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Brandon and Charlie tried—really tried—not to stare at how her tits were stretching the pink cherry-print dress, nipples clearly poking through and screaming for attention. They exchanged glances, barely holding back grins, because convincing her that the “blonde dress code” was an actual university rule turned out to be not only easy but devilishly fun.
—Like, um, so, if, y’know, everyone else is, like, walking around in those, like, little dresses, then, um, what, I’m supposed to be worse or something? —She squirmed on the chair, awkwardly adjusting a thin strap that had slipped off her shoulder again.
—No-no, Miss... uhh... Lexi! You’re fitting in just perfectly. Standards fully met. —Charlie said it with the kind of solemnity people use when swearing an oath in court. Though the real court was inside their heads: how long is she actually gonna believe all this? Or is she just pretending?
She used to be Professor Helms, their organic chemistry instructor—a grumpy guy in his fifties, always with a coffee stain on his tie. But now, thanks to an incident during an experiment, sitting in front of them was... Lexi. Well, that’s the name students had given her. With a dopey-sweet smile, eyes drifting somewhere between the ceiling and her pink manicure, and tits even Professor Helms would’ve called a “double nucleophilic attack.”
—Brandon, like, are you doing it again? —Lexi pouted and fluttered her lashes in protest. —Jeez, I’m, like, not Lexi, okay?! I’m Professor Helms! I, like, have a degree, okay? I’m supposed to be, um, conducting a, like, early exam right now! And...