The Physiology Lecturer

"I'm a lecturer… You can't do this to me…"

Kieran Walsh drops by to ask me a couple of biology-related questions. He insists on making me demonstrate the answer in person. When he grinds against me with that rock-hard and powerful body of his, I can barely withstand the pleasure.

"You've never felt such intense pleasure before, have you?"

I feel Kieran pinning me on the desk, my legs already parting on their own unconsciously. As for the remaining biology-related questions that he still fails to understand, maybe using my body to teach him isn't a bad idea.

My name was Naomi Lovell. I was 26 and worked as a physiology lecturer at a local university.

I'd anticipated awkward moments when I chose this major, but what made things uncomfortable wasn't the professional terminology. It was the way certain hormone-driven students looked at me during lectures.

I had the kind of figure that drew attention—the kind that made women jealous and men stare. At five-foot-seven and 120 pounds, with slender legs and a narrow waist, my proportions were hard to hide. Most of my curves were concentrated in my chest.

Every class attracted stares, and the white lab coat the university required did little to conceal my figure.

That afternoon, the entire campus had back-to-back classes, and the hallways were packed with students. When the bell rang, the crowd surged toward the door. I found myself pushed and jostled along with everyone else.

The corridor was worse, with people pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. This floor had more classrooms and a narrower hallway, and I was swept up in the current, barely able to move on my own.

The flow of bodies behind me pushed me forward. Just as I reached the stairwell corner, a sudden shove from behind made me stumble, and I was pressed against the wall. Before I could turn around, I felt a solid body press against my back.

The stairwell was too crowded. I was pinned against the wall, and a male student, carried by momentum, pressed fully against me. Through my thin blouse, I could clearly feel the defined muscles of his chest. But what I felt more clearly was lower down.

Students from upstairs were also descending, and the crush of bodies pushed him even tighter against me. That part of him pressed directly against my backside.

He lowered his head, and I felt his warm breath on the back of my neck. At this distance, I could smell the faint scent of laundry detergent and that hormone-laden smell unique to young men.

My boyfriend, Blake Norris, and I had been together for years. He was four years older than me. When we first moved in together, he was very vigorous. However, his demanding job seemed to have worn him down lately.

Sometimes he barely touched me for weeks. My body was in its prime, restless and unsatisfied from the lack of intimacy.

Blake hadn't fulfilled those needs in a long time. With this unexpected contact and heated proximity, I felt myself becoming increasingly sensitive. The crowd continued to surge, and the student shifted slightly behind me, the pressure moving from my backside to a more central position.

Each movement created friction between our bodies. The shifting crowd made him press against me again and again, and I could feel him growing firmer, pressing insistently against me through the thin fabric.

My face burned. The crowd's movements grew slightly more pronounced, and the sensation became even more intense. I had recently felt like a volcano on the verge of erupting, waiting endlessly for rain that never came. And now, in this crowded stairwell, a stranger was easily igniting the fire inside me.

I missed a step and fell backward against him. One of his hands caught my waist to steady me, while the other ended up resting much lower.

He moved his hand slightly, then withdrew it. But I was acutely aware that the dampness from my body had transferred to his fingers.

He wiped his fingers against my thigh, the moisture smearing across my skin. His other hand, still at my waist, gripped a bit tighter.

He brought his face close to my ear, his hot breath brushing against my earlobe. "You're turned on. Need help with that?"

His voice carried a note of hesitation, testing my response.

I bit my lip and didn't answer, but my body was more honest than my mind. I could feel my back arching slightly, my hips unconsciously pressing backward, responding to his presence.

The stairwell lighting was dim, the crowd noisy. No one noticed what was happening in this corner.

His hand shifted position, sliding from my waist downward. The hem of my blouse lifted as his fingertips touched the bare skin at my waist. The burning heat of his touch nearly made me cry out.

"Don't…" I muttered, my voice coming out barely above a whisper.