Gloria Steinem once noted, “A pedestal is as much a prison as any other small space.” I can totally relate. Like fellow Leos Madonna, Mae West, Martha Stewart and J. Lo, I’ve controlled those around me since infancy. But every so often, wielding total power over others gets boring. Luckily, there is the Princess Reform School, which is designed to demonstrate the joy of submission to prima donnas like me. Would dismounting my high horse, even for an afternoon, be arousing or frustrating?
Please list all the materials required for this experiment (including, if applicable, how they were obtained).
– White button down shirt (one)
– Tie (one)
– White knee socks (one pair)
– High-heels, minimum three-inch heel (one pair)
– Erotic Surrender: The Sensual Joys of Female Submission (one copy)
In this portion of your report, you must describe, step-by-step, what you did in your lab. It should be specific enough that someone who has not seen the lab can follow the directions and recreate the same lab.
The application process for Princess Reform School is so complex it would put Harvard’s to shame. Fortunately, unlike Harvard, one can obtain admittance simply by completing an online questionnaire, which is designed to determine if you are a “tragic beauty” in need of humility. Because I’d been introduced to the Headmaster at a party, he had already deemed me enough of a princess to be admitted. I sent him an email requesting a scholarship, since I’d be writing about the process. The Headmaster quickly agreed to give me a full scholarship but insisted I would have to "work hard for it."
Unlike other reform schools, which are devoted to making bad students good, Princess Reform School is dedicated to making good students bad. The Headmaster started the school several years ago to minister to the needs of a frustrated ex-model, but now he accepts anyone who is “too gorgeous for their own good.”A further perusal of the PRS web site revealed that the school dress code forbade panties, hemlines lower than mid-thigh and heels shorter than three inches. The curriculum page listed dirty talk, bi exploration, bondage and sensual submission. It was also noted that the Headmaster devised an individualized curriculum for each student according to her needs, level of experience and aspirations.
For my first lesson, the Headmaster suggested he do an “outcall.” I was to be home-schooled. As preparation, he asked me to list and rank my “problem areas.” Was I too modest, too bratty or too haughty? Perhaps I was insufficiently skilled in erotic service? Although I’ve gotten naked in about half of my columns, I’m still a shrinking violet when it comes to public nudity, so I ranked modesty high. "Shyness while engaging in dirty talk," "sexual laziness" and "a general insolence toward authority" also made the list.
The reformatory-princess uniform varies, depending on the assignment. The Headmaster insisted I wear a classic schoolgirl outfit. Luckily, I already owned everything but a white shirt, which I easily obtained at a back-to-school sale around the corner.
The Headmaster arrived for my tutorial jauntily carrying a riding crop and a bag of “school supplies.” If you’re going to run a Princess Reform School, it helps to be hot. The Headmaster was in his early thirties, tall, with dark hair and a cute smile. He showed up in a leather jacket. While I was a little disappointed he wasn’t in more professorial garb (a tweed jacket and a pipe, perhaps), he cut quite a handsome figure.
We proceeded into my boudoir, where we began with a remedial kneeling lesson. Kneeling might seem like an obvious skill, but there are subcategories which reformatory princesses are required to master. The first position involves simply going down on one’s knees. “Arch,” on the other hand, entails both kneeling and leaning back toward the floor.
“I think I did this in my David Carradine Kung-Fu Workout video,” I noted, straining to curve my back like a yogi.
I stood bare-assed before the Headmaster.
“Submissive position!” the Headmaster commanded. I obeyed, thrusting my buttocks toward the heavens, whereupon they were greeted with a hard spanking. Luckily my ass is the fattest part of my body, enabling me to take a spanking that would reduce a lesser pupil to tears. When my amazing threshold for ass pain became apparent, the Headmaster moved on to the riding crop. It stung like a swarm of killer bees.
After learning to kneel, I learned the “display position,” which is performed by standing up with your hands behind your head. Once I was in place, the Headmaster unbuckled my mini-kilt, revealing my vulva. As I stood bare-assed before the Headmaster, he produced a soft blindfold which he wrapped around my head. From years of cheating during piñata demolitions, I knew that most blindfolds aren’t effective. But the Headmaster’s blindfold completely blinded me. It was disorienting and frustrating. But as he slowly unbuttoned my shirt and caressed my chest, I became aroused. “You can leave your tie on,” he conceded.
“Thank goodness. I was worried I’d have to be naked.”
Once I was disrobed (with the exception of knee socks and tie), the Headmaster assailed my torso with the riding crop. However, he managed to strike a balance between pain and pleasure, stroking my weary body lovingly in between punishments. He placed furry handcuffs on my wrists, then clasped them together behind my back, immobilizing my hands should I want to touch myself. And I certainly did want to touch myself. However, a princess must learn to give pleasure before she can receive it, and I was soon back on my knees, delivering an exemplary oral report.
The Headmaster removed my cuffs and treated me to gentle caresses and tickle torture with giant pink feathers. I writhed and wiggled as he teased my clit with his fingers. Despite my arousal, the Headmaster informed me that I wouldn’t be allowed to orgasm until graduation.
“How soon can I graduate?” I asked.
My professor then informed me of an upcoming sex party. I would be permitted to graduate if I attended and underwent various rites of public chastisement and nudity. The thought filled me with dread. I immediately visualized The Story of O, and the scene in which O was forced to attend a party wearing an owl mask and nothing else. This panicked me. Not only that, downtown Manhattan is like a small town. There would certainly be people I knew at the soiree. I manage to embarrass myself enough at parties while clothed. Who knows what kind of gossip I would inspire when naked? Moreover, I’m so vain that I put on lip gloss to go to Kinkos. The idea of others witnessing my pasty ass jiggle in public freaked me out.
But if I were to overcome my princess pride, I would have to face and conquer my fears. I agreed to attend the party on the grounds that I would be treated to a favorable commencement ceremony involving earth-shattering orgasms.
Being panty-less is a lot like being stoned — you think everyone knows.
The Headmaster assented, then assigned homework: I was to go out in public wearing a miniskirt with no panties.
Naturally, the next day was one of the windiest days of the year. As I crossed Delancey Street, a gale-force wind whipped my skirt up. I shocked an entire double-decker bus full of tourists by inadvertently exposing my hairless clam.
To save time, I multitasked by not wearing panties to Barnes & Noble, where I hoped to peruse a copy of Erotic Surrender: The Sensual Joys of Female Submission. (It’s recommended reading for reformatory princesses.) After locating the book, I slid onto a wooden chair and prayed a splinter wouldn’t pierce my labia. I tried to concentrate, but being pantyless is a lot like being stoned — you think everyone knows. I’d glance at a page and then nervously around the bookstore. Soon I gave up. Luckily, I have a lot of experience bullshitting my way to graduation.
Quantify the effects of the experiment.
On graduation night, I was more nervous than I’d been at college commencement. For starters, my friend Abby was hosting the sex party. So right off the bat, at least one person I know would witness my utter humiliation.
Abby calls her parties “sexy soirees.” They’re a cross between an orgy and a backyard barbeque. If partygoers want to get naked and lick testicles, they can. If they simply want to eat pretzels, watch porn and make chitchat, that’s okay too. They are also BYOB; hence they are affordable and popular among impoverished artists who refuse to let lack of funds prevent them from engaging in sex with multiple partners.
For moral support, I invited my friends Amy and Natalie, who agreed not to look if I did anything too embarrassing. We got to the party shortly after midnight. My friend Alex, whose wedding I performed last year, was working the door. Inside, I found the Headmaster lounging in a faux-fur-pillow-laden room full of hot people and a smattering of awkward dudes.
After I nervously downed two cans of Budweiser, the Headmaster suggested we get started. He motioned me over to a large wooden X which was bolted to the wall, the type that might have been used in a religious inquisition of yesteryear. The same blindfold he’d used in my previous lesson was affixed over my eyes, preventing me from making any visual observations throughout the next portion of the lab. Amy and Natalie giggled in the background.
The Headmaster gently took my wrists and lifted them over my head, spreading them out in a jumping-jack position. Then, he shackled them to the X. I guess there’s nothing I can do about it now, I thought. I briefly wished I had another Budweiser and considered asking Amy or Natalie to feed me one, since I couldn’t use my hands. But I decided that requesting anything would be far too haughty. I was literally in no position to make demands.
Once I got over my desire for beer, being shackled was actually sort of relaxing. The best thing about being tied up is that you don’t have to do any work.
The Headmaster proceeded to spank, flog and paddle me. I yelped as if I’d just jumped into an ice-cold swimming pool. "Ouch . . . ooh . . . ooh . . . ah, ouch!" I danced a veritable jig away from the implements of anguish. In the background, people conversed casually, as if I weren’t being tortured only a few feet away.
The Headmaster unfastened my wrist cuffs. “Am I done?” I asked.
“You have a long way to go, young lady,” he growled, removing my shirt and refastening the cuffs over my head. He grabbed my ankles, separated them and shackled them to the base of the X. Then he walked away.
I can only imagine how asinine I must’ve looked convulsing in orgasm, wearing nothing but a tie and socks.
“Where are you going?” I asked fearfully as his footsteps faded into the distance. “How long am I gonna be here?” I grew seriously concerned that I’d have to stay up there all night while everyone else had fun.
Partygoers came and went, occasionally commenting on my bound, half-naked presence. Across the room, the Headmaster discussed varieties of vibrators with my friends. Every so often someone spanked, paddled or touched me. I’m embarrassed to admit that I enjoyed the attention. How ironic: having been knocked off my pedestal for the course of study, I had been placed back on it for the graduation ceremony.
After what seemed like several hours, the Headmaster returned, unfastened my skirt and let it drop. To my horror, I was naked — again, except for my tie and knee socks — in a room full of people.
Luckily, I couldn’t see them.
The sound of the Headmaster firing up a high-powered vibrator delighted my ears. He ran the device up and down the insides of my thighs. My flesh quivered and I managed to utter “Thank you, Sir.” My gratitude was rewarded as the vibrator was thrust between my legs. A hoop with long feathers attached to the sides was then draped around my body, encasing me in plumage. The feathers, combined with the restraints and vibrator, drove me out of my head. The vibrator seemed to be set on a speed equivalent to that of a Black & Decker power sander. And unless the Headmaster transformed into Doctor Octopus while I was blindfolded, others must have helped him wield the array of sensory devices that graced my skin, converging to give me three extremely un-princess-like orgasms.
I can only imagine how asinine I must have looked: convulsing in orgasm, covered in feathers, tied up with a vibrator pressed to my clit, wearing nothing but a tie and socks. It sort of makes wearing a lampshade on your head at the office holiday party seem acceptable.
I hung from my shackles like a prisoner at a Renaissance Fair, reluctant to move or function. I simply wanted to sway from my shackles, soaking up the total relaxation that follows such monumental decadence. Unfortunately, other partygoers were upset that I was hogging the X. They asked the Headmaster to remove me so they could have their asses whipped too.
He freed my limbs and removed my blindfold.
“Congratulations, Princess Jen. You’ve graduated. I think you might even qualify for a teaching assistantship,” the Headmaster said proudly.
Summarize your findings. Don’t forget to attempt to identify possible variables that could result in different findings for others trying to recreate your test results.
The next day, I called Amy. “How long was I dangling from that X?”
“I don’t know. It seemed like an hour, maybe an hour and a half.”
“No? Really? I couldn’t tell. It’s not like I could look at a watch.”
“You would’ve been up there longer except some girl kicked you off. You were getting all of the attention. I don’t think she liked that.”
“I was hogging the X. It was really unfair.”
According to the Headmaster, I’d been an ideal student. (He doesn’t know I skipped the recommended reading.) Maybe it’s because I’m not as haughty and insolent as I thought. Actually, I think it’s because I found my tutor sexy. With a hot enough teacher, any subject can be interesting.
Aside from that, I embraced the act of temporarily relinquishing my power. When I stepped away from my shackles, it was not without sadness. Being tied up and blindfolded freed me from the world of normal human interaction. It was like being a work of art that partygoers could stare at and even touch. Yet I’d been unable to stare or touch back. Surprisingly, I hadn’t felt powerless or ashamed as I’d expected. I felt appreciated and beautiful — if only on the most superficial level. I fully understood why O allowed her lover to take her to a party in a crizazy owl mask and nothing else: it’s the ultimate narcissistic high. I Did It for Science appears monthly.
Photos by Andrew Marks.
©2005 Rev. Jen Miller and Nerve.com