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Every day, Reagan felt like a slut. She felt sure everyone must know what a whore she was. She felt sure they could tell. She would blush randomly, and avoid eye contact, and feel her skin burn with humiliation. The embarrassment made her pussy wet, and her nipples hard, and her skin flushed, and she became sure that, if nothing else, someone must be able to *smell* her arousal. She went through every day feeling like she might die of shame.
And yet she liked it. And she knew she could make it stop any time she liked. But she didn’t want it to stop.
The reason she felt like a slut – or at least, the main reason – was that she was no longer wearing panties, just like Mr Riggs had told her to.
She supposed she could have worn trousers. Or a long skirt that came down beneath her knees. Then the chances of anyone seeing her bare pussy would have been minimal. But she wasn’t going without panties to meet some technical rule. She was doing it because Mr Riggs wanted her to – and because she wanted to please him. And she knew, without asking, that going without panties also meant wearing short skirts.
At school, there weren’t a lot of choices to make about her skirt. The uniform was standardised – a pleated skirt that stopped just above her knees. It was cute, but she could bend at the waist and still have her pussy adequately covered. No one was likely to see her pussy. But *she* knew she had no panties on, and that was enough to keep her blushing throughout the school day.
Outside of the school, the choice of clothing was up to Reagan – and she made a point of picking her shortest skirts. Some of them barely covered her ass even when she was standing straight. She had to be careful how she walked, how she moved, how she sat. She had to think about her pussy, and whether it was on display, every time she did anything – and, of course, the more she thought about her pussy, the wetter it got.
Again, she could have worn longer skirts. But this was how Mr Riggs wanted her to feel – like a cheap, sexualised slut. Not because he thought she *was* a cheap, sexualised slut – in fact, if anything, he seemed to value her very highly. But because he liked what that feeling did to her – and liked how Reagan herself was coming to like it.
Mr Riggs wanted it – and Reagan wanted to give Mr Riggs what he wanted.
The short skirts had other benefits, of course. Her male friends liked them – and Reagan liked having men approve of her. Her friends were coming to learn that they could make crude and objectifying comments about Reagan, and Reagan would only beam with happiness in response (albeit usually while blushing).
“You look like a fuckdoll, Reagan,” said one of her friends, upon seeing her in her shortest-yet skirt, and Reagan knew he meant it as a compliment – and she took it as one. It went in her book of male approval that night, along with all the other objectifying comments she had received lately.
Around her house, Reagan tended to wear large oversized T-shirts – and nothing else – with the hem coming down to just below her pussy. Or alternatively she would wear the sun-dresses that her father liked, which stopped just below her ass. She didn’t really know why she was doing this, and avoided thinking about it too carefully. She had no interest in sexualising her relationship with her father, who she loved dearly, and she knew her father would never treat her inappropriately – and yet she knew her father had caught a glimpse of her bare pussy under her dress one day, and said nothing, and when she looked back at him she thought she saw an erection in his pants, and now she was certain he would not object to any slutty outfit that she chose to wear.
That interaction confused and upset her more than anything else that had happened since she started working at the club. On one level, the thought that she had made her own father aroused thrilled her – there was no greater approval of her appearance than a hard cock. And she loved her father, so why *shouldn’t* she give him a little eye candy? She kept thinking of that tent in his pants and feeling a little thrill of pleasure and victory.
And yet at the same time she knew it was wrong. Her father would never be anything but a father to her, but he must have felt guilt, getting hard at the sight of his daughter’s pussy. She was putting the burden on *him* to keep their relationship appropriate, even while she herself was behaving like a whore.
She wrote it in her approval book, on a page all by itself, in big letters. “My daddy saw my cunt, and it made his cock hard. I’m such a disgusting slut.” And she masturbated to orgasm looking at what she had written, with tears in her eyes, pinching her clitoris occasionally to punish herself for being such a whore.
There was also the matter of her phone. Mr Riggs had told her that he had installed software on it, that would allow him to see and hear everything she did with her phone. It was an entirely consensual affair. She had asked him to do it. She knew it was there. If she didn’t want it anymore, she could ask him to remove it, or just dispose of the phone entirely.
But she loved the thrill of knowing he was watching (or might be watching). She had text conversations with Bunny where she talked about how they had licked each other’s pussies, and she knew that Mr Riggs might be reading them. She took teasing selfies of herself half-naked, her hands covering her bare tits, and knew that Mr Riggs might see them.
One night after a particularly maddening day at school, Reagan found herself looking at her phone and masturbating. She had fallen over in the corridor at school, and her skirt had twitched up, and she had been pretty sure two boys had seen her bare pussy. Then later, as she had been spacing out in class, dwelling on her humiliation, a teacher had said she was “just sitting there like a bimbo”, and later still she had heard a boy in the parking lot describer her as “a hot piece of fuckmeat” to his friends, and by the time she got home she was desperate to cum.
She found herself idly searching on her phone for something to look at as she fingered herself. She remembered kneeling in front of Mr Riggs, and so she typed “kneeling slut” into the search engine, and soon she was looking at page after page of pictures of kneeling, submissive, naked women. Some were bound in rope or cuffs. Some had adoring looks on their faces; others seemed scared. Some were sucking cock, and others had cum splattered on their face and breasts. Many wore collars and leashes.
Staring at the women – picturing that she, Reagan, might herself occupy those poses – made Reagan’s cunt gush with desire. But all of that was nothing compared to what happened shortly after she started masturbating to the pictures.
Her phone buzzed, and a message appeared. From Mr Riggs. It read, “Good girl. Keep browsing.”
She orgasmed right there, instantly. Mr Riggs had seen her browsing porn, like a disgusting slut. He had seen what she was masturbating to. He could probably guess she was masturbating. He had called her a “good girl” – her favourite two words. He wanted her to keep looking at porn – and he would be watching what she looked at.
She started picking out the pictures that she thought Mr Riggs would like best – the girls who were most submissive, most humiliated… and who looked most like Reagan. Schoolgirls, young women, stripped nude, treated like pets by dominant, besuited men. Collared, leashed, restrained. Forced to perform blowjobs. Bent over desks, ass and pussy showing, spanked and fucked.
Another message came from Mr Riggs. “Role models? Good girl.”
She orgasmed again.
She was desperately horny now, and she did something she wouldn’t have done if she had been thinking clearly – wouldn’t have *dared* to have done.
She Googled “humiliated slut serves teacher”.
And then her phone was nothing but pictures of schoolgirls sucking the cocks of their teachers, worshipful, desperate to please. And Reagan wanted nothing more than to be those girls – all of those girls – and more.
A message came. “You haven’t earned that yet, Kisses.”
And then another. “But keep being a good girl, and…”
And that was it. There were no more messages that night.
Reagan found the picture where the man looked most like Mr Riggs, and the girl looked most humiliated and embarrassed by being used as a sex-toy, and she masturbated to that one until she found her third and final orgasm.
As she drifted off to sleep, she wondered if Mr Riggs had masturbated to the pictures Reagan had been viewing. She wondered if he had cum, thinking of using her as his personal sex-toy.
She hoped that he had.
Almost all of Reagan’s evenings were busy now, because when she wasn’t working at the club, she was attending lessons.
There were two primary classes. “Seduction” was on Monday nights, and “Pole Dance” was on Tuesdays.
Part of Reagan had actually hoped that these would be – as she had suggested to Mr Riggs – a form of humiliating “slut training”. But instead, as Mr Riggs had said, they were surprisingly normal.
The “Seduction” class taught a variety of skills intended to “put some spice into your relationships”. It covered striptease, lap dancing, sex tips, and some basic BDSM skills including introductions to rope, bondage, impact play and gags. Almost all of the women attending the course were older than Reagan. Many of them were married women looking to revitalise their sex lives. A few were professional sex workers and strippers. Some were just curious young women.
Only one girl there was Reagan’s age – a pretty redhead called Alexia. She, too, was in her final year of school, and she was here in the hopes of learning how to please her boyfriend better.
“Preston is way more popular than me,” she confessed to Reagan. “He could fuck any girl in school. I’m lucky to be with him, but just handjobs and sex in the back seat of his car isn’t going to keep his interest, you know? I need an edge.”
Reagan found that she liked Alexia – her easy-going cheerful demeanour, her infectious laugh, and the devastatingly cute way she would bite her lip when she was surprised or happy. The two girls found themselves pairing up for many of the class activities, and soon they were practicing their dirty talk on each other, lap dancing for each other, watching each other’s stripteases, and – in one memorable session – practicing their tongue kissing together.
There was much embarrassment in the class at this last one. It was a session that had happened just after striptease practice, and the girls were given the choice of whether to dress again before moving on, or stay naked. Reagan and Alexia had both opted to stay naked, and so they ended up kissing naked, and then when Alexia started to moan as Reagan pushed her tongue into the redhead’s mouth, Reagan suddenly realised that she was dripping wet and highly aroused – and so was Alexia.
She broke off the kiss, blushing, and the two girls avoided each others’ eyes.
But at the end of the class, Alexia asked if Reagan might be able to drive her home. Reagan said yes – but instead, she drove Alexia to her own house, and then both girls snuck inside under the cover of darkness, and as soon as they were in Reagan’s room they were pulling off each other’s clothes, kissing, grabbing each other, rubbing their bodies together, falling into bed and licking, biting, grinding – all in silence, desperate to avoid waking Reagan’s father.
Alexia said it was her first time with a woman, but she still made Reagan cum twice with her tongue. The only thing that could have made it better, Reagan though, was if a man had been watching, and approving.
Afterwards, Reagan told Alexia about her pole dancing classes, and starting from the next Tuesday, Alexia began attending those as well.
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