Author’s Note: The following text is the first chapter of Feminine Fundamentals (Deviant’s Edition) by Tori Hamlin. If you like what you read, you can buy all 16 chapters (over 150,000 words) for only $9.99 USD in the ATR store. (Click here to view in store.)
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Female Fundamentals, Chapter 1: The Female Animal
On Mona’s first day of class in Feminine Fundamentals, she sat in the front row. She assumed, incorrectly, that this course would be a blowoff class and an easy A. One could not exactly blame Mona for this assumption, as the start of the class began with hilarity. The class instructor took to the front of the room, and the chatty lecture hall full of Freshman girls fell silent.
The instructor was a platinum blonde, wearing bubblegum pink, high-heeled boots that came to her knees. She staggered, more than walked, almost with a drunken swagger, to the front of the class. Her tight, pink leather micro miniskirt was so short that the girls in the front row, Mona included, caught an easy glimpse of her bare pussy. The instructor’s big, round tits were tightly packed into a too-small top in the same silly pink.
Mona stared. She couldn’t help it. The woman looked like a joke. Like a costume. Like something a frat boy would dream up after three beers and a stroke. This was the instructor? This was the woman who was supposed to teach her something? Mona felt the laugh building in her chest before the woman even opened her mouth.
“Good morning,” she called to the stunned class, “Welcome to Feminine Fundamentals. You’ve all taken the intro class on Feminist Theory. You’ll note the word ‘theory’ meaning that it is basically make-believe and opinion, with no basis in fact. Fundamentals, however, are the basis for something that is true. Hello, everyone. My name is Professor Jiggletits McCunt.”
Mona, along with several other girls, burst out into laughter. It was too much. The name. The tits. The whole package. Jiggletits McCunt. It sounded like a porn parody of a porn parody.
Professor Jiggletits McCunt’s face turned a shade of pink nearly identical to her clothes. When the laughter began to die away, she said, “Thank you! That’s an appropriate response to any girl that introduces herself. It’s more than appropriate for a girl’s mere presence to be greeted by laughter, preferably at her humiliation.”
There was no further laughter at this remark. There were only confused stares and a few jaws on the floor.
Mona’s own laugh died in her throat. Thank you? The woman had just thanked them for laughing at her. Mona’s brain tried to process it and came up empty. It was like arguing with a wall. A big, pink, jiggling wall.
“I am not a real professor,” Professor McCunt went on. “Your real instructor is Professor Langston, and he is a man. He’s busy teaching men useful things. My title is purely an honorary degree, which is the greatest achievement that a girl can really hope for. This is because, as you’ll come to find out in this course, girls are actually brainless animals that are ruled by their cunts, their tits, and their feelings.”
Mona’s hand shot up. It shot up so fast it nearly took her shoulder with it. Her face was already hot. She could feel the blood in her cheeks. This was a joke. It had to be a joke. Some kind of performance art. A prank class.
Professor McCunt pointed to her and asked, “Yes?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mona stated, red-faced. “I’m here and paying actual money for an actual degree.”
Professor McCunt simply nodded and asked, “Are you, though? Paying actual money? Or did you receive a student loan or grant?”
“Well,” Mona admitted, “I got student loans. But I’m going to pay them back with my own money! Money that I earn by having a career.”
“I see,” Professor McCunt said. “And that’s because men have given you a chance to have an education at their expense. The real reason you’re in college is that you have a big rack and are, actually, quite stupid. If you were smart, you wouldn’t be here. Now, please make sure you aspire to complete this class successfully. You know so you can get a ‘career’ that will allow you to pay back those loans.”
She added air quotes to the word “career” and said it mockingly, in a way that Mona found demeaning and infuriating. It made Mona want to walk up and slap Jiggletits right across her huge, balloon-like, jiggling tits. She, and every other student, seemed dumbstruck by the fact that she’d just called Mona stupid.
Stupid. The word sat in Mona’s gut like a rock. She was not stupid. She had a 3.8 in high school. She had written an essay on intersectional theory that her AP teacher had read aloud to the class. She was not stupid. But the word hung there anyway, and the awful thing was that some small, traitorous part of her brain kept repeating it. Stupid. Big rack. Stupid.
“That probably made you feel angry, didn’t it?” McCunt asked.
“Of course,” Mona shot back.
McCunt nodded and said, “Feelings. You feel angry. You feel offended. You feel as if that’s unfair.”
“Duh!” Mona said, folding her arms under her breasts.
Professor McCunt went to the whiteboard, took up a marker, and wrote the word “Feelings” in crude, block letters. The “F” was written backward.
“Feelings are the primary motivator of all girls,” she said and turned back to the class. “Don’t bother taking notes. You won’t use them anyway. You’ll come to learn that everything in this course, you already know. It’s biologically hardwired into you as a girl.”
“This is such bullshit,” Mona muttered under her breath, and the girl next to her nodded in agreement.
“Feelings are what operate girls, while thoughts, ideas, and ambitions drive men,” McCunt continued. “Girls want to feel good. They want to feel accepted. They want to feel pretty, safe, and taken care of. Those feelings come from two primary sources. Your cunt and your tits.”
There were some murmurs of confusion and disagreement amongst the students.
Mona’s ears burned. The word cunt, said out loud, in a classroom, by an instructor. It kept landing on her like a slap. Cunt. Tits. The woman said them the way other people said “desk” or “window.” No weight. No shame. That was almost worse than the words themselves.
“You, girl,” McCunt said and pointed to Mona, “What’s your name?”
“Mona,” Mona snapped.
McCunt went to the board again and wrote the word, “Moan,” in the same block letters and underlined it.
“That’s not how you spell it, you… you bimbo!” Mona protested.
“I’m sorry,” McCunt said, without turning around. “Does that make you feel even angrier?”
Mona shut her mouth and sulked. Bimbo. She’d called the instructor a bimbo, and the instructor hadn’t even flinched. It was like throwing a rock at the ocean. The ocean just kept being the ocean, huge and pink and wet.
McCunt drew a crude representation of Mona beneath her misspelled name, giving her scrawled figure oversized breasts, then adding a few drops of moisture between her spread legs. She drew an arrow, pointing toward Mona’s wet cunt.
“Mona is feeling angry,” McCunt explained, “because she’s currently suffering from dry cunt.”
“I am not!” Mona protested, unable to let it slide.
“A girl with a wet cunt doesn’t feel angry,” the professor said. “A girl with a wet cunt feels happy. I can only ascertain, then, that you have a dry cunt.“
There were a few giggles from some of the girls, and a few murmurs of, “Dry cunt.”
The giggles hit Mona harder than the insult. Other girls. Girls like her. Laughing. She wanted to turn around and glare at them, but her neck felt stiff, and her face felt like it was on fire. Dry cunt. They were saying it. They were actually saying it.
“Is your cunt wet, Mona?” McCunt asked.
“That’s… that’s so gross! You can’t ask me that! And stop saying that word! This is a school!” Mona whined.
“Yes. You’ve chosen to enroll in an inclusive university that’s dedicated to ensuring its students receive equal time learning a number of viewpoints. Just as you took a class in Feminist Theory, and another in Gender Identity. Did you feel that those courses were gross?”
“No,” Mona grumbled.
“Again, we come back to Mona’s feelings,” McCunt said to the class. “Mona feels that this viewpoint is gross because Mona is suffering from dry cunt.”
Mona blushed and sank down in her seat.
She hated this. She hated the logic of it. It was a trap with no door. If she got angry, it proved the dry cunt. If she stayed quiet, it proved the docility. Every road led back to her cunt. Her cunt was being discussed in a lecture hall by a woman named Jiggletits, and there was no argument Mona could make that didn’t end with her own genitals on the whiteboard.
“Now, Mona, if you’re quite finished interrupting the lecture, I’ll move on.”
Mona stewed but said nothing.
“Dry cunt is a very serious condition that we’ll address in a future lesson,” McCunt said. “Today, we’ll cover the basics of the female animal.”
Mona made a strangled little noise. McCunt paused, quirking a brow at her, but Mona chose not to speak. The professor returned to the board.
“The Female Animal,” she wrote in block letters, again writing the F backward.
“The female animal exists to serve three central purposes,” McCunt explained and began to write on the board. “Service. Procreation. Entertainment. Each of these purposes has any number of means by which it can be fulfilled. Would someone like to give me an example of service?”
At first, no one raised their hand. The girls all looked at each other, but then Mona volunteered. She couldn’t help it. The silence was unbearable. Someone had to push back. Someone had to show this pink balloon animal that there were thinking women in the room. With a smirk, she said, “A woman can serve as an executive. Like a CEO.”
“That’s interesting, Mona,” McCunt said. “Is a CEO serving? Or are they being paid?”
“Of course, they get paid,” Mona said. “Everyone has to get paid!”
“So, I assume that you chose CEO to illustrate that a female is just as capable as a man?”
“They are! We are!”
McCunt nodded and said, “Capability to perform at a high level illustrates what we’ll cover in a future lesson. That is, there are exceptions to everything in nature. However, your example does not illustrate your supposition that all females are capable of such feats. Furthermore, holding power, like a CEO, is an aphrodisiac. It leads to wet cunt, which makes a female feel happy and fulfilled. And, since you feel you’re a very intelligent girl, I’m sure you’re also aware that a CEO delegates a great deal of responsibility. How many successful CEOs are doing all the work themselves? It’s a team effort.”
Mona chose not to reply.
Her brain scrambled for a counter and found nothing but static. Team effort. Wet cunt. The woman had taken her best example and folded it into the stupid theory like it belonged there. Mona’s smirk was long gone. Her mouth felt dry, which was a bitter joke all on its own.
“Would anyone like to give an example of procreation?” McCunt asked the class.
Mona, again, raised her hand. McCunt pointed to her and remarked, “It’s good to see that the rest of you already understand that a girl’s mouth shouldn’t be used to express her opinions. Yes, Mona. Go ahead.”
“Donating eggs!” Mona said.
“Very good, Mona. A woman can donate eggs to aid in alternative means of pregnancy. That’s a wonderful example.”
McCunt wrote the word “Donate” on the board.
“And who has an example of entertainment?”
“Dancing!” Mona blurted, and then her face fell as McCunt smiled.
“Now you’re getting it, Mona! Dancing is an excellent form of entertainment.”
“Not, like, stripping!” Mona added.
“So, you’re saying that women who choose to take up the profession are, what? Not dancers? Not entertaining? That seems like a very judgmental attitude, Mona.”
“I didn’t say that!” Mona snapped.
“Then, perhaps you’ll volunteer to work as a dancer when we get to the Work Study portion of the class later this semester.”
“I’m not going to be a stripper!” Mona stated.
“That’s unfortunate,” McCunt said. “With tits like those, you’d be very entertaining.”
Mona sputtered angrily and sank even further into her seat as the class laughed.
Her tits. The whole class was laughing at her tits. She crossed her arms again and then uncrossed them because crossing them pushed her tits up higher and made them more visible, and that was worse. There was no position her body could take that didn’t display her. She felt like her own chest was a billboard she’d never rented.
“Now, don’t laugh,” McCunt said. “Mona is illustrating exactly why a girl’s mouth shouldn’t be used to express opinions, especially when suffering from dry cunt. When a girl attempts to vomit her feelings out, as if they were thoughts, it will inevitably lead to her mockery and humiliation. As you’ll come to find, mockery or humiliation can be a cure for dry cunt, but there are much quicker ways to deal with the condition. Do you feel mocked and humiliated, Mona?”
Mona sniffled a little bit and nodded her head once.
She hated that nod. She hated it the second it happened. But it had happened on its own, the way her hand had shot up on its own, the way her mouth kept opening on its own. Her body kept volunteering for things her mind hadn’t approved.
“And I’d be willing to bet that those feelings are, even now, causing your cunt to wetten.”
Mona looked horrified and mumbled, “Nuh uh!”
McCunt held her gaze for a second longer until Mona looked down at her desk and blushed. Her cunt was actually a little wet now, which was confusing.
Confusing was not a strong enough word. It was a betrayal. A full betrayal. She was angry, she was humiliated, her eyes were stinging, and underneath all of it, between her legs, there was a warmth and a slickness that had no business being there. Her body had read the room and chosen the wrong side. She pressed her thighs together and hated the small throb that answered.
“Given that Mona’s attitude has become somewhat more docile,” McCunt said, “it’s reasonable to assume that my supposition is correct. The wetter a girl’s cunt becomes, the more docile, compliant, and empty-headed she gets. The same can be said for the size of your tits. In short, bigger equals dumber.”
Mona made another little noise, and McCunt’s attention snapped toward her. She waited for a protest. Mona did not give one. She, instead, attempted to hide her large breasts with the desk.
Bigger equals dumber. Mona’s tits were the biggest in the room, maybe the biggest in the freshman class, and every eye in the lecture hall had just been invited to do the math. She hunched over the desk and felt her face burn and felt, God help her, another pulse of warmth between her legs. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. She was being insulted, and her cunt was responding like it was being flirted with.
“As you can tell, my tits are very large. I chose to make them bigger to show that I am more entertaining and stupider than a girl with small tits.”
There were some grumbles from the class, which McCunt ignored.
“Dry cunt leads to irritability and negative feelings,” she explained. “A girl with a wet cunt doesn’t feel those things. By now, I’m certain that most, if not all of you, are familiar with the state of mind caused by a wet cunt. Even Mona. A wet cunt leads to feelings of happiness because a wet cunt is your natural state. If any of you would like to make sure you have a wet cunt, feel free. A girl learns best with a wet cunt, after all.”
To make her point, McCunt licked her fingers and began to rub her pussy under her skirt as she continued, “Service, procreation, and entertainment. The three primary functions of the female animal. When a girl attempts to perform some function that does not coincide with one of these three purposes, it only leads to stress, negative feelings, and a general state of unhappiness.”
The stunned class simply blushed and muttered as they watched the instructor idly finger her twat as she spoke.
Mona could not stop watching. That was the worst part. Her eyes kept going back to the woman’s hand moving under that ridiculous skirt, to the small wet sounds that carried in the quiet hall, to the vacant, flushed, content look on McCunt’s face. The woman looked happy. Genuinely, stupidly happy. And Mona sat in the front row with her thighs squeezed together, her face on fire, her cunt aching in a way she refused to name, thinking one clear thought over and over.
This was going to be a long semester.
At the back of the class, the door opened, and a man wearing a janitor’s uniform slipped inside. McCunt turned her attention to him.
“Ah, excellent timing,” she said and waved the man down. As he walked, the professor said, “This is Mr. Thompson. He’s one of the school’s cleanliness technicians. I’ve asked him to stop in to help demonstrate a point.”
Mr. Thompson stood to the side of the lecture hall.
Mona looked at him and felt a small knot form in her stomach. A man. A man in the room, standing at the front, looking out over the hall filled with freshman girls. He looked completely ordinary. Gray at the temples. A little belly. The kind of man you wouldn’t look at twice in a hallway. But he was here for a demonstration, and nothing about this class had been ordinary so far, and Mona’s knot tightened.
McCunt made her way to the board and, reading from a card, wrote out a complex math problem.
“Mona,” she said, and Mona looked frightened. “Would you please come to the board and solve this problem for us?”
“Me?” Mona squeaked.
“Yes. Please.” She held out her marker.
Mona looked around for help, but there was none. The girl next to her studied her desk. The rows behind her were full of eyes, and none of them were friendly. With her head down, she walked to the front of the class and accepted the marker, then stared in confusion at the math problem.
The symbols swam. She knew some of them. She had passed calculus. She had passed it with a B-minus, which was a perfectly respectable grade, and right now she could not remember a single thing from it. The numbers sat on the board like a foreign language. Her hand held the marker and the marker did not move. Behind her, she could feel them. The whole class. A janitor. A bimbo with her hand still damp. All watching her fail.
For several minutes, the class was silent as they watched Mona stare at the board.
“I… I don’t know how,” she said.
McCunt nodded and said, “That’s alright, Mona. Do you feel stressed over it?”
Mona slowly nodded.
“Do you feel uncomfortable and stupid?”
Mona wiped away a humiliated tear and nodded again.
The tear had snuck out. She hadn’t authorized it. It had just rolled out of her eye in front of everyone, and now her cheek was wet, and her face was burning, and the word stupid was back in her gut, heavier this time, because she had just stood at a board for several minutes with an empty head and a—a wet cunt. Oh, God!
McCunt put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.
“You’re trying to do something that wasn’t meant for you,” McCunt said soothingly. “Complex tasks aren’t one of your three functions. When you lie to yourself and pretend that they are, you’re only fueling the negative feelings. If you want to return to your seat and rub your cunt, it will feel better. I promise.”
“I… I don’t,” Mona objected softly.
McCunt patted her head and said, “Go sit down. There’s a good girl.”
Blushing and humiliated, Mona took her seat again.
Good girl. The woman had patted her head and called her a good girl, in front of everyone, and the worst part, the absolute worst part, was that some deep and stupid part of Mona had liked it. Had felt a little warm flicker at the praise. She sat down hard and glared at her desk and hated herself.
The class turned its attention back to the instructor. Under her desk, Mona gave her cunt a little rub through her pants and realized that did, actually, feel a bit better.
She snatched her hand back like the desk was hot. What was she doing? She had not decided to do that. Her hand had simply gone there, the way her hand had shot up earlier, the way her head had nodded, and the rub had felt good, soothing, exactly like the bimbo had promised, and that was the most terrifying thing that had happened all day. Her body was taking instructions from Jiggletits McCunt. Her body was a student in this class, and it was getting an A.
For another few minutes, they watched the instructor try—and fail—to solve the problem on the board. She wrote a number, chewed her lip, erased it, wrote it again wrong. Her brow furrowed. Her huge tits pressed against her top as she leaned in close to the board, as if being nearer to the math would help. It did not help.
Finally, red-faced, she sighed and held out the marker to Mr. Thompson. The janitor accepted the marker, solved the problem without thinking, and set the marker down.
It took him maybe ten seconds. He didn’t even look at it twice. He wrote the answer, put the marker down, and stepped back with the blank face of a man who had just replaced a paper towel roll.
“As we’ve demonstrated,” McCunt said as she bent over the desk, “two girls have attempted to perform a function that is not a service, not aiding in procreation, and in no way entertaining. Both of us became flustered, upset, and stressed.”
McCunt spread her legs slightly and bent forward further, mashing her tits against the desktop. The janitor stepped behind her and the class gave a collective gasp as he unzipped his pants, pulled out his cock, and pushed it into McCunt’s cunt.
Mona’s gasp was in there somewhere. She heard it come out of her own mouth. Her brain had not caught up. He was inside her. The janitor was inside the instructor, in the front of the lecture hall, ten feet from Mona’s desk, and nobody was stopping it. Nobody was doing anything. A hundred girls sat in their seats like it was a film.
He began to slowly saw his prick in and out of her fuckhole as the astonished class looked on.
“However,” McCunt said breathily, as the janitor banged her against the desk, “by providing a service and being entertaining, I’m already feeling much more positive and happy. My cunt is getting exceptionally wet and—” the janitor slapped her jiggling bottom, “Oh! And… I’m going… going to…”
She stopped and put her head down on the desk. Her hands grabbed the far edge, and she held onto it, white-knuckled, as the janitor began to pound his dick into her from behind roughly. His hand shot out and grabbed her hair, jerking her head back.
The stunned class watched with a mix of fascination and disgust as their bimbo instructor’s flushed, horny face stared vacantly ahead. She made little panting noises and, after a few minutes of hard fucking, a little trail of spit drooled from her open mouth to fall on the desktop.
Mona could not look away. She tried. She turned her eyes to her desk and held them there for three full seconds, and then they went back, pulled like they were on a string. The sounds were the problem. The wet slap of it. The creak of the desk. The little grunts the janitor made, no more emotional than a man moving furniture. And McCunt’s panting, high and empty and happy, the sound of a brain with nothing left in it.
This is degrading, Mona thought. This is the most degrading thing I have ever seen. She is being used like an object. Like a thing. This is everything we learned to fight against.
Her cunt throbbed.
No, she told it. No. Absolutely not.
It throbbed again. Her panties were damp. Actually damp, not almost, not a little. She could feel it every time she shifted in her seat, the slick press of fabric, and her thighs kept squeezing together on their own, chasing a friction she refused to give them with her hand. Her hand was going to stay on the desk. Her hand was going to be the one part of her with any dignity left.
When Mona glanced sidelong at the girl sitting next to her, the girl’s hand was very suspiciously moving underneath her desk. She heard a quiet moan from behind her.
The moan did something to her. It was soft and ashamed and familiar, like hearing her own thoughts out loud. Someone else was losing the same war. Someone else’s body had picked the same side. It should have made her feel better, having company. It did not make her feel better. It made her feel hotter, and the heat made her feel worse, and the whole thing went around again.
Mona, herself, felt a little hot, but she was determined not to rub her cunt and betray herself as some kind of animal.
I am not an animal, she thought, very firmly, while her cunt dripped into her underwear. I am a thinking woman. I am a thinking woman. I am a thinking woman. The mantra had a rhythm, and the rhythm matched the wet slapping sounds from the front of the room, and she hated that too.
Then, the instructor gave a violent jerk, and the janitor groaned. He released his grip on McCunt’s hair and her face fell forward. The janitor clung to her hips, burying his cock in her wet hole, and the assembled, paralyzed students watched him ejaculate into their teacher.
Mona watched his face. That was the strangest part. His face barely changed. He was cumming inside a woman in front of a roomful of college freshmen, and his face looked like a man waiting for a bus. A slight tightening around the eyes. A grunt. Done. Another task completed. Toilets on the second floor, instructor in the lecture hall, all in a day’s work.
More gasps and a few groans followed when Thompson roughly pulled McCunt off the desk and pushed her to her knees. He fed his slimy pole into her panting mouth, gripping her hair again and using it like a handle to clean his prick, with no more regard for her than he had for using a plunger on the toilets.
Mona’s stomach flipped. Her cunt clenched. Both things happened at once, and she sat very still, trapped between them, disgusted and aching, her hands flat on the desk where anyone could see them and where she could keep them honest.
When he was finished with her mouth, he used her blond hair to dry his spit-coated cock, then smacked it against her cheek a few times as he chuckled. When he tucked his dick away and zipped his pants, he strolled from the room, whistling a tune.
The whistling. That was the detail Mona knew she would never forget. Not the cock, not the cum, not the hair. The whistling. He strolled out like a man who had just fixed a squeaky door, whistling, and the door clicked shut behind him, and the whole class sat in silence with what they had seen.
McCunt wobbled to her feet. Her top was slightly askew, and her hair was a tangled mess. She staggered around the desk. A trail of slut slime and semen coated her inner thighs, slowly making its way toward her heeled feet. She leaned against the desk with one hand and caught her breath.
“That will… conclude… today’s lesson,” she said. “Please make sure… you read… the assigned chapter for next week.”
Nobody moved at first. Then chairs started scraping. Girls gathered their bags with their eyes down, filing out in near silence, a few of them walking with a strange careful stiffness that Mona recognized because she had it too.
Mona stayed in her seat a moment longer than everyone else. Her legs did not feel reliable. Her panties were soaked, fully soaked; there was no lying about it anymore, and her face was still hot, and her mind was still screaming the word degrading on a loop while her cunt pulsed in disagreement.
She had come here to learn that women were not animals.
She got up, pressed her thighs together, and waddled toward the door like a girl hiding a secret, because she was.
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That’s the end of the excerpt! If you want to read more, you can buy the full e-book of Feminine Fundamentals (Deviant’s Edition for only $9.99 USD in the ATR store. (Click here to view in store.)
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