calling herself a slut.
She could see him approving.
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