A Lesson For Teacher

Room With A View

2010-02-10T17:45:00.001-05:00

If you say the word "speculum" to just about any woman over the age of eighteen, odds are that she'll cringe. I clearly remember my first run-in with this medieval torture device. I was just barely eighteen, at my first ob-gyn appointment. Like most teens, my appointment was with my mother's ob-gyn. A male ob-gyn. I was still a virgin. No one had hardly explored that area, let alone looked at it. And here I had to let a strange man inspect me?! Not to mention the fact that my mom had told me "don't worry, you'll like the doctor. He's handsome. He looks like Omar Sharif." I had no idea who Omar Sharif was (I now know he was in Doctor Zhivago, which I've still never seen). What if I was attracted to him? What if my body liked him? What if I got aroused, and he noticed? Oh no!

It seems that ob-gyn offices are specifically designed to prevent any type of physical arousal, though. They're cold. Beyond cold: they're fucking freezing. To this doctor's credit, he was nice, patient, humorous. I suppose it could have been worse. He went over the entire exam procedure, step by step. He even held up sample speculums, calling them "those duck-billed thingies." His sample speculums included nostril-sized, which he claimed would be used on me that day, and elephant-sized. It would have been nice, however, if he had thought to warm up the damn speculum before the exam. Nostril-sized or elephant-sized, I could have sworn a fucking Popsicle had been shoved up my vagina.

Who would have thought that, so many years later, while watching free, web-based porn, I'd come across a medical fetish site with speculum videos? Who could have predicted that I'd watch these videos and get incredibly wet? Not I. And yet, surprisingly enough, it happened. I mentioned this to Sir, and he, too, was intrigued by the idea. One evening we purchased a clear plastic speculum from the local porn shop. This speculum, somewhere between nostril-sized and elephant-sized, lacked the medieval menace of the metal monstrosities in the ob-gyn office. In Sir's hands, it was no longer a frightening device.

On my knees, ass in air (Sir's favorite position for me), I could hear him fidgeting with the speculum, trying to figure out how it worked. I had already investigated it earlier in the day, but I wasn't about let him know that. It was good to know that we were both a little nervous about this new toy. Finally, it was in, extended, and I was spread open. Uncomfortable? No. Incredibly erotic? Yes. Nothing screams vulnerability and trust like being exposed in such a fashion in front of your lover. I could hear the awe and appreciation in his voice as he described the scene. Suddenly, he repositioned the speculum, so that he could access my g-spot. Now, we've discovered almost a new form of bondage. As he stroked that knot of flesh with his fingertip, I was helpless. I could not clamp down on him; I could hardly squirm. When I came, he witnessed my orgasm through clear plastic walls.

Since our first experience with the speculum, we've expanded our horizons a bit. Sir bought a slightly larger, medical-grade speculum for our enjoyment. There's nothing clinical about it, I assure you. With me held open in such a manner, Sir has been able to tease my body in new ways. He has tickled the walls of my pussy with silky little pint brushes, tormenting the pink recesses of me, painting my flesh - nipples, face, lips - with my own wetness. We've even played around a bit with a camera. Having to explain a stray photo of your interior to a friend ("Damn! I dunno what that is... Someone take a picture of their hand?") really keeps you on your toes. I know Sir enjoyed every moment of that. And I doubt for one moment our friend bought my excuses.

Wax On, Wax Off

2010-02-01T17:07:00.003-05:00

Hello again. Long time, no blog, I know. We had technical difficulties here at casa de teacher, preceded by writer's block from hell. I apologize to my readers (all of what, two , maybe three?) for my absence. This afternoon's post won't be too racy, sadly. And yet, I find it a pressing matter in my mind. Something has got to be better than shaving your bikini area!

Don't get me wrong: the actual act of shaving can be quite sensual, as I found out Friday night with Sir. Perhaps it was meant to be a lesson in trust, or maybe one in obedience. In any case, we followed a delightfully playful session in his garden tub (should be required by building codes in all homes across the nation) with me, on my hands and knees in the tub, ass in the air, and Sir with a razor in hand. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the definition of trust: letting someone else take a sharp razor that close to your clitoris. And Sir did a marvelous job grooming me, I must say. Not a drop of blood was shed! (This, I admit, was my biggest concern - I've heard horror stories of bikini-scaping gone terribly wrong.) He shaved almost every bit of me bare, leaving just the cutest tuft of a landing strip at the top of my pussy. I almost had pictures for you, too.... One day, I promise!

So, what's the problem with shaving, especially if it is such an erotic experience? Well, as I stand in front of my class today, trying with every fiber of my being to NOT scratch, let me tell you, all of these five million teensie-weensie little tushie hairs itch when they grow back in! Oh, sweet mother of God! I found myself running to the bathroom in between classes just so I could discreetly SCRATCH. I assure you, I have no bugs. No rashes. Just hairs growing back. Everywhere (except for the cutest little tuft of a landing strip just above my pussy). I'm thinking that there has to be a better way (because I just can't imagine millions of porn stars scratching furiously two days after a bikini shave).

In a moment of frank girl-talk, I asked my sister-in-law "after you wax, does it itch when everything starts to grow back?" Sister-in-law (SIL, here after), being a fond supporter of waxing, swears that not only does waxing eliminate grow-back itching completely, but it also reduces the amount of hair to grow back. And, let's face it: I'm so hairy, I wasn't born, I was coughed up - much as a cat coughs up a hair-ball.

Hell... if I enjoy having my pussy smacked and swatted, surely I can't use the pain of waxing as an excuse to not wax... right? Unfortunately, at the moment, a professional bikini wax isn't in the budget. In fact, an eyebrow wax isn't even in the budget. But since I like that cute little tuft of a landing strip, I'm open to suggestions. ;)

The Hardest Lesson To Learn

2010-01-25T00:00:00.002-05:00

I'm not a sappy type of girl. I don't think I've ever said the "L" word to a guy (at least not as an adult). I prefer drawing stars on my papers instead of hearts. Valentine's Day is for suckers (I made quite the Anti-Vday wreath a few years ago). I come with a warning label in most relationships ("don't you dare fall for me, this is just for fun - nothing serious"). I don't remember the last time I cried over a guy. I didn't cry when my hedgehog or hamster died. Every once in a blue moon, I might cry over a cartoon ("Up" or "Annabelle's Wish"). Men and students alike often describe me as being a cold, heartless bitch. As I began this sexual journey with Sir, I found myself wondering what would make me break. Would it be being bound, or being violated, or being flogged that would push my limits and make me cry? I expected the catalyst to be something physical, something painful.

This week, Sir told me he expected a blog entry to be posted by Wednesday, and he gave me a homework assignment on top of it - something that involved watching video clips, performing specific acts on myself, writing about it. Homework was to be completed by Sunday evening. Sounds simple enough, huh? After all, this was a short week - no school on Monday, teacher workday on Friday. Ha. With the stress of getting grades entered in, I came home most days and passed out on the couch before 7 pm. And in a few social events with girlfriends (who are not in the D/S scene, and would not understand my assignments) and dog sitting for a friend, 20 minutes away, and this week slipped by with a blog posting being made late (Saturday night) and a homework assignment being pushed until the last minute. And - upon further inspection this evening - I realized I had forgotten that the homework included "various acts to be performed on myself" - acts best not done all in one evening. Sir expressed his displeasure, and informed me I'd be getting another lesson in obedience because of this.

Here's the shocker: I was upset that Sir was displeased. I had been trying so hard to be a good girl. My only transgressions had been asking for a few extensions on my blog post and waiting until the last minute to do my homework (a practice that managed to get me through a Master's degree with a 4.0 GPA). I did not want to disappoint Sir. I had even purchased thong panties as requested (Honey Baked Ham has nothing on trussed pork when I'm wearing a thong, ladies and gentlemen).

My question was answered. It was this possibility of failure, the chance that I had let Sir down, that broke me. I lay on my bed, trying to watch a video of the assigned genre on my Macbook, and my eyes welled up. Before I knew it, a dam had broken and I was sobbing. The image of a young woman being fisted by her lover swam as tears poured forth. I begged Sir for forgiveness (via chat - we rarely talk on the phone). Sir comforted me with his words, soothing me, telling me I have been a very good girl.

I learned tonight that a large part of a D/S relationship is emotional. This scares the living hell out of me. It frightens me more than any physical act (save perhaps needles, of which I have a dreadful phobia - a very hard limit for me). It is exciting too, though. I find myself wondering what I've gotten myself into. For the first time, the opinion of someone (other than family) matters. It is puzzling and terrifying, and I can't help but want to hang onto my hat and ride this thing out - instead of running....

Don't Get Your Panties In a Wad!

2010-01-23T22:10:00.002-05:00

Sir stayed the night with me one night this past week. That evening, we planned to meet another couple (my Watchers, A and B, from New Years), for dinner. However, Sir's directions for me were specific: I was to wait for him on my bed, facing away from the door, wearing only my heels and my sparkly velvet collar. I was determined to be a good girl. I made sure that my paddle and crop were laid out on the bed. The camera, too (such a vicious little beast), was charged and placed next to the paddle, with the appropriate memory stick installed. All this I did before Sir asked me to. At the appropriate time, I lounged out across my bed, nude, and waited for my teacher. The anticipation made my cunt drip with excitement. Upon his arrival, he slammed into me with my reward, as I screamed and moaned and bit the blanket with each thrust. When did I become so vocal?

On our way to the restaurant, Sir pulled over onto a dark side street. He ordered me to bend over, lifting my skirt (I dressed to his specifications, as a good girl) and removed my underwear. I had been told to wear the smallest pair of panties I owned. This proved to be problematic. While I don't exactly wear granny panties, I stopped wearing thongs about 30 pounds ago, when my ass and a Honey Baked Ham began to look a little too similar. I wore my sexiest pair, a cheeky little pair of satin and lace. Sir took this scrap (no where near small enough, I quickly discovered), and began to work the fabric into my cunt... The sensation was overwhelming. It wasn't painful, exactly, but it definitely was not comfortable. Each bump in the road made me gasp. Exploring with my fingertips, I realized that Sir had only managed to insert about 1/2 of the garment, and yet the lips of my pussy were distended around black lace and satin. I had never been used in such a manner, and the effect was mortifying. He had intended to make me wear my underwear in this fashion throughout dinner, but, being sensitive to my discomfort, allowed me to leave them in the car for the evening. I purchased the tiniest g-strings I could find today, just in case Sir plans to use me in this fashion again...

mmmmm....

2010-01-18T13:48:00.002-05:00

bliss... being a good girl definitely has its merits....

Discipline and Obedience: The Lesson (Shame for Sassing)

2010-01-15T14:27:00.004-05:00

For the week between the first lesson and this last, I had decided, in my cocky, sassy way to test Sir's limits. Why not? What was he going to do to me? He had told me that I was in for quite a different lesson than before, that he had seen the need to rewrite his plans for me, as discipline and obedience were areas in which I needed much help. As the school day ended, I got nervous. I had had my fun with him: sassing him, mocking him online, talking to O without permission, taking too long to complete homework assignment #2... All in all, I had managed to accumulate 12 strikes total, and he had advised me strongly to contemplate these offenses before he arrived at my house. I was to be dressed and waiting for him by 430 p.m., sitting with my legs spread as far apart as possible. Too late, I had decided to be a good girl.

Sir arrived bearing gifts and new tools to use in my instruction. He bought me a beautiful velvet and rhinestone collar, complete with a name tag, my name on one side, "property of" on the other (the commitment-phobe in me flinched, just a bit, but I remind myself that it is not a wedding band). He also bought a new memory card for my camera, to be used only to document my instruction, my shame. To round out his purchases, there was on the bed a riding crop and a ball gag. These, it seems, were to be my punishment.

Adorned with my new collar, stripped of jeans, my red and pink satin panties wedged just so - to keep my ass cheeks bare and the lips of my cunt separated (sweet torture), I was commanded to bend over the bed... Crop in hand, Sir enumerated my sins from the previous week, each slice of the leather a delightful pain. Yes, I enjoyed my punishment. Did it hurt? Like hell. My ass is still covered in black and blue marks, raw marks that the denim grinds into with each slight motion today.

With my punishment out of the way, we moved on to the lesson of the day. Sir gently wrapped my wrists and ankles in leather cuffs. At his command, I crawled up onto the bed, face in the mattress, ass in the air, as he painted a brilliant red on my ass cheeks, first with my paddle, then his hand, then a few strokes of the crop, and then even a nearby slipper and a copy of a Sookie Stackhouse novel (a detail too delicious to leave out). From time to time, he would pause to photograph me. Each time I heard the camera, I cringed. The knowledge that my imperfect body was being recorded shamed me.

Later, with butt plug in, Sir marched me out to the garage on a leash, bade me to sit in a chair, and bound my wrists and ankles to the garage door behind me. He clamped little clamps to my nipples, joined together with a chain. For fun, he lifted the chain a few times, letting it drop suddenly. The pull and pressure sent jolts through my body. I was told that if I let the clamps fall off, I would be punished. Then he left me, tied up, naked, in a cold dark garage. I admit, I did whimper when the nipple clamp slipped off. It wasn't my fault. My nipples were hard little pebbles, especially in the cold. However, despite the uncomfortable position, I was not afraid, and actually found myself relaxing, relaxing much more than I had been able to the entire week. I am not sure how long I was out there. When Sir returned, I was told to stand. He reversed my bindings, so I stood facing the garage door, arms in a "Y" in the air, hips thrust behind me. He removed the butt plug and sought his pleasure.

I was determined to be a good girl. I wanted to please Sir. And I did. Because I was such a good pupil, after the cuffs and the ball gag were removed, he took off my collar and soothed my aching body with a full body massage - complete with oil. As much fun as I've had testing Sir this past week, and as much as I've enjoyed the consequences (even though they were pretty intense, I did enjoy them), I learned that pleasing Sir brings some really amazing benefits. With oil-slick hands, he smoothed over welted buttocks, stiff shoulders. His fingers grazed over my oh-so-sensitive nipples, and delved into the impossibly wet flesh between my thighs. As he teased my clit, over and over and over, he commanded me "be a good girl, cum for me."

Like I said, pleasing Sir brings some really amazing benefits.

What's In Store: Discipline and Obedience

2010-01-13T16:17:00.002-05:00

Sir told me today that he had to rewrite the lesson plan for this week, that he realized he had neglected to teach me discipline and obedience. I've been very naughty this week - I've chatted with O online without permission numerous times, I mocked Sir online, I mocked O online, I texted in class, I went to bed without asking permission, and I still have not completed a homework assignment. In short, my ass is grass. And, boy oh, boy, have I earned this beating. I'm actually scared. I don't know what this evening will bring. And yet, at the same time, I am excited. The suspense, the possibilities - both are delicious. On top of it all, I trust Sir. He will not give me more than I can bear. He did give me permission to wear jeans today (yay) as I am happiest in denim, and he ordered me to wear heels - I am wearing black wedge heels. I hope they please him. To add to the suspense? Sir told me he bought me a surprise! I will write back later....

Cleanliness Is Next To Godliness: Homework Assignment #2

2010-01-10T00:50:00.003-05:00

For my second homework assignment, assigned last weekend, I was to do my chores. But I now have a uniform for when I do my chores, at Sir's request. Whenever I clean I am to wear my heels, my bra, and a butt plug. On Saturday, I had a pile of laundry to do. Sir gave me instructions on my uniform, and told me to kneel on the bed, in his favorite position - at least I assume it is his favorite position for me - kneeling, face pressed firmly into the mattress, ass in the air. I was to play with myself - I could stroke the lips of my pussy, tickle my clit, tease my ass. I was not permitted to penetrate myself, until it was time to insert the butt plug. Once I had myself hot and wet, Sir explained, I was to insert the plug and text him. Then, I was to do my chores for at least an hour, and I had to make sure I told someone else - not O, as that would not provide enough mortification - about my homework assignment. Lastly, Sir requested that I blog about the experience.

I have never been an organized person, and I loathe doing chores. I have ADD, and I have found that I tend to wander.. I will start off in one room, take an item to my office, and get distracted by another chore. One task that should take me 30 minutes end up taking hours, and sometimes, even days. I found that with my new uniform, I was very focused on the "task at hand." Each time I bent down, knelt over, reached up, the plug rubbed deliciously on my anus. My pussy quivered, but I knew I had work to do, and that I did not have Sir's permission to cum.

I did encounter a few issues, though, with this homework assignment. For starters, my butt plug has a ring on the end of it, for easy retrieval, and my dog was fascinated with the sight of a purple ring protruding from between my ass checks. To my shame, she even tried to lick it a few times! When I told Sir of my mortification, he laughed. I made the mistake of telling him that I was grateful the plug did not have a tail on the end, as my cats would try to attack it - could you imagine that sensation?! From the mirth in his voice, I would not put that trick past him in future lessons.

Another problem was who to tell about the assignment? I could only imagine how that conversation would go "so, yeah, I'm doing laundry and I have this purple thing in my ass, and I'm wearing stilettos... Why? Because my Dom told me to..." Out of all of my friends and acquaintances, I could think of maybe three who could handle that conversation, and I only had the phone number of one - Listener. Listener has been my sounding board for all things sexual and sensual since our freshman year of college - nearly 14 years ago. I'm very comfortable with him. So, as Sir had asked, I called Listener and explained my homework assignment to him. By the way, he is delighted that I am exploring this aspect of my sexual nature - finally. Unfortunately, Sir decided that, like O, I was way too comfortable with Listener...

I had to contact A, a female friend of ours. She was on of my Watchers on New Year's Day. Remember that story? I had no idea if she was into BDSM, so I had to feel around before I could just bring it up. That experience, for me, was awkward, to say the least. Up until this point, the people I had told about my lessons were people who know me well - well enough to say "duh, that's not news... I could always tell you were a kinky bitch." A took it well, incredibly well, in fact. Sir says they spoke about me at great length the other night... I suspect she might become a learning tool for me, at Sir's orders. Heaven only knows how long until that happens...

Lesson One: What Would Freud Say? 1/6/10

2010-01-09T22:32:00.004-05:00

"I have a surprise for you, pupil," Sir said to me, as he shut the bedroom door behind him, "take off my belt."

My fingers shook with anticipation.

"Now bend over the bed, and lift your skirt." I had dressed as he asked me to - tried to find something that would keep me warm, but did not look too much like TeacherWear. I settled on a green knit cowl-neck dress, knee length, belted with a wide chunk of soft black leather, and topped with a fuzzy, knee-length sweater. I also wore black peep-toed stilettos.

"You've misbehaved, and I am going to punish you," he told me, his hand burrowing in my hair. "If you can tell me why you're being punished, you will only get one lick per offense, but if you forget, or get one wrong, you will get more."

Ohshitohshitohshit... I wasn't sure if I was ready for this... I remembered chatting with O online without permission. I knew I was in trouble for picking on him with his wife. What else had I done to misbehave, to deserve punishment?

Sir reminded me, and then swatted me with his belt. Five firm blows, total. It wasn't as bad as I had feared. I hadn't been hit with a belt since I was a child. I kinda liked it. I really kinda liked it. In fact, I should have played stupid on all counts of misbehavior. When he had finished belting me, he ordered me down on my knees, told me to take his cock out and suck. Sir was already painfully hard, and he shoved his length down my throat, to the base, making me gag. But he didn't cum. Within minutes, he ordered me on my feet, told me to straighten my dress....

In the car, we talked and laughed and joked as normal, expect my skirt was around my waist, my legs spread, his hand exploring my pussy, smacking my thighs. In the darkness I could see the vivid imprints of his hand on my pale flesh. By the time we reached the adult toy store, a few towns over (I live in BFE, by choice), my pussy was dripping. We headed upstairs to the fetish shop, pausing in front of a vast assortment of flails and floggers, paddles and riding crops.

"Pick one out," he ordered.

"Sir?" I squeaked.

"Choose one that you would like to be paddled with tonight."

The crops and canes looked terrifying. Some, like the floggers with hearts at the end of each tendril, seemed silly. Others looked like a waste of money. A ruler? I have those at home. After much deliberation, I chose a sturdy black paddle, about 2 1/2 inches wide, plain leather on one side (like I want "LOVE" emblazoned on my ass - I don't even use that word), and fur on the other. Faux fur, of course. The fur, to my inexperienced mind, seemed cheesy. But, all in all, this paddle seemed the most practical, the least threatening. As we made our way to the toy section, paddle, candles, bondage tape, and speculum already in our stash, I cast secret glances at the corsets and collars. I've never worn either. Both intrigue me. In the toy section, we bee-lined for the butt-play section. I like anal. This is not something I've been too comfortable saying. Most of my previous lovers have either been shit-faced when they've tried it with me, or they've waited until they thought I was too drunk to notice. This, gentlemen, gives your lover the idea that anal sex is taboo, making her too ashamed to ask for it if she likes it. Anyways, Sir enjoys butt-play. No taboo here.

"Which one would you like me to use on you?"

"Well, Sir, I have this thing, here, " I said, pointing to a vibrating butt-plug, "but if it is in, and I try to penetrate myself with a vibrator, it pops out." My face, at this point, is a vibrant scarlet.

"What thing?" he asks.

"This thing," I say, pointing with a trembling finger.

"What is it? Say the word, Julie."

"This butt-plug." I wanted to hide. Oddly enough, I can go to these stores with friends, play around, be my usual, boisterous, crass self. When I am with a lover, I clam up.

We find a tiny plug, a perfect fit for my ass, with a large enough ridge to keep it lodged. On the end, there's a soft ring for retrieval, or any number of things, I later learned.

Once home, behind a closed bedroom door, my lesson began in earnest. Sir fitted my wrists and ankles with cuffs, linking my wrists together behind my back. I lay face down on the bed, my legs spread to keep my pussy open, the lips from touching. I could feel it dripping with need. He spanked me, first with the palm of his hand, then with a soft, doe-skin flail, then with my new paddle, pausing occasionally to swat at the sopping lips of my pussy with the furred side (aha! That's what that fur is for!). He rimmed my tiny asshole with his tongue, sucked deep on the flesh. No one had ever eaten my ass before. The shame was exhilarating. He slowly worked the plug into my ass, and then went back to spanking me. This was a fantasy come true, a fantasy I had never dared voice to anyone. He tapped a rhythm with the paddle on the ring of the plug - tatap tappity tap - and then WHACK! a good firm smack to keep me on my toes. He'd repeat this process, changing rhythm occasionally, for an element of surprise. I thought I would lose my mind. And then he switched to the flail, slowly dragging it across my back, the little strips catching on the butt-plug, beautiful torture.

He strung rope through the cuffs on my ankles and wrists, hog-tying me, lifting my ass end up so he could eat my pussy. He tied a rope from my cuffs to the ring in my butt-plug, and continued spanking me. Each wiggle I gave pulled on the plug, sending shocks through my core. He stretched my ass with his fingers, encased in rubber gloves, the exquisite burning pain making me gasp and moan. When he fucked me in the ass, I begged his permission to play with my clit, and, almost immediately, had to beg for permission to cum. I think I screamed.

Afterwards, he removed my blindfold (what? I forgot to mention that? Bad Julie...) and marched me into the bathroom to admire my backside. The backs of my thighs clear up my back were a beautiful shade of crimson. I could make out his hand prints, scratch marks. I cleaned myself, thoroughly, as Sir told me to, the rough terry of the washcloth against the raw nerves of my ass sending sparks into my pussy. When I returned to bed, he forced my legs up by my head, leaving my cunt exposed to his view. He studied me, my secrets. And then he consumed me, licking and sucking, biting at my clit. His fingers forced their way into my pussy and manipulated my g-spot. Such delicious torture. I came again, harder than before, mewling and yelping my pleasure. And then, he covered me with his body, held me with such a foreign tenderness as the tremors wracked my body....

I learned many things with my first lesson in BDSM. I learned that I don't give myself enough credit. I learned that I like to be spanked, and spanked hard. I like having my pussy spanked. I loved being tied up, and found myself thinking "man, if we had a hook in this ceiling...." I also learned that there is tenderness in BDSM. This surprised me, but my reaction to this tenderness surprised me even more.

I haven't been a post-coital cuddler for years. I act very much like the proverbial man. I orgasm, or more often that not, fake an orgasm, and the fall asleep, or get up to graze in the fridge, or even roll over to get dressed. Cuddling wasn't part of my repertoire. Why bother? But after my lesson, as T held me, the reassuring comfort was so intense. It was perhaps the most profound experience of the entire evening. After all, you have to be able to trust in order to cuddle like that, don't you? Oh yeah, and I came for a third time that night. Awesome.

Caution: May Backfire!

2010-01-07T23:15:00.003-05:00

It is not a wise idea to tease a tiger.

I do tease, I admit. I tease, I flirt, I'm flippant as hell (especially when flirting). It's a bad habit, I know. Should I stop? Eh... The jury is still out on this. But the other night, my teasing backfired but good, and for that I am saddled with yet another taste of frustration.

My satellite remotes eat batteries as though they were chips, or skittles, or some other inconsequential morsel. I had planned on a quiet, well-behaved evening, just me, the pets, some tea and maybe NCIS or Criminal Minds (pick your marathon du jour). I was all set: a quick dinner of leftovers, lounge across the bed, clicker in hand... and... nothing. In an attempt to be more environmentally friendly, about a year ago, I invested in some rechargeable batteries, specifically for these damn remotes. It seems as though I have to recharge them weekly.

As a consolation prize, I decided to play online. No internet porn was on the menu, I promise. Maybe a sudoku puzzle or reading the online newspaper from Quebec. Archaeology.org makes for a good, well-behaved standby. Maybe some quick chats, right?

While chatting with T online, I decided that a hot shower sounded good. I like water. It is sensuous, life-giving, both rejuvenating and relaxing, and completely organic. I told T I'd be back online in a bit, and I was instructed to recall details from last night (see! here I tease again!). And then... blip! O is online. Caving in to a temptation I haven't begun to comprehend, I say hi, we chat, the minutes tick by. Because I can't help myself, I announce to O that I am about to hop into the shower...

In the shower, I can help but think of both men, thinking of me, thinking of new year's day. Of course, I have my handy-dandy vibrators in the shower with me (duh! they're waterproof, of course I have them with me). I lay on the floor of the shower, prop my legs up on the wall. The spray of water stings my nipples, still raw and sensitive from Wednesday night, and my shins. As my flesh diffuses the bite of the spray, water rivulets trickle down, warm, to tickle ever so slightly across my pussy and ass. It reminds me of Sir's flail from the night before, just as it had touched the sensitive skin between my ass and cunt. Droplets of water roll over my tits, along my collarbones, down my shoulders. This is bliss, as well as can be found while alone. As I use the vibrators to get myself off, one, a g-spot wand in my pussy and the other, a bullet, on my clit, I imagine mouths on me, sucking, hands exploring, and that adorable black paddle stinging.

When I get out of the shower, I learn that T has been telling O about our night together, about Lesson One. Together, they tag team me, one in one chat program, on in another. O, an experienced Dom, tells me how much he likes to get Subs in trouble. T tells me how much trouble I will be in, I've called O "a shithead," and I am sassy. Very sassy. My plan to tease the two men, these two tigers - unspoken strength, quiet menace, beautiful grace in their own right - has backfired on me. I do not know if they were horny. But I went to bed that night, as horny as if I had not just gotten off in the shower.

mmmmm....

2010-01-07T16:20:00.000-05:00

LOVE my new paddle... I'll share more later.... ;)

Civil Obedience: An Anticipation Guide

2010-01-05T22:18:00.003-05:00

In the education world, there a multiple steps to a lesson plan. To start off, the teacher must list out their objectives: what they intend for their pupil to learn, how they intend to teach the material, and, finally, how they will measure the effectiveness of the lesson. Next, they list out their required materials - rulers, or tape, or rubber bands, or perhaps video equipment. Finally, the teacher then outlines, step by step, their lesson. Almost always, teachers start out with what is known as an anticipation guide, or an anticipatory activity. This can range from a class discussion on themes and topics to be covered, to videos and pictures, to questionnaires, to hands on activities. Then there is the lesson itself, and ultimately, some form of evaluation.

It seems that the lesson plans used in a school setting are not too different from the plans used when introducing someone, a submissive someone, into the world of BDSM. Don't yell at me, ladies and gentlemen. I sure as hell wasn't around when the modern school system was formed. I rarely even write lesson plans. I'm willing to bet, though, that the founding fathers of education had a bit of kink behind the bedroom door.

My teacher, my partner in crime for this sexual exploration, T, is going to give me a lesson tomorrow afternoon in BDSM. I'm sure he has done some studying on the subject to prepare, and planned out his lesson with extreme care. Last night, he ordered me to address him as "Sir," and gave me a taste of online role playing - telling me what it means to be a good girl, giving me ideas of ways he intended to use me, hinted at things he planned to teach me. To help plant this new concept in my mind, he sent me links of photos, gauging my reaction to each: "how would you like me stretch you like that?" Unfortunately, he wasn't here to feel for himself my true reaction, but after some reminders, I responded, "if it pleases you to do so, sir." He gave me a list of school supplies needed for tomorrow's lesson, which included lube and non-latex gloves. The possibilities suggested by these items made my breath catch in my throat. My teacher also gave me a required uniform: a skirt. Before the first lesson, I had even managed to earn my first punishment, for chatting with O on IM without Sir's permission. The temptation, however, was too great, and O knew he was causing me to earn a punishment (perhaps he'd like a photo of my red ass to reward him for his efforts?).

I've already had my first homework assignment. My task? To strip down, keep my face pressed in the pillow, and to thrust my ass in the air, spreading my cheeks with my hands. Sir instructed me to stroke myself, my wet pussy (which, by this time was quivering wet) and my asshole (a tight rosette, even as I tried to relax). He was very clear, however, that I was not to penetrate myself. That, in itself, was torture, as penetration is pretty much the only way I can get off, and is something that I enjoy immensely, even if I don't cum. I was also told to blog about my experience. As you can see, I am trying to be a good student. Actually, the stubborn little monster inside me wanted to defy him, to test his limits, to not blog. But a delicious fear is keeping me in line, at least somewhat.

As I knelt, ass-end up, all I could think about was what it would feel like when he punishes me tomorrow. Will he use his hand? A flogger? The back of the hairbrush on my vanity? Will it feel good more than hurt, or hurt more than feel good? Will any of the blows fall on my pussy, on my taint? Despite the trepidation (or perhaps because of this fear) I find myself trembling even now as I type - and by no means in a bad way. As my fingertips danced over my anus (icy fingertips, the real reason why I caved and turned on my heater), I found it hard to believe that it would stretch to accept a plug (and wondering on his plans for the gloves). As I traced the lips of my pussy (trying to avoid my clit, why tease, if I can't fill that void?), I remembered his fingers in me, spreading me, last Friday.

Sir told me to expect him around six tomorrow evening. I have always been a good student, very diligent in my studies and eager to learn. My grades have always been above average, and in the final years at university, pride prevented me from accepting less than A's. And as a result, I have gotten very cocky. My next post should be very entertaining, given these circumstances.

Dreamer and Doer (or, Self-Fulfilling Prophecy?)

2010-01-03T12:02:00.006-05:00

Sometimes my dreams scare me. I don' think I dream like normal people. I've never had that "naked in front of your speech 101 class" dream, or the "falling from the sky, landing on a elephant." My dreams are always in color, of ordinary (usually), daily tasks and events. Lecturing on Mark Twain. A particular student coming to class on crutches. Another particular student receiving a scholarship. Rough sex with a coworker. Sometimes, these dreams come true within the following week, almost exact, to cause a nauseating feel of deja vu. The rough sex with the coworker did not come true, thankfully, nothing against the mind-blowing dream sex. He's a coach (yuck) and he dips tobacco (double, triple yuck). My dreams can be frightening because of their tendency to become true. Maybe, in some cases, they are self-fulfilling prophecies. Subconsciously, I act in the manner of my dream; thus, the Mark Twain lecture goes as seen. Yet, as tempting as it is to injure some students (in a thoroughly non-sexual, purely "you annoy the shit out of me" way), I cannot control injuries of others, accidents, scholarship committees.

My new year started out with one of those dreams. I already knew, before going to sleep, that I would meet up with T, his wife, other friends. I knew we would go to the movies. My dream ended with me bound, restrained, face down on a bed, my ass in the air, legs spread, T's mouth on me. That finale certainly wasn't on the menu for New Year's Day. I hadn't seen him in ten years. I was meeting his wife. I had not shaved my legs in a few days. I dismissed this dream, as I have many others. Especially after I overslept and missed the first movie.

I ended up meeting T, his wife, and about eight other people for lunch, after their movie ended. We had a great time, reminiscing, story-telling, laughing loudly, me flirting - sans ulterior motive - with those people I had known from college. Exhilarating. Fabulous. I was stating off the new year, not isolated at home, with only my cat or cloistered in with my parents, but with a group. A social group, young 30-somethings, some married, some not, most not yet having kids. The majority of my friends nowadays, it seems, have moved on to the family stage of life. While I love their children, and am delighted with the joy of their new families, I can't help but feel... left behind. So, I push my dream to the far corner of my mind, and relish in the good, non-sexual things to come in 2010.

After lunch, a few of us (four, exact), decide to catch a(nother) film. I was the only girl, and I ended up being seated between T and O. I tried be a good girl. I sat in my plush movie-theater seat, in the dark, between two amazingly charismatic men, both simmering with a silent, untold power. I was determined to behave. As I watched countless phallic symbols dance across the screen, and Robert Downey Jr cuffed naked to a bed, I found myself wishing I had worn a skirt. My mind wandered from the fascinating story on the screen to the captivating fantasy in my mind. In the dark, had I worn a skirt, T and O would be able to manipulate me, explore my damp darkness. I wouldn't be able to make a sound in a public theater. Public indecency charges are especially dangerous for teachers with morality clauses in their contracts. I made myself focus on the detectives on screen, despite the fact that my pussy was dripping with possibilities. When my hip accidentally brushed against O's leg (kinda hard not to squirm when you're horny), a shock went through my belly. When T decided to tease me, by scratching the underside of my arm, the inside of my elbow, the side of my breast with his nails, I was proud that I was still able to follow the symbolism of the film (all the while thinking "fuck me! use me! make me beg!").

Our party, replete with innocent intentions (I maintain that I had innocent intentions) ended up at T's home after the film. Through socializing, laughing, video games, my nipples (usually unresponsive) were hard little points, and my cunt continued to drip. At some point, people fell asleep. Vodka and shot glasses came out. I do not remember asking for a shot. Nonetheless, I was served, and the liquor was smooth, delicious, liberating. It was not my last shot. After all, I put my complete trust in T. I knew that he would protect my boundaries, and say "no" for me, should I become incapacitated.

In talking and drinking and flirting, five of us piled on a couch - boy, girl, boy, girl, boy. Never, in my wildest dreams, could I have imagined. This was not helping to diminish my arousal. Only pride was preventing me from begging. On my right, T, kissed me, teased the top of my ass crack as it peeked over jeans that had slipped too low. On my left, O traced the shell of my ear with his fingertip, bit the heel of my hand teasingly. I'm sure I gasped, moaned. The couple at the end of the couch watched us - when did I develop a thing for exhibitionism? They didn't join in, actually left, and went home to party as a duo. I have never been attracted to women, but I must say, looking back, she is beautiful. If T or O had ordered me to, I would have kissed. Hell... I would have gladly done their bidding. Still would, even now.

At one point, T held me, standing, my arms up, his hand firmly grasping my jaw, preventing me from looking down and hiding my face in shame, as O bit and sucked my nipples (still hard, now, as I write, two days later). I had trouble catching my breath - maybe from T's arm across my throat or maybe just from excitement. O's hand caught me between my thighs, the soaked denim giving away my shame, and he lifted me, by my pelvic bone, so he could nibble at my stomach and hip...

I remember being alone with O, later in the night, as he forced my legs open, slowly kissing up the inside of my leg from ankle to thigh, avoiding my ache, asking me if I had ever been dominated, promising that we could, and would have fun, promising not to leave marks - at least not where my student would see. His voice was so low, gentle, alluring.

Later, O's fingers inside my dripping cunt, his mouth - tongue, teeth - on my clit, T pinched and tugged at my nipples, pulled my hair, all while I struggled to stay quiet so we wouldn't wake anyone...

They teased me like this, stopping short of making me cum, and I relished every moment of it. Now, I wish they were both here, continuing that sweet torture, still, days later. I was not permitted to give O release. Pleasing him - he who was not part of my life just days ago - has become something I crave.

My evening ended with me face down on a bed. I was not bound with ropes or chains or cuffs. T held me in that position, my face pressed into the velvet pillows, with his hand firmly on the back of my head, his fingers wound tightly in my hair. His other hand held my ass up in the air, my legs spread apart, as his fingers stretched my pussy open, preparing for whatever he has planned in days to come. His mouth was on my clit, and he made me beg before I could come. Sometimes, he would remove his hand from the back of my head only to bring it crashing down on my ass. He praised me for the way my pussy clenched his fingers in anticipation of each sporadic slap. He said he could smell me, smell my desire all day, throughout the movie, through the games, the teasing. Even though he said the fragrance was awesome, my face burned with shame and mortification. Yet, my cunt dripped and trembled even more with this knowledge. His hand and mouth worked me, until, with his permission, I came. When was my last orgasm? I hardly remember one, and it was no where near as forceful.

I showed T my appreciation for this dream-like evening by sucking his cock, gagging over the girth of him, my hand squeezing the shaft tightly, tighter at his insistence, until he shot his approval into my mouth.

Maybe T will agree to let O teach me as well. After all, in the education world, the best teachers collaborate, observe, compare techniques. The idea of being discussed and manipulated (even, please, sir - used) without being permitted to talk or interact is incredibly erotic. Maybe, if I am a good girl, a good student, they will give me their cocks next time, fulfill my potential... I promise to do exactly as I am told.

I hope this year brings much more delicious teasing, humiliation, and maybe even tears (of shame, release, I am not sure) as I learn to cum like a good girl.

2010: The Year of the Cock?

2010-01-02T13:47:00.001-05:00

Oh. My. God.

I need a bit to process yesterday before I blog this one....

Don't worry, I will dish.

Let The Games Begin!

2010-01-01T01:30:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year!

Identity (or, Didn't Your Momma Warn You About the Quiet Ones?)

2009-12-31T13:29:00.005-05:00

I've changed the initial of my young friend from the other night, upon request. Henceforth, we'll call him "S." He knows who he is, if he still reads this. I am willing to bet that, if for no other reason, morbid curiosity calls him back to this link. All of you keep coming back, after all... Why "S," my dear? LOL... I've always had a thing for the young Brando... Anyways...

Speaking of S, the jury is still out as to whether or not I get to ring in the new year with a lusty tryst. I've got my fingers crossed, for the most part. I am still delightfully sore from the other night. I noticed this morning in the shower, under the rivulets of water, that my nipples were laced with tiny, tooth-sized bruises. Blue is such a beautiful color on me. I'm willing to bet that I am sporting bruises elsewhere, too. I know, it is twisted that I should love the look of bruising on my skin. But I bruise so easily, and the mottled shades of purple, blue and grey have fascinated me since I was a child. Of course, this bruising also means a heightened sensitivity. Rarely are my nipples hard, just for the hell of it. Fuck, even when I am aroused, they're often flat... right now? Standing at attention.

Onto other matters of identity - please don't think that my New Year's resolution is to redefine myself as a slut. I've been thinking about this quite a bit in the past two days. My self image, ultimately, blows. Oh, and now someone is thinking "aha! low self esteem leads to an easy lay!" But not necessarily. Allow me to explain.

Physically, I view myself as average. That's on a good day. Most of the time, I look in the mirror and think "well, I won't curdle milk." I'm 5'3", approximately 145 lbs, and I wear a 34 G bra. If you dig short, curvy chicks, we're set. I intend, as always, to lose weight. The weight always manages to find me, though. I believe that in coming to terms with my sexuality, my self image will improve far more than it would with a fad diet or a neglected exercise regime.

And what's so difficult about accepting my sexuality? Ha. I was raised in a fairly open-minded family. I'm straight. Why should I have issues with this? I remember, as a young child, playing with dolls in my dollhouse, spanking the momma doll because she had been "bad." The warm, heavy feeling I felt low in my stomach felt bad, shameful. When I was a little older, one of the neighborhood kids introduced me to a game called "playing sex." We were only about eight or nine, and the game was maybe a step up from playing doctor - licking and petting. Her mother came unglued when she caught us at this game. (Now, as an adult, I too would be upset if I caught my child, at that age engaging in oral sex, somewhere, somehow that seems like someone was molested by an adult, but I would react differently.) Her horror and rage taught me that something that felt good was bad.

As a child, I was an avid reader, and still am. Around eleven, my Nancy Drew books no longer offered any challenge to me, and I started sneaking romance novels off of my mother's bookcase in the middle of the night, leaving the dust jacket behind, to hide the gap in the shelf. By the end of the sixth grade, I knew what a blow job was, and how to perform it, even though I had never seen an erection. By the age of fourteen or fifteen, I had discovered Anne Rice's Beauty trilogy, and knew that reading about BDSM turned me on. Keep in mind that I was painfully shy and didn't even get my first kiss until I was sixteen. Even in college courses, like Psychology and Human Sexuality, I learned that my tastes were labeled as "deviant."

Once I started dating, as an adult, I found myself in embarrassing situations. Or, at least, situations that can be hazardous for one's sexual development. I asked one boyfriend, NavyBoy, to smack my ass. We had been dating for several months, had been sexually involved for most of that time - I figured why not ask for what I wanted? My request immediately shot down his proverbial horse. He broke up with me the following week, because he was so uncomfortable with the idea. I have handled rejection numerous times, and have been left unsatisfied by way too many cases of whiskey dick. Hell, I have even managed to kill my fair share of vibrators. I guess, given my lucky experiences, these little toys prove to be much like a real man: "oh! oh God, I'm.. I'm almost ther-" and then... it's done for. And I get to finish manually.

Last year, much to my surprise, I realized that I was not completely comfortable with my sexuality. Surprised? I know I was. I was with the boyfriend du jour in the local adult toy shop. While I've been to these places before, and often in mixed company, I had never been there with a lover. Suddenly, I was paralyzed, speechless. That awkward shyness I worked so hard to destroy when I left high school was back. I could not tell him what I wanted. A history of rejection and shame had left me speechless. I could laugh and play with the novelty items on the shelves, but when it came to purchase, even to tell him what I wanted to try, I was helpless. As tantalizing as the leather paddles and floggers looked, as fascinated as I was with the concept of nipple clamps and pyrex dildos and tiny vibrating butt plugs.... Much to my dismay, we left the store only with some massage oil and an assortment of trial lubes. Which were never used and are still in my bedside table.

Now, as the year is ending, I find myself at the end of another flopped relationship - boring sex, very little in common, no spark. It is my hope that in exploring myself this year, with the help of T, I will discover my sexual identity and grasp that awareness with confidence. Maybe that will put an end to a dating, and sex, life best described by "meh." Maybe by the end of this new year I will have the courage to call up someone, like S. Maybe, then, instead of dropping no so subtle (yet nonetheless mortifying) hints, I will be able to say "get over here. I want to fuck you until I get you out of my system. I want you."

Then, maybe in a few years, I will be able to tackle that fabled beast they call "love."

Youthful Exuberance

2009-12-30T09:46:00.005-05:00

Sex with S was fun. An innocent facade with soulful eyes, he is by far the wiriest man I have ever been with. He knew what he was doing - was able to find my G spot with his thumb on the first try. He was strong, and took control of the situation - lifting me up, flipping me around. No awkward directions and maneuvering. And he was rough. Deliciously rough. This was the first time anyone had ever put their hands around my throat in this manner. Not hard. He didn't choke me. But he made sure that I was aware he meant business.

Did I cum? No. It is very difficult to make me cum. I am not sure why. It is not always about an orgasm, though. He came, twice. Once, in his hand, covering himself and his jizz like it was something to be ashamed of. If I fuck him again, we will work on that. Watching a man cum is, for me, incredibly erotic. It's a power thing. "I did this. I made you lose it." And speaking of power, the second time he came, he came in my mouth.

I have heard men say that they enjoy receiving blow jobs, because they are in power over a woman. Likewise, I have heard women complain that it is a demeaning act. Au contraire... when a man's cock is in my mouth, I have the power to make him orgasm. And let's face it, the head of the cock is the most sensitive part. I can lick delicately. I can stab at the hole with the tip of my tongue. I can nibble teasingly, or bite punishingly. I love using my teeth... I can choose to deep-throat him, to take all of him in, to gag with the fullness. I can lick down the shaft, mouth the balls.

In addition to the sheer youthful exuberance and energy of a 22 yr old - recovery time? what recovery time? - I saw in S a bounty of possibilities. As I sucked his cock, I let my fingers grab his ass cheeks, and he didn't flinch. After licking his scrotum, I bit the insides of his thighs. I licked from the very ruby tip of his cock down to his taint... nibbled his ass cheeks. And he liked it. More importantly, he had no idea he would like it. This was virgin territory. My sweet boy was new to ass play, both giving and receiving.

I didn't pop that cherry for him. Not yet. If we have other encounters, and who's to say, we might, I would love to explore that playing field with him. Hell, I'd love to strap on a cock of my own and peg him. I can tell that he'd relish it, thrive on being dominated. But, alas, I am still a novice on this subject. Then again, the best way to learn is to teach others. And I find myself hoping for a chance to explore the complexities of his sexuality as I continue the exploration of my own.

In the meantime, I take comfort in knowing that I have covered him with bites and scratches. I also delight in the soreness his rough hands left between my thighs, around my pussy. For the first time in a long, way too long, I feel like I have been well and truly fucked. Thank you, S. Even if it was for one night.

The World is My Oyster

2009-12-29T17:26:00.005-05:00

So, looking back it seems my entire life I've played the "good girl." Once upon a time, I wanted to wait until I was married before losing my virginity (*gasp* the horror). I eventually gave up on the concept of marriage, and decided to not cheat myself out of something I knew would feel really, really amazing. Well, I haven't given up on marriage per se, but that fairy tale can wait until a different blog. I arranged everything so thoughtfully, considered every detail and option before giving up the ol' cherry. I was almost 21 years old. In some societies, old and new, i would have been considered an old maid. The proverbial cherry would have succumbed to rot and fruit flies...

Despite my best efforts, I have still been considered a whore by many. Vicious rumors, a concerned brother, even an off-hand comment from my own mother. All the pain, none of the glory. At this moment, my list of sexual partners only reaches into the... well, the single digits. And, sadly, not all have experiences have even been worth the effort. Very little experimentation. To be sure, though, I have had plenty of opportunity to work on my acting skills - "oh, baby, oh, God.... ohhhhhhhh!" All the while thinking "hurry up, dumbass, I have _ that needs to be done."

Since deciding to create a bucket list, for lack of a better term, it appears that the world has become my oyster. T, the old college boyfriend, is in an open marriage. His wife has given us both permission to play. We have a tentative date set for next week. This should be interesting, and I will keep you posted. Although, at the moment, my only blog follower is T. Hi there! LOL.

In the meantime, let me tell you about S. S is a college student, majoring in theater - and well he should. That boy has amazing talent onstage. A stage presence that has gotten me wet from time to time, I will confess. Anyways S, who was never my student, although young enough to have been one of my first students, is in town. He's on his way over. I don't know if anything will happen. I don't know what I want from him. However, I am sure that with some wine I will figure it out. I did shave for the event though. Hoping T doesn't mind (but if he does, I think that probably makes for a double standard, wouldn't it?). Anyways... keep you posted on whether or not this is a lesson... or simply a review...

The Desire

2009-12-28T20:06:00.006-05:00

I was recently chatting with an ex-boyfriend from college - a time when we were both relatively sweet and innocent. Well, he was sweet and innocent. I don't remember if I was his first kiss, but I was his first blow job. We'll call him "T." I guess we could say he was my first "student," in a way. I taught him the foundations of making out, the fun of foreplay. Just as all teachers love hearing from their former students, so have I enjoyed getting back into contact with him. I guess I was a good teacher, even back then.

-- please note, unlike some Florida teachers, I do not mess with my actual students; they are babies, even though in high school, and pedophilia holds no appeal for me --

Back to T. He's happily married, with a satisfying sex life. In comparing notes (oh, what? like you've never talked sex with friends?), I began to realize all the fun stuff that I have been missing out on. Threesomes, BDSM, fetishism.... so sad. Don't get me wrong. T and I weren't meant to be. I think the path we took was the best possible path - and, hell, he's the only ex I still talk to. But, allow me to give you this example:

A few weeks ago I had the current boy toy over for dinner. I've told him I'm not looking for anything long-term; he's just someone to fuck. A recurring one night stand. Anyways, I made dinner, we ate, he cleared the table... and then... awkwardness. Outside of food and sex, we have little in common. So, for lack of anything better to do, I think "well, now it is time for the requisite sex." We strip down, get in bed, he gives me a few sloppy kisses (as in my lab mix is a better kisser), and in he slides. No foreplay. Thank God the lights are off, so I can't see the dust bunnies on the fan. I fake an orgasm, which begs the question "how does he not know?!" I have settled for boredom. The kinkiest my life gets is a random ass-smack or maybe anal, and those recent experiences have been anti-climatic.

In talking to T, I realized that there is still plenty more of life for me to explore. I have no idea how I will go about exploring, since the best I have found recently is sloppy boy toy. Maybe T can help me find an outlet. But I think I will chronicle these explorations, if they ever occur, here. I know someone has a teacher fantasy....

I just have to keep this blog anonymous, because no one wants their kids to have a kinky teacher.