Lesbian bimbofied

Claire, a sharp tongued history professor and a proud, fiercely independent lesbian, is mid sentence in a lecture about the fall of the Roman Empire. She is tall, austere, with a single strand ponytail and a sensible wool blouse that conceals her lean, athletic frame. She is a woman of intellect, a woman who prides herself on her critical distance from the vulgarities of the flesh.

Then the Wave washes over her.

In an instant, the world warps. The students in the lecture hall don't notice, but Claire feels it. The structure of her mind shifts. The rigid, intellectual fortress she built around her heart crumbles, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming deconstruction of priorities. The words on the chalkboard blur and fade. The lecture on the Praetorian Guard becomes static.

Her blouse, once a buttoned up shield of professionalism, begins to tug. The fabric strains as her breasts previously modest and firm surge with a sudden, explosive growth. They swell, rounding out into lush, heavy orbs that spill from the sides of her bra, the fabric groaning under the new, impossible weight. Her waist shrinks, pulling inward until her figure is a dramatic, exaggerated hourglass, a caricature of femininity that defies gravity and logic.

But the physical changes are nothing compared to the psychic shift.

Claire’s thoughts, once a complex web of historical citations and critical theories, suddenly narrow. The intricate theories on Roman social structures are replaced by a singular, pulsing desire. She looks down at her hands and notices her nails have become long, painted a gaudy, glistening bubblegum pink. Her glasses slip down her nose, and she finds herself pushing them up with a new, dim witted giggle that she doesn't recognize.

Her eyes drift to her female teaching assistant, a brilliant young woman named Sarah. A moment ago, Claire had been admiring Sarah’s intellect. Now, all she sees is a waste of space.

Why is she standing there talking? Claire thinks, her mind becoming a soup of shallow, hot impulses. She’s... she’s just a girl. I don’t want her. I don’t want any of her. I want something... big. Something hot. Something...

The thought is interrupted by the door opening. Three men students, perhaps, or faculty walk in, laughing. Claire’s breath hitches. Her jaw drops slightly, revealing a small, wet, pink tongue. The scent of their presence, their raw, masculine pheromones, hits her like a physical blow. She feels a sudden, **** wetness between her thighs, a cloying heat that makes her lose her train of thought mid sentence.

"Professor?" Sarah asks, her voice sounding like a distant hum. "Are you alright?"

Claire blinks, her long, thick lashes fluttering. She doesn't answer Sarah. Instead, she stares at the men, her pupils dilating, her mind blanking out everything except the thought of being used. The intellectual, austere woman who stood here a moment ago is gone; in her place is a creature of pure, unadulterated appetite.

"I... I feel funny," Claire says, her voice now a breathy, high pitched purr. She leans back, crossing her legs, and the slit of her skirt slides up, exposing a glimmer of sheer nylon and a hint of soft, plump thigh. She doesn't care who sees. In fact, she wants them to see. She wants them to come over and take her.