Freshman composition

Attending a women's college was not my idea. I had the grades to get into any number of good universities. What I lacked was the means. St. Abigail offered a generous scholarship and a work-study program that would afford me a chance to earn spending money during the school year. Once my parents did the numbers, the decision was made.

The brochure tried hard to sell the benefits of single-sex studying. St. Abigail would give me "a chance to focus on classwork without the social distractions of a typical campus," all that. I had my own opinion: All work and no play makes Jen a dull girl. But as I say, it wasn't my decision.

And so it was I found myself in Prior Hall on a crisp New England morning. Freshman composition. Some of the classes that met later in the week might prove to be a challenge, but I wasn't worried about composition. I know how to write grammatical sentences and well-structured essays. I actually didn't think I needed this remedial course at all. But it's a requirement, apparently. Everyone takes it. I told myself that it's good to have a few easy A's on your schedule every term.

Fate laughed at my expectations. I had, through random chance or the inexorable grinding of predestination's gears, landed myself in Professor Goodwin's honors seminar on composition. There were no easy A's in Prof. Goodwin's class - that was clear from the first class meeting, when we were assigned to read Aristotle's Poetics. At the next class meeting we were subjected to a written exam on Aristotelian rhetoric. Hamartia. Peripeteia. Anagnorisis.

Professor Goodwin seemed to enjoy our discomfort as we struggled with the test. "Have a good weekend, ladies," she said as class finally ended. "I'll have your results Monday."

I forgot all about the test over the weekend. I knew I had done well.

And so Monday came.

There were about 20 of us in the class, but we met in one of St. Abigail's big old-fashioned lecture halls. The seats rose in ranks and tiers around the lecture floor, which amounted to a sort of stage. Professor Goodwin strode in and the class fell silent. She set a stack of papers on the desk and stood there looking at us.

I looked back with curiosity. It was clear that this no-nonsense professor expected to work us hard. I didn't mind that. I didn't mind the Poetics. I wanted to see what this boot-wearing, gold-skinned tyrant would demand of us next.

"There were a few excellent scores on the exam," she said. "And a few of you seemed to think that my reading assignments are simply suggestions." Her eyes darted from seat to seat, from face to face, across the lecture hall. "I assure you, that is not the case."

She sat behind her desk and called our names one by one so we could come and retrieve our papers. Mine was marked "94 A-."

The professor distributed the last of the test papers and looked out at us until we fell silent. "Miss Anderson," she said. "Come to the front of the class please."

A girl rose from her seat and stood nervously beside the professor's desk.

"This is Miss Anderson," the professor said to us. "She earned a 56 on the exam."

The girl looked down at the floor.

"Did you read Aristotle's Poetics, Miss Anderson?" the professor asked.

Anderson shook her head.

"I can't hear you."

"No," Anderson said.

"No?"

"No, I didn't read the Poetics."

Professor Goodwin looked at her sharply. "Did you misunderstand? Did you think my assignment was a suggestion? Did you think I recommended Aristotle in case your Netflix stopped working or you grew bored with TikTok?"

"No, Professor."

"I thought not," the professor said. "You stand here before your classmates, exposed. Your shoddy work habits, your lack of commitment, your cerebral sloth. Exposed."

"Yes, Professor."

"Is this tolerable, Miss Anderson? Is this how an honors seminar in composition should be run? Please tell me if my expectations are too high."

Anderson stood silently.

"Very well then," Professor Goodwin said. "You are exposed. Undress for us please, Miss Anderson."

"What?" Anderson asked.

"Does your inadequate grasp of language extend to the vernacular? Remove your clothes, Miss Anderson. Every stitch. We haven't got all morning."

Anderson's face flushed bright red as she realized the professor was serious. She tugged off her sweater and jeans in front of us, looking only at the floor.

"Every stitch," the professor repeated.

Anderson removed her underthings and stood naked beside the professor's desk.

Professor Goodwin looked up at us. "Let us start with the elements of drama," she said. She lectured for a full hour without notes, weaving principles from our reading into a complex intellectual framework, a web of ideas. She was a brilliant lecturer. And I liked the way she strode across the lecture hall's little stage in black leather biker boots.

She called out a new reading assignment just as the class ended. I had another class, so I didn't stay to watch Anderson tug her clothes back on

The class fell into a comfortable pattern. Reading assignments, exams, lectures. After each exam, names were called. I remember Barnes scored a 98 on a test three or four weeks into the semester and got called up to the front of the lecture hall along with Harris, who had failed the test. Harris was obliged to pull her skirt up and her panties down before bending over the desk, ass facing us. The professor handed Barnes a wooden paddle. "Congratulations, Barnes. That was a very fine effort," the professor said. Barnes paddled Harris's backside until it was pink, then bright red.

The next week, Anderson got the lowest score again. She was called to the stage to watch the lecture naked once more, but this time she was on all fours, a collar buckled around her neck, a leash clipped to the collar

I got the top score on our first writing assignment. I knew I'd done well, but I felt a special thrill when Professor Goodwin called my name. She called me up to the stage and told me to remove my pants. "But I had the high score," I protested. She silenced me with a look. I took my pants off and sat in a chair beside the desk as instructed, my face burning.

Lawson got the low score that week. She stripped, knelt, and licked my pussy for the entire lecture. I came over and over as Professor Goodwin explained how Shakespeare had employed and extended classical notions of dramatic form.

For once, I took no notes.

A week or two later, Harris spent the hour naked, on her knees, licking Professor Goodwin's boots after achieving the class's lowest score on a multiple-choice vocabulary quiz.

As the middle of the term approached, Professor Goodwin assigned us appointments during office hours to discuss our semester projects. Each of us would meet with her one-on-one outside of class.

Composition had become my favorite class at this point. The professor often wrote encouraging or explanatory notes in the margins of my test papers. But my heart was pounding in my chest as I knocked on her office door.

She invited me in and I took a seat beside her desk. Her office was filled with books, a happy disorder of volumes on literary theory scattered among the classics. Here and there were tiny sculptures. I recognized them as prehistoric fertility idols - round women roughly carved. She gave me a cup of tea in an exquisite mug. It tasted of ginger.

I started to tell her about the project I had planned, but she waved me silent. "Your project will be fine," she said. "I can see that you get it. You'll get your A in this class. You've already earned it."

She looked at me silently for a long moment, pursing her lips.

"You don't need a composition class," she said. "You can already think through your arguments clearly and you can already write. Still, you're not getting as much out of my class as you could."

"I'm not?" I asked. "I do all the readings. I work hard on the writing assignments. I--"

"That's not what I meant," the professor said. "I watch you in class. I see your face unguarded. I see you squirm in your seat. Let's make this agreement. Your A is secure. It's time for you to start failing."

"Failing?" I asked.

"Failing," she said. "And called to the front of the class to face the consequences."

I almost dropped my tea. "Professor?"

She made an impatient sound. "Naked. Exposed. Vulnerable. On your knees. On a leash. Licking my boots. Bringing Barnes to climax with your tongue. Fucking yourself with a vibrator. Wearing nipple clamps. Being flogged. All that. In front of everyone."

She looked into my eyes. "You've earned that," she said, "with all your hard work. And I can tell you want it."

I looked down at my lap. "Yes, ma'am," I said softly.

"Fail some tests," she said. "You need to be the young woman you are capable of being. You'll find your destiny if you trust me. And trust yourself."

I nodded silently.

"Sign up for my post-colonial literature class next term. It's for upperclassmen but I'll rig the paperwork to get you in. I think you'll find it...interesting."

I could barely think as I left her office. I could barely breathe.

But I took her advice. And so it was, a couple weeks later, that a snowy Wednesday morning found me naked on all fours, licking Barnes's toes through her tights as the professor flogged my ass. In the lecture hall. In front of everyone.

St. Abigail isn't for everyone. But I am thinking I'll stay on and take my postgraduate degree. I've found a home.