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Rachel's Re-education - ebook

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Rachel’s Re-Education by Olivia M. Ravensworth

It had seemed only natural to Rachel that she sign the customary release form when she enrolled in the professor’s Psychology 669: Advanced Topics in the Study of Human Sexuality. It’s expected that grad students will participate as research subjects, but apparently she failed to read the fine print. To her embarrassment, Dr. Evers discloses to the class intimate details from her private class journal, including every dirty secret in her guilty imagination. Despite the shame and humiliation, Rachel has long entertained the most outrageous fantasies of exhibitionism, lesbianism, and sexual submission.

To her fellow students Rachel is little more than a promising piece of research, and under McEvers’ direction, they take their turns teasing and tormenting the brunette’s writhing white flesh in scenes taken from her private fantasies. In the morning, as she awakens in her room with pictures of the night’s debauchery hanging from her apartment walls, she realizes that Dr. McEvers has more in mind for her than the torment of a sexy test subject. He’s had his eye on her for months, and now that his plan is finally underway, he quickly assumes control over the vulnerable and conflicted young woman. He introduces her to his wife, Lisa, setting the stage for their lesbian affair as Rachel is groomed to be the bedmate of the smilingly superior McEvers and his seemingly proper yet sly-eyed wife. Back and forth Rachel teeters between shame and willingness, resentment and friendship, submission and dominance, as the mercurial couple exercise the most intimate power over their slinky young plaything. In the end, of course, Rachel will find her true place in their perverted household.

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During her freshman year Rachel had had both of her nipples pierced on a dare with a girlfriend, and the dark puckers now were wildly sensitive. Those sweet nubbins of erectile tissue already had been perhaps her favorite erogenous zone, but after her piercing the poor things grew almost impossibly excitable. Why, they were always erect now, of course, her tender nipples pushed straight out from their areolas by the firm, penetrative caress of that sterling silver. She got used to it, but…well, she still felt everything, everything! She often found herself aroused by the random shifting of her shoulders that happened to draw her blouse tight, or merely by the pressure of her constantly stiffened nodules against the cups of her brassiere, and more than once over the years she had slipped out of some lecture hall, ducked into a restroom, and, biting her lip to keep from crying out in her dirty joy, had to reach down below her sweating belly and hastily satisfy herself so that she could try to put her mind back on the class.
And sometimes, of course, when the red-faced girl returned to her seat and commenced once more to taking notes, the faint fishy odor drifting up from her guilty fingertips made her heart stutter again beneath her fiercely stiff-nippled breasts. Oh, she might try to ignore that delicious reminder of her indiscretions, the intimate warmth which wafted into her helplessly dilated nostrils, but as often as not, her poor mindless flesh would surge once more with its passions. She would find herself stroking the soft hollow between her nose and her upper lip with one of those faintly sticky fingertips, idly, as if in consideration of some finer point of her professor’s argument. Eventually, the tangy tip of that slender red-nailed digit might even slip, almost unnoticed, into the corner of Rachel’s lips, and as her eyelids began to flutter in anticipation as her tongue rubbed savoringly against the naughty thing, she finally might admit to herself at last that she would have to take yet another little trip to the restroom…
When she needed a second orgasm like that, she would really let herself have it, locking herself in a bathroom stall and working herself into a frenzy. Writhing in her sweet agitation, she rubbed her poor wet pussy with one hand while with the other she dug her jiggling little handfuls out of their lacy cups and veritably attacked those hungry pierced nipples. Oh, how she treated her ready flesh, desperately, helplessly! She pulled, she plucked, and she twisted, really making herself feel it. Other girls came and went in the stalls beside her, unknowing, and it was wildly arousing to think of how shocked they would be if they only realized what she was doing. On and on she would pleasure herself, quaking.
Professor McEvers had read all of that, she knew, blushing fiercely. He had even read about how very much she loved to toy with those wondrously excitable little peaks as she masturbated. Yes, he had read how she had learned to tease and tantalize those overexcited crinkles of tingling pink-brown flesh—sometimes, upon a particularly frustrated and self-indulgent evening, for hours on end, whimpering. Oh, it was terrible!
“You didn’t think I’d forget, did you, Ms. Aschelman?” he wondered with a faint tone of menace, his fingertips never leaving her. “You do still masturbate every single night, don’t you, Rachel—pinching those naughty pierced nipples of yours, pulling them, twisting them, stretching them? Sometimes,” he reminded her darkly, “even smearing your vaginal lubrication on them so that you smell wet cunt close to your face, reminding you of the lesbianism about which you are so powerfully curious but which you have never yet had the nerve to try.”
She tried to glare back at him. “Those were personal things,” she hissed out. “Those weren’t for anyone else to read.”
“Oh, but read them I did,” he reminded her pointedly, giving her nipples a slight squeeze that made her heart quicken peculiarly beneath her high young breasts. “You forfeited your right to any privacy from me when you signed the release form at the beginning of the semester.”
“I never meant to—”
“But sign you did,” Dr. McEvers explained with a patient paternalism, “thus empowering me most extraordinarily. Why, with your consent form you asked me to know you as intimately as any therapist or gynecologist, in private or in public, wherever and whenever it may be my whim to do so.”

Artist Credit

© Valentin Casarsa

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