Synopsis: In a series of emails, a repressed female unviversity professor becomes shocked, angry, yet oddly fasinated by why a younger female student of hers keeps disprespecting her by by urinating on the professor's private undergarments. A slow start, but pretty believeably writen.
Professor Pamela, Panty Sniffer
(F/F, humili,professor student, panty fetish)
By Professor Christina (editied, monkeyed with, and
generally screwed up further by cowgirl)
Pamela_snyder@darmouth.edu.
Professor Pamela, Panty Sniffer (part 1 of 5)
(F/F, humili,professor student, panty fetish)
By Professor Christina (editied, monkeyed with, and
generally screwed up further by cowgirl)
Pamela_snyder@darmouth.edu.
I gazed at my email address and pondered it withmore than a little pride.
I'd finally made it! Here I was, Pamela Snyder,Associate Professor of Psychology, a
tenured faculty member and respected scholar at a prestigious Ivy League
university, still only in my mid-thirties, (okay, creeping up on forty).
And it made me feel even more proud to have accomplished this, without
having to compromise my outspoken feminist principles, in a male-dominated
department of a male-dominated university. Regardless of my modest looks, I
out-strip practically all other faculity members in my ability to analyze,
intellectualize, explain and catagories everything and anyone I came across,
including myself.
But I'd struggeled with a secret. Ever since shildhood, I'd long struggeled
to Ignore or supress. . . . . some of the stranger and more. . . well, for
lack of a better word, *lurid* Impulses that lurked and boiled inside myself
. . . Not exactly debilitating emotional or sexual undercurrents to my
intellectual and professional accomplishments, nothing like that. Just,
vague musings I eventually learned to supress by collage and recognize for
what they were strange and undermining desires that could be handeled.
My years of study and training in psychology have expossed that I have
developed over the years, as a coping mechanisim certian traits and unusal
practices and habits that reveal my dificulties in my early deveopment. It's
simply an ugly fact that certain typical abilities usual mastered in the
anal stages of childhood development, centering around basic personal hygen
and urinary capabilities, eluded me until the late into puberty, and even my
teen aged years, which were just more fuel to the fire for such shameful and
disturbing lurid, even burningly sexual images of what the other highschool
girls my age would think or say at such a basic and regressively juvinal
failure on my part. These twisted degrading shameful images, or rather
fantasies, subconsciously formed from a fearful childhood that were too
disturbing to consciously access, process, assess or even address.
Rather, it was the way the female students responded to intellectual jargon
in general, feminist ideology in particular that botherd me. My mounting
concern, was these female students seemed to be undermining not only the entire
feminist ideology, but their casual dismissive atitude by extension, seemed
to be dismissive of myself personally as well.
Not psychology or even Feminist ideology. The female students seem jaded to
this with their smug little smirks and their adolecent frivolatry, as they
concerned issues of gender and sexuality. And, at least implicitly, not me either,
personally or professionally, as much of an authority on anything. These
girls seemed impervious to my efforts, and memories of my exclusion by their
kind in hich school haunted my awareness, and I fought in my own mind, to
see myself as the professonal woman and faculty member I was, and not the
simpering outcast I was banished to at their age.
In fact, given the prevailing cynicism in our current political culture, merely
claiming authority on anything might well have brought my integrity before these
girls into serious question. But, under the sway of popular culture, these
giggeling students cared even less about political culture than the little they
knew about it, and therefore any authority I might claim wasn't even worth
seriously questioning, or even considered seriously at all. . From the rolling
of their mascaraed eyes and the smug little smirks of their glossy lips, to the
gossipy whispers and giggling titters, I was the least of their concerns.
And, the more I tried to impress upon them the serious issues and concerns
of gender and sexuality, as matters of both personal identity and professional
study, the more they promptly reponded by making me and what I said
the focus of their ridicule and condesending amusement.
And, most disturbing to me as a feminist, it was mainly the females who lead
the way in all this. My students Imature effort to try and fathom feminity
was silly and cartoonishly embarrassing at the least, and disgustingly
repugnant at worst! But, even more vexing and as a devout feminist, there
was nothing the least be compliant or obedient about these giggling,
wriggling package of hormones. I was not only in risk of losing their
respect, but even worse, I found myself passivly allowing their
eintimidatingly self-assertive rude and condesending smiles at my lectures.
The feminist struggles that still sternly concerned me were little more than
a frivolouse joke to these female students, and by extension, so was I for
believe in them. These girls were becoming casually dismissiveof me and all
I stood for as a person and a woman!
Rather, to these girls, I and everything I said stood for was silly.
*******
It was the beginning of the Fall Semester, when I walked into the office
less prepared for the start of classes and smart-assed students than ever before.
Wandering to my desk, I was unprapared for even an obsequiously
well-mannered student, much less the contemptuously ill-mannered one who
presumptously stompted into my office unannounced, and greeted my stunned
silence with insolence and an angry insistence I take a stance in her defense.
This must be Cindy Margolis, I thought to myself, though she couldn't be
bothered to introduce herself, and I was too vulnerable at that moment to
try to take the initiative myself. Cindy was the new part-time work-study
assistant to our department's full-time secretary. Or rather, as the more
current, politically corrected title termed this clerical position, our
office's administrative assistant. Which made Cindy a part-time assistant to a
full-time assistant. Not that anyone would know her humble status listening
to her grumble about her supervisor.
While our department's administrative assistant was Cindy's supervisor in
her work role, I was her faculty advisor in her student role. As such, I'd
already gotten an earful about her dreadful attitude and awful attire from
her supervisor, and, prompted by her complaints, had taken a look Cindy's
academic record. In fact, that was one of the few things I actually did do
to prepare for the semester--calling up the school's computer file to
acquaint myself with this new student causing such a stir before the
semester even started.
As an incoming freshman, there was little in Cindy's file beyond her high
school grades. As uninspired as her grades were, Cindy apparently aspired
to something else, having already grated on her supervisor enough to almost
get herself fired, and now, unabated, demanding that I, her faculty advisor,
chew out her supervisor for *daring* to suggest she should dress more
appropiately and watch her personal hygiene.
With her face strikingly cute--no, startingly pretty--even scrunched up in a
churlish scowl, and her lush mane of chestnut hair pulled back into a girlish
ponytail, Cindy was certainly a study in contrasts. Contrasts that became
arresting as my staring eyes wandered down. With her slim yet shapely form
sleekly poured into her crop-top and skimpy skirt, both skin tight and
shimmering metallic hues of pink and green, Cindy's scanty attire was . . .
well, lurid, to be sure. But was it really lewd, I wondered as my eyes
traveled back up to her face, then abruptly stopped as I caught her noticing
me and I blushed. Astonished at my lapse in judgement, worried about whether my
embarrassment was as transparent as my all-too-busy eyes, I quickly admonished
myself that her revealing outfit, no matter how appealing, was certainly not
suitable office apparel.
'No matter how appealing?' Now my head was reeling. My stomach churned and
I turned to look away. My eyes darted back and forth, then rested on her
again. What was that last bit about hygiene. I squirmed in my seat,
wondering if she'd noticed, as I looked up at her face. Seeming to be
oblivious, Cindy continued on about how, when she pressed her supervisor for
specifics,the woman confessed her repulsion over the panty line clearly
visible through the girl's tight skirt.
"That's her problem, not mine! Your supposed to be in charge around here
Dr. Sniffer. You're going to tell the snobby busy-body to jump in the lake,
right?" Little Cindy spat.
I swallowed, somehow terribly worried about the troubling prospect of a
confrontation. Suddenly, I heard myself desperately trying to sooth her,
eagerly agreeing word for word with everything she'd said. Yes it *was* her
supervisors problem and not hers, and yes, it *was * unfair for her to speak
that way to her, and yes, she had a very attractive bottom in fact . . .
and, before I knew what I was saying, she even had me obsequiously promising I'd
fire off an rightiously infuriated email chastising the woman for her
behaviour.
Which I did. Right then and there. Well, as soon as the arrogant girl
stopped smugly glaring at me, turned and stomped back out the door, without
offerin so much as a word of thanks or farewell. And, well, anyway, well
alright, I didn't write it immediately. It took me a while to calm down,
collect my thoughts, think of what to say and how to say it, as
appropriately as possible.
Which wasn't easy. In fact, I worried over it, carefully phrasing and
fretfully re-wording it, for nearly an hour. Mumbling to myself, stumbling
over every statement, each time I found myself stopping, staring
apprehensively at her email address.
Carol_Stern@dartmouth.edu. Actually, Miss Stern, as she stubbornly insisted
on being called, and even resisted email for a while because it did not
allow enough letters for her to be addressed by the formality as well as her first
and last name. And, as sensitive as she was about her administrative status,
she insisted that not only students refer to her so formally, but faculty as
well.
Well, not all faculty. A few never did, although we all knew that she
preferred to be referred to that way. As more of mere formality with the
faculty, over whom she had no authority, and who, in fact, had authority
over her. A simple, spoken token of respect, as she put it, to reinforce her
authority with the students, whose spoken tokens of respect for any
authority, even the faculty, had conspicuousl lapsed and withered over the
years. And there was an awkward interval, several years ago, when the few
faculty who routinely referred to her by her first name grew to include most
in faculty in the department, and some grad students as well. As she
bristled and fell into a stubbornly sullen silence around the
office--resolutely only speaking to those who called her by her first name
when absolutely necessary--any non-routine or strenuous administrative work
stopped altogether, typos cropped up and went uncorrected in some memos,
while others were misdirected.
Gradually--after a stubborn stand-off, some angry outbursts, and lots of
mutual animosity--all the faculty, and even the grad students, no longer
referred to her with any formality at all in her presence. And, in her
absence, plenty of them referred to her with profanity as well.
Well, actually all the grad students and nearly all the faculty, gave up on
formalities to her presence in favor of profanities in her absence. Not
quite all the faculty, because I was new to the faculty when this ugly
struggle began. And, full of anxiety about securing tenure, ensuring
propriety, and not threatening any more authority than my feminist
principles compelled me to, I quickly adopted the formality, self-consciously
maintained it, and even abstained from profanity about our adminstrative assistant,
long after most of the other faculty.
Well, all of the other faculty, to be frank. And now, when even beginning
grad students, and a growing number of undergrads as well, don't bother with
any spoken formality in token recognition of the authority of our admininstrat
ive assistant, here I am, my tenure secure, the only faculty member who can
be heard to mumble Miss Stern in her presense, and not even grumble about
her in her absence.
I'm not clear why I continue to call her Miss Sterns. I just do. Partly
out of habit, I guess, and because old habits die hard. But I must admit that
this habit is also hard to hold on to at times, particularly when I hear
other faculty scoffing at me, and students snickering and rolling their
eyes, because it's so embarrassing. But, it becomes even more distressing when
Miss Stern, despite my politely respectful formality with her, almost in
spite, she still pretends she doesn't hear me until I have say it louder. I
doubt she does it to intentionally to intimidate or humiliate me. At least
I don't think so. Rather, I think that she's still so resentful about the
loss of any other token to her authority, spoken or otherwise, that the only way
she can feel all that proud, is to make the only faculty who refers to her
with the formality she prefers to, do so loud enough for others to hear.
It's humiliating for me, of course, when I hear faculty scoffing and students
laughing at me, as I'm sure it is for Miss Stern too. In fact, I think it's
because she finds the scoffing and laughing so infuriating, that she's
become so bossy and intimidating toward me, which only makes it that much more
embarrassing and humiliating, as they scoff and laugh at me all the more.
And her bossing me about the office has not only been embarrassing and
humiliating, it's also has been debilitating to my career, as all the respect
I've shown to her has, I suspect, lost me a lot of respect among my collegues
the faculty, grad students and undergrads as well. As much as students have
changed, I'm sure I'd have less problems being taken seriously in the
classroom if I acted less obsequiously in the office around Miss Stern.
Now, I wished I would have stood up to her earlier, at least when tenure was
secure. But, in some misplaced feminist principle of sisterly loyality, and
sympathy for her loss of face and authority in the office, I thought my
respectful formality would offer some small solace. Well, however much she
may have appreciated the gesture then, any sense of loyality and sympathy I
felt for her had long since dissipated, and I wondered why I tolerated the
way she humiliated me. And now, through the immediacy of email, but
without meeting face-to-face, I'd finally gotten an opportunity to regain my
authority with her.
For all the desired immediacy, restoring my status as her superior still
required delicacy, and that became a source of some concern right from the
start. Should I say, Carol, bla, bla, bla, bla? Or should I say, Miss
Sterns, bla, bla, bla, bla . . . and, by the way, I'm going to start calling
you Carol from now on, like everybody else. Well, I thought, I should leave
out the latter phrase, which makes me sound defensive, and may make it more
offensive to her than it already would be. But, I worried, could I just
declare I was going to call her Carol from now on without explaining it?
And, I wondered, if I could, why not just do it at the very beginning? But,
these particular (rather, peculiar) circumstances notwithstanding, it still
seemed presumptuous and, yes, disrespectful, to simply decide to call a
person by a different name without at least asking their permission. Yet,
asking permission would defeat the whole purpose, I reminded myself. The
fact this little Cindy Margolis, a simple first year student, was indierctly
causing me to take such elaborate pains to avoid a possible confrontation with Mrs. Stern,
only compounded my self anger, anxitey, and humiliation. But after wrestling
with the most basic elements of the email for the better part of an hour, I finally
ending up writing, and re-writing, what turned out to be a brief, polite email,
addressed to Miss Stern, asking her to please go a little easier on our more
sensitive students, and would she mind if I referred to her as *Carol* from now on.
Having ruminated about it, worried over it and re-written it for an hour, I
still hesitated to send the two-sentence email.
But, after procrastinating for a few more tomented moments, I just gritted
my teeth, pressed my finger and sent it on its way.I was astonished, and more
than a little anquished, went I received a reply moments later, before I'd even
turned my fixated eyes away from the screen.
Swallowing hard, I opened it and scowled at the curt but obscure reply.
"No. Yes." That's all it said. Not complicated, but still I wasn't sure I
understood. Of course, I could simply walk down the hall and clear it up
quickly. But, with little humility or generosity evident in the curtly
stated two-word email, I wasn't sure I was ready to speak to her in person.
So, I wrote back, simply and lamely, "I don't understand."
A few more suspenseful moments later, but not many, I received her reply.
NO, she would NOT go easier on Cindy, and she thought it was inappropriate
And rude of me to undercut her authority with students. And, YES, she most
certainly DID mind me starting to call her by her first name, and having the
temerity request to do so while attempting to undercut her authority. In what was
offered in what might have appeared as a reconciliating gesture, but was humiliating
just the same, she concluded by stating that, my impertinence notwithstanding,
she would still continue to call me Pam, as I'd long ago told her she could,
in the hope I would return the favor, correct the lapse in my behavior and
visibly demonstrate more respect for her in the future.
More respect for her?! Visibly demonstrate? What did that mean? I wondered,
and shuddered to think about it. Knowing I'd only made things worse, and
regretting it already, I wondered now how I'd salvage my reputation and
authority before Cindy eyes.
cindy_margolis@dartmouth.com
Miss Margolis,
I spoke with Miss Stern. I'm sorry to say things did not work out the way
you wanted. It's a complicated situation, and you're a student--a first year
student, working as a part-time assistant, under Miss Stern's supervision.
Miss Stern is this department's administrative assistant and has been for
many years. She takes her job very seriously, and expects loyalty, respect
for her authority and decorum in the office, including what she considers
appropriate office apparel on students employed by the university put under
her supervision.
I sympathize with you, Miss Margolis. I know this must be difficult for
you, a first-year student, new to the university, going through so many
life-changes and adjustments in a new environment. It creates quite a bit of
anxiety for anyone, and, while we'd like our new students to have positive
experiences, some negative experiences are, unfortunately, to be expected.
You've already had a negative experience that's obviously upsetting for you,
and rightly so.
But, as with all negative experiences, it's important to try to turn them
into positive ones. It helps if you try to get beyond your negative
emotions, be more objective about what's happened--to view them as new
learning experiences, opportunities to see things in new and different ways,
understand them more fully from other perspectives, in a more comprehensive
way, as an expansive experience, a personal-growth experience.
That's what I hope we can do here. You came to me for help. And this is
the best way I think I can help, under the circumstances.
I know I now must seem annoyingly like any other teacher or counselor here,
making you weary, droning on, giving you dreary advice. But I am, after all,
a teacher, a psychology professor, and your faculty advisor, so giving you
advice, is my proper role here, for better or worse, I suppose. But, as a
professional psychogist, my expertise is, broadly speaking, human behavior.
So, in the spirit of turning a negative experience into a positive one, I
hope you'll permit me to use my expertise and experience, professionally and
personally, to offer you some advice and help you through this difficult,
trying, upsetting experience, turning it from a negative to a positive,
expansive, growth experience and help you make the necessary changes and
adjustments.
Changes and adjustments, of course, are difficult and anxiety-inducing
experiences themselves. So turning a negative into a positive is a difficult
task, requiring a person to endure even more changes and the anxieties they
generate, and thus more negative experiences, before turning the original
negative experience into a positive one. It's hard, but it helps to keep in
mind--keep reminding yourself about; visualizing it as an image and keeping
it in view--that your goal and eventual destination is a positive, expansive,
growth experience, where you've gained valuable new knowledge, viewing things
from different perspectives, in an expansive, more comprehensive, now wiser,
way.
This is one valuable way to keep the positive in view, in turning a negative
into a positive experience. And another way, closely interconnected with
this, is to view what your doing as not just reactive, which is still
negative, but as proactive and expressive, in which you are taking the
initiative to make the negative a positive, expansive experience for you.
Making what was working against you, in a negative way, now work for
you, in a positive way. That's the key.
Now, the question is, how can we do that here, for you, with this situation,
and how can I help? I hope what I have said already is helpful for you. But
it's all still rather abstract, I know, and perhaps it's not clear how you
can apply it to this particular situation.
Having had some experience, professionally and personally, with office
situations of this sort, and being familiar with this specific office
situation, in our department, I think I can be helpful here, too, on both a
professional and on a more personal level. Of course, as helpful as I'd like
to be, we have to be careful here, in taking things from a professional to a
personal level. Boundaries can get blurred. Roles and expectations can get
mixed up. Things can get confusing, and feelings can be hurt. Even in
trying to be helpful, with the best of intentions, if we're not very
careful, it can turn out hurtful instead.
So I want to be very careful here about breaching the boundaries between
professional and personal relationships here, with all the potential ramifcations,
emotional implications and complications. I know I still sound pretty
abstract here. But not only am I trying to be careful with how helpful I'm
being here, in crossing the boundaries between the professional and personal
levels, but I one of the ways I think can be helpful--and be helpful about
being careful--is in helping clarify the boundaries, explain and understand
them. As abstract as it may seem, analyzing a situation is essential for
being more objective about, learning new perspectives, and turning positive
into negatives.
Now the situation we have here involves, of course, Miss Stern, as an
administrative assistant in a departmental office of a large, prestigious
institution of higher learning--a university, where Miss Stern works in an
essentially clerical occupation, in an administrative staff position, in an
office where her work brings her primarily into contact with faculty and
students.
I know this seems like merely a description of simple facts obvious to
everyone. But the facts are important for understanding the office
situation, the position and role of Miss Stern in this office situation, her
professional and personal experience in this position and role, and her
perspective and expections for others she works with. And that involves
understanding these in ways that are not always obvious to
everyone--especially to those not familiar with the informal, more personal
and emotional aspects of office relationships, and not simply the more formal
or professional ones.
In her daily interactions with faculty, Miss Stern deals with professors who
have Ph.Ds., and are in society's third highest status, most prestigious
occupation, as surveys indicate, beneath only doctors and lawyers, and above
even corporate executives (though our pay is lower than any of them). She
also deals with students, who, though still students, and usually much
younger than her, are destined, with further education, for professions and
occupations that will, in most cases, be quite a bit higher than
administrative assistant, especially with a degree from a prestigious
university like this one.
While honored to work in such a prestigious institutional setting, with so
many persons either already in, or destined for, prestigious jobs and
high-status occupations, it can also, as you must understand, be frustrating
and demeaning, even humiliating, to be an administrative assistant, like Miss
Stern, in a relatively low-status, clerical occupation, have to continually
deal with those with either more formal education and higher status, like me
and other faculty, or those in the process of achieving it, like yourself and
other students. This is Miss Stern's workplace situation and experience, and
it is what shapes her perspective, her behavior, and her expectations of
others behavior.
Like any administrative assistant, much of her perspective is shaped by being
sensitive--even overly sensitive, from other's perspective--about her status
situation, which is precarious and, as I noted, in some respects, demeaning
and humiliating, compared to the faculty and students she works with. In
fact, one of the things that makes her even more sensitive about her status
and authority is the frustrating experience of being in a very contradictory
status and prestige situation--working at a high-status-and-prestige
insitution, with others in high-status-and-prestige positions, but in a
low-status-and-prestige occupation, herself.
Altogether, the demeaning, humiliating and frustrating aspects of her daily
work experience make her, not only very sensitive about her formal status and
authority, but also about formalities in general, including things like dress
codes and office decorum. As sensitive as she is about these things like
status, authority and formality, this can make Miss Stern come across as,
well, quite cross and stern, of course, but also quite stiff and stuffy, nosy
and bossy. In fact, with her insecure, frustrating and humiliating formal
status position, you'll find she can be quite annoyingly, and even abusively,
nosy and bossy, poking her nose into everyone's business and trying to make
it her own. As annoying and even abusive as this can so often be, it is
helpful to know and keep in mind that this is natural for someone in her
insecure status situation to be nosy and bossy more than others think she
should. It is also helpful to remember that, bossy or not, being nosy helps
give secure and even raise status and power, informally if not formally, by
gaining a lot inside information and knowledge about the personal and
emotional lives of others, which is especially helpful for her in dealing
with those of higher status, giving higher status and more authority than she
otherwise would have, or formally deserve. All of which means, no matter how
bossy she gets, and how angry that may make you, you should be very careful
around Miss Stern, because as nosy as she is, she's gotten a lot inside
information, not only on people's professional lives, but on their personal
and emotional lives as well, and knowledge gives power, especially that kind
of knowledge--personal and emotional knowledge about people's private lives.
Of course, in the spirit of turning negatives into positives, I should point
out that it's not simply a matter of being very careful around Miss Stern
because of all she knows and the power that gives her. For the very same
reason, she can be very helpful too, in providing valuable inside
information. Like others in her situation, she's not only nosy, but gossipy
as well. In fact, the two go together, giving information in exchange for
receiving it.
So, with her inside knowledge, and now with your new knowledge about her,
perhaps you can turn this negative experience into a positive one, after all,
and develop a new, more positive relationship with Miss Stern. As sensitive,
nosy and bossy as she is, and as careful as you have to be, with all her
inside information, someone like Miss Stern can be quite helpful to someone
like you, an incoming freshman, new to the university and its ins and outs,
and who's who and what's what.
In fact, that is precisely what I suppose I am attempting to do here.
Offering some knowledge and information, professionally and personally, that
I hope will be helpful to you in this situation, in your transition to this
new environment, and in the changes and adjustments that will need to be made
to turn negatives into positives, and make your experience as positive and
rewarding as possible.
As far as any further, more personal and concrete advice on what to do with
your immediate situation with Miss Stern, I'm not sure what to say, frankly,
and I have to be even more careful here. As a new student here, I don't know
if you are aware of this, but I am not only a psychologist, but also a
feminist. And as a feminist, under most circumstances, I would not feel
comfortable telling another female what to do--at least an adult female, even
a student, who, at least at college, should be treated largely as an adult.
And I would feel even less comfortable telling her how to dress and what to
wear--to be more conservative in her attire, for instance, which is a very
sensitive issue in feminist circles these days, provoking lots of debate. I
know lots of feminists, most in fact, are from an older generation, my age,
that younger females, those in your generation, view as rather rigid and
stodgy, stuffy and stuck in their old thoughts and ways about clothing and
attire, dress and decorum, appropriate apparel and appearance, and all
that--and especially as it relates to sexuality and self-expression, and,
well, self-display. In fact, as a feminist psychologist, specializing in
studies of gender and sexuality, this is my area of special expertise, and I
teach classes covering these issues, which you might be interested in taking.
Anyway, I know this field of study rather well. And, from my talks with
feminists and students, and current literature and debates in the field, I am
well-aware of, and very sensitive to the issue of females wearing revealing,
sexually provocative clothing--whether it sexually objectifies, demeans and
exploits females to do so, or whether it empowers them as an assertive form
of self-expression. There is little question that clothing is a form of
personal display and self-expression, and that dressing oneself is an
identity-defining activity that, without saying any words, nevertheless
"speaks" to others, saying "this is who and what I am," asking "how do you
like me?" In this sense, all clothing is symbolic and self-objectifying
And so there is little question that dressing in revealing, sexually
provocative ways is sexually objectifying. The question is whether that is
submissively demeaning and degrading, or assertively empowering and
persuading.
I'm sorry. I seem to have gotten a little carried away here. I sound like
I'm teaching a class. But that tends to happen when you have a passion for
your profession, like I do. See what kinds of interesting things we would be
talking about in my classes? Anyway, what I was trying to say was that the
conflict you and Miss Stern have is an instance of a very salient larger
issue that is unresolved now and being hotly debated, between non-feminists
and feminists, older and younger feminists of different generations, and, at
home, between parents and daughters as well. In fact, at home, it's not even
a new issue. It may surprise you to know that females of our generation had
the same kinds of arguments with their parents, about how revealing and
sexually provocative our clothing should be, about self-expression vs.
self-exploitation, about what a "self-respecting girl" could and should wear
and show. And, although I know females of my generation seem very stodgy and
conservative to females of your's, I remember feeling just that way about my
mother other women of her generation, and arguing with my mother about
wearing things that she thought looked lewd, obscene and "slutty," even
though my clothing was pretty reserved and conservative compared to my peers.
In fact, I can remember being scorned by my mother for too revealing
clothing and by girls my age for too conservative clothing, and being looked
down on by both my parents and my peers was very difficult for me, as you
might imagine. In fact, ironically, though I'm an adult now, I find myself
in a similar situation with Miss Stern, where I'm . . . .
Well no need to go into all that here. Need to be careful, as I say.
Anyway, I was only saying that to be helpful, to show you that I know the
kinds things you're going through, and understand how difficult it is.
So I hope this is helpful to you. Whoops! I almost slipped and said "to
you, Cindy." And I haven't asked you if I may do so. I know teachers
typically call students by their first names, and some teachers are even
informal enough to make that mutual. I'm not sure I feel comfortable with
that myself. Blurring professional and personal boundaries and stuff, you
know? Of course, I do typically call my students by their first names, but I
try to make a point of asking first, out of simple respect, and treating them
like adults--and especially with students I advise, where personal stuff is
often talked about, and boundaries can get blurred.
So, can I call you Cindy? I know we've only just met, under stressful
circumstances, and haven't even been properly introduced yet. But, with me
as your faculty advisor, you working in the office and perhaps also taking
classes from me, I expect we'll be in contact quite a bit. And, after this
letter, with so much personal as well as much professional stuff, and on
issues that are rather emotional, perhaps our relationship might develop from
a professional to a more personal level, and even develop into a friendship.
Well, maybe I shouldn't have said that. Wow. I normally don't have
friendships with students. Actually, I've never had any, at least not with
undergrads. Of course, I've had a few closer, more personal relationships
with grad students, as virtually every faculty member has, when you work
together, over an extended period of time, when grad students are your
teaching or research assistants. I'm speaking her of proper and appropriate
relationships, of course. Maybe a bit closer, and more personal, but nothing
sexual. Some faculty, of course, have affairs with their grad students--and
undergrads too, which is worse. But I don't believe in them. I think
they're professionally unethical and never healthy. Always exploitative
because there's always a power difference. In fact, I fought to get the
university by-laws revised to establish stricter rules about teacher-student
relationships, and, after a long struggle, we finally got it passed.
Actually, I even chaired the faculty committee that wrote the new sexual
harrassment statute that was added to the by-laws, and have served as a
consultant on the issue to faculty at other universities.
But, what was I saying? Oh, yeah. (I had to look up to read it and see).
Anyway, as I was saying, I normally don't have friendships with students, and
never with an undergrad. So, I'm not sure about it. Whether I'd feel
comfortable with it. There is the age difference, of course, along with
crossing professional and personal lines. I know I never felt comfortable
about it before, and always was careful to keep some distance. In fact,
quite frankly, I've always been careful about keeping my distance, and have
never had many friendships--or any that were really close. So recently I've
been thinking that maybe I've been too careful about personal relationships,
not forming any real friendships, always too focused on professional stuff.
And, well. . . . Well, I don't know what I'm saying here. You're a new
student and I've barely met you. We haven't even been properly introduced
yet, and I don't even know if you'll permit me to call you by your first
name, yet, much less whether you might be interested in friendship. You
probably have plenty of friends. A lot more than me. Though you're new
here, so maybe you haven't made friends here, yet.
Well, listen to me rambling on. I guess I'm going through some changes and
adjustments too. This letter has been a lot longer than I intended, but it's
actually been helpful for me to think and talk some of these things through.
I hope you it has been helpful for you too.
Most Sincerely Yours,
Dr. Pamela Snyder
From: cowgirl [cowgirl_stupid@excite.com]
Sent: March11ÈÕ2001ÄêSunday 12:15 AM
To: webmaster@bdsmlibrary.com
Subject: Professor Pamela (pt.2 of 5)
Professor Pamela Panty Sniffer (2 of 5)
(F/F, humil., professor/ student, panty fetish)
By Professor Christina
(edited and proofed, by cowgirl)
This is PART 2 a very subtle 5 part story of a university professor who
manages to explain and rationalize her bizarre repressed sexual obsession
with one of her female students underwear. This story was written by a woman
who I believe was a real professor. She provided me with these letters,
asking me to help her edit them, then unfortunately disappeared before we
were finished. I have shaped them as best I can
into a sex story as she asked, adding a beginning and ending, but the
letters more or less her own voice. It starts slow, but is worth it. See the
excerpt below for a tease.
- cowgirl
*****
To put it more simply, digging your professor's panties our of her hamper,
and urinating in them was your way of saying to an authority figure, "I can
get to you, on your own territory, uncover your most private, intimate
possessions and show you what I think of you by "pissing"
(pardon the vulgarity) on it and, thereby, you.
****
Pam's 2nd Letter to Cindy
Cindy,
Am I being presumptive in addressing you by your first name? I hope not,
but
I'm not sure. As I indicated in my earlier email to you, I try to make it a
professional rule to treat students as adults. This includes, as a simple
matter of courtesy and respect, making a point of asking students permission
to call them by their first names, especially students for whom I serve as
faculty advisor, and counsel, where, not only professional matters, but also
matters of a more personal and emotional nature are often discussed.
Such more personal and matters can, of course, be quite upsetting and
distressing, even embarrassing, and I try to be helpful as I can. But, as I
said in the earlier email, it's important to be careful in crossing
professional and boundaries, in blurring them, where, not matter how
well intended we are, things can get confusing and even hurtful.
I never received a response from you to my earlier email.
And, though I've seen you on campus several times since, and even last night
when you dropped in unexpectedly at my house to use the bathroom then
rushed out so quickly! It seems, for some reason or another, that we
haven't
had much of an opportunity to speak about the issues discussed in that
email.
I hope you found it helpful, my previous letter I mean, (although I'm sure
the
bathroom was a welcome relief as well.) It took me a long time to write it
and
I said more than I intended. It was rather long, I know, and I hope you had
the
time to read it and it didn't try your patience.
In these days of multi-media immediacy and so many audio and visual stimuli
competing for your attention, students of your generation are typically less
interested in plain, bland print media and impatient about simply reading
things, without external stimuli directly engaging their other senses,
enabling them to also see, hear, smell and touch them, for a more sensually
saturated and rich experience. Of course, as I'm sure you've heard,
professors and teachers in general find this all very frustrating their
students' impatience, short attention spans, and general aversion to reading
and abstract ideas in the absence of other, more directly sensual, stimuli.
As a teacher and scholar with a love and passion for the printed word and
abstract ideas, I often find it frustrating as well. But on a more personal
level, I too, find other media and more sensual stimuli seductive; and, on a
professional level, as a psychologist, its my good fortune to have the
conceptual tools to be able to clearly understand how and why students are
impatient with the simplicity of the written word or complexity of abstract
concepts in the competing presence of so much other, more intensely
interesting communication, so much external, more sensually compelling
stimuli, and such sophisticated media to deliver it so immediately to us.
In fact, that's one of the most intriguing and perplexing paradoxes of our
age - the immediacy of media. Like this email, for instance, which can be
sent and received instantly. Of course, even this electronic
communication - email, specifically - for all its immediacy, lacks the
components of sight (or at least direct sight of anything but written
symbols), and of sound, smell and touch. So, for all its immediacy in speed
of symbolic communication, it's limited in other forms of sensual immediacy
that would give it more intimacy.
Still - and here's another intriguing, perplexing paradox about symbolic
communication and media, closely interconnected with the first - the very
lack
of other kinds of sight, and of sound, smell, and touch - can not only take
the multi - sensory immediacy and intimacy out of email, but it can also
make
it possible to actually be more intimate through email. And this is so
precisely because the lack of those other sensory components makes it seem
like a safer, more protected and secure, communication (barring email
snooping and theft, of course) than one in which the other person is more
directly present, and can identify you, see your appearance and gestures,
hear your voice, smell you, etc.
This is very abstract, I know. And I'm sure I'm trying your patience
already. But it was my way of leading into, and trying to explain two
things, which are the primary reason for this email to you. First, that
email can often feel like a more personally and emotional safe and secure
way
to communicate difficult things. It is more impersonal than speaking
face-to-face, which, ironically, can make it easier to be more personal and
intimate about things we'd have difficulty talking about in person,
especially emotional things, things that are too upsetting or embarrassing
to
talk about in person.
That was the first point. The second point is that humans are, by nature,
and enabled by their brains, inherently social, communicative and symbolic
creatures. To simplify things a bit, we are always saying things to each
other - sending and receiving messages - in complex, symbolically encoded,
ways. Of course, once we learn language and learn to talk, talking ot each
other is one way. And, once we learn to read and write, that is another.
And, as I discussed briefly above, our media for symbolic communication has
gotten very complex and sophisticated, especially electronically, engaging
many of our senses for receiving external stimuli.
But all kinds of other things, too, can be unique media for symbolic
communication and sending messages, including things we don't always
consciously recognize as communication media, even though they are. For
instance, graffiti on walls of buildings - the buildings weren't intended
for
that kind of communication, but they can be used that way to send messages.
Of course, although some owners of buildings don't mind, even encourage,
signs (for advertising, for instance) on their buildings, they are usually
not fond of, and often offended by, graffiti on their building walls, and
the
appropriation of their wall for what they consider inappropriate, even
visually despoiling and polluting, perhaps vulgar or obscene, messages.
As I alluded to in the earlier email, clothing is also a medium for symbolic
communication that enables us to send messages to each other through what we
wear, how we wear it and whatever else we may do with it. This can include
the items, colors, styles, textures of clothing and all the symbolic
messages
each of these send. And of course, businesses take commercial advantage of
our proclivity for message-sending, with not only direct advertising, but
indirect advertising of visible name brands and other symbolic messages on
T-shirts and other clothing. Moreover, people not only buy clothing, and
other message - sending things, but also can, themselves, appropriate
material,
including clothing, in inventive ways, to send their own personal messages,
often in quite imaginative, creative forms.
Many times, messages are so imaginative and creative, people don't even
notice them, or don't understand the messages when the do, or misunderstand
the message, perhaps taking offense when none was intended. In fact,
symbolically encoded messages are complex, and people are not always
consciously aware of what messages they send, or at least not all of them,
or
the variously ways they may be interpreted and understood. So, as with all
messages, but perhaps especially with the more imaginative and creative
ones,
we should try to be careful about what messages we intend to send and may
send anyway, even if we don't intend them that way.
When I did the laundry tonight, I noticed what I believe was a message from
you which you left in my bathroom hamper after you left. I'm not sure
precisely
what message or messages you might have intended to send, or all the
meanings—
explicit and implicit, conscious and unconscious, manifest and latent - of
the
messages that might be interpreted--but, as a psychologist, I have a good
general idea of the various, complex possibilities. In fact, as a
psychologist,
and therefore something of a specialist in the complexity symbolic
communications
and their media--I would have to say that the message(s) you sent me, and
the
specific medium you selected for your particular form of communication here,
is
one of the more imaginative and creative I've experienced. Quite clever and
sophisticated, actually, for all the crudity and offensiveness that might
also be
conveyed (if one interprets natural body functions that way).
Of course, I cannot say I was precisely pleased with you for sending the
message, or, even more so, pleased to receive it. In fact, although you had
no way of knowing this and I do not think you intended it, at it turns out,
receiving your message was, not only surprising, but also especially
embarrassing for me in so far as I first noticed and "received" the message
you'd left for me on my personal undergarment in front of several other
students
of mine, in a public laundromat, which is where I had to take my clothes
when
my washer drier broke down. The humiliating assumptions my students possibly
may have made after seeing your message, thus giggling about their
professor's
large yellow stain which announced my seeming un hygienic indiscretion
apparent lack
of abilities to control my own bladder, only caused me to shudder in further
mortification.
Please don't misunderstand. I am not saying I am angry with you for the
message you sent, or even the way you sent it. Nor am I judging you, as a
person, in any negative way because of it, despite the apparently negative
interpretation one could make of the message itself. I am not even blaming
you, in any way, for the embarrassment I felt about it. Not only could you
not have known or anticipated I would be doing laundry in the laundromat,
and
in front of other students, but you do not know me very well, or my personal
history, and therefor could not have accurately anticipated precisely what
the message would mean to me.
In fact, I doubt that you fully appreciate or understand what all the
message
means, why you sent it, and why you sent it that particular way. That is
not
a negative reflection on you, or your intelligence or understanding in
general. Quite the contrary, although your academic performance doesn't
reflect this fully, I'm convinced you are quite intelligent with a deeper
understanding of things than most students your age. In fact, I think,
other
things aside, the imaginative, creative character of your message and
medium-of-choice confirms how bright and clever you are.
But people can be very bright and very clever, yet very troubled, too. I'm
bright and clever, but I've had my share of troubles, too. And that is why
I
am concerned, and am writing this to you.
I don't want to alarm you, or label you, or even necessarily imply anything
very negative or worrisome in saying this. Everyone has troubles, and
troubles can be effectively handled and resolved, as I was saying in my
earlier email about turning negatives into positives. And, as I indicated
in
that email, analyzing and being objective is an important part of turning
negatives into positives. And being bright and clever helps in analysis and
achieving objectivity, in understanding different perspectives, having
expansive more comprehensive experiences, and gaining growth in
understanding
and knowledge. That is why I think I can be helpful here, for you, in
addressing, understanding and resolving your troubles--your troubles with
Miss Stern, and now the troubles implied in the message(s) you send and the
specific medium you chose to send it.
Because you haven't responded to my email or spoken to me about it further,
I
do not know how things are going with Miss Stern. But, since I haven't
heard
anything further from her either, I'm hopeful things are going better, and
that negative has been turned more positive for you. I hope my email was
helpful with that situation, and I think I can be helpful with the troubles
behind the clothing-message you sent me, in turning that into a positive and
resolving the troubles behind it.
Actually, I think that, as you may or may be aware, you already took a
positive turn by sending the message, as negative as that message may appear
to be. At the very least, you took the initiative. No one asked or told
you
to send that message or send it in that way. So, you took the initiative to
do so yourself, and that is a positive step--a call for help, I think, as at
least part of your message. And, given the specific medium of the message,
a
call to me, personally (even intimately, one might say, given the garment in
question, and the way the message was "expressed" or "written" on that
garment). And, without meaning to sound vain or self-centered here, I think
you made a good choice in who to send that particular message to, on that
particular item of attire as a medium, using that particular fluid tool of
expression.
So, in taking the initiative to send the message in the first place, in
sending it in such an imaginative, creative way, and in being precisely and
appropriately selective in who you sent the message to--even if the message
itself and how you sent it seem negative--all these other things are very
positive in addressing your troubles effectively. Overall, I'm quite
encouraged and hopeful, and think I can be especially helpful, as you seem
to
have anticipated so well.
I think I am a good choice to receive your message, and can be very helpful
for several reasons. First, I think--and I hope I'm not being presumptuous
here--that I was helpful with your situation with Miss Stern--in turning
that
more positive. And I think troubles with Miss Stern are closely related to
the troubles conveyed in your clothing-message.
Second, I am a psychologist, and generally professionally qualified to be
helpful. Of course, I am an academic, research psychologist, not a clinical
psychologist. But that leads me to the third reason I think I was a good
choice to receive your message. Although I don't have professional
experience in clinically treating troubles such as you've indicated, I do
have some personal experience with the kind of troubles indicated by your
message, and most specifically with the particular medium and tool you
selected to communicate your message, as well as with how embarrassing and
humiliating such troubles can be, which makes them even more troubling and
difficult to talk about (which is why I think you chose to send the message
the way you did).
I don't want to get too specific or graphic here, before I've had a chance
to
hear more from you about the message and the troubles behind it. But, as I
suggested when you visited my house to use the bathroom, I had my own
bladder
troubles. And they were very troubling too--very embarrassing and
humiliating, especially during adolescence, which is difficult enough as it
is, as you well know. Well, anyway, I'm saying this--sharing this very
personal, once very troubling, problem I had with you--in the spirit of
sharing what can be very difficult and embarrassing personal issues to
discuss, and in the spirit of turning negatives into positives. I turned
that troubling bladder problem into a big positive for me. In fact, it was
one of the main reasons I became a successful academic, research
psychologist, which I probably would not have, without that problem, and how
I adjusted to it and made it a positive growth experience for me.
So, in this spirit of personal sharing and growth, I hope you'll open up and
share with me and let me help. We can communicate by email, if you'd like,
if you'd prefer that to speaking in person. As I indicated above, email can
often be an emotionally safer and more secure way to openly express
yourself.
But, if you want to talk in person, that would be fine too. The important
thing is to communicate and share, personally and emotionally, not so much
how you choose to do it, although some ways are more appropriate than
others.
Of course, if you choose to continue sending messages the way you sent the
last one, I hope you wait until my washer-dryer is repaired, and I have to
warn you, that I may charge you laundry-duty for my services.
Just joking, of course. Which is another important thing to keep in
mind--how important humor is in putting and keeping troubling things in
perspective and bringing them down to emotionally manageable size. It's
always better if we can laugh about these things and not take them and
ourselves too seriously. I say this, I must confess, as someone who has
always been too serious and humorless--is, you might say, humor-challenged,
but who is taking up the challenge to change and adjust and be better about
letting go, letting the laughter and amusement happen, even if I'm not yet
very good at being humorous myself, and still take myself too seriously.
Lately though, with the way things have been going in class and in the
office
at school, I have been experiencing things--troubles and challenges,
professionally and personally--that have prompted me to attempt to make some
adjustments and changes, especially about humor and amusement, and about the
all-too-serious issue of authority. And this leads me to the last thing I
have to say here, and another reason I think I can be helpful, in this case
as kind of an example or role model.
I said above that I think your troubles with Miss Stern and those indicated
by your clothing-message--the message itself, how you chose to send it and
who you sent it to--are closely interconnected. Again, I hope I'm not
presuming too much here, but I think your main troubles are about the issue
of authority. Certainly, the problems with Miss Stern concern authority,
and
I have problems with her too in that regard.
And, I believe, your clothing-message was essentially a statement about
authority, or rather, your attitude toward it. It was, I think, in a very
imaginative, creative and clever way, your way of invading "the enemy's"
territory, penetrating that territory in the most intimate way, taking
personal
possession of that intimate territory, and saturating, despoiling or fouling
it.
To put it more simply, digging your professor's panties our of her hamper,
and urinating in them was your way of saying to an authority figure, "I can
get to you, on your own territory, uncover your most private, intimate
possessions and show you what I think of you by "pissing"
(pardon the vulgarity) on it and, thereby, you.
Thus, you've just pissed on me, your professor, Pamela Snyder.
Wow.
Of course, as with any message by any medium, their are multiple
interpretations and meanings. But I think that this statement against
authority
is at the center of them for you. Having my own issues with authority
(including Miss Stern, as it turns out) and having been, so to speak, fluent
(or fluid) in the language you've "spoken" to me in--or at least familiar
with the medium as well as the message--I think I can be helpful, if you'll
let me, professionally and personally, even in such intimate matters. So,
perhaps we can be friends, after all. I hope so.
In that spirit, and in hopes to be hearing from you soon, please feel free
to
call me Pamela, just not at school.
Very Sincerely and Understandingly Yours,
(and hopefully your future confidant and friend)
Pamela
_______________________________________________________
Send a cool gift with your E-Card
http://www.bluemountain.com/giftcenter/
From: cowgirl [cowgirl_stupid@excite.com]
Sent: March11ÈÕ2001ÄêSunday 12:16 AM
To: webmaster@bdsmlibrary.com
Subject: Professor Pamela (pt.3 of 5)
Professor Pamela Panty Sniffer (3 of 5)
(F/F, humil., professor/ student, panty fetish)
By Professor Christina
(edited and proofed, by cowgirl)
The story of a university professor who manages to rationalize her bizarre
repressed sexual obsession with one of her female students underwear. This
story was written by a woman who I believe was a real professor. She
provided me with these letters, asking me to help her edit them, then
unfortunately disappeared before we were finished. I have shaped them as
best I can into a sex story as she asked, adding a beginning and ending, but
the letters more or less stand on their own. It starts slow, but is worth
it.
- cowgirl
****
Professor Pamela Panty Sniffer
By Professor Christina
Miss Margolis,
As you can see, I will continue to respect your wishes and refer to you
formally, as you have clearly indicated that you prefer. I make it a point
to stick by the rules I set, including deference to students' preference in
the formality my reference to them. This is simply a matter of professional
courtesy and personal respect, and is in line with my general rule of
treating students as adults, even under the most trying circumstances.
Of course, circumstances can become especially trying when students do not
return that courtesy and respect, and feel free to ignore and even
flagrantly
flout the rules themselves. As deplorable as these circumstances are, they
become virtually intolerable when students feel compelled to flaunt their
contempt for authority through actions that demonstrate not merely their
immaturity and impatience with formality and decorum, but also their utter
lack of concern for even matters of simple civility.
Yes, I received your message, Miss Margolis. It is still sitting right here
on my desk, next to my keyboard, just where you left it--precisely where it
will stay until we have this matter resolved. As you might imagine, and no
doubt intended, with the densely encoded layers of moist, yet increasingly
encrusted, "meaning" so intensely emanating from your cogent (one might say
pungent) message, as I write, I not only get the "drift" of your message(s)
loud and clear, but find it rather difficult to consistently sustain my own
attention to formality and decorum--and, yes, at particular moments of
ocular
and olfactory acuity, if I look or lean too much to that side, to even
maintain simple civility.
Certainly, nearly anyone in receipt of such a foul, offensive "message"
would
be enraged, and feel fully justified in taking firm, if not extreme,
measures
to deal with the outrage. A well-considered and decisive response might
well
include resisting the natural urge to hastily dispose of the message, and,
instead, promptly dispense with the student by conveying the vile message to
the dean, to be used as incontestable, detestable evidence in a disciplinary
hearing to consider immediate suspension of the student. And I have
certainly considered such a response.
But, as detestable as the message is, I do not consider students
dispensable,
and I have resisted the urge to treat the message itself, as foul and
offensive as it is, as simply disposable. Rather, I am leaving your message
where you left it, and writing this to you now, to demonstrate to you that,
no matter how beset we feel by the actions of others, and how upset they
make
us feel, we can still respond, even to the most negative provocations, in a
reasonable, constructive manner that can, at some insistence and with
persistence, ultimately turn the negative into a positive.
Now, before you took the liberty to liberally annotate it with your own
inimitable, unmistakable "commentary," the document at issue here was a
written negative evaluation by Miss Stern, our department's administrative
assistant, of your performance as her student assistant in the work-study
program. Her evaluation emphasizes particularly your "inappropriate attire"
and "insubordinate atitude"--the very same matters Miss Stern had expressly
spoken to you about earlier, and precisely what you came to me to complain
about as, to paraphrase, none of her business.
As I explained to you in any earlier email correspondence, I did, in fact,
take up the issue with Miss Stern, indicating I had spoken to you, and
suggesting perhaps more sensitivity to your feelings, and flexibility and
patience on her part. And, as I explained in some detail in my email to
you,
as your faculty advisor, encouraging a similar approach to Miss Stern from
you, in an overall spirit of constructive, mutual respect, as your
supervisor, Miss Stern has the professional authority to enforce office
decorum, including appropriate attitude and attire at work, and has some
personal sensitivity to matters of formality and authority, for reasons I
clarified at some length. Evidently, nevertheless, you have not taken
sufficient care to correct your attire and attitude, at least in the
estimation, and to the satisfaction, Miss Stern.
Now, standard procedure in such formal, written evaluations of the
performance of students in the work-study program is for the work supervisor
(Miss Stern) to directly deliver the evaluation to the student in question
and to that student's faculty advisor (me), which is what Miss Stern did.
Thereafter, the faculty advisor is to consult with the supervisor and
student, and, if there is a consensus and no dispute, simply sign off on the
(usually positive) evaluation and forward a copy of the evaluation, endorsed
by the supervisor, advisor and the student, to the director of the
work-study
program.
In this case, of course, there was a negative evaluation in dispute.
However, before I had a chance to consult further with either Miss Stern or
you, Miss Margolis, and schedule a formal conference with both of you to
discuss the evaluation--a conference that is always called for when the
evaluation is in dispute---you delivered your comments and expressed your
sentiments on the matter in the manner described below.
On what I presume is your copy of Miss Stern's written evaluation of your
work performance, Miss Margolis, you apparently urinated on the left top
corner and defecated on the right top corner of the document. I say
apparently in so far as I did not actually see you do it personally.
Nevertheless, the sensory evidence, if I may say so, is quite persuasive to
both the eye and nose from the wrinkled yellow stain in one corner, the
brown
stain and particles of fecal matter on the other, and the particular
combination of unpleasantly familiar odors, still unmistakable even now,
from
two feet away, as I write.
As if for further confirmation and clarification--perhaps unnecessary at
this
point on such an extraordinary document, but noteworthy here
nonetheless--you
write at the bottom (not with your bottom, apparently and fortunately, but
rather with unremarkably conventional ink) some pithy remarks,
characterizing
the document and me in rather unflattering ways. On the chance someone may
fail to file the original document as it otherwise should be, Miss Margolis,
I quote you here in all your eloquence,
"Rather than write my evaluation of you and your evaluation of me, I thought
I'd wipe it instead. As fond as you are of words, Actions do indeed speak
louder
don't you think? As long as you're so busy sticking your nose into my
business, I
thought I'd smear you some of my business to stick your nose into any time
you
like. Now I know it's only on a piece of paper, and not my panties, which
is
what you're really sniffing around about, and wish I'd left you instead.
But
I'll sign this pissy, piece of shit evaluation for you when you knock off
all the
wordy phony bullshit you pass off as insight, come clean, and sign off on
this report as the pathetic panty-sniffer you really are. We both know you
want to.
Imagine, signing your *new name*, for all to see. Can you do that
for me, Professor Panty-Sniffer, PH.D. (Panties Hardly Dry)?"
Well of course I could do that, Miss Margolis. I'm almost tempted to do so,
to indulge your childish little game, just to get us on the same page, so to
speak, speaking the same language, if it would get you to at least formally
acknowledge your real problems, at least with your signature, so we can
actually begin to genuinely deal with them. But, as concerned as I am about
you, and as much as I sincerely want to help, lowering myself to your
level--especially doing something you could construe as groveling or
submitting--would be neither very professionally careful of me, nor
personally helpful to you. So, thank you for the offer, but I'm afraid that
I must respectfully decline to adopt my *new name*.
In lieu of a more formal conference with you, to which you seem to evidence
some resistance, I'll offer some professional analysis and personal advice
about this situation. I noted the layers of meaning in your message here
above, and have explained some of the intricacies and complexities of
symbolic communication to you before in an earlier email. So, it would be
with considerable redundance, no doubt try your patience, to go through all
that again here--other than to note the redundance of your own seemingly
limited means of expressing yourself--both the medium and the message--and
the salience of these for understanding what's troubling you and dealing
with
it.
Whether you think it's "bullshit" or not, it hardly takes an authority in
psychology to recognize that hostility to authority is evident in your
problems with Miss Stern and your messages to me. And you may think you
have
nothing to learn from me poking my nose into your business, as you put it,
but we can always learn, if we're receptive. And perhaps you can learn from
something I've learned from you--something that I was not receptive to
learning about until recently, in my encounters with you, or, rather, your
messages.
After years of dismissing Freudian psychology wholesale, resisting any ideas
associated with Freud as hopelessly sexist, recently I have come to reassess
this rigidly doctrinaire stance, and develop a new appreciation for Freud's
ideas, in my experience and interpretation of the symbolic significance of
your messages. Not simply the symbolic displacement of your resentment of
authority, whatever its source, onto me. But also, in the specific symbolic
form and content of your more imaginative messages to me--the medium or
material you choose to convey your messages, as well as the message itself;
the substantive content of the messages, literally and figuratively.
Although I once presumptively dismissed this as simply preposterous, Freud
thought that long-lasting childhood traumas--initially associated with
toilet-training, but repressed, symbolically extrapolated and subconsciously
expressed later in life in other forms--result when parents hadn't
appreciated how "accidents" of urination and defecation were, from the
child's viewpoint, actually gifts or presents to the parents. Parents are
typically, of course, the child's first, most emotionally resonant and
causally salient encounter with authority figures, so that such early
childhood traumas can have troublesome consequences later in life, unless
they are confronted and resolved.
Whatever the childhood sources of your hostility toward authority--and I
cannot presume to understand their specifics without you sharing your
experiences with me--as a current authority figure toward whom you've shown
hostility, I do not intend to impose further consequences on you for your
messages that would only compound the damage already done to your self-image
and self-esteem, self-respect and, thereby, the respect you show for others,
especially those in authority. I think to impose any further negative
consequences on you now would only exacerbate the problem, hasten the
regression and aggression involved in your hostility to authority, and
further retard your already traumatic transition from childhood to
adulthood.
Instead, I'm offering you patience, acceptance and guidance, with an
opportunity to let me help you resolve your negativity and the underlying
issues involved in your hostility to authority. Of course, I've already
offered this in earlier emails, to which you have not responded except, in
the most troubled and troubling ways. And, if these kinds of disrespectful
responses continue, as an authority figure who recognizes the importance of
respect and my responsibility as a teacher and advisor, for your own good, I
shall be compelled to impose the kinds of negative consequences you can
expect from other authority figures in the future for truculent, defiant,
retaliatory behavior in adulthood, whatever its traumatic childhood sources.
So, for perhaps the last, best time you'll have to deal with your hostility
to authority, I am offering you a window of opportunity that is narrowing,
and you'd be well-advised to take it before it closes.
You keep this window of opportunity open by simply opening yourself up and
sharing experiences with me, being trustful of how helpful I can be. But,
lest you view this opportunity as simply a threat, and close the window
yourself, allow me to show you by example how to share even very troubling
experiences, and throw the window open wider.
You accuse me of sticking my nose in your business, and abuse me by accusing
me further of having ulterior sexual motives in offering to help you,
alluding to blatant, or perhaps latent, lesbian desires and intentions.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Do not get me wrong. On a personal level, I am saddened and hurt to hear
you
say these things, of course, and they get me angry. But I'm offended
professionally by what you say, not personally, out of humiliation or some
shameful or fearful response to your accusations and homosexual imputations.
To the contrary, it is the homophobia and the shameful, fearful projections
and rigid judgementalism that I hear in you that dishearten me--without, I
should emphasize, feeling threatened in the least, in my authority,
sexuality
or morality.
Although I am not a lesbian, in or out of the closet, as a feminist, I have
no problems with the homosexuality, with its morality, or with others'
sexuality in general, and I oppose the authority of anyone to impose their
own sexuality and sense of morality on others. While, as you can see, I
have
my own hostility to this kind of presumptuous authority, based on
sanctimonious morality, how I express my opposition to this imposition of
authority is constrained by civility, and my own strong sense of morality,
based on being respectful and helpful to others, and not hurtful. By having
a clear sense of my own morality, based on being respectful and helpful, not
hurtful, to others, and handling things in this way, my hostility to even
strongly established institutional authority, and its masculine hierarchical
forms, has opened, not closed, my professional and personal windows of
opportunity.
I do not mean to sound smug or arrogant here. To the contrary, my view of
morality, authority, and even sexuality, is based on modesty and humility--a
reverence for modesty and humility based on my own past experience of
authority, morality and sexuality, and how to open windows of opportunity.
Those who are rebellious toward authority have typically experienced
capricious authorities, parental or otherwise, who exploited and/or
neglected
them, abused and/or abandoned them. And those who are sanctimonious about
their own morality and others sexuality have had similar experiences, and
can
only resist and suppress being promiscuous themselves through shameful and
fearful attempts to express their (self-)righteous cause and enlist others
in
their crusade. If they were really sincere and secure in their morality and
sexuality, without shameful and fearful distress, they could express their
morality and sexuality with more modesty and humility, and repose in that,
rather than attempt to impose their deceitful, counterfeit authority on
others.
As a child, I was not exploited or neglected, abused or abandoned, by my
parents, at least in any blatant ways or by intent. Nevertheless, in
retrospect, I can now see that my childhood experience was characterized by
a
corrosive emotional distance, at first of my parents from me, and
thereafter,
modeling them, and unsure and insecure about myself, the emotional distance
of me from others, especially my peers. If I cannot say I felt entirely
unloved, I did feel any and every love was conditional, selective, insincere
if unreserved, and always subject to disapproval and withdrawal. Not
knowing
or trusting less reserved or restricted love, I felt less unloved than
unappreciated, perpetually poised against being humiliated, should I become
too infatuated with anyone or them too infatuated with me. So, I kept my
emotional distance from others as my parents had from me, less shameful and
fearful than I was simply unsure and insecure--for the most part, that is,
while left to myself, unless or until other people and events intervened.
I'm not clear on whether I experienced any particular toilet-training
traumas
in early childhood. In fact, as indicated, until very recently, I dismissed
such concerns as nonsense. Freud would say, I suspect, that I repressed the
traumas. In any case, in addition to feeling unappreciated, I do recall
problems being constipated, along with the recurrent laxatives and
occasional
enemas that were required, which, if not traumatically distressing, were
certainly embarrassing and unpleasant. So, in addition to bladder problems,
I also had bowel problems, I might as well say now, which I handled by
distancing myself from my physicality just as I distanced myself from my
emotionality, in favor of an emphasis on intellectuality and rationality.
My bladder and bowel problems were essentially, whatever their source,
problems of urinating too much and not defecating enough, and in either
case,
when they occurred, doing so "accidentally," without conscious control, at
many
of the wrong times. This, of course, exacerbated my problems feeling
unappreciated, as I knew my parents were exasperated and I worried about
being humiliated. Already insecure and unsure of myself, I did become,
occasionally, when I let myself, shameful and fearful about losing bladder
or
bowel control and thereby losing respect. As worries about bed-wetting and
panty-wetting kept me from slumber parties and many social activities at
school, and this, along with worries about bowel movements, encouraged
dieting and dating restrictions, I repressed my distressed physicality and
emotionality in favor of expressed intellectuality and rationality, which,
given prevailing gender stereotypes and relations, removed me even further,
emotionally and sexually, from both other girls and boys my age.
Already, given my problems and inclinations, reserved and fastidious in my
attitude and attire, I became even more self-conscious about my libidinous
desires and mode of dress under the strictly watchful eye and sternly
shameful voice of my mother. While still emotionally distant, she became
very
vigilant and emotionally stringent when I became an adolescent. Although
she considered slacks unfeminine, skirts and tops that were too short or too
tight, in her very restrictive, conservative view, were "slut-wear" designed
for lewd self-display and therefore totally inappropriate attire for any
"self-respecting girl." Of course, given the fashions of the day--which
included mini-skirts and halter-tops--my mother's rules for what to wear
ruled out wearing virtually anything my peers considered stylish or
attractive, inviting scorn and ridicule, while any attempt to even remotely
approximate the fashions of the day, even in a more reserved way, invited my
mother's withering wrath. Either way, from both ends, parents and peers,
shame and humiliation was, it seemed, an inevitability
But, it was precisely that seeming inevitability of shame and humiliation
that became my window of opportunity. I deliberately shut out my shameful,
fearful vulnerability in matters of sexuality, physicality and emotionality,
in favor of intellectuality and rationality, and my ability to desire and
accomplish things academically and professionally with those in authority I
could not aquire socially and personally among my clothes-conscious,
sex-obsessed peers.
This is not to say that I had an easy or happy time turning my negatives
into
positives, my vulnerabilities into opportunities. Especially during
adolescence, as serious and studious as I was determined to be--and as
disdainful as I was of my peers' frivolity and sexual rivalry--I could not
help, on occasion, being curious and even envious about them. Careful and
distant, but watchful and observant, more intellectual and rational than a
"normal girl should be," with no sexual or emotional ties to any boys, as an
adolescent, I acquired from my peers the title of an "ice queen" and was
considered unquestionably "queer," with any stray glances at other girls,
envious or otherwise, quickly interpreted and reported to others as further
proof of my lesbian label.
While this pushed me even further from my peers, personally and emotionally,
it also pushed me further in my career, professionally and intellectually.
In ways I am just now beginning to fully consider and understand, all the
incentives and abilities for pursuing the positives of my academic and
professional career--including my particular feminist interests, even
passions, for issues of gender and sexuality--stem from negatives and
vulnerability that I turned into windows of opportunity.
I am not saying all this to you, Miss Margolis, to impress my personal
superiority or impose my professional authority on you. To the contrary, I
disclosed the personal vulnerabilities that became professional
opportunities, turning negatives into positives, not simply to model this
for
you in some ideal way, but in a spirit of modesty and humility, and out of a
special empathy I feel for you. Professional and personal boundaries, age
discrepancies, and hostility to authority notwithstanding, I am hopeful we
can become friends--even close friends--if you are trustful enough to let me
be helpful.
If you are not comfortable with a formal conference, or with putting things
in writing, feel free to contact me anytime and anywhere. As vulnerable as
you may feel, I am available to you, in whatever way is most viable and
preferable for you. But, if you are trustful that I'll be sensitive, I
think
that you'll find expressive face-to-face communication more helpful and
effective than contemptful messages, no matter how clever and imaginative.
Truely and Sincerely Yours,
In Reflection and Affection,
Pam
_______________________________________________________
Send a cool gift with your E-Card
http://www.bluemountain.com/giftcenter/
From: cowgirl [cowgirl_stupid@excite.com]
Sent: March11ÈÕ2001ÄêSunday 12:17 AM
To: webmaster@bdsmlibrary.com
Subject: Professor Pamela (pt.4 of 5)
Professor Pamela Panty Sniffer (4 of 5)
(F/F, humil., professor/ student, panty fetish)
By Professor Christina
(edited and proofed, by cowgirl)
TI didn't write this story, a friend "professor Christina" did. It's the
story of a university professor who manages to explain and rationalize her
bizarre repressed sexual obsession with one of her female students
underwear. Much thanks to "wp", who helped fill in some blanks in this
chapter!
- cowgirl
*****
Professor Pamela Panty Sniffer (4 of 5)
(F/F, humil., professor/ student, panty fetish)
By Professor Christina
Was I overstepping the bounds of student/faculty decorum? Sending that
email left me inexplicably rattled. My heart pounded, I was perspiring,
I was unable to focus my thought...and I had to pee. Of course, Miss
Stern chose that moment to burst into my office.
"Pamela, sit down. We have to talk."
"Yes...fine, Miss Stern, but not just--"
"Pamela. Sit."
My only hope was to keep it short. I could feel my anxiety growing
already, the old fears returning. Calm down, I told myself. Deep
breaths. You CAN control your bladder. You can...
"It's that Margolis girl."
Oh, god, please...
I can't recall any more of the conversation. Couldn't even hear it. No
matter how much I nodded my head, agreed, pleaded, I could not free
myself of it and pursue relief from the pressure in my bladder.
...And then... it happened. When Miss Stern saw the contrite, horrified
look on my face, she stopped talking, and the silence in my little office
was
broken by what I was sure she must be sencing by now.
But worse...infinitely worse...as the warmth of my pee spread within my
panties, around me, under me, and I looked up at the disgustedly aware
grimace on Miss Stern's face, I...
...had an small orgasm. Despite an heroic effort to preserve some shred of
dignity, gasping and shaking, I peed and came right in front of the worst
possible person. I tried convincing she hadn't noticed it, but her
expression said it all.
As my orgasm subsided, Ifought the urg to burst into uncontrollable sobs of
moritfication. MissStern stood up.
"My god, Pamela! What is WRONG with you? I am shocked. SHOCKED! Can it
be that those ugly rumors among the girls are TRUE?"
I knew I should get up and run to the bathroom, But I felt completely
drained of will, trying desperately to achieve denial, somehow withdraw
from this life that was going so wrong. Undo this. Erase it.
"Stand up, for god's sake! Don't ruin your chair any further. Don't
expect ME to clean up after this...this...display. I have NEVER seen
anything like this!"
I was no longer a tenured professor at a prestigious school. I was an
idiot. A stupid little girl who had disappointed everyone. I stood
Miss Stern with pee dripping down my legs from my soaked panties,
flushed and still shaking.
"Well...what are you going to do? Just stand there?"
I can't bring mself to analyze Miss Stern's expression, as I am doing my
best to avoid dwelling on the incident, but there was a transformation.
Her voice had quieted, and I even detected a compassionate, if not mocking
change in her voice. My abject mortification was only intensified. I could
do
nothing but nod through my tears. She spoke to me as if a child:
"Pamela. March to the bathroom, take off those panties, and bring back
some paper towels. Hurry up!"
I marched, the stain on my skirt and the runnels down my legs clearly
visible. As I passed a couple of students in the corridor, I was
horribly aware of the squishing sound emanating from between my legs and
but all I received were a few odd looks and stares. I was so stuningly
regressed
that I didn't even realize I'd failed to wrap up the wet smelly panties
after I took
them off, but stupidly walked back to my office holding them in clear view,
which
did receive several puzzeled snickers and stares from students in the halls.
This, of course, earned yet another exclamation of disgust by Miss Stern,
who'd just returned from her desk while I was away with a plastic bag in her
hand.
"Here, put them in here, leave them here in the middle of your desk,
Pamela. I want you to look at them and think about this for the rest of
the day. Now get to work on the chair and the carpet. God! How does
someone like you get into a respected position like this? It never
ceases to amaze me. Of all the incompetent, basket case, adle-brained
academics I have ever worked for...well...you, Pamela, take the cake.
Wetting yourself right in front of me, and then...well...I can't even SAY
it. You need of help, Pamela. You know that, don't you
Pamela?"
"...DON'T YOU, Pamela?"
"yes...miss stern..."
"Now listen to me, Pamela. That little Margolis slut is on her way over
here. You will make it clear that she is either to comply with my
standards of dress and attitude, or lose her position in my office.
Is that clear, Pamela?"
"yes...miss stern..."
"Good. I am taking the rest of the day off because I can't stand to be
around you right now, and I have some personal business to attend to. I
do not want to return tomorrow to an office smelling of urine. Do you
understand me?"
"yes...I understand." I whispered as I winced at the soiled panties, mocking
me from my office desk.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
___________
I awoke the next morning, sheets soaked and twisted around me, drenched in
sweat, teeth clenched, exhausted and feeling like I hadn't slept at all. I
was panting, but it was muffled, and I was barely able to breathe. I was
smothering, in fact, with ichy, wet hunks off hair plastered to my cheeks,
my
stuffy nose buried in the pillow, my dry mouth sucking on a corner of it.
My
lower back, butt and thigh muscles all ached, my legs sprawled and spread
wide, both my arms pinned beneath me, fingers of both hands crammed between
my swampy labia, my head swimming with swirling faces of Cindy. Cindy
scrunching up her face, scowling in disgust. Cindy smiling sweetly, then
smirking mockingly. Cindy snidely sneering at me. Even if she made me call
her Miss Margolis in her letters, I still resisted doing so in my private
thoughts!
As they swirled around each other--up and down, in and out, side to side,
front to back--the jarring images seemed to be jeering at me, yet goading me
on, like some grotesquely gaudy, tauntingly tawdry carnival game that I'd
been playing and playing, and losing and losing, and kept playing anyway.
A
game I knew was rigged, hated to be suckered into playing in the first
place,
but simply had to keep playing as it depleted my pocketbook, took every cent
I had, and then sent me away, dazed, demoralized, devastated and dead broke
.
. . desperately seeking a place to use my bankcard so I could go back again,
before the carnival closed down.
Dragging my arms from beneath me, untangling myself from my sheets, I
crawled
out of bed, woozy, teetering, and stumbled toward the bathroom, craving a
shower. But on my way, I glanced to the side at the blank computer screen
bleakly staring back at me from the desk I had snuggled into the window nook
of the bedroom, where I'd set up the smaller, more intimate of my two home
studies. (The other, with the library, occupied what was intended as a
dining room, for those who had social occasions to use them as such, which I
did not.)
Veering and staggering to the desk, I turned the computer on, waiting
impatiently for it to boot up. Leaning against the chair, gripping its arms
tightly to prop my weary body up on my sagging legs like a decrepit old
woman
clinging to her walker, I glanced up and squinted against the sunlight
pouring in through the three large, uncurtained windows of the alcove.
Someone might see in, I admonished myself, as I quickly crossed my arms to
cover my breasts, quivering beneath the clinging, wet nylon of my sheer,
white nightgown, my nipples hard as pebbles. As I pulled my chair out and
stepped around to sit, my legs were hampered by my damp panties, which I
suddenly noticed were pulled down and twisted around my thighs.
Grunting in disgust, I tugged my panties up and plopped down on the chair,
clicking on my ISP icon as I settled in the chair, feeling the damp nylon of
my panties and nightgown beneath me, smelling my own dank, sweaty, musky
odor, wondering if I should have put a towel down on the seat first. But as
the sign-on screen caught my attention, a sense of giddy anticipation shoved
all my other shameful, dreadful thoughts out of my head and my fingers
hurriedly typed in my password and clicked to sign on. INVALID PASSWORD?!
Ugh! I was an invalid, alright. My fingers in an ungangly flurry, tried to
type it again, but fumbled, had to delete it and then forced myself to do it
slowly and deliberately, one finger and one key at a time.
My musky odor annoyingly wafted up from the keyboard, from my fingers, and,
as one hand went to the modem, to click open my email, I found my other hand
had drifted up beneath my nose and I was sniffing my fingers. UGH! For
God's sake! I thought--no, actually said out loud. Then my eyes intently
scanned my new email. Four from administrative offices at the university,
one from a professional association, one from a publisher, two from
professional collegues and . . . and that's all. None from Cindy. Nothing
from Cindy.
My heart sunk, and I felt a lump forming in my parched throat. Taking a
deep
breath, letting it out in a slow sigh, I openned the last, and then the
first, in the list of emails. Not to read them. I was utterly uninterested
in what they might say. Just to see the times they were sent, as if,
somehow, I might detect that my email service had shut down during the night
when Cindy might have tried to email me her response, but been unable to.
The sheer thought that of that unlikely prospect, as irrational as it was,
made me queasy with worry that--distraught; tender, fragile heart in her
hand, gingerly reaching out--the poor, vulnerable girl had poured her
wrenching heart out to me for hours in an email, only to have it abruptly
bounced back at her, returned undeliverable because of some insidious,
cruelly inscrutible electronic mishap.
I quickly turned to reach for the phone, intending to call her. Apologize
if
I'd woken her. Apologize for intruding. Ask her if she'd tried to email
me
last night. Apologize if my ISP somehow malfunctioned and returned or lost
her email to me. Or perhaps mine to her. Assuring her I'd wrote and sent
her one last night. Promising to resend it if she didn't receive it.
Apologizing if she'd received it but hadn't had time to write a reply or
even
read it yet. . . .
Had she even read it yet? I wondered. Of course, I thought. But, maybe . .
. . I returned to the computer to check the status of the email I'd sent.
Yes, she'd read it, within an hour of when I'd sent it, according to the
times indicated. I was relieved for a moment, then suddenly very sad.
She'd
read it nearly ten hours ago, yet not a word back, not even to acknowledge
she'd received it and would respond later, when she'd thought about it some
more, had more time, wasn't so tired . . . . But she didn't respond, I
glumly reminded myself again, as my thoughts slowed and swung back to that
deeply, forlornly resonant note like a long clapper finally clanging on the
other side of a huge bell.
Maybe she'd rather talk to me in person, or over the phone, I pondered. And
then I remembered I didn't even have her phone number. I didn't remember if
I'd seen a phone number in her file or not, and was just about to call up
her
file when I paused.
What was I doing? What was I thinking? What was wrong with me, anyway?
This was a student! A teenager barely out of high school. One I'd been
advising. One whom I'd barely talked to in person except that first day in
my office, and that night when she'd come to use my bathroom, and . . . .
What was I doing?
Shaking my head wildly, my damp hair flying, like a dog shaking off after a
swim, I signed off, lurched up and headed for the shower. In a remote sort
of way, the shower did feel vaguely good. But I felt miserable--frazzled,
achey, weary, dazed, confused. I forced myself the run my daily planner in
my head, rehearsing the sequence of anticipated scenerios, potential
problems
and responses--my usual morning mental routine while I showered, put on my
make-up, and got dressed, before a soothing half-hour with my coffee and
newspaper to gather and poise myself for the day ahead. But each scenerio
was interrupted by some unexpected abut antipicated encounter with Cindy,
and
phrases from my email to her ran into and over the words of each news story,
until, by the time I had to leave for school, I didn't remember a thing I'd
read in the paper, what classes I had to teach, what I had to do to prepare
for them, what appointments or meetings I had, or anything else that I was
supposed to be doing that day. Just running into Cindy walking to class,
running into Cindy in the hall, running into Cindy walking through campus,
running into Cindy in the department office, in my office . . . . As if my
whole day would be a relentless series of chance encounters with Cindy, with
me fumbling for what to say, compelling me to plan out each contingency of
where we might meet and what I could or should say.
I barely remember teaching my first class, or the second one, for that
matter--and improvised an unscheduled video to show for each, so I wouldn't
have to think or say much anyway. I went by the department office and my
own
before and after the first class, and, with no sign of Cindy, skipped my
scheduled office hours, walked out and wandered around campus before my
second class, hoping I might see her. I ran all kinds of speculative
worries
about her and her reaction to my email through my head, as if I were a
walking crisis-line worker fielding calls with lives on the line.
Then I saw her walking toward me from the direction of the dorms. Idlely
strolling, her hips swaying, casually glancing here and there, she didn't
seem to see me at first and I hastened my step in case she turned onto one
of
the intersecting walks branching off to either side. Then, about twenty
yards from me, she stopped, stood still, facing me, staring straight at me,
her face impassive, unexpressive. I lifted my hand to wave and opened my
mouth to call out to her, hesitating a moment while I feebly fumbled for the
right words and tone, and she abruptly turned around and headed back toward
the dorms. I finally blurted out "Cindy" in a hoarse little yelp, but she
just kept walking away; a bit more briskly, I thought, but I might have
imagined that. I know my heart sunk again; my pulse quickened, and so did
my
breathing, which thickened noticeably too. For a few steps I picked up my
pace and considered giving chase, but my next class was starting soon and I
had to at least set up the video.
Though it made me several minutes late to class, I hurriedly re-checked my
email for a response from Cindy, as I already had three times that morning,
and would ten or twelve more times before the day was out. I had a
committee
meeting at the end of the day that I dreaded but couldn't avoid--I chaired
the committee and had called the meeting--so I rushed through the minimum of
business, rescheduled the rest for the next meeting, and then made one last
stop at my office to check my email one more time.
I sat down at my desk, and paused before grabbing the mouse, staring at the
screen-saver fish swimming back and forth on the monitor, and at my own
reflection on the screen, wondering which looked stupider, me or the fish.
I
felt foolish and more than a bit embarrassed about myself, for the umpteenth
time that day. The way I, a 37 year old psychology professor had been
numbly
bumbling my way through the day, head buzzing, heart flip-flopping, tummy
queasy and tumbling, as I achingly pined and swooned, like some lovesick
schoolgirl over this . . . schoolgirl. Then, for the umpteenth time again
that day, I furrowed my brow, burrowed my eyes to stare intently straight
ahead at nothing in particular as everything in front of me fell out of
focus, into a blur. Bit my lip, chewed it worriedly, and ran urgent
crisis-manager contingencies through my head. Not my crisis, mind you.
But
rather the perpetually permutating traumas I imagined my poor tormented
little Cindy must be enduring as she, I shuddered in empathetic anguish,
courageously struggled on, too stubbornly proud and independent, or too
bruised and scared, to open up and respond to me, to accept my help and
comfort. . . .
My eyes welled with tears as I imagined her mounting fears, pictured her
exquisite face contorted by countless, relentless torments. And then,
abruptly, I took a deep, loud, long breath and blew it out slowly, at a
yoga-trained pace, thrust my shoulders back, straighted my posture, mustered
my composure, and gathered all the grimly determined strength I had in me.
For Cindy. For whatever it took to get this poor, sweet, innocent,
vulnerable little girl through whatever ordeals she'd have to endure,
whatever struggles lay ahead, to make whatever horrid ordeals that had
happened to her into, by God, a growth experience--a positive, expansive
growth experience in which she'd come out stronger and better than ever
before.
The power and glory of everything I held to be good, right and dear
re-affirmed for me, filling me, empowering me now, I re-focused intensely on
monitor screen, reached out and gripped the mouse firmly, swiping the
swimming fish away, and clicked on my ISP icon like I was targeting missles
for nuclear war. The war imagery jarred me, and for a moment I was thrown
off task wondering how masculine culture had twisted and scarred even a
devout pacifist feminist like me. I blinked, brushed a tear out of my
eyelash, noticed the smudge on my finger, and scowled in annoyance at how
heavy I'd applied my mascara that day--then shook my head and entered my
password, my newly painted nails hitting half the wrong keys.
Groaning impatiently, I deleted and punched out my password
again--DUMBCUNT--one key and finger at a time.
(I know, I know. What kind of password is that for a feminist professor?
Well, precisely! We're always being told to use passwords nobody could
guess, but you can remember without writing them down. And, when I never
could remember any of those jumbles of meaningless symbols, I thought, who
would ever think me, of all people, would use DUMBCUNT as my password?)
I took another deep breath, then held it, when I opened my email account.
My
heart sunk. Nothing from Cindy again. Just another couple of memos from
administrative offices, one from a committee, and a piece of spam. Or so I
thought at first glance. A closer look revealed it was an electronic
greeting
card . . . from Cindy!
My heart rose again and fluttered, along with tummy, and then my lashes
as I felt my eyes mist over. Blinking to clear my eyes, I took another
breath,
anxiously openned the email and clicked on the greeting card address. How
cute and sweet of her I thought, as I squirmed a little in my chair, and
watched
the card gradually emerge, gathering resolution down my screen, with the
giddy anticipation of a little girl opening the first of her birthday
presents.
"Pamela Snyder, PH.D." it boldly revealed, scrolled
across the top of the card, with ivy embroidered around the top corners and
down the sides. IVY, I marveled, how clever of her, feeling exhilerated as
I
anticipated some sort of thank-you card expressing her heart-felt
appreciation for helping her through her crisis.
Then I saw the hair, the head, the humorless face--it was me! but I wished
she'd used a picture of me smiling. Oh well. I wonder where she got it,
anyway?
--the shoulders, lapels--wearing the grey pinstripe jacket of my very
favorite
professional "power suit"!. Deep cleavage (cleavage?), framed in the frilly
white lace
trim of my push-up bra (push-up bra? where was my white silk blouse?), the
bulging of my breasts thrusting up and virtually bursting out of my
jacket (my god, they look obscene!). The tail of my jacket--why was I
bending over like that? I never posed for this picture!. My bare bottom
sticking out--bare bottom! My ruffled white underpants--I haven't worn any
ruffled underpants! (at least not since I was five)--sagging around my
knees, with a big, wet, yellow stain--UGH!!!--soggily drooping just below
the
tops of my white knee socks--what?! kneesocks with a pin-stripe power
suit?--
themselves tucked neatly into my black-patent MaryJanes (I have not even
OWNED a pair of MaryJanes since, what? third grade? ) What in the world
was
this?! I thought, my face flushed in anger, shame and embarrassment at this
clearly artificially manipulated photo of my face and upper suit, and some
pornograph stranger's body in these lurid clothes, designed to infantalize
and
humiliate me, which it is was quite effectively doing.
I quickly turned and looked back toward the open door of my office to make
sure no one was looking. No one was, but I lurched up and rushed to close
and lock the door anyway. I scurried back to the screen, frantically
wondering how this had happened and why and what it meant, desperately
wanting not to believe that Cindy could do this to me, and if so, as was
apparent, why?! The picture was now complete and fully resolved. And
across the bottom was scrolled the words:
"Her PH.D. standing for Panties Hardly Dry.
Specializing in Gender, Sexuality, and Panty-Wetting. Having acquired the
status of Associate Professor, Pamela has always aspired to be a Full
Professor for which she will acquire a new speciality and desire to be known
as Professor Pamela Panty-Sniffer."
_______________________________________________________
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From: cowgirl [cowgirl_stupid@excite.com]
Sent: March11ÈÕ2001ÄêSunday 12:19 AM
To: webmaster@bdsmlibrary.com
Subject: Professor Pamela (pt.5 of 5)
Professor Pamela Panty Sniffer (Epilouge, or 5 of 5))
(F/F, humil., professor/ student, panty fetish)
By Professor Christina
(edited and proofed, by cowgirl)
This is the last part of a 5 part story of a university professor who
manages to explain and rationalize her bizarre repressed sexual obsession
with one of her female students underwear, written by a woman I believe was
actually a real professor. Her disapearnce
forced me to fill in some blanks, so I apologize for any inconsistancies. In
other words, the parts that suck are my fault.
Chris, bless your soul, where-ever it is. Hope you just got bored and didn't
die or somethin'. (sad laughter)
I guess when you friends disapear on de' net ya never know…
:-(
- cowgirl
***
I was stared at the computer screeen. . . stunned! Appauled! My lips
sputtering, my mouth flapping and gasping speechlessly, my cheeks puffing,
hair prickling, face burning and tingling, I felt a shamefully enraged blush
rush
down my shoulders and chest to envelope my shuddering frame, But I could not
peal my eyes from that bizarre photographic Image. I uttered a guttural,
strangled groan, light-headed, dizzy, almost faint. Gazing dumbfounded at
the screen, swaying, falling forward, my hands gripped the arms of the chair
to steady myself.
I felt the rounded, padded corner of the edge of my chair jutting hard up
between
the tops of my thighs, pressing up against my crotch and public bone. It
hurt, but
I only squirmed a little, adjusting my posture, but unwilling to move much
more.
My eyes lifted to the top of the screen and then scanned back down again
very slowly,
silently *mouthing the words* at the bottom before slowly making their way
up again.
I heard the chair creaking, felt it rocking a little, then a little more,
accompanied by a tingling, squishy sensation and sound emanating from . . .
.
I suddenly became alarmingly aware that I was "humping" my chair! Here in
my
own office! In a daze, gazing at this grotesquely lewd and degrading
greeting card, that someone--Cindy!--had somehow managed to electronically
manipulate to demean and humiliate me in the most despicable way, I'd begun
to masturbate! To actually straddle and hump the back of my desk chair!
I was aghast! Mortified! Horrified at my own actions! And yet, I couldn't
stop. Worse, once I realized what I was doing, seemingly on their own
accord, as if directed by some remote device, my legs spread further,
spraddling the corner of the chair, as I lifted onto the toes of my shoes
and
grinding my hips and pelvis harder, gripping the arms tighter to keep from
tumbling head-first onto the floor. The chair rocking and creaking
hideously,
my hips humping and grinding, I heard the tight skirt of my suit--my grey
pinstripe "power suit" my God, I was wearing it!--begin to tear.
Letting one hand go from the arm of the lurching chair, precariously
balanced
but unable to let up humping in the least, I reached back and tugged the hem
of
my skirt up to my waist. It got stuck on my wide-spread thighs and
still-hump
ing hips and I tugged harder and heard another rip. Squirming frantically
and squealing in a combination of shame, frustration, desperation and
arousal, I humped up in the air, off the back of the chair and finally
yanked
the hem of my skirt up over my waist. Flinging my one hand back down to
again grip the arm of the chair with both hands, I grunted and panted and
humped the chair with my pantied ass now bouncing up and down like I was
riding a bucking bronco.
Snorting and whinnying as if to supply the horse's sounds, I gazed back up
at
thebizarre greeting card--at my tits obscenely bulging out from my suit
jacket, at
my bare ass and drooping, pee-stained, ruffled underpants, at my new
Panty-Wetting specialty and forthcoming specialty and title of "Professor
Pamela Panty-Sniffer—
and grunted through one shamefully shattering, thunderous orgasm after
another, shamefully snorting out my new stupidly self-excepted name, until I
fell forward wondering what Cindy- NO, Miss Margolis - would think if she
could see me like this,
and I rode that wave to several mind numbing orgasms! Untill, shameful and
utterly exhausted, I loudly toppled the chair onto its side, and collapsed
onto it, bumping my
head dumbly on the floor.
Huffing, but shamefully self-conscious, sprawled out over my toppled desk
chair,
my skirt bunched up about my waist, I stirred painfully, and then heard a
knock
on the door. "Pamela! What in the world's going on in there?! Are you
alright in there?!"
It was Miss Stern. Good God, I thought. Now what?!
"I'll get my key!" I heard her yell, her voice fading as she ran down the
hall. "Be right back!" She called out, further down the hall.
My head throbbed as I scrambled to crawl over the upturned chair and get up
off the floor. Standing on wobbly legs, I yanked the chair up with one hand
and tried to tug my skirt back down with the other. My high heel teetered
momentarily and I felt my ankle twisting. For Christ sakes, why did I wear
those things anyway, I wondered, exasperated, as I spread my feet a little
to
stablize my stance, still tugging my skirt down, and felt something binding
my legs at the thighs. Good God! I thought. How did my panties and
pantyhose get down there?!
Reaching up under my skirt--did I have to get it one size too small, so it
hugged my hips and ass so snugly?--I was fumbling with my panties and
pantyhose, frantically yanking, trying to pull them up just as I heard Miss
Stern put the key in the door.
"I'll be right there," I heard her say, and I glanced to the side to see my
card still on the screen, ready to greet her as soon as she got the door
opened. Lunging across the chair, I grabbed for the mouse, and started
moving it around in hectic circles, clicking continually, hoping to somehow
hit upon the corner and close the window.
I heard the door opening and let go of the mouse, scrambling to shuffle
myself around between the chair and the screen.
"Good Lord, what's happening in here?!" Miss Stern gasped, scowling. "It
sounded like a wrestling match! And you're the only one in here making all
that noise?! What in God's name were you doing, woman?! Are you alright?!"
"Ahem," I gasped, turning to face her, standing in front of the screen,
trying to catch my breath. "Uh, w-well, hmph, y-y-yes," I stammered, still
huffing. I could barely speak. My hands figited, nervously trying to
straighten the front of my skirt, trying not to look down at it and catch
her
attention, glancing briefly over my should to try to assure myself I was
blocking her view of the screen. "I was, uhhh, j-j-just, um, trying to
re-re-arrange the f-furniture a little and my uh, my uh ch-chair fell over.
"Oh. Hmph," Miss Stern sneered curtly, still scowling. "Well. You could
ask for some help you know, from the custodian or one of the male professors
or students. And, if you're planning on moving that desk, you should shut
off the computer first, for heaven's sake."
I blushed more deeply than I already had and quickly turned around to face
the screen, hoping I hadn't uncovered it anymore than it was already. I
heard her gasp behind me, and, taking a deep breath, I grabbed the mouse
firmly in my quivering hand and began clicking, trying to close the window
again. Just as I finally got the pointer in place and closed the window,
much to my relief, I heard her cluck her tongue and clear her throat.
"Well, Pamela," she intoned in a deep, disapproving voice, "I wouldn't call
a
man to help you with the furniture without straightening yourself out a
little first. Not unless you want to give them an eyeful wagging your
uncovered behind around."
Already hot and red, my face burned and must have turned purple. Looking
down and back, I gasped to see the back of my skirt pulled up, its hem
tucked
into the waistband of my panthose, my pantied bottom fully exposed! I
quickly reached back, shamefully untucked my skirt and tugged it down, too
embarrassed and humiliated to lift my head and look at her glowering face.
"And why, may I ask," she huffed, "did you have to lock the door to move
your
furniture?" She could only be doing this to deliberately shame and
humiliate
me further, I steamed, trying not to let my rising anger show on my face.
"It's not like you kept it from getting too loud. Everyone probably heard
the crash throughout the building. And I even heard you grunting and
squealing before that. And, besides, leaving the door open would have kept
it considerably cooler in here than it is now, not to mention inviting men
to
help with it, probably without even having to ask and ruffle those feminist
feathers of yours. Well, I have to get back to the office. There's a
couple
of boys--students--who shouldn't be left alone in there. Do you want me to
send them over, by the way, to help you move your furniture?"
I declined with as much gratitude and grace as I could manage to gather
under
the circumstances, trying to let my anger and shame simmer down to a low
boil.
Halfway down the hall I heard her call back, "Did you get one of those
weird greeting cards from Miss Margolis, too? Strange girl. Very strange
girl."
I almost fell through the floor, as her words fluttered one last orgasm
through me.
__________________
After regaining my composure, I closed my email, and the offending
picture, straightened my chair bac kup, and was able to let the previous
events drift into the back of my mind, thankfully.
But, I don’t know how long I sat staring at the plastic bag on my desk. My
mind was a complete blank. I masturbated. The entire time. It was not a
concious act. In fact, it was entirely devoid of any conscioius
component. I didn't even stop when I became aware that Cindy was
standing before my desk. I was numb. I had lost all pretense of dignity.
I was shattered.
"Whatcha got there, Professor Sniffer?"
She didn't wait for an answer, but picked up the plastic bag and looked
inside.
"Whew! Is that YOUR pee-pee, Professor Sniffer? Have you been eating
asparagus or something?"
"...HellOOOooo. Anybody home?"
She was knocking on my desk.
"I ASKED you a question. Is that your pee?"
"...yes..."
"Then why aren't you sniffing it? Isn't that what you do? Aren't those
panties? And aren't you a panty sniffer? Well...stick your little
panty-sniffer nose in there. And call me Miss Margolis,remember?"
"...yes...miss margolis..."
"No. Don't pick it up. Just open the bag for now, but you'll need to
restrain yourself from sniffing until I tell you. Open it, bitch!"
That word made me flush, and I had another...just a small one. But I did
as she told me.
"Well, from all the lewd boysterious noises snorting out your office, I
assume you received my little e-mail card, and are ready to accept who you
really are?" she smiled, almost in a friendly tone.
I noded, dumbly, holding the bag of foul smelling and now cold pee stained
panties
open on my desk.
"Very well, then you have my permision to burrow your nose into those smelly
panties, you sick little panty sniffer!" she giggeled delighted at herself,
as I lowered my face down.
" So...if those are *your* panties...what are you wearing now, Pammy
Sniff-Sniff?"
"...nothing...miss margolis..." came my muffeled reply, as I obediently
inhaled my own repellant yet precious oders.
"Ooooo...you nasty, nasty thing! Show me. Wobble over here on your knees
and hike up your skirt for Miss Margolis to see, Pammy."
She sat down as I stood, walked around my desk, stopped in front of her
and paused. I wanted to fight, to scream, to run away. But I sunk into
myself
and fought back the tears as I lifted my skirt. I was struck once again by
how
terribly attractive she was, her firm round breasts displayed provocatively
by
the low neckline of her tight white tee-shirt as she leaned forward, resting
her elbowson her thighs and looking up at me--all innocence and expectation.
My thighs trembled as I slowly unveiled my most private parts for her.
"Open it up for me, Pammy. I want to see if you know how to wipe
properly. If you know, I'll reward you."
I did as she asked, wiping as my mommy had shown me.
"Just as I thought." She said, noting my juices now flowing freely. "You
*are* a
little closet lesbo, aren't you? You're all wet from me just *being* here,
aren't you?"
I could not speak. But my trembling intensified.
"As your reword for sucessfully wiping your little bush, would you
like to *my* panties to wear, Pammy?"
I lost control at this, no longer trying to hidethe orgasms. Kneeling there
holding my pussy lips open for her, I spasmed and gushed. Shamelessly, but
with boundless shame. I came...more than once.
...after which she applauded...sweetly...so terribly sweetly. She
giggled and clapped. I felt proud. Stupid, yet proud. And excited beyond
words.
"Now enough playing around, Pammy. We're here to talk about my work
study job, aren't we? Why don't you go over to your desk and fetch the
evaluation report you refused to sign? 'kay? Bee a good little sniffer, and
I
will let hide away inside my panties."
I walked over on my knees and picked up the report with the pee stains and
poop smear on the corners, my resistance almost compelatly gone.
"Good. Now get your smelly old butt under the desk, and I'll fix this
stupid document for you. That's a good sniffy."
Her little skirt was so tight she had to wriggle to get it up over her
lovely full hips.
"Okay, Pammy-sniffs, get your big sniffer over here between my legs.
Remember,
no touchie- wouchie, though. Except with your lips."
I was already dizzy with the unreality of all I had just been through. I
cannot begin to describe the nirvana into which I was carried by Cindy's
scent. I wanted those moments to go on forever. I wanted to just die
like that; right there between Cindy's marvelous young thighs. Then she
roughly shoved my away from her thighs and into the evaluation report. The
evaluation, of course, rated her outstanding in every respect. Inthe comment
area, she had written:
"In view of her extraordinary talents, I am giving Miss Margolis a
special independent research project and recommend doubling her pay
rate. I will assume responsibility for all her previous responsibilities
under Miss Stern, in the hope that Miss Stern will allow me to sniff her
wonderfully smelly little panties."
Then, abruptly, she pushed the chair back, stood up, and as she wriggle
her skirt back down she was all busineess. I started up at her on my kees
feeling such warmth and love for her, for the privlidge of being allowed
access
to her wonderful panties and mysterious feminine oders. Though, deep inside,
as she grabed her purse and sneared down at me, it still stung bitterly that
I knew she emotionally felt nothing for me.
Nothing.
"Okay, Pammy. Sign it with your new name, turn it in,
and write me tonight and tell me everything you'll do for me. Don't you
dare change a word of it! And stay down there on the floor for the next two
hours, remembering what a stupid pant sniffing little loser you are for
accepting
such a stupidly humiliating name and Identity from one of your own students.
Ciao, Pammy. Gotta run!"
And she was out the door.
Hovering in a periorgasmic haze, I followed Cindy's instructions, I picked
up
tmy pen and shamefully unhaled the the brown and yellow stains on it as my
trembeling fingers got used to writing my new name.A part of me knew that
this was ending of my career, and basicly, my whole life. It did not seem to
matter. I was home.
End
_______________________________________________________
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