You Will Study, Or You Will Suffer

     My little special snowflakes have been slacking, so I had to put on my Mean Mommy hat and do a pop quiz on the assigned readings.  I then graded the quizzes while the class was in session, which got everyone’s attention in a hurry.  

       On top of the humiliation, I added a pinch of guilt: “You know, I really tried to do everyone a favor by making photocopies of the readings instead of making you all purchase the $130 textbook.  I know what it’s like to spend $600 at the bookstore every semester.” 

       I continued to grade, wincing audibly.  

        One boy meekly raised his hand.

        “Yes, Mr. Smith?”  I call my students by their last names when I’m handing out lumps.  I used to call them by their last names all the time, but the student body at my college is so ethnically diverse that I often can’t pronounce their names, so first names it is (nobody likes hearing their name mispronounced, and if it’s done more than a few times it becomes disrespectful).  

         “Uh…how much is this quiz going to be worth?”

         “I haven’t decided yet.”

          “That’s kind of harsh,” he said.

           I gestured toward the syllabus, aka my 17-page legal document covering my ass.  The syllabus says that pop quizzes are administered at my discretion, typically as a mechanism for me to discern who is doing the reading and who is shirking.  

           Everyone looked miserable.  I saw a few of them exchanging sad glances.  

           I finished the grading and stacked the papers in a pile in front of me.   You could have heard a pin drop.

           Time for more another portion of shame:

           “I’m very disappointed.  These quizzes make me sad.”

         It’s a feminine tactic, but manipulation via guilt is often more effective than wrath.  

        Then, to restore the goodwill and rapport between us, and make them feel gratitude towards me instead of anger: 

        “Look, guys, I’m not going to grade these this time.  I want you to do well, and you can’t do that if you don’t do the readings.  I don’t want you to flunk the midterm.  I want you to get a good grade so that you can graduate and get out of here.  Please do the reading.  You’re killing me over here.”

           Like the Supreme Court, Instructor Adler giveth, and Instructor Adler taketh away.  My students visibly relaxed.  Big smiles.  

         “Thanks,” said one of them, completely forgiving, and forgetting, that I had just been torturing him.

           “My pleasure,” I said.

             Then everyone wanted to participate in the classroom discussion.  It was great.  

              See?  That wasn’t so harsh, Mr. Smith.  Would you like to see harsh?

           I’d give my last personal slave, No. 29, homework assignments, all of which were constructed to improve him and cultivate his understanding of servitude.  He was responsible and a pretty good student–his grades were better than mine when I was an undergraduate, actually–so he usually did the assignments and showed up ready to discuss them.  

          One time he didn’t, and furthermore, he lied to me about it.  Big no-no.  Bad idea, No. 29.

         I figured it out when I was quizzing him and he couldn’t answer my questions.  He was giving me ambiguous, vague answers.

        I went to my gear bag and retrieved a heavy-duty leather hood, the type that laces up the back and has removable pieces for the eyes and the mouth.  It was really an awesome hood, great for sensory deprivation, and best of all, the removable portions and the hood itself could be locked on the wearer with little masterlocks.  I miss that hood.  I lost it in a taxi cab in Las Vegas.  

        I picked the hood because No. 29 was mildly claustrophobic and he didn’t like the hood.  Oh no, No. 29 didn’t like that hood at alllllll.    

        “Keep talking, my boy, while I hood you like a falcon,” I said.

Property.  Waiting to be Summoned.

           He rambled while I laced the hood up tightly.  I left off the blindfold and the hole for the mouth.


           “You’re not making any sense, No. 29,” I said.  “Tell you what.  Give me the author’s three major points.  They were the entire premises of the article.  You couldn’t have missed them.”

            He was visibly frightened.  I could see it in his eyes, the set of his mouth.

            “Do you have anything you want to tell me?”  I asked.  Last change, No. 29.   Just admit you didn’t do as you were told.  I’d still punish you…but not with the hood.  

             “All right,” I said.  I put the leather attachment over his mouth, and then affixed it with a masterlock.  The sound of the lock clicking shut was very satisfying.  Then I attached the blindfold, and locked that.  Then I locked it around his neck.  There was no way for him to get it off without the keys.  

            “Now that’s your thinking cap,”  I said in his ear.  “A nice, quiet dark place where you can think.  Now you can remember the article and the author’s three major points.  I’m going to chain you up and let you think about it for a while.”

               Then I attached a chain leash to the collar and led him over to the wall, where different O-rings were sunk in at various points.  I have a thing I like to do when I punish or interrogate: I have the subject stand on a cinder block, and then I affix the chain leash at a level so that the subject is bent at the waist.  They can’t stand up because there isn’t length of chain to do so.  Sometimes I put them in a stress position.  I especially like to do this if they think that they’re young and strong.  Believe me, it cuts them down to size right quickly.  

            “I’ll come back and check on you in fifteen minutes.  If you fall off that cinder block, I’m doubling the time,” I said, taking out my stopwatch (time for the obligatory Frederick Taylor reference).  God, I love to time the suffering of slaves.  It’s a tactic I appropriated from Heinrich.  I like to quantify their pain, and play games with the numbers.  

           I left him all alone, in the dark, and watched from across the room.  No. 29 was a strong young man, 22 years old, but 15 minutes on the block reduced him to misery.  

          (Sometimes I like to flog or cane them while they’re on the bock, lecturing that they had better not fall off that block, or else they will be sorry.)

          I came back and unlocked his blindfold, and then I uncovered his mouth.  

            He looked like his was about to cry.  He’d started to sweat, and the muscles in his back trembled.  

           “Well?  Do you have anything you want to tell me?”

           He looked up at me, craning his neck.  I was enjoying myself, but I also felt a little empathy.  Empathy, but no sympathy.  I know what it’s like to be scrutinized and punished.  But you can’t let them off the hook.  You let them get over, and they lose respect for you.  You have to follow through.  Mercy is a treat to be given out rarely, randomly.  

            “Miss Adler, I’m sorry, but I didn’t do the reading,” he said.  He knew better than to make an excuse.

             “I know.  You should have admitted it sooner.  You did this to yourself, you know,” jangling the keys like a cruel prison warden.

             “I know.  I’m sorry.”

              I let him up.  His back popped audibly as he stretched out.

               I went and got the essay from my bag, and then I handed it to him.  

            “You can sit on the floor.  I’m going to take a walk.  I’ll let you out of the hood when you’re done reading it, and we’ll take off where we were.”

          No. 29 nodded, sat down, and started reading.

          And that, my friends, is how I really punish students who don’t do the reading.  There are worse things than I pop quiz.

          My little student snowflakes.  If they only knew. 

13 thoughts on “You Will Study, Or You Will Suffer”

  1. I’m not familiar with it, but I’ll be looking it up this evening.

    It was probably crazy to publish this. If my students’ helicopter parents read it, my ass is grass. Even though my students are all legally adults, and some are twice my age, and I gave the students a break. I just wanted to introduce a little apprehension in them. Fear is a superb motivator.

    1. Hi Flo!

      I guarantee you, my class pass (as opposed to fail) rates would be much higher. I’d bring a cane and a ravenous German Shepard.

      Alternately, I have often wished that I could squirt them randomly with a bottle of water when they talk or text-message, the way one squirts a cat when it scratches the furniture.

      Alas, we are not allowed to physically discipline the Snowflakes.

      (I am mostly joking. I honestly do not believe in corporal punishment in schools.)

    2. Hi Margo!

      I think you could always say that he or she looked thirsty. You are a generous person and only wanted to help but didn’t aim properly… yes I think that sounds very logic and plausible!

      PS: I think you hit the jackpot with your post :)!

  2. Deliciously delicious throughout. Thank you for sharing that.

    It would be lovely to be a client and a student of yours at the same time. Feeling shame and fear with the rest of the class… but knowing that there are worse things awaiting me than them, in consequence. Life doesn’t have to be fair. In fact, it’s so much better when it isn’t.

    And I hadn’t thought of the link between falconry and bdsm before… perhaps an evening spent tied to a perch by my jesses would have brought the connection home sooner.

    1. Hi Servitor! I noticed that you followed my blog! Thanks for commenting.

      Exciting fantasy. I never mess around with my real students–that would be unethical, as well as career suicide–but it is a common fantasy and one that I am often requested to role-play at the Studio (my commercial dungeon).

      Here’s a famous poem with a falconry theme that is very femdomme-y! The narrator’s feelings for his mother are ambivalent, but he is captivated by her, and she is very powerful.

      http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15709

      My mother would be a falconress, and she sends me as far as her will goes. She lets me ride to the end of her curb where I fall back in anguish. I dread that she will cast me away, for I fall, I mis-take, I fail in her mission. – See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15709#sthash.tclLWxFS.dpuf

  3. Outstanding post, Margo. I loved the suspense while you graded the quizzes. They likely will complete the readings in the future without giving you any guff – just like No. 29!

    The cinder block position sounds most challanging.

    1. Hi Jeff!

      Oh, grading the quizzes made it real in a hurry. I wanted to be a bitch like Mrs. Crabapple, of Simpsons fame, and say, “Let me get out the BOLD red for this batch!” but I didn’t. Better to look wounded and concerned.

      Cinder block has two purposes. First–and this is potentially offensive, and I’d never do it to a Black man–almost every associates slaves as being sold on a block or a stage.

      It also limits the subject’s freedom of motion. On the floor, they can stretch their legs and spread them to release or re-distribute tension. On the cinder block..the best they can do is shift the feet.

  4. HAAAHAHAHAHA look, this post made all of my 8 submissive male readers get stiffies. I should talk about chastising my students and disciplining No. 29 more often.

    No. 29 was a good boy and didn’t need much correction. One thing I would do, though, is leave him in a hotel room and take all his clothing away. I’d put his wallet in the hotel safe just in case of emergency (he’d have to call me on the hotel room phone to get the code to the safe). He’d have to wait in the room because he didn’t have shoes or clothes, or any property at all, and I’d drop in on him at my leisure.

    Good times.

  5. Loved this post! I like reading about true punishments. You didn’t say, but can we assume No.29’s hands were bound as well? Also, because I like to visualize in my mind, was the cinder block smooth side up or hole side up? (I’m assuming it’s not up lengthwise.)

    Have there really been 28 other personal slaves, and are there numbers past 29?

    Thanks again for the awesome post!

    1. I think all the positive response to this post is hilarious. I could write Hamlet and the guys would be like, “Tell us more about your slave!”

      Nope, I didn’t restrain his hands this time. Because of the way that he was bent over, and the disorientation that can come with wearing a full hood, I thought it was best to leave his hands free in case he fell so that he could catch himself. I’d feel badly if he tripped and broke his face or his mouth or smacked into the wall.

      Hole side up cause it hurts more, but I have made em perch on it lengthwise. Lengthwise is more challenging and requires a sense of balance. I myself can’t do it for long; I fall, and blindfolded would be out of the question. More graceful people can do it standing on their toes or gripping the edge with their toes.

      And no, I haven’t had 29 subs! Good lord! What a lot of work! Besides, I only got good enough to train one in the last few years…and I still have a lot to learn.

      I called him No. 29 because I agreed to start training him on the 29th of the month. I took away his name, just like prisons and the government give people numbers. When I was done with him and he “graduated,” I gave him a human name, David. When we correspond and hang out when he visits NYC, I call him David, though that is not his legal name (and I mean his mother no disrespect).

      Here’s some more material for your stiffie, perv: A few times I made him kneel on rice and hold a business card against the wall with his nose, and another time I made him run around town in a rainbow “I’m Gay and I’m Proud” t-shirt.

      There is nothing at all wrong with being gay, but for a young hetero guy, it was embarassing. You know how young dudes are with status and image. I made him do it in Chelsea, too, and he’s cute, so he got hit on a lot from the gay guys. HAAHAHAHAHA

  6. To be honest, I’m very interested in the subject of personal slaves. I’m especially interested in what you each got out of it, and what were your expectations of him. What does a personal do for the mistress? How often do you interact with your slave? Did he pay you? Was it a big time commitment for you and/or him?

    Whatever you can share about your situation and others you have heard of would be most appreciated. Thanks!

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