I Did It For Science

Experiment: Princess Reform School

by Rev. Jen Miller

October 5, 2005

INTRODUCTION:

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.

Materials:
Please list all the materials required for this experiment (including, if applicable, how they were obtained).

- White button down shirt (1)
- Tie (1)
- White knee socks (1 pair)
- High-heels, minimum three-inch heel (1 pair)
- Erotic Surrender: The Sensual Joys of Female Submission (1 copy)

Method:
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.

Princess Reform School boasts a website so complex it puts Harvard's to shame. Fortunately, unlike Harvard, one can obtain admittance by simply filling out an online questionnaire designed to determine if you are a "Tragic Beauty" in need of some humility. Because I'd been introduced to the Headmaster at a party, where he deemed me princess enough for enrollment, I bypassed the form and sent an email requesting a scholarship since I'd be writing a column on the process. The Headmaster quickly agreed to bestow 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 forbids panties, hemlines lower than mid-thigh and heels shorter than three inches. The curriculum page listed lessons in dirty talk, bi exploration, bondage and sensual submission. It is also noted that the Headmaster devises an individualized curriculum for each student according to her needs, level of experience and aspirations. While I've toyed with light bondage in the past, I had never done any serious BDSM and wasn't sure if I'd like it.

    For my first lesson, the Headmaster suggested he do an "outcall" where he would home-school me. As preparation he requested I list and rank my "problem areas." Was I too modest, too bratty or too haughty? Perhaps I was insufficiently skilled in erotic service? Despite the fact that I've gotten naked in a good fifty percent of my columns, I am still a shrinking violet when it comes to public nudity, so modesty ranked high. Shyness while engaging in dirty talk, sexual laziness and a general insolence toward authority also made the top of the list.
    While the uniform reformatory princesses are required to wear varies depending on the assignment, the Headmaster insisted I wear a classic schoolgirl uniform to my first session. 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 turned out to be 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. If my high school teachers had light green eyes like his, I would have shown up to school more often.
    We proceeded into my boudoir where we began with a remedial kneeling lesson. Kneeling might seem like an obvious skill, but there are subcategories of kneeling that 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 arch my back like a yogi. For the final kneeling pose, "the submissive position," the Headmaster instructed me to kneel while simultaneously bending forward with my ass in the air. Perhaps because reformatory princesses are forbidden to wear panties, this position appeared to be the Headmaster's fave.

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 I'd just sat on 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. In the display position, the Headmaster unbuckled my mini-kilt thus "displaying" my vulva.
    As I stood bare-assed before the Headmaster, he produced a soft blindfold, which he wrapped around my head. I know from years of cheating during piñata demolitions that most blindfolds aren't effective. But the Headmaster's blindfold completely blinded me. It was disorienting and frustrating, but soon became titillating when he slowly unbuttoned my shirt and caressed my chest. "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), my breasts were assailed with the riding crop along with various other parts of my person. However the Headmaster managed to strike a balance between pain and pleasure, stroking my weary body lovingly in between punishments.
    Soon furry handcuffs were placed on my wrists. The cuffs were then clasped 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 down on my knees earning extra credit by performing an exemplary "oral report."
    My exceptional behavior was rewarded, and I was permitted to lie down on the bed. Because there is no carpeting in my apartment, kneeling grows painful after an extended period of time.
    The Headmaster removed my cuffs and treated me to gentle caresses and tickle torture at the hands of 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, where I would be permitted to graduate if I were willing to undergo various rites of public chastisement and nudity. The thought filled me with dread. I immediately thought of The Story of O, and how O was forced to wear an owl mask and nothing else to a party. This panicked me. Not only that, Downtown Manhattan is like a small town when you've lived there long enough — 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? Not only that, I'm so vain I put on lipgloss to go to Kinkos. The idea of others witnessing my pasty ass jiggle in public really bothered me.
    But if I were ever going 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.
    Unlike regular school where time moves at a snail's pace, time flies at the Princess Reform School. Before long it was almost midnight and we were fatigued. My tutor removed my blindfold and we lay on the bed discussing additional projects I could do to expedite my graduation. "Do you have a coat of arms?" I asked.
    "No, but we could use one."
    "I'll make one for you. It should definitely have an ass on it."

Being panty-less is a lot like being stoned — you think everyone knows.

The Headmaster suggested I do some homework, such as going out in public wearing miniskirts with no panties. More experienced students are encouraged to go out while wearing nothing underneath their coats. Because it was still too warm for a coat, I opted for the first option despite the fact that going out sans panties is nothing new to me. I have often gone without panties, not for the purpose of arousal, but because I'm often too lazy to do laundry.
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, and I shocked an entire double decker bus full of tourists by inadvertently exposing my hairless clam. In order to save time I multitasked by not wearing panties to Barnes and Noble where I hoped to peruse a copy of Erotic Surrender: The Sensual Joys of Female Submission by Claudia Varrin, 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 on the book, but being panty-less is a lot like being stoned — you think everyone knows. I'd glance at a page and then nervously around the bookstore. As my eyes wandered, I noticed Orlando Bloom on the cover of Teen Vogue. I raced over to the magazine rack to salivate over the glossy pics of the dreamy elfin archer. Soon I forgot all about recommended reading. Luckily, I have a lot of experience not doing homework and bullshitting my way to graduation regardless.

Observations/Results:
Quantify the effects of the experiment.

On graduation night, I was more nervous than I'd been at college graduation. 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 are 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. I realized I forgot the coat of arms I'd made earlier that day, which bore four heraldic symbols — an ass, a riding crop, a feather and a tiara with a line through it. I described it to the Headmaster and promised I would send it to him as part of my post-graduate work.
    After I nervously imbibed two frosty cans of Budweiser, the Headmaster suggested we get started. He motioned me over to a large wooden X on the wall, the kind 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. I imagined they were pointing and laughing at me, maybe even taking pictures for "Page Six."
    The Headmaster gently took my wrists and lifted them up over my head, spreading them out in a permanent jumping jack position where 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 figured requesting anything was far too haughty. I was 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 person who does the tying up is the one who has to do all the work. I've come to realize that the main difference between subs and Doms is that subs are just lazier than Doms.
    The Headmaster proceeded to spank, flog and paddle me as I yelped like I'd just jumped into an ice-cold swimming pool. "Ouch . . .ooh . . . ooh . . . ah, ouch!" I exclaimed, dancing a veritable jig away from the implements of anguish. In the background people conversed casually as though I weren't being tortured only a few feet away. The Headmaster then unfastened my wrist cuffs.
    "Am I done?" I asked.
    "You have a long way to go, young lady," he reprimanded me, removing my shirt and refastening the wrist cuffs over my head. He then grabbed my ankles, separated them and shackled them to the base of the X.
    "No!" I exclaimed.
    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 upon my bound, half-naked presence. Across the room I heard the Headmaster discussing 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. I found it ironic that, 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 any of them. For all I know, the mailman, video store

hipster and my junior high school guidance counselor could've been there. In fact they might all be discussing the mole on the inside of my left thigh right now. I will never know, and I don't want to.
    The sound of the Headmaster firing up a high-powered vibrator delighted my ears. He approached and ran the device up and down the insides of my thighs. My flesh quivered and I managed to utter a "Thank you, Sir." My gratitude was rewarded as the vibrator was then thrust between my legs. A hoop with long feathers attached to the sides was then draped around my body, encasing me in plumage. (I only know it was a hoop because I looked at it after my blindfold was removed.) I am ticklish to the degree that I can't even get a pedicure without almost kicking the pedicurist in the head as I flail about. So the feathers combined with the bondage and vibrator drove me out of my head. The vibrator seemed to be set on a speed equivalent to that of a Black and Decker power sander. And unless the Headmaster transformed into Doctor Octopus whilst 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.
    Many people find their "orgasm face" embarrassing and they worry they look silly in front of their partners. I can only imagine how asinine I must've looked convulsing in orgasm, covered in feathers, tied up with a vibrator pressed to my clit while wearing nothing but a tie and socks in front of a party full of people. 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. If it sounds like I dissociated a bit, I did. Being without the use of my hands and my eyes for so long I started to feel a certain detached bewilderment. It was like being in a sensory deprivation tank, which made the ultimate release so much more exciting.
    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.
    The Headmaster 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.

Conclusion:
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 asked her.
    "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. But, more accurately, 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.

Copyright 2005, by Rev. Jen Miller and Nerve.com..