"Next." Professor Vance tapped his clipboard as he surveyed his class at University of Sluts, Los Amigos. His eyes landed on me. Cold. Expectant. My legs trembled as I stood. The walk to the front felt endless. Eyes followed me. Judging. I stopped before the desk. Vance’s gaze swept over me. Lingering on my throat. My wrists. "You understand the requirements?" His voice was low. Rough. I nodded. Too fast. "I can't hear yo...

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sterile light over rows of desks where girls shifted nervously in thigh-high stockings and micro-skirts. This was my class at the University of Sluts, Los Amigos. My palms were slick against the wooden desktop as Professor Blackwood's gaze fell upon me. His fingers tapped my exam paper. "Your written answers on fellatio techniques were... impressive." His knuckle brushed my...

Professor Vance adjusted his tie, gaze sweeping across thirty women shifting in silence. "Next," he announced, voice echoing slightly in the lecture hall's unnatural quiet. My throat tightened as I stood, the scrape of my chair against the floor impossibly loud. Deep breath. You're here for a reason. Professor Vance's eyes—sharp, assessing—tracked my approach. "Why are you at USLA?" Say it. Own it. "To master the art of b...