The Instructor's Weekend of Awakening

The brochure had been tucked between takeout menus and credit-card offers in my building lobby: AWAKEN YOUR INNER GODDESS—A WEEKEND INTENSIVE FOR THE CURIOUS WOMAN. I almost threw it away. Thirty-two, single, and newly promoted to a managerial role that felt like wearing a costume, I told myself I was too busy for “woo-woo retreats.” But that night I poured a second glass of wine, reread the copy—“hands-on guidance,” “safe space for experimentation,” “professional sex educator”—and felt something flutter behind my ribs. Not just curiosity. A deep, resonant ache of neglect. By morning I’d maxed-out my credit card on the non-refundable fee.

Now, Friday at dusk, I’m clutching my overnight bag in the gravel lot of a cedar-clad lodge upstate. Through wide windows I glimpse women laughing in a circle of floor cushions. My pulse jumps when a man rises to greet them—tall, charcoal Henley stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves shoved to the elbows. His hair is thick, almost black, silvering at the temples. When he turns toward the glass, our eyes lock and hold a beat too long. I look away first, cheeks burning, the ghost of his gaze lingering like a physical touch.

Inside smells of pine and bergamot. “Welcome, I’m Rafael.” His voice is smooth, low, a sound felt in the stomach. He doesn’t offer a handshake; instead he cups my elbow, guiding me to the group. Ten women, early twenties to late forties, all gorgeous in unique ways. I tug my cardigan tighter, suddenly shy in my practical jeans.

We introduce ourselves with one word for how our bodies feel right now. “Tired.” “Curious.” “Nervous.” “Hungry.” My word is “tight.” Rafael’s word is “attuned.” He explains that he’s a certified somatic sex educator, ex-paramedic, ex-yoga teacher. “This is a clothes-off space,” he says, “but nothing, absolutely nothing, happens without your verbal, enthusiastic consent. You can change your mind at any moment. That power is yours alone.” He lets the words linger, surveying faces, his gray eyes pausing on each of us. My stomach flips.

We eat vegetarian chili in near silence, the air fizzing with anticipation. I learn the names of the women near me. There’s Mara, a soft-spoken librarian with ink-stained fingers. Chloe, a brassy-haired personal trainer. And Carmen, a graphic designer with dark, observant eyes and a quick, nervous smile that she flashes my way when our spoons clink against the same bowl of olives. The lodge is warm, intimate, the world outside fading into a velvet darkness.

At nine we gather in the studio: flickering candles, muted drums, a circle of thick mats. “Tonight is about mapping sensation without goal,” Rafael says, moving with a quiet, contained energy. “You’ll partner with me for demonstration. Heels together, knees apart, arms at your sides—butterfly pose.”

I expect him to pick the willowy redhead, or maybe Carmen, who seems already poised for adventure. Instead his boots stop before me. “May I?” The room tilts. I nod, my throat too dry for speech.

He kneels between my spread thighs, palms hovering over my torso without touching. “Breathe into the back of your rib cage.” His scent—cedar, clove, a trace of clean sweat—invades my lungs. “Notice where you tense.” He trails fingertips a millimeter above my sweater. Heat streaks across my skin as if he’s already skin-to-skin, a line of fire following the path of his unseen touch. I feel my nipples harden against my bra, a blush crawling up my neck. He doesn’t acknowledge it, his focus absolute. “The body speaks before the mind,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Listen.”

Demonstration complete, he pairs us to mirror the exercise. My partner is Carmen. “Beginner’s luck,” she whispers, her giggle nervous. We kneel facing each other, and at his instruction, we glide our hands over each other’s clothes, cataloging tingles, warmth, coolness. Her touch on my shoulders is tentative, then firmer. My body feels louder than ever, a drumbeat pulsing between my legs, a hum in my veins. Across the room Rafael watches, gray eyes unreadable, a silent pillar in the candlelight.

Lights out at eleven. I lie in my narrow dorm bed, listening to the symphony of crickets and soft snores, replaying that phantom touch until my clit aches with a dull, persistent throb. I slip a hand into my underwear, but my own fingers feel clumsy, the release hollow and fleeting; I want the data, the danger, the uncertainty of his touch. I don’t sleep.

Saturday begins at dawn with blindfolded “sound baths.” Rafael circles our prone bodies, striking chimes near our ears, throat, breasts. Each metallic ping vibrates straight to my nipples, to the base of my spine. I bite my lip, grateful for the silk over my eyes. After a breakfast of fruit and thick yogurt, he unrolls a canvas mat printed with a hot-pink outline of a vulva. “Today we demystify pleasure anatomy,” he says. “Volunteers?”

My hand rises without permission. I blame the strong espresso, but we both know better. I feel Carmen’s encouraging nudge against my foot under the table.

Rafael guides me to sit against bolsters, my skirt pooled at my waist, my thighs draped in soft sarongs for modesty. “Safe-word?” he murmurs, close enough that his breath stirs my hair.

“Crimson,” I whisper, the word feeling absurd and vital.

“Use it if you need. No questions, no judgment.” To the group: “Watch her breath. Notice how arousal builds before a finger ever makes contact. The mind is the primary erogenous zone.”

He kneels. I expect clinical detachment; instead he strokes my calf with a touch that projects reverence. “Exhale.” His thumbs circle my kneecaps, then skate up my inner thighs, toward the knot of nerves already begging for attention. I’m soaked, terrified everyone can smell my arousal. “Ask for what you want,” he says, his voice a low command.

I swallow. “Touch—touch me.”

He folds the sarong back, exposing my black lace panties. “May I remove these?”

I nod, dizzy. He peels them down slowly, the fabric gliding along hypersensitive folds. Cool air kisses wet skin; I whimper. He arranges me with gentle hands, adjusting the bolsters so the group has a clear, clinical view of my glistening labia. Embarrassment spikes hot—then melts under his approving, focused gaze. He is not shaming me; he is presenting me. A specimen of wanting.

“Notice the color change,” he tells them, his tone educational but warm. “Darker pink signals engorgement, increased blood flow.” He traces a feather up my slit, not parting me, just gathering nectar. My hips jerk, chasing the contact. “Still?” he warns softly. I force myself motionless, muscles trembling with the effort.

Next comes a curved glass wand, chilled in a bowl of mint water. He rolls it over my outer lips; I gasp. “Temperature play heightens awareness,” he narrates, though his voice has thickened slightly. He slides the wand just inside, shallow, withdraws, repeats until my opening flutters around emptiness. “Who’d like to try?” Hands shoot up; a dozen strangers crave entrance to my body. The power surge shocks me, a heady, terrifying wine.

“Not yet,” Rafael decides, his hand covering me, palm cupping my vulva protectively. “Breathe through the hunger,” he says, his eyes burning into mine, and I almost come from the pressure of his hand alone, from the intensity of that shared look. He sees my stumble, the near-fall, and a faint, knowing smile touches his lips before he carefully covers me with the sarong.

Lunch is a blur of damp thighs and buzzing ears. He assigns journaling: “List three fantasies you’ve never voiced.” I write, my hand unsteady: 1) To be completely bound, unable to move, totally at someone’s mercy. 2) To be watched while I come, to be a spectacle of pleasure. 3) My teacher’s mouth on me, his tongue where his words have been. My pen stalls; the page feels too small, too flimsy to hold these truths.

The afternoon brings “mirror work.” We strip in pairs, sit cross-legged, knees touching, and study each other’s genitals with hand mirrors under Rafael’s gentle guidance. My partner is Carmen again. Her pussy is plump, pierced with a delicate silver ring, beautiful. “It’s like a piece of art,” I tell her, the words surprising me with their ease.

She blushes crimson. “Thank you. I was so nervous about it.” When it’s my turn, she traces the air above my inner lips with a fingertip, marveling at the symmetry. “You’re so… perfect. Like a closed flower.” She looks up, her dark eyes sincere. “It’s beautiful.”

I feel deific, seen in a way that has nothing to do with objectification. Rafael circulates, correcting posture, complimenting curiosity. When he stops at my shoulder, his presence is a wave of heat. He bends, and his murmur is for me alone. “Stay after dinner. I have an advanced curriculum in mind. A private session.” My heartbeat detonates in my chest, a frantic drum.

The hours from six to ten crawl by on bruised knees. Dinner is a quiet affair. I catch Carmen watching me, her gaze thoughtful. During a lull in conversation, she leans over. “You’re brave,” she says softly. “What he did today… I could never.” There’s no jealousy in her voice, only a kind of wistful admiration. I just shake my head, unable to explain that it wasn’t bravery, but a compulsion I could no longer resist.

Finally, the lodge quiets; others head to the sauna, their laughter trailing down the hall. I knock on the studio door, my knuckles barely making a sound.

He opens it shirtless. His torso is ridged with shadows from the candles guttering along the floor, drawstring pants slung low on his hips. The room is transformed. The mats are pushed aside. A steel bar dangles from ceiling rigging. A low bench sits in the center. My mouth goes dry.

“Advanced curriculum,” he says, stepping back to let me in. His voice is different here, softer but with a steel core. “Are you interested?”

“Yes,” I breathe.

“That’s not enough. I need you to understand. This would be a BDSM scene. It would involve bondage, impact play with a flogger, anal stimulation, and potentially exhibitionism. It will challenge you. It will hurt in ways that feel good and in ways that might frighten you. Your safe-word is your absolute power. Do you understand?”

I nod, swallowing hard. “I understand.”

“I need verbal, enthusiastic consent for each of those elements. Bondage. Do you consent?”

“Yes.”

“Impact play, with the flogger you see on the wall. Do you consent?”

“Yes.”

“Anal play, with my fingers and toys, to your tolerance. Do you consent?”

A shiver runs through me. “Yes.”

“And the possibility of being watched, if the moment feels right to all involved. Do you consent to that possibility?”

The fantasy from my journal flashes in my mind. “Yes.”

He studies me, his gaze searching. “Why? Why say yes to this with me?”

The question floors me. I fumble for an answer that isn’t just because I’m aching for it. “Because… you see me. Not just my body. You saw me almost come from your hand on me today. You saw the want, and you didn’t look away. You called it hunger.” My voice gains strength. “I want you to feed it.”

A crack appears in his professional facade. Something raw and grateful flashes in his eyes, gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “I see you,” he confirms quietly. “And I haven’t offered a private session like this in over a year. It’s a risk for me, too. Crossing a line. So we cross it together, with clear eyes. Okay?”

The revelation that he is risking something, that this isn’t just a routine for him, makes my chest tighten. “Okay.”

“Good girl.” The praise melts my bones. He leads me to the center, his hands firm on my shoulders. “Arms up.” He fastens padded cuffs around my wrists, clips them to the bar. The metal clicks are final. Arms overhead, I sway on tiptoe, already exposed, already surrendering.

He circles me, a shark in candlelight. He drags a single fingernail across my shoulder blades, down the valley of my spine, between my cheeks, bared by the black lace thong I’d put on with trembling hands. “Color?”

“Green.”

He produces a silk scarf, blindfolds me. The world vanishes, leaving only scent, sound, and the terrifying amplification of touch. Leather flogger tails whisper over my breasts, my belly, my thighs—no impact yet, just the promise of it. My cunt clenches around nothing, weeping.

The first strike lands across both nipples, a bright, shocking sting that blooms into deep warmth. I yelp, then the moan is torn from me. He alternates rhythm: a pause where I hang in dread, the swish of the falls through air, the sharp crack on skin, then the soothing flat of his palm in a caress. Pain transmutes to golden syrup pooling in my pelvis. He pauses to roll a steel clamp onto each aching peak, connecting them with a delicate chain. A gentle tug—lightning forks through me. I sag in the cuffs, my weight suspended by my wrists.

Behind me, he peels the thong down. “Step out.” I obey, kicking my legs wider at his gentle nudge. Cool lube dribbles down my crack; a gloved thumb circles my anus, a shocking, intimate pressure. “Ever taken a man here?”

“No.” The word is a confession.

“Safe-word still active?”

“Y-yes.”

“Push out against my thumb.” He presses, and the burn of intrusion melts into an illicit, stunning fullness as his thumb pops past the tight ring. I mewl, mortified and electrified by how my hips rock back, begging for deeper. He chuckles, a low, warm sound, sliding in to the knuckle. “Such an eager pupil.”

He withdraws, replaces his thumb with a smooth, cool metal plug—graduated sizes, each bigger than the last. By the time the third bulb seats itself inside me, I’m panting, stuffed impossibly full, dripping down my thighs. He fists my hair, not cruelly, but possessively, and growls in my ear: “Tonight you’re going to ride that edge until you forget your name, until you forget everything but this.”

He releases the bar; my arms drop, blood rushing back in painful, tingling waves. He positions me on all fours atop the low bench, my wrists recuffed to a ring underneath it. Ass high, face pressed to the cool leather, the clamp chain swinging with each ragged breath. I hear his pants drop, the tear of foil. My heart riots against my ribs—this is it, he will, I am—

He slides inside my pussy in one slick, devastating thrust, groaning. “Fuck, you’re drowning me.” His pelvis nudges the plug with every stroke; the dual fullness obliterates thought, language, everything but sensation. He sets a brutal, perfect pace, his fingers digging into my hips. “Tell me who owns this cunt for the weekend.”

“You do, Instructor.” The admission detonates something primal in us both. I buck back, meeting him thrust for thrust. He snakes a hand under me, finding my clit, strumming it until I hover, shaking, on the brink of a cataclysmic fall.

“Not yet,” he snarls, pulling out abruptly. I cry out in raw, frustrated protest. He circles the bench, wipes his glossy cock across my cheek. “Open.” I stretch my jaw, and he sinks deep, my own juices mixed with his salty pre-come flooding my mouth. Saliva spills as he fucks my face with slow, measured thrusts, murmuring praises: “Beautiful surrender, that’s it, take it.”

He withdraws, yanks off the blindfold. Candlelight flares, a sudden assault of beauty after the darkness. My eyes swim, trying to focus on his face, fierce with passion. “You said you wanted to be watched. Do you still?”

I nod frantically, the fantasy now a terrifying, thrilling possibility.

He opens the studio door; cool, pine-scented night air floods in, chilling my sweat-slicked skin. Through the trees, the sauna glows like a lantern, silhouettes moving behind fogged glass. He whistles—two long, one short. Within moments, footsteps crunch on the gravel path. Carmen appears in the doorway, a towel wrapped around her torso, her eyes wide and dark.

“Come,” Rafael orders, no room for question. She steps in, the door closing behind her. “Kneel there.” He points beside the bench. She does, her gaze locked on me, on my bound form, my wrecked state. Her pupils are blown black.

“You watched today,” Rafael says to her, his voice calm, pedagogical even now. “You admired. Now participate. Hold this for her.” He hands her a cordless wand vibrator. “Don’t let her come until I say.”

Carmen bites her lip, a flicker of uncertainty chased away by a blaze of determination. She meets my gaze, and I give a tiny, desperate nod. She presses the humming head to my swollen, throbbing clit. The sensation is nuclear, overwhelming. I convulse, a sob catching in my throat. Rafael re-enters me from behind, fucking me with deep, slow strokes while Carmen torments the front. Moans pour out of me, obscener by the second, a language of pure need. “Please, please, please—”

“Louder,” Rafael commands, his own control fraying. “Tell the whole goddamn forest what you need.”

“I NEED TO COME, INSTRUCTOR!”

He laughs, a dark, joyful sound, and thrusts harder, his balls slapping against me. “Carmen, remove the clamps.” Her fingers, surprisingly steady, find the cold steel and release the bites. The rush of blood back to my nipples is an exquisite, piercing pain that arcs straight to my core. My walls spasm violently around him.

“Crimson?” he grunts, checking in, even here, even now.

“No—green, fuck, GREEN!”

He growls, a feral sound, and slams deep, holding there, his body bowing over mine. It triggers my climax like a detonation cord lit from my toes to my scalp. I scream into the night, the sound raw and unhinged, pulsing, squirting around his cock in helpless waves. He follows, roaring, flooding me with hot, liquid bursts. Carmen collapses forward, her head resting on the bench near mine, her lips pressing a soft, grateful kiss to my temple, sharing in the violent, beautiful aftershocks.

Much later, we unwind in the outdoor shower, the three of us under the steaming rain. Rafael washes my hair with gentle, strong fingers, massaging my scalp until I purr like a sated animal. Carmen kneels on the wooden slats, the warm water cascading over her shoulders as she kisses my inner thighs, then laps gently, so gently, at my over-sensitized folds. “Thank you,” she whispers against my skin. “Thank you for letting me see.” Her touch is worship, and I come again, soft and slow, tears of release mingling with the shower steam.

Sunday brings tender soreness and shared secrets over strong coffee in the sun-drenched kitchen. The other women depart with hugs and knowing smiles. At checkout, Rafael hands me a small velvet box. Inside, nestled on black silk, is the glass wand from the demonstration, its curve now engraved with the date and a single word: Crimson.

“A reminder of your power,” he says, his professional mask back, but his eyes are soft. “And an invitation. Same time next month?”

I rise on tiptoes, kiss him deep, tasting coffee and possibility. “I’ll bring a longer safe-word,” I whisper against his lips, “but I doubt I’ll need it.”

Behind us, Carmen zips her bag, a shy smile playing on her face. “Room for one more on that journey?”

I look from his steady gray eyes to her hopeful dark ones. My heart feels swollen, too big for my chest. I lace my fingers with his, then reach for hers. She takes mine, her grip firm. The parking lot gravel crunches under our shoes—three sets of footprints, diverging for now, but pointing toward a future that feels wide open, terrifying, and gloriously, explicitly awake.