Room With A View

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

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

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!

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....

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

Discipline and Obedience: The Lesson (Shame for Sassing)

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

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....