The fluorescent hum of the lecture hall can’t mask the nervous chatter. Today, Professor Vance, all starched collar and silver-rimmed spectacles, isn’t teaching economics. His eyes crawl over the two dozen of us girls, a predatory glint replacing his typical authority.

“Ladies,” he booms, making us jump. “We’re having a practical examination today. An audit of your physical development standards. By federal ordinance, my school’s admission code demands I assess your primary assets for academic readiness.”

My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. Beside me, Mia whispers, “He’s nuts, right?”

Vance points a fat finger at my G-cup partner. “Ms. Stewart. Bring your structure forward.”

With shaky hands, Chloe does, trembling in her summer dress. He gestures to his mahogany desk. He walks around, casual as a judge. Without so much as a warning, his fingers hook under her bra strap in the back. *Snap.* Loose.

“Entry level, 34 DD,” he declares. “Distension is adequate but lacks body.” He grabs her ass cheek for a squeal. She gasps, red-faced. “Get to the back row.”

Next is his leering litany. With each humiliation, his lens gets sharper. Hands flattening on terrified classmates under blouses, palming weight, lifting a H-cup up with lecherous reverence.

Then, it’s my turn. I’m 6 feet tall, slender hips, but a heavy 40 J’s that make my back ache. I shuffle up, face burning.

He walks a slow, excruci