FORBIDDEN STUDY SESSIONS

Chapter 1: Caught in the Act

My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. The empty lecture hall smelled like old wood and chalk dust, the kind of place that echoed every little sound after hours. Victor had me bent over one of the front desks, my short skirt pushed up around my waist, panties somewhere on the floor. My blouse hung open, buttons popped, and my big breasts swung free with every hard thrust from behind.

“Victor… f**k,” I gasped, gripping the edge of the desk. My glasses slipped down my nose. I was soaked, dripping down my thighs, the wet sounds mixing with his low grunts. He had one hand fisted in my hair, the other squeezing my hip, pulling me back onto him deeper.

“You feel so good, Betty,” he growled, voice rough like he’d been thinking about this all day. “Look at you. Shy little bookworm taking my c**k like this.”

I moaned louder than I meant to. My breasts bounced heavily, n*****s hard against the cool air. This was crazy. We were supposed to be finishing notes for the project, but one heated argument about the damn book had turned into him kissing me, then this. His thick length stretched me perfectly, hitting that spot that made my legs shake.

“Don’t stop,” I whispered, pushing back against him. Shy Betty, always hiding behind books and these glasses, now getting f****d raw in a place anyone could walk into. The risk made it hotter. My mind spun with it.

He reached around, fingers finding my c**t, rubbing fast. “Come on, baby. Let go.”

I was close, so close, body tightening around him. Then the door creaked open.

Bright light from the hallway spilled in. Professor Langley stood there, keys in hand, mouth falling open. His eyes locked on us, my clothes wide open, t**s dangling and bouncing, Victor still buried deep inside me, my skirt hiked up like some desperate slut.

“Oh my God,” the professor choked out.

Everything froze.

It all started two months earlier, on a normal Tuesday afternoon at Hawthorne University.

I sat in the back of Professor Langley’s senior literature seminar, legs crossed under my desk. My short plaid skirt rode up a bit, but I tugged it down out of habit. Glasses perched on my nose, I scribbled notes fast, trying to stay invisible like always. Brilliant grades came easy to me, but people? Not so much. The campus outside buzzed with life, friends laughing on the quad, guys tossing a frisbee, music from somewhere far off. I kept my head down.

“Big project this semester,” Professor Langley announced, voice cutting through the room. “Classic romance lit and its modern twists. Desire, power, all that good stuff. Pairs, randomly assigned.”

My stomach dropped. Pairs? I liked working alone.

He read the list. When he got to my name, I nearly dropped my pen.

“Betty Thompson and Victor Kane.”

Whispers rippled around me. Victor Kane. The rugby star. Tall, built, cocky as hell. Everyone knew him. I had seen him around, always with a crowd, girls hanging on his arm. Why pair me with him?

I glanced up. He sat near the front, turning in his seat to look straight at me. Our eyes met. He gave this half-smirk, like the whole thing amused him. Heat rushed to my face. I looked back at my notebook, heart beating faster than it should.

Class ended. I packed up quickly, hoping to dodge him.

“Betty. Hold up.”

His voice stopped me in the hallway. Deep, sure of itself. I turned. Victor stood there, duffel bag over one shoulder, Hawthorne Rugby shirt tight across his chest. Up close, he towered over me. Dark hair, strong jaw, eyes that didn’t look away.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I said, adjusting my glasses. “Look, Victor, I take this project seriously. If you want to split tasks, I can do the heavy research.”

He laughed, a real one that showed straight teeth. “No hello? Straight to work. I like that.” He stepped closer. “Library tonight. Nine o’clock. Main floor. We’ll sort it.”

I nodded, trying to sound normal. “Fine. Don’t be late.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Bossy for a bookworm.” Then he walked off, leaving me standing there, pulse jumping.

The library at night was quieter, lights low over the long tables. I got there early, spread out my notes on Austen and Brontë, highlighters ready. Short skirt and all, I felt a bit out of place among the serious late studiers, but whatever.

Victor arrived at nine-fifteen. He dropped into the chair across from me, no notebook, just that confident grin.

“Started without me?” he asked.

“You were late,” I shot back. “I picked focus texts. Pride and Prejudice. Power stuff fits the theme.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. Our knees bumped under it. He didn’t move. “Power, huh? You read that stuff and picture yourself in it?”

My cheeks burned. I pushed my glasses up. “It’s analysis, Victor. Not a fantasy hour.”

He chuckled. “Relax, Betty. I’m messing with you. But yeah, Darcy thinks he’s hot s**t until the girl calls him out. Sounds like someone I know.”

We actually got work done after the teasing. He had read parts of the books. We argued about the characters for a good twenty minutes. His ideas weren’t bad once he focused.

“You always wear skirts like that?” he asked at one point, eyes flicking down for a second.

I crossed my legs. “What’s it to you?”

“Makes it hard to concentrate.” He said it with a straight face, but his mouth twitched.

The conversation shifted. We talked about why I loved literature, how it dug into hidden feelings people never said out loud. He mentioned the weight of leading the rugby team, scouts watching every game, everyone expecting him to be the big man.

For a flash, the cocky mask slipped. “Sometimes it’s exhausting,” he admitted.

“You’re good at hiding it,” I said softly.

He looked at me then, really looked. “You’re not what I expected.”

The library announcement came on, closing soon. We packed up slowly.

Outside, under the overhang, light rain fell. Victor touched my arm. “Same time Thursday?”

“Yeah,” I said. My voice felt small.

He smiled. “Good. This might not suck after all.”

I walked back to my dorm, rain cooling my skin.

The next sessions were built like that. Slow. Tense. Victor showed up on time more often, with actual notes. We fought over interpretations, laughed at stupid campus stories, and shared bits of ourselves. My shyness cracked a little around him. He teased my big glasses, called me brilliant when I explained a tough passage. I noticed how his shirts hugged his arms, how he smelled after practice.

One night in a small study room, things got closer. We sat side by side, shoulders touching over a laptop. The air felt thick.

“Betty,” he said, voice low. “Do you ever think about the stuff in these books happening for real?”

I swallowed. My breasts rose with my breath, pressing against my blouse. “Sometimes.”

His hand brushed my thigh. We both froze.