The realization hit me like a freight train somewhere between brushing my teeth and slipping on one sock.
The paper. The one worth twenty percent of my grade.
I never submitted it.
My blood ran cold. I tore through my files. Checked timestamps. Searched every autosave directory. Nothing. The clock read 8:41 AM. The deadline was 9:00 sharp.
Professor Amamiya didn't accept late work. Everyone knew that. Her reputation was legendary—strict, brilliant, beautiful, and absolutely ruthless when it came to deadlines.
I sprinted across campus.
By the time I reached the science building, my lungs were burning and I was one missed breath away from collapsing. I didn't care. I slammed open the third-floor door and practically skidded to a stop in front of Room 312.
Her name was on the placard: Professor Y. Amamiya – Department of Human Systems Biology
I knocked.
"Enter."
Her voice—smooth, confident, unhurried—sent a chill down my spine.
I stepped inside.
Her office was neat but personal. Bookshelves lined the walls—each meticulously organized by field and subfield. A digital whiteboard glowed faintly behind her. There were anatomical models on display: full skeletal sets, nervous system overlays, even a transparent mannequin with exposed muscle fiber layers.
But none of that held my attention for long.
Professor Amamiya sat at her desk, reviewing papers with half-moon reading glasses perched on her nose. Her lavender hair was pinned up in a loose twist, strands cascading down her shoulder like liquid silk. She wore a tight-fitting navy blouse tucked into a dark pencil skirt that hugged her voluptuous figure like a second skin. Her bust strained ever so slightly against her top with every breath, and her long legs were crossed elegantly beneath sheer black tights. A thin, glossy belt circled her waist like it had been custom-designed for seduction.
She looked up slowly.
"Well, if it isn't Kujo." She removed her glasses. "You're aware the report was due thirty-eight minutes ago?"
"I—I forgot. It's my fault. Completely. But I worked on it—I swear—I just forgot to hit submit. I was pulling all-nighters all week, and—"
"Excuses are like mitochondria," she said, standing. "Common. And overused."
I opened my mouth.
She smiled, walking toward me with deliberate grace. Every step was measured. Balanced. Dangerous.
"But… I do believe in potential," she said, stopping just a little too close. Her perfume was subtle but intoxicating—vanilla and something sharper. "If you're willing to earn your credit... in person."
My brain stalled.
"E-Earn it?"
"Follow me. The auxiliary anatomy lab is vacant this morning."
I followed her like a student condemned—and yet oddly hopeful—to their final exam.
We entered a smaller lab lined with mirrors and adjustable medical tables. She motioned for me to sit. She rolled a cart forward, revealing a set of instructional models, sensors, and a covered monitor.
"For your extra credit," she said, slipping into latex gloves, "we'll explore the relationship between human sensory systems and motor reflex triggers. Hands-on."
She leaned over the table, giving me a full view of her generous cleavage as she pulled the cover off a 3D nervous system diagram.
"Let's begin with pressure points. Specifically, how the skin communicates with the spinal cord using A-beta and C fibers. Now…"
Her hand slid across my shoulder. "You feel this?"
I nodded, my throat dry.
"Those are low-threshold mechanoreceptors. They fire to tell your brain, 'Touch—safe.'" She trailed her fingers across my arm. "But if I do this—" she pressed slightly harder, just beneath the neck—"baroreceptors engage. Your blood pressure shifts. Your pupils dilate. You blush."
"Th-that's not scientific," I muttered.
She smiled. "It's highly scientific. You're being observed under the influence of tactile stimulus and psychological suggestion. You're flustered because your hypothalamus is flooded with dopamine and oxytocin in anticipation of reward."
She moved behind me, pulling down a projection screen that displayed a chart of neurotransmitter releases.
"This," she said, tapping a glowing spot near the brainstem, "is the locus coeruleus. The source of noradrenaline. It primes the body for reaction under perceived attention—say, from an attractive authority figure."
I didn't know if I should be terrified or deeply aroused.
Her hands gently massaged the back of my neck. "Do you feel tension here?"
"Y-Yeah."
"Stress-induced tightening of the trapezius. Textbook. But if I apply counterpressure…" She moved her thumbs with practiced skill, "we encourage parasympathetic activation. Calm. Control. Submission to environmental dominance."
"Professor…"
She leaned forward, her chest brushing lightly against my back. Her lips hovered near my ear.
"Biology isn't just memorizing terms. It's understanding the dance between thought, chemistry, and instinct."
My brain was melting.
"Now," she said, stepping back and removing her gloves, "you'll demonstrate your grasp of today's lesson by reviewing the neurochemical chain from physical touch to emotional processing. And if you get it right…"
She placed the graded rubric on the desk. Her handwriting was precise. Elegant. And at the bottom was a box labeled Extra Credit Awarded with a cheeky little heart beside it.
"…You pass."
I gulped.
"Start with mechanotransduction," she said, crossing her arms beneath her chest. "And don't skip the limbic system."
I recited, somehow still alive, "Mechanoreceptors activate under pressure. Signals travel via afferent nerves to the spinal cord, then up to the thalamus, which relays them to the somatosensory cortex. Emotional processing occurs in the amygdala and hippocampus, while oxytocin and dopamine are secreted depending on context…"
She tilted her head. "Continue."
"Sympathetic nervous system primes the body. Heart rate increases. Pupil dilation. Shortened breath. Elevated blood pressure. Parasympathetic response engages when safety or affection is registered, promoting relaxation… and heightened trust."
"Very good, Kujo," she purred.
"Did I… pass?"
"Oh, you more than passed." She smiled, playful and unreadable. "And since you now understand the scientific process of attraction, we'll be doing field research."
I blinked. "Field research?"
"In the classroom. With you observing others. And me… observing you."
I stood slowly, my legs weak. "Should I prepare another paper?"
"No," she said, pushing the door open for me. "You'll just report how your body reacts to different stimuli."
She leaned closer. "Consider it lab practice."
As I left her office, my brain still swimming with anatomy and arousal, one thing was clear—this semester was going to be a very thorough education.