Two older professors—heavyset, their silk ties loosened, their cheeks flushed with more than just expensive wine—moved directly to where Professor Harline sat motionless. One braced both of his hands firmly on the table's polished edge. The other stepped right behind her limp form, his meaty, thick fingers grabbing the hem of her tight pencil skirt, bunching the restrictive fabric upward over her thick, mature thighs.
"What are you—" Marla's voice completely left her mouth, reducing to a horrified whisper. Her vision swam dangerously. "What are you 'doing?'"
