Physical Education

With a shake of the head, you decide to get going to your next class first and figure the rest out along the way. You like playing your cards close to the chest, for now.

"On to PE then," you cite. Aka physical education, gym, ladies (and gentlemen) bouncing around in various positions, sometimes pleasingly so.

It's a fun class, or at least, has the potential to be. Your teacher, Mrs. Carson, was known for being a bit of a bitch -- and ever in your ear, with a megaphone at the ready -- when you're just an inch or two out of line, or idle around 'talking about nothing' for, like, a couple seconds.

You don't even hate her that much, (it was everyone else that granted her that title). But her shrewdness can cast a cloud over the activities for the day. Her saving grace has always been her tight, chocolate-skinned bod, blessed by her 1/2 black heritage, no doubt, and her more or less photogenic face, usually with her straight hair assorted in a slick bun. It's just a shame it spent its days sending kids stern glares.

Coach Opal on the other hand...

You shake your head. No point looking at the greener grass now. Even if it was greener, and nicer, and less weedier and woefully dead inside.

Conveniently, you recall you still are a building or so away.

"Oh shit!"

You're about to be late!

Remembering the extra lap you ended up spending the whole period 're-doing' about two weeks ago, you hurry to the blacktop, rulebook bouncing securely from the inside of your backpack.

When you get there, a modest crowd of students are huddling towards the same destination, in all gradients of pace. You rush past some of the slower ones. Obviously, they don't care about the rules.

Like a sharp itch being triggered in your fingers, you instinctively grab your forearm. That's a word you'll probably never look at the same way again. To be able to alter and reform any ruleset, anywhere, that everyone will follow, turns every regulation into some perverse, twist-able fantasy.

Quickly, you shake yourself back into focus and continue moving.

The rest of the students are already changed and lining themselves up on their designated numbers outside, which is where PE is always initially held, unless the weather dictates otherwise. There are five teacher-led groups, each with their own 'square'. Chalked onto the ground are the numbers 1 - 24, usually, and each student gets their own lucky numeral. In Mrs. Carson's group, you are in the last row, on number 19.

As you pass one group of uniformed girls heading to their squares, you look at them and realize something.

They aren't rubbing up against me! Not even when I get close!

You hold a breath. The trio, as chatty and oblivious as usual, walk by, their subtle fragrances lingering in the air. They barely lend a look in your direction.

To your surprise, your stomach relaxes.

Not that having attractive females crudely grating themselves against you isn't guaranteed hetero titillation. Though you're certainly fine with an unperturbed, normal visit to the library or nip to the loo.

But it's also the seamlessness of everything working as you envisioned. The idea that you can quite liberally flip, flop, then flip back anybody's will in a matter of seconds, and everybody will go on perfectly as planned without questioning a thing, is flagrantly surreal. That is the most magical part of all.

You look back at the three girls, obliviously walking to their spots, and ogle them from afar. Their legs smooth and firm, their varied but equally clothes-accentuating bodytypes, those staunch and graceful thighs... thighs?

You squint.

No sir, it was not the heat. The girls' normally knee-length PE shorts are now approximately a size or two smaller than their waistline is suited for, and stop above the knee, sometimes a fair ways, going as high as mid-thigh on the redhead on the left.

You look around, and in the next second wonder how you failed to notice it. Upon closer inspection it becomes apparent that every girl's PE shorts were cut just a little higher. And their tops have changed as well; not by a lot -- but instead of being crew necks, a majority of them are now V-necks. The result shows off a hint of Hannah's perky pears from Mr. T's class, Lane's Vietnamese, meaty jugs from Coach Opal's, and even more spectacularly, one of your crushes, Anna Peregrine, a chestnut-haired beauty with a face and eyes as kind as her perfect giggle, and her own lovely, full, upper swells, that you've now seen more of than ever before and compliments her curvy, thick frame remarkably well. You gulp and pan both eyes down, getting a good eyeful of robust leg and thigh which swerve into a heavenly ass, no doubt. Even before your rule change, she had plenty packing. Now, every inch of her seems to exude prettiness. Too bad she's in Ms. Menendez's class -- a hot Latina in her late 20s who probably plants as much seeds of pleasure as discomfort when most male students in her class are **** to hide their boners on the every other day she ends up leading stretches.

Something, by the way, that Mrs. Carson has never done.

Figures.

Either way, all of these young teenaged women had at least one thing in common: they never had this much glowing skin on display before. Least not under mandatory school dress code. The clothes all look a lot more form-fitting as well, hugging the ladies' hips nicely. You gulp as you realize that, for the lesser-endowed, they retain the same crew-neck style, but, if they are equipped with handsome bottoms, they have on relatively tight, cheek-glimpsing gym shorts, which certainly wouldn't have went down well with administration unless you were on the volleyball team or something.

You are struck back into reality from a bump in the shoulder.

"Whatchya standing around for, Mike? Carson's gonna send you running if you're late!" Peppy blonde basketballer George and fellow classmate is looking back at you, and you realize with a start he's right. How long were you standing there for?

"Don't trip now!" Ignoring George's impish call, you scramble for your locker to change into your clothes and note that you are the last guy inside. You sloppily put on your newly washed clothes, tossing your casual tee and jeans inside the locker.

Once dressed, you head for the exit.

A whistle resounds outside. Another one quickly follows, as the sounds of sneakers against the ground occupy the air. Sounds like the classes are already done with their warm-ups, let alone roll call. Great. That's another day of laps for you, probably. Reluctantly, you make your way out, wondering what Mrs. Carson would dish out to you this time...

When you step outside, it takes a second for your eyes to adjust to the light, but a few blinks and a shield of the hand clears it just enough for you to notice an outline in front of you. You remove your hands, and see...