Paul pressed the button for the eighth floor and leaned back against the elevator wall. The doors closed, the car lurched upwards, and his stomach dropped. He groaned aloud. The ache in his balls was horrible, like they'd been caught up in a garlic press. Paul's case of the lover's nuts was chronic. Anymore, it seemed like it was all he could do to shuffle along, wincing at every step.

He would've kicked himself if the hurt would've allowed it. He'd thought he was Mr. Macho, Mr. College Stud. He'd thought he was man enough to handle any kind of sexual situation, man enough to handle any number of chicks. He glumly considered how long he'd held out under the pressure. There was no pride in the feat. Gradually, insidiously, the constant exertion had caught up to him, weakened him. It continued to sap his strength. He was getting himself fucked to death, and while some guys might think that would be the way to go, Paul knew different. He also knew that he'd gotten himself into a real jam, that he couldn't get out of it without jeopardizing his future. It was ironic because he'd started out using his cock to further his career.

He stepped out of the elevator and moved slowly down the corridors of the Theoretical Chemistry Department. He stopped in front of the office door of his mentor, Dr. Ruta Blensch, and rapped twice on the door with his knuckles.

"Yes?" said a rich female voice.

Paul took a quick, short breath and opened the door.

"Oh, Paul. You're late," the professor said. "Late again." Dr. Blensch was in her late thirties, a vital, dynamic, expatriate German. She wore her dyed red hair in a severe Dutch boy style, her lips, which were thick and sensuous, were painted a gory red, her large, rounded rectangular tortoise shell glasses emphasized her high cheekbones and her pale green eyes. Even the stark, sexless cut of the white lab coat she wore couldn't hide her voluptuous figure, a woman's figure, ripe and lush.