New Title: Feminine Fundamentals-Deviant's Edition
- 20 hours ago
- 29 min read
Black Room members, this story is now available for download from the member area.
With this release, it feels appropriate that we should hold a Back to School Sale. Therefore, all Tori Hamlin titles are discounted 10% for the month of August!
Welcome to Feminine Fundamentals. My name is Professor Tori Hamlin, and today we'll be discussing the female animal...
Sometimes, growth as a writer involves looking back and recognizing mistakes you've made. In the case of Feminine Fundamentals, the... er—fundamental story was a solid one, and I have a lot of love for it. It did, however, commit a cardinal sin of good writing. It told the story in many places, rather than showing it happen. In the last three years, I like to think that I've been able to improve my craft and skill to the point that I can do justice to a few of my older stories that had solid ideas and less-than-stellar execution. This has been a core driver behind the Deviant's Edition series.
With that said, I truly felt that Feminine Fundamentals deserved special treatment. The story featured one of my favorite antagonists in Professor McCunt. She's so evil, and portrays herself in such a way that you can almost dismiss her as a laughable and cartoonish character. But underneath the bubblegum pink bimbo exterior, she's a manipulative genius. Rather than working to force a belief system on her students, she maneuvers them into convincing themselves that she's correct about their nature.
When writing this Deviant's Edition, I wanted to give McCunt more page time and let her personality shine. I also endeavored to drastically expand on the "telling" portions of the original story. Instead of summary, "Mona did this and then this," as in the original, you will now be taken through everything that happened to Mona during her time in the class. My hope is that you'll be able to experience the story in a way the original failed to do.
This release also features a new way to experience the original story. I've created a dramatized audiobook version of the original Feminine Fundamentals, which is available in the Feminine Fundamentals Collector's Edition. The Collector's Edition includes:
Feminine Fundamentals (Original)
Deviant's Edition
Audio drama chapter files (MP3)
Audio drama single file (MP3)
Audio drama chapterized audiobook (MB4), compatible with any audiobook program (Apple Books, etc.).
Feminine Fundamentals Image Pack illustrating key scenes from the original story.
You can listen to the first chapter of the audio drama below.
Now, let's talk about what's changed in the Deviant's Edition. The original story clocked in at about 34,000 words. The new edition weighs in at 145,000, so roughly four times the original. Instead of just a chapter preview, I'll post the original chapter and a new one below so you can see the difference. The new edition also includes a brand new chapter with a new ending to the story.
That's the rundown. You can read the chapter preview below, and I hope you'll enjoy this new edition as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
Preview: Chapter Three-Wet Cunt (Original Version)
Mona did not care for her work uniform, but she needed a part-time job. There were always expenses for school and socializing. Her server’s skirt was a little too short, and the tops she had to wear fit a bit too snugly over her large tits, while the neckline was a V that exposed a bit more cleavage than she’d ever been comfortable with. The job itself took on a different meaning today, after the first lesson in her class.
She was a server. It was one of the female animal’s three primary functions. Before today, Mona hadn’t exactly liked the job, but there were servers all over the place. It was one of the easiest ways for someone with no real work experience to earn a living. Lots of people did it, both women and men.
At Stacked, however, all of the servers were female. Renowned for its pancakes, Mona had never before questioned the name of the place. Arny, the owner of the pancake house, didn’t seem a lecherous sort. He was more harried than anything. As with the job, though, the establishment’s name bothered her tonight.
Was the name really about pancakes, or did it refer to the cute college girls that waited the tables? Mona knew all of the other servers, and with the questions in her head from the awful class, she began to take note of the other girls’ breasts. They were… stacked. Like her. Had that been intentional?
Tonight’s patrons were a mixed lot, some of them students, a few faculty, the rest adult locals. There were the regulars, too. Mona always did well in tips and prided herself on being an efficient and attentive server, even when the place was busy. As she watched the looks from tonight’s crowd, though, many of them lingering on her cleavage or her legs, she began to wonder. Were they tipping her because of her service, or were they being generous because they found her tits entertaining?
It was considered bad form to talk about tips with coworkers, so she wasn’t sure if the other girls did as well as her. Did the girls with small boobs do as well, she wondered? She chided herself as she worked, feeling silly for thinking such a thing. That bimbo fake professor had really gotten under her skin.
Three times that evening, Mona made mistakes that she felt she wouldn’t have on another night. She’d put in two orders incorrectly and brought the wrong food to the wrong table. The customers were kind and understanding, which only made things worse. Were they being kind because that was just how they were? Were they kind because she had blonde hair and big boobs? Did they assume she’d made the mistakes, and that she did so frequently because her big tits made her stupid?
By the time her shift ended, Mona was flustered. She’d done well again, taking home great tips for the night. She couldn’t feel good about it, though. Of course, she was overthinking it, she tried to tell herself. Her boobs didn’t make her any less capable than anyone else. It was all nonsense.
She didn’t need to be ashamed of her job as a server, either. That was nonsense. Lots of people in college did it. When she graduated and got a real career, she’d laugh at the way she’d doubted herself tonight.
One day, she’d have children, and one of them would probably be a server for a time. Mona wouldn’t feel ashamed by that. Only, thinking about one day having children caused her to think about the female animal’s second primary function. In turn, she began to feel doubtful of ever having children.
All the way back to her dorm, it was a terrible cycle. She doubted herself, which made her feel bad, and that made her realize she was feeling instead of thinking. Then, she’d begin to think and try to reason through why she felt the way she did, and when she couldn’t put her finger on it, that made her feel stupid. Again, she’d wonder if it was because she had big tits.
She was happy to finally put the entire day behind her and get ready for bed. Carla still hadn’t come home from her night out, which was fine. It made it easier to fall asleep. But it wasn’t easy to fall asleep. Tired as she was, the stupid feelings wouldn’t go away.
Mona lay awake, her thoughts drifting, until the sound of the door opening roused her. Carla was home. Carla wasn’t alone. There was another voice, whispering as Carla giggled stupidly. She sounded drunk. The other voice was male.
Through her door, Mona couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it seemed quite clear what was going on. Carla had brought home a boy. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Carla had brought home a couple before. The few other times, Mona had made herself scarce and given Carla time to do her thing, but tonight it was late. She was going to have to lie in bed and listen to her roommate getting laid.
Mona groaned quietly and put her pillow over her head to block out Carla’s whispers and giggles through the thin door that separated her from the other room. The sound of Carla’s door shutting muffled the sounds further, almost completely blocking them. Mona breathed a sigh of relief and removed the pillow.
Just as she thought she was finally going to get some rest, though, a muted slap came from across the little dorm, followed by a yelp and then a pleased giggle.
“Do it again,” Carla’s voice hissed, clear even through the door.
Another slap, this time a moan, and the word, “Fuck!”
“You’re a bad girl,” the male voice said and chuckled.
The voices went quiet, and Mona found herself straining her ears to hear. She didn’t want to listen to Carla have sex, she told herself. She wanted to go to sleep. It didn’t happen, though.
A moment later, the dull sound of bedsprings creaking came from Carla’s room, and then her roommate began to moan loudly. The man with her growled and grunted. A rhythmic smack of flesh on flesh came next, growing louder as the bedsprings complained.
Mona couldn’t make herself stop listening. She knew she should put the pillow over her head again and mute the sounds of Carla’s pleasure, but she couldn’t do it. It had been months since she’d had sex and, as she listened to Carla moan and make sexy exclamations in her passion, she couldn’t help but think about how good it would feel to do it again.
Her worries and concerns over the stupid class began to fade as she listened to Carla fucking. The sounds and the fantasies they created in her sleepy mind were making her feel good. Lying in the dark, Mona reached down and began to gently rub her cunt as she listened to the deep male voice. The sound was too muffled to make out any real words, but the tone of it was sexy, as were the soft and breathy sounds from her roommate.
The two of them were really into it. This wasn’t a quickie. They had gone at it hard and fast at the beginning, but now Mona could tell that things were getting hot and passionate. Carla’s moans were softer, more like purrs, and the creaking of the bed reflected the change in pace and energy.
Mona imagined the boy between Carla’s legs, his body against hers, naked and sweaty. He’d be holding her close, their lips melding together, and their tongues playing. Carla’s dark hair was splayed across the pillow, and her eyes were shut as their bodies moved together in shared ecstasy.
All of the bad thoughts were gone now, as Mona rubbed her pussy and fingered it. She was so wet. Her cunt was so wet. It made everything feel better. All of the confusion and anger had been replaced by the serenity that came from the growing pleasure in her pussy. Her tits, too, felt wonderful as her hand groped and squeezed them.
Mona listened to the bedsprings, subconsciously matching the rhythm of her masturbation to her roommate’s fucking, the muffled, sexy sounds painting the picture of what was happening. She heard Carla squeak and then moan, and Mona knew her roommate had just cum. As if it were her in the room with the boy, Mona followed with her own orgasm. But Carla wasn’t through. The boy kept on fucking her, driving his cock into Carla and building her pleasure up again.
Fuck! He was good, and Mona found herself wishing it was her with the boy, rather than her hand. She could just imagine how wonderful her roommate was feeling right now, taking the boy deep into her, her pussy humping against him with a desperate need to reach her peak once more.
“Oh, fuck,” Carla moaned, then she almost shouted, “Cum on me! Oh, cum on my tits!”
The exclamation was followed by a further cry of orgasmic pleasure as Carla did hit her peak. Mona came with her again, as she listened to Carla’s passionate cry of bliss. It was followed by a groan from the boy and then a series of harsh “fucks” as he, presumably, pulled out of Carla and sprayed her tits with semen.
Mona had never let a boy cum on her tits. They’d always worn condoms and finished outside her. She imagined, as she orgasmed, how it would feel to have a dick spraying cum across her breasts. Would it really feel sexy? By the sound of it, Carla sure enjoyed it. It was entertaining.
Now that she’d cum, and Carla and the boy were quiet, Mona quickly fell asleep. Her cunt was very wet, and her head was full of good feelings. There were no further bad feelings keeping her awake.
Preview: Chapter Three-Wet Cunt (Deviant's Edition)
The alarm had dragged her out of sleep an hour ago, and now Mona was at work, body moving through the motions, but her head was still fogged, not right, like she’d left something vital behind in the sheets.
Stacked was half full for a Tuesday, which meant busy. The clatter of plates came out of the kitchen in waves. The smell hit her the second she walked in the back: syrup and grease and coffee that had been on the burner too long, the same smell as always, the smell that usually meant tips and homework later and nothing else. Tonight it smelled like something else. She couldn’t have said what.
She pulled her apron off the hook and tied it on in front of the mirror, watching her own hands fumble with the strings. The V-neck top did what it always did: stretched tight across her chest, the fabric straining, her tits pushing out a deep line of cleavage that no amount of tugging could hide. Too much tit for the shirt, and the shirt never stood a chance. The skirt was a joke, always too short, riding up the second she bent to tie the apron, exposing the tops of her thighs. She tugged it down, out of habit, and it slid right back up. She left it. She always left it. She was used to being on display.
She’d been working here since August. Forty shifts, maybe more. Forty times in this uniform, tits out, thighs bare, and not once had she really thought about it. Not until tonight.
That was what scared her, the way it crept up on her, the way she hadn’t noticed until now.
She pushed through the swinging door into the dining room and the word on the wall caught her eye, the way it caught her eye every shift, the big retro sign over the counter with the waitress cartoon on it.
STACKED.
Mona stopped walking.
She had read that sign four hundred times. It was a diner name. It was a pun: pancakes, stacked pancakes. Everyone knew it was a pun. There were pancakes right there in the logo. She had never once, not one single time in four months, looked at the cartoon waitress on the sign and noticed that the cartoon waitress had enormous breasts. That the cartoon waitress’s breasts were, in fact, the most detailed part of the drawing. That the pancake stack was drawn small, and the tits were drawn huge, and the joke was not about pancakes.
She stood in the middle of the floor, tray pressed to her side, staring up at the sign, and felt her cheeks flush, heat blooming under her skin.
Stacked. She worked at a place called Stacked. Blonde, tits out, serving coffee and pancakes under a sign that was a joke about her body, and she’d never put it together. Not once. Not until now.
“You’re blocking the coffee station, babe.”
Mona jerked sideways. April slid past her with the coffee pot, hip pressing against Mona’s ass, and Mona turned to apologize, but the words stuck. April’s top was stretched just like hers, tits pushing out, cleavage deep and obvious. April was stacked. April was stacked, and Mona had never really seen it before, not like this. Now she couldn’t unsee it.
Lacy was at the register, tits propped on the counter like they belonged there, laughing at something an old man said. Aerina came out of the kitchen, four plates balanced up one arm, her top cut so low Mona could see the shadow between her breasts from across the room.
All of them. Every server on the floor. Every single one had a rack, tits out, on display, like it was part of the uniform.
Mona did the math, because she couldn’t not. The cooks: men. The dishwasher: a man. Arny: a man. The four servers: four sets of tits in tight V-necks, no hostess because Arny didn’t bother on weeknights. Mona stood there, tray in hand, and the thought McCunt had planted that morning burrowed in, sharp and raw.
Did Arny hire us to serve food? Or did Arny hire us because we’re stacked?
It was a stupid thought. She tried to swat it away. People got hired for all kinds of reasons. April had experience. Lacy had been here forever. She was overthinking, letting one insane lecture from one insane bimbo crawl into her skull and lay eggs, wriggling under her skin.
But the thought didn’t die. It just slid to the back of her mind and waited, patient and hungry.
“Table six is yours,” April said, nodding toward the back. “They’ve been waiting.”
Mona moved. The work took over, the rhythm settling into her bones. Greet, drinks, order, punch it in, plates, check back, check, cash. She was good at this. She’d been good at this since week two. Here, her brain and her body usually worked together, not against each other. Here, she didn’t betray herself.
Table six: three men. Faculty, maybe, or grad students, soft sweaters and glasses and a laptop bag on the bench. She gave them her smile, her pen, and they gave her their order, but their eyes kept doing the same thing. Down. Up. Down. Up. A flicker at her face, then a long, hungry drop to her tits, lingering there, then back up. One of them didn’t even bother pretending. He talked to her cleavage, ordered a burger to her cleavage, asked about the soup to her cleavage. Her body was the conversation.
She’d been served up to eyes like this for four months. She knew. She’d always known, somewhere in the background, that men looked. Tonight she couldn’t un-know it. Tonight every dropped eye felt like a hand, hot and heavy, pressing against her skin.
“The soup’s chicken noodle,” she told the man’s chest-level gaze. “It’s always chicken noodle.”
“Great,” he told her tits.
She walked back to the POS, punched in the order, and stood there, hands flat on the screen, breathing slow and deep through her nose, trying to steady herself.
They don’t expect anything from you. The thought came up in her own voice, but it sounded like McCunt. You’re not a server to them. You’re a rack that brings food. The food doesn’t matter. You could bring them anything, as long as your tits came with it.
“Shut up,” she muttered at the screen.
She got through the next hour on autopilot, body moving, brain somewhere else, and the autopilot worked fine until it didn’t.
The first mistake was small. Table four wanted the club sandwich, no bacon, and she punched in no tomato. Easy error. The two buttons were adjacent. She caught it when the plate came out, standing at the pass with the ticket in her hand, and her stomach dropped, and she brought the plate to the table anyway with her apology already loaded.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, setting it down. “I punched it in wrong. I can have the kitchen remake it. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
The man at table four was maybe fifty, weathered face, wedding ring, a regular whose name she could never hold onto. He looked at the sandwich, looked up at her, and his face did the thing.
The smile. The soft, forgiving, crinkly-eyed smile.
“No worries, sweetheart,” he said. “Tomato’s fine. Don’t you worry about it.”
He picked up the sandwich, took a bite, and that was it. Mona stood there, pen in hand, apology still half-formed on her lips, nowhere to put it.
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks. Sorry.”
Sweetheart.
She walked away, and the word clung to her. Sweetheart. She’d been called sweetheart a thousand times. Hon, darlin’, sweetie, sweetheart. It was just diner weather, she’d always told herself. It meant nothing. Just what old men said to young women who brought them food and let them look.
But he hadn’t complained. That was the thing. She’d fucked up his order, and he hadn’t cared, and she couldn’t figure out why that stung until she was at the coffee station, refilling the pot, and it hit her.
He didn’t complain because he didn’t expect her to get it right.
The thought was cold and clear, and it came with a flash of McCunt at the whiteboard, the backward F, the block letters. Bigger equals dumber. The man had looked at her, blonde, big tits, tight top, flushed and apologizing, and the wrong sandwich had simply confirmed the picture. Of course the stacked blonde brought the wrong sandwich. That’s what stacked blondes do. It would be like complaining that the dog couldn’t be trusted to walk itself.
“Stop it,” she whispered to the coffee pot.
Her hands were shaking a little. She made them stop.
The second mistake came twenty minutes later, and it was worse because it was dumber. Table nine, a couple of students, two omelets, one with cheddar, one with Swiss, and she punched them both cheddar. She didn’t even catch it at the pass. She carried the plates out and set them down, and the girl at the table cut into hers and said, “Um, I think this is cheddar?”
Mona’s stomach dropped again. Twice in one shift. She never made two mistakes in one shift. She’d made two mistakes in one shift maybe twice in four months.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she said, hearing her own voice go high and girlish, hating the way it sounded. “I’ll get you a new one right away.”
The girl looked annoyed, but the guy with her waved a hand and said, “Honestly, we’ll just split both. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, hon.”
Hon.
“Are you sure? I really don’t mind—”
“Totally fine.” He was already reaching for the second plate. His eyes flicked to her chest on the way up to her face. Flick. Like a tic. “Accidents happen.”
Accidents happen. From a guy her own age. A student. Maybe in her stats class, maybe failing, but still able to pat her on the head with his voice because she’d brought the wrong cheese. Because she was tits first, brain second.
She took the bus tub back to the kitchen and slammed it down harder than she needed to, needing the noise, needing the jolt.
“You good?” the cook asked through the pass.
“Fine.”
She wasn’t fine. Her face was hot again, flushed and prickling. She’d been running hot since that morning, like her body had found a new setting and stuck there. She leaned against the stainless counter, one second, two, and McCunt’s voice slid in, uninvited, clear as glass.
When you lie to yourself and pretend that they are, you’re only fueling the negative feelings.
She was not a natural at this. That was the new thought, the one crawling under her skin. She’d always believed she was good at this job. Efficient. Sharp. Tonight she was just a pair of tits wandering the floor, punching wrong buttons, and every man in the room was smiling at her for it, forgiving her, patting her on the head, paying her for the privilege of watching her fuck up.
The third mistake was the one that almost broke her.
It was the end of the rush. Table eleven and table twelve, both two-tops, both had ordered the patty melt, and she carried them out one in each hand, and she put them down in front of the wrong people. Table eleven got twelve’s melt, twelve got eleven’s. She realized it before either of them even picked up a fork. She was two steps away when it clicked, and she spun back around with her face on fire.
“I’m sorry, these are switched, let me just—”
“Don’t worry about it, hon,” said the man at eleven, already pulling the plate in front of himself. “Same thing, right? We’re good.”
“It’s the same sandwich,” said the woman at twelve, smiling up at her, warm, maternal. “No harm done, sweetie.”
Mona stood between the two tables, empty tray in hand, face burning, something hot and sharp pressing at the backs of her eyes.
No. No, she was not going to cry at work. She had already cried once today, alone in her dorm, and she was not doing it here under the fluorescent lights with a tray in her hand. She pressed her tongue hard against the roof of her mouth until the feeling backed off.
Three mistakes. Three. And three smiles. Three soft, warm, condescending smiles, and not one person looked surprised. Not even annoyed. A wrong order from a waitress was supposed to be an annoyance. From her, it was just the weather. Tits out, mistakes forgiven.
She turned toward the counter to set the tray down and caught Arny watching her.
He was behind the register, doing the end-of-night count early the way he did when he was bored, and his eyes were on her, and when her eyes met his, he didn’t look away fast enough. He looked back down at the drawer, casual, a second too late.
Mona’s skin crawled, every inch of her body prickling, exposed.
Arny. Soft, harried Arny, who apologized when he asked her to stay late, who turned red when the servers complained about the uniforms. Had Arny been watching her make all three mistakes? Had he been watching her all night? Had he hired her because of her application, which she had filled out carefully, with her two summers of frozen yogurt experience listed in her neatest handwriting, or had he hired her because she’d walked into the interview in a tank top?
Stacked. The place was called Stacked. The man who owned it had named it Stacked and then filled it with stacked girls in tight tops, and she had walked in off the street and asked for a job, and he had looked at her and said yes.
She cashed out her section at the register twenty minutes later, running the numbers twice because her head was loud. Arny had drifted back to the office, which was a mercy. She counted her tips on the counter under the bad light, shitty fluorescents and the smell of old fryer oil, and the count came up strong. Better than average. Better than most Tuesdays by a solid twenty percent.
She stared at the money, fingers sticky with other people’s sweat, the bills soft and warm from her palm.
Table six, the faculty guys who talked to her tits, left eight bucks on a thirty-two dollar check. Table four, wrong-sandwich sweetheart guy, left ten on nineteen. Table nine, the students, the wrong cheese, hon, accidents happen, left six on twenty-two. Good tips. Great tips, from people she’d served badly, objectively, measurably badly.
She made a hundred and thirty-one dollars.
Did she earn this? Did her tits?
The question came up bare and ugly, and she stood there with the cash in her hand and couldn’t kill it.
She had made three mistakes. Three. She had served badly. Objectively, measurably, she had done her job worse than usual, and she had made more money than usual. The math didn’t work. The math only worked if the money wasn’t for the service. The math only worked if the money was for something else. For the tight top. For the deep line of cleavage that no amount of adjusting fixed. For the blonde hair and the flush and the high girlish apology voice she hated. For the tits.
Service. Procreation. Entertainment. McCunt’s block letters on the whiteboard. She’d thought she was doing the first one. She’d thought she was performing a service. But a service done badly got paid well anyway, which meant the service wasn’t the product. She was the product. The food was just an excuse. She was a rack that brought food, and the rack was the show, and the show was what got tipped.
“You cashing out or buying real estate?” April bumped her hip again, reaching around her for the pen. “You’ve been staring at that pile for a minute.”
“Sorry,” Mona said, and moved, and her voice came out small.
“You made bank though, right? Tuesdays with the faculty guys.” April grinned. “They tip like crazy. It’s the only reason I keep this shift.”
They tip like crazy. Mona looked at April, at April’s tits straining the same V-neck, and wondered if April had ever done this math. Probably not. April just took the money. April probably got wet about it, metaphorically or not. April just felt good and didn’t think, and feeling good without thinking was, according to the lecture, the natural state.
She got her coat and her bag and got out.
The parking lot was cold and mostly empty, and the sodium light over her car was buzzing, and she stopped next to the driver’s door and didn’t get in. The cash was still in her fist. She’d shoved it there at the register and never put it in her wallet, and now she stood under the buzzing light in the cold and looked at it.
A hundred and thirty-one dollars. Wadded and warm from her hand. Fives and ones and a couple of tens, soft and dirty from other people’s pockets, smelling faintly of sweat and fryer oil.
She thought about her father. She thought about what he would say, standing here, looking at a woman frozen in a parking lot over a fistful of tips. He would say something reasonable. He would say, a tip is a transaction, monkey. You brought them their food, and they paid you. He would say it kindly, and then he would want to know what was actually wrong, and there would be no way to tell him what was actually wrong. There was no universe in which she could say the words I think I’m getting paid for my tits to her father.
Her tits.
She looked down at them. They were just there, in the V-neck, in the cold, pushed up by the apron strings she’d never untied. They had been there all day. They had been there her whole life, basically, since sophomore year of high school when they showed up, and everything changed. The way teachers talked to her. The way boys talked to her. The way strangers’ eyes behaved in hallways.
She’d spent four years telling herself none of that mattered. That she was her brain. That the 3.8, the AP essay, the acceptance letter were hers, earned, and the body was just the vehicle, just tits and skin and nothing more.
Tonight the math said otherwise. Tonight a woman with a functioning brain made three mistakes and got paid extra for it, and the only variable was the tits. The tits were the product.
She got in the car and sat there with her hands on the wheel and didn’t start it.
The loop was getting tighter. She could feel it. Every hour since that lecture had added another loop of rope. Her father wouldn’t feel. She felt. Carla could shrug it off. She couldn’t. Her body got wet when it was humiliated. Her boss hired stacked girls for a diner called Stacked. Men paid her more when she served them worse. Everywhere she turned, the world kept quietly agreeing with Jiggletits McCunt, and the only person in Mona’s life who kept insisting she was a thinking woman was Mona, and Mona was starting to sound less convincing.
“Correlation is not causation,” she said out loud, to the windshield, to nobody.
It sounded weak. It sounded like a girl vomiting her feelings and calling it an argument.
She started the car and drove back to campus with the cash still on the passenger seat where she’d dropped it, like something she didn’t want touching her. The whole drive, one sentence went around and around, and she couldn’t shut it off, and it didn’t even sound like her voice anymore.
Did I earn this? Or did my tits?
No answer came. The loop just tightened.
***
The alarm dragged her up out of the thin sleep like a hook through the cheek.
Mona slapped at her phone until the noise died. The room was gray, the light through the blinds flat and dead, the color of old skin. She had lost an hour, drifting in a limbo that was not sleep, not really, just the lecture replaying behind her eyelids, McCunt’s marker squealing, the wet slap of fucking, the whistle that never stopped. It all looped, over and over, until she woke up aching.
She lay there and took stock.
Her hands were still laced on her chest where she had put them. Good. The hands had behaved. Her cunt had not gotten the memo and pulsed anyway, a slow, stupid heartbeat between her legs, but the hands had behaved, and she was choosing to count that as a win.
A win. She had napped for an hour without molesting herself in her sleep, and she was calling it a win. That was where the bar was now.
She got up.
The routine helped. Routines were rational. Routines were what her father did when the world stopped making sense; he checked the torque on the bolts, one by one, in order, and the world filed itself back into place. So Mona checked her bolts.
She washed her face at the little sink in the hall, scrubbing until her skin burned, watching the water drip from her chin. The girl in the mirror stared back, eyes swollen, cheeks still flushed with something that wouldn’t fade. Her tits hung heavy and loose under the oversized shirt, nipples dark and obvious through the thin cotton. Mona caught herself staring, judging her own tits the way the class had, and she killed the water with a violent twist.
Bigger equals dumber.
“Shut up,” she told the mirror.
Back in her room, she pulled on her sleep shirt, the big one, the one that hung to her thighs like a tent, the one that hid everything. She set her phone on the nightstand. She lined up its edge with the edge of the nightstand, squared it, the way her father squared his tools. She plugged in the charger. She got under the covers.
Carla was still out.
That should have made it easy. The room was quiet. No roommate typing, no roommate crunching chips, no roommate saying the word cunt like it was the weather. Just Mona, the dark, the squared phone, the tent of a sleep shirt. A rational environment. A controlled experiment. Nothing to react to.
She turned off the lamp.
The ceiling hovered above her, invisible in the dark, the water-stain rabbit erased by night. She stared up at the place it should be, breathing in through her nose, out, in, out, trying to slow her pulse.
Feelings are the primary motivator of all girls.
The voice arrived on schedule. McCunt, sweet and slow and pink. Mona let it pass through. That was the trick, she decided. You didn’t fight it. Fighting was a feeling. You observed it, the way her father observed weather, and you let it go by.
A girl learns best with a wet cunt.
Pass through. Observe. Let it go.
The janitor’s face came next. Not his cock. His face. The blank, bored, bus-stop face while he came inside a woman in front of a hundred freshmen. And underneath that, the wet slap of it, the sound replaying with perfect fidelity. Her memory had apparently decided that particular audio was worth keeping in lossless quality forever. The creak of the desk. McCunt’s little panting noises. The drool. The thin line of spit falling from that open, empty, happy mouth to the desktop.
Mona pressed her thighs together under the covers, feeling the heat gather, the ache blooming low and slow.
No. Observe. Let it go.
She thought about her father. Giving in to emotion is an animal reaction. Reason. She held the word in her mind like a stone, cold and heavy. Reason. I am not an animal. I am a thinking woman. My body is a machine. The cunt is plumbing. The tits are just tissue. The flush is just blood. None of it means anything. None of it is me.
The pulsing between her legs didn’t stop, but it didn’t get worse either. She counted that as a second win, stacking her fragile victories in the dark, one on top of the other, until the front door opened.
Carla’s giggle came through the wall.
Low. A little drunk. The giggle of a girl who already knew how her night would end. Then a male voice, murmuring, too low to catch, just the shape of it, calm and flat, and the sound of it twisted something in Mona’s stomach before she could stop it.
Shoes. A stumble. Carla’s shush, which was louder than the giggle. Then the click of Carla’s bedroom door, right on the other side of the wall, maybe eight feet from Mona’s head.
Silence.
Mona pulled the pillow out from under her head and pressed it down over her face.
There. Done. Rational response to an irrational stimulus. She would lie in her pillow cave, breathing her own stale breath, thinking about nothing until they finished or passed out or whatever drunk people did. She would not feel anything about it. Feeling was what the class wanted. She was not enrolled in the class inside her own bedroom.
The slap came through the wall sharp and muted, the flat crack of a palm on bare skin, and a yelp followed it, and then Carla’s voice, clear as if the wall were not there at all, hissing:
“Do it again.”
Mona went very still under the pillow.
Another slap. A moan. The word “fuck,” drawn out, filthy, delighted. The male voice, low and amused, close to the wall, close enough that Mona could hear the smile in it:
“You’re a bad girl.”
Mona didn’t move. She lay under the pillow, eyes open in the dark, heartbeat pounding in her ears, waiting for herself to do something sensible. Earbuds. Fan. Hum. Anything. Her body did nothing. Her body just lay there, obedient, waiting.
The bedsprings started.
Slow at first. A creak, a pause, a creak. Then the pauses got shorter. Then there were no pauses, just the hard, rhythmic, accelerating squeak of Carla’s cheap bed frame taking a pounding, and under it the wet smack of bodies, skin on skin, the exact same sound from the front of the lecture hall, the sound her memory had saved in lossless quality, now playing live through the wall in stereo.
Carla started to moan in earnest.
Not the movie kind. The real kind. Broken, breathy, caught in her throat, punched out of her on every thrust, and the man grunted underneath it, low and regular, a man moving furniture, a man plunging a toilet, a man doing a job he was good at.
Put the pillow back down, Mona told herself. Press it harder. Do it now.
She didn’t.
She lay there, pillow loose over her face, legs pressed tight, listening. She listened to her roommate get fucked through eight feet of air and a thin wall, and the heat between her legs built with the bedsprings, keeping time. Her cunt was wet, soaked, her panties clinging, the slickness spreading faster than she could believe. If she had any horror left, it would have drowned her.
Her hand moved.
There was no decision. That was the part she wouldn’t be able to explain. No argument, no debate, no vote. Her hand left her chest, slid down her stomach, pushed under the hem of the tent of a sleep shirt, and pressed between her legs. The first touch of her own fingers through the soaked cotton dragged a sound out of her throat that she bit back so hard her teeth clicked.
She rubbed.
She drew slow circles over her clit through the wet fabric, hips rocking, matching the rhythm of the bedsprings. She noticed it, the way her body synced to the fucking next door, and the noticing changed nothing. Creak, circle. Creak, circle. Carla moaned, and Mona’s fingers pressed harder, and all the ugly questions from the day melted away. The wet cunt at the whiteboard. The tear on her cheek in front of everyone. With tits like those, you’d be very entertaining. The good girl pat on the head. All of it faded, dissolved into the dark and the heat, because McCunt had been right about one thing: rubbing her cunt made the bad feelings stop. It worked every time. The machine she hadn’t built and couldn’t turn off ran exactly as designed.
Carla’s voice went up an octave. The bedsprings hammered. A squeak, a wail, a long shuddering “oh, oh, oh, fuck,” and Carla came, loudly, shamelessly, through the wall, and the sound of it tipped Mona over like a hand on her back.
She bit her lip and came with her roommate’s orgasm ringing in her ears.
It rolled through her, slow and deep, hips jerking up off the mattress, fingers grinding hard, her whole body clenching around nothing. Empty, aching, desperate. The emptiness was a sensation all its own—her cunt contracting on air, wanting to be filled, wanting what Carla had on the other side of the wall. She rode it out with her teeth sunk in her lip, eyes squeezed shut, the dark thick with the sounds of someone else getting fucked.
It should have been over.
That was the deal her body had always honored before. One orgasm, then the shame, then sleep. But the bedsprings did not stop. He did not stop. The grunting went on, harder now, faster, and Carla’s moans rebuilt themselves from nothing, climbing again, and Mona’s hand, the traitor, the hand with its own degree from this class, kept moving.
She was soaked through the fabric now, slick all the way to her thighs. Her free hand came up and grabbed her own tit through the sleep shirt, hard, squeezing the heavy, stupid weight, thumbing the nipple through the cotton. The jolt that shot from her nipple to her cunt was so sharp it was almost funny—a live wire, tits wired straight to cunt, just like the chapter said. She groped herself anyway, both hands busy, pinching, rubbing, rocking, because it felt good and she couldn’t stop.
I am a thinking woman, she thought, and the thought had no force left. It was a sticker on a machine that was running.
With tits like those, you’d be very entertaining.
She squeezed her tit harder, and her cunt clenched, fresh girl honey flooding out, soaking her hand, her thighs. She heard herself breathing, fast and shallow, almost as loud as the wall sounds, but she didn’t care. Nobody could hear her. The whole building could have been listening, and she wouldn’t have stopped. That was the truth.
“Oh, fuck,” Carla cried, muffled, close, right against the wall now, the headboard tapping, “cum on me! Oh, cum on my tits!”
The bedsprings went frantic. A groan from the man, low and long, the first real sound he’d made that had anything in it, and the rhythmic slapping stopped, and there was a wet, urgent, fumbling quiet, and Carla’s voice again, high and greedy, “yeah, yeah, all over, fuck,” and the man’s rough exhale, and Mona saw it.
She saw it, whether she wanted to or not, so she stopped pretending. She let herself see it: a cock pulled out, fisted, aimed, and then emptied across a pair of bare tits, hot and thick, stripe after stripe, pooling, sliding, marking. But it wasn’t Carla’s chest. The tits were bigger, heavier, familiar. They were hers. Her own tits, painted with cum, the heat of it on her skin, the filthy honor, the entertainment, and the image split her open.
She came a second time, harder than the first.
Her hips jerked up off the mattress, back arching, hand clamped down on her cunt, grinding, and the orgasm ripped through her in long, brutal pulses. The fantasy played out behind her eyes: cum cooling on her tits, some man’s blank, satisfied face above her, a man who had used her, finished, and felt nothing. The thought of being nothing to him, just a place to finish, made the last pulses drag on and on until she was shaking, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood.
Then it was done.
Silence from the other room. A murmur. Carla’s laugh, soft and wrecked. Bedsprings settling. Nothing.
Mona lay there.
Her hand slid out from between her legs and dropped to her thigh, wet to the wrist, and she left it there. The pillow was still half over her face. Her sleep shirt was bunched up to her ribs, one tit bare where her hand had yanked the neck aside, and she didn’t fix it. Her pulse slowed, sweat cooling at her hairline.
The shame arrived almost immediately, right on schedule, clipboard in hand. She had listened. She had rubbed her cunt to the sound of her roommate getting fucked. She had cum, twice, to the fantasy of a man pulling out and painting her tits like a target. She had matched the bedsprings. She had bitten her lip to stay quiet, like a girl hiding a secret, because she was.
You just proved her right, the shame said. Wet cunt. Docile. Empty-headed. An animal that heard mating through a wall and had to touch itself. Every single thing she said at that whiteboard, and you spent the whole day denying it, and then the sun went down, and your hands did the homework again.
The shame was correct. That was the strange part. It was completely correct, and it didn’t matter. It arrived soft, distant, already losing. Warm, boneless satisfaction spread through her body like hot water through pipes, loosening everything, and the shame had nothing to grip, nothing to hold, because every muscle in Mona’s body had gone slack and stupid and content.
A wet cunt leads to feelings of happiness.
She was happy. God help her. Lying in the dark in her own filth, her roommate’s cum-covered tits still flickering behind her eyes, she was happier than she’d been since the moment she walked into that lecture hall.
I am a thinking woman, she tried one more time, and the thought formed slowly, drowsily, and broke apart before it finished, and what was left of it drifted down and settled over her like the covers.
She was asleep before she could put it back together.
Comments