Doctor Mathews had been planning this class -- on the last day of semester -- since the start of semester, preparing and moulding the material, selecting what he required and shaping it just so, so that this particular class would go off without a hitch.
To begin with he had needed to watch his psychology class quite carefully, looking for subjects with the right qualities. Athletic builds, long hair, beautiful faces, generous breasts, legs to dream of. Six in all were selected, the most beautiful of his students, six innocent young maidens to be crafted into something... better.
Next to separate them from the herd: the first few assignments, making sure all six got poor marks, but crafting the comments just so, so that they were always driven to try harder. Then, of course, when they came to talk to him about what they could do to get a better grade, appear to think about it, offer them a place in his special tutor group.
Classes for that group were scheduled for 6 PM every Friday, and the first few lectures -- with slides, and CD's to take home and listen to, in order to aid in their learning -- were crafted, primarily to make sure that they thought of the classes as a treat, something they got for being special. That they didn't want to share, didn't want to talk about -- and didn't want to miss. Most importantly of all, to accept whatever he said -- no matter how ridiculous -- as true since he was the professor and they were students, and they clearly knew little because of how they were failing.
Mathews had, you see, spent the last several years working on subliminal programming. It was such worked into the materials that these succulent young ladies were absorbing so hungrily, without knowing they were.
The next batch of programming was a little more complicated. Designed to make them obey him, when class was in session, to the point where they would readily accept anything he said as truth. This took the longest, needing to be worked into a three-week long assignment, that they would need to go over in groups every night.
Once that set of programming was in, he began the custom of getting volunteers to come forward to help him demonstrate things. Combined with that, programming to put whoever volunteered or was chosen into a mild hypnotic trance, doing what she was told if it was within the framework of the lesson, and more importantly, programming the others to feel at a subconscious level whatever the volunteer felt.
By this point he had models of how each of them thought, and they were given personal assignments, each unique -- designed to remove sexual inhibitions when in his class, encourage sexual behaviour, and preparing them for specific roles in the final lesson.
All the groundwork done, the final course was on 'human sexuality'. More specifically, the various stereotypes, and what truths underlay them, and some made up BS about signs to indicate which one you were. Specifically and subtly -- and strongly emphasized within the programming they received at this stage -- the concept of 'Slut' was tied to every characteristic the subjects thought of themselves to possess. For the last few classes, he'd been suggesting they 'dress up' for class as whatever stereotype was being discussed, and for this last lesson, He'd saved the topic they'd being dancing around: what, exactly, a Slut was.
As his students filed in one by one, the fruits and rewards of the program became apparent. After all, they'd all dressed for the occasion, and as they removed jackets, the delights were unveiled for all to see.
Ashley was first in, of course. She always was. 5'6", with long, platinum blonde hair reaching to the small of her back: it was left loose today. Blue eyes, luxuriant lips, touched up with makeup to make her look like she was built to swallow something: her C-cups pulled high and pushed together by a shirt that was tied underneath, exposing a generous amount of flesh, tied tightly enough that the outline of her nipples plainly showed the lack of a bra. A toned, flat stomach, a skirt so short it almost qualified as a belt, then nothing to cover those long, shapely legs until the high heels at the bottom.
Next, Vanessa and Brittany. Those two stuck together like twins, and there was a passing similarity. Of similar build, with beautiful butts, long, slender limbs and the kind of form you would expect of girls who had been dancing since an early age: nice and limber. The main differential was the hair: Vanessa, a vibrant electric red, curling down around her bare shoulders. Brittany, conversely had a trail of honey-blonde curls stopping at her ears.
Again, they both wore make-up to emphasise their features sexually, and -- as he'd expected -- they'd dressed similarly, with a bikini that barely covered the essentials, of a slightly translucent material. It gave shadow of what lay beneath and the transparent, coloured skirts that barely covered their butts did little more to cover their most intimate spots. Again, legs bare, and high heels to emphasise those gorgeous, sexy legs.
Erin was next, by a mere few seconds, and most decidedly the sexiest of the bunch. It wasn't just how she looked, per se: it was a combination of that -- her dirty blonde hair, that hung loose to her shoulders, her wide-eyed, innocent blue gaze, her full lips, pert breasts, and luxuriant legs... That, and how she moved, an unconscious sexuality that had only strengthened as his programming had taken root.
Combined with what she wore now, it was like she screamed 'FUCK ME!' with every step, an unconscious sexuality proud and on display. Again, heels -- he liked what it did to how they walked, and thus he'd made sure it factored into their model of a 'slutty look' -- and knee-high socks, tight and pale and sculpted to her legs.
Moving up, he'd swear she'd oiled her legs. Her gorgeous little butt was covered by a scandalously short skirt, a mocking imitation of a schoolgirls, that flashed her lace underwear with every sway of her hips. That perfectly flat belly also glistening softly with oil, and a schoolgirls shirt -- tied up and round her generous breasts, but in such a way that they looked almost ready to spill out. Once again, the rich coppery skin he could see glistened with oil. The overall effect made her look like a woman in heat, desperate and needy, coated in sweat. Her makeup, what there was of it, seemed designed to create the image of the slutty little schoolgirl, and as she sashayed past him, he had to hold to the table to stop himself grabbing her right then and there.
Last -- but most decidedly not least -- Shasha and Clare came in together, chattering like magpies. Sasha's chocolate complexion was dressed today in just enough makeup to make you want to taste it: her luxuriantly large breasts barely kept in check by a thin ribbon of fluorescent material, just large enough to cover her nipples, that encircles her chest, pulling in those lovely mounds just to emphasise how fuckable they were.
A thong of the same colour barely contained her curvaceous butt, flashing into view with every motion of the pleated belt -- sorry, skirt -- she wore that would just about hide her pussy should she stand still, and fishnet tights enclosed those elegant, gorgeous legs. Again, the heels, a good four inches on her feet, making the chocolate student sway most enticingly.
Clare, of course, was almost her polar opposite. With a creamy, pale complexion, as opposed to Sasha's rich chocolate, her hair was just as long -- reaching to mid back -- but platinum blonde, almost white, as opposed to Sasha's black with blue highlights - to match Sasha's eyeshade, apparently.
They were similar in other ways, however. The same gorgeous butts, elegant legs, and flat bellies: Clare's breasts were, if anything, larger. She, too, seemed to have donned a thin coat of oil over her body -- he presumed that was what made the thin white dress cling to her body in that semi-transparent fashion, tight as a second skin. Reaching to midthigh, it quietly broadcast that all else she wore were a pair of high heels and her makeup.
The pair of them sauntered in with a distinctive sway to their hips, the kind that just make's men's eyes go left, then right, then left... as they gaze -- as he did now -- at those gorgeous butts walking by.
He took a moment just to bathe in the sight. But just a moment, lest he lose all self-control. Six of the most gorgeous of his students, dressed in clothing that did everything but beg you to hold them down and fuck them till they pass out. A moment, to shut the door, and lock it -- as he always did, to 'prevent any interruptions of our special tutorial.'
"Good evening, class," he began, clicking up the first slide. "To begin our final lecture on human sexuality: the Slut. I'm going to start with one simple truth. There is a Slut in each and every woman on this planet. If you don't believe me, look around!" He grinned, eliciting a bemused laugh from the girls as they took in what they were all wearing.
"Now, it is commonly assumed that a Slut is just a girl who sleeps around. This is fundamentally untrue. A girl becomes a Slut in one of two ways: when she has sexual intercourse with the right person - her 'Master' - or if she is present when a girl of a similar mental type -- more on that in a moment -- becomes a Bonded Slut, and is involved in the bonding, even just as a spectator.
What is a Bonded Slut? Well. Suppose the 'Master' has sexual intercourse with the Slut-in-Potential, the proto-slut, and does not ejaculate within her. This awakens her as, to put it bluntly, someone whose primary drive in life is having sex as often as possible. In tribal societies, this ensured that there was sufficient procreatation to supplement losses to disease and warfare. With the prevalent use of condoms in the modern era, this is thus the type of personality associated with the word, as very few have their first sexual encounter with their matching Master-type in a situation where internal ejaculation takes place.
