Wait for class to start then write another rule.

You find your desk near the back of the class and slip into it. As the hands tick down the clock, you watch Mrs. Stevens' ass through her skirt, barely wiggling as she wrote on the board. It was already tight before, but now you could make out the convergence of each cheek's inner curvature. Which is just great. Along with the new flesh, just a right blast.

At the caw of the bell you straighten. A minute or two passes. Then, finally, students enter the classroom. Jake Gorager, second-fastest track time, sat at the second row, last column by the door. Heather Jenkins, D-cups and piercing eyes, walked over to the back, a few seats to your periphery and up one row, her folder bouncing against her knee as you try not to stare at her very tight tan-colored sweater and daisy duke shorts. The fashion is fine, but it's not something that would normally go down well in school. Not with the staff's strict enforcement of the dress code.

Until today, you think, almost kissing your new magical reality altering toy, but ultimately deciding that would be dumb.

More students fill the seats, up to the grace period. Sarah Jones, a somewhat nerdy-looking brunette but in a pleasantly mousy way, Jenny O'Hara, a good friend from elementary school and the cul-de-sac of old, Douglas Medway, who always spent at least a quarter hour at the pencil shaver, Ned Turner, the first one out the door as as often as he was the last one through it. The usual suspects all gathered. And, thankfully, the usual pretty girls. You shift in your seat as you can't help but notice how many of them seemed extra pretty today -- particularly with the high cut skirts and shorts, and super tight jeans on display. One girl, Natalie, (and unofficial punk tomboy), had a sleeveless shirt whose arm holes hung so wide you could see her side boob from your angle -- and there was no bra!

"'Scuse me." As if on cue, Kris Masser, a not-bereft blonde with straight, thick hair drawn over the side of her face and cropped just below her chin -- as well as a gifted body -- passes by and brushes her breasts right against your staring face. The action causes you to pop a boner. Due to your surprise, you only smile emptily.

Oblivious or uncaring, Kris sets her folder on the desk and backpack against the leg of the chair behind you. As she does this, you are still recovering from the feeling of her bosom conforming against your face. They were good boobs. Weighty yet firm and delicate.

And she brushed them against you, right in the face. Because of that rule.

You rub your hard dick through your pants, then Ned turns to talk to the guy in front of you and you withdraw it in a rush. Wouldn't want to raise any suspicions. Oddly, he didn't seem to find Kris's action as suspicious, but after an obvious logical conclusion you shake your head. Of course he didn't. The ripple of the rules effected all minds wholesale -- not just the ones it addressed. So, sure enough, what Kris was doing was perceived as rudimentary. Because it was now truth. Just like how the barista's top disappearing in the cafe shop was, to everyone else.

"Okay class." Mrs. Stevens begins the class with a casual morning greeting. You sit back, and take out your rulebook, looking at it curiously.

Then, you write,

New Rule: When roll call is being taken, the girls must announce the color and material of their underwear and if they're not wearing any or if it's a special kind of underwear, that that is the case, as well as provide the normal roll call response.

You close the book. Then you look around.