Heat on the Hardwood

Wyatt's next class was gym. Ever since she had started high school, gym was an exercise in ****. Mandatory child ****, she had called it when her parents pointed out the only blemish on her report cards. It wasn't just the teacher's expectations of a sudden conversion to athleticism, but the way her fellow students used the liberal supervision as an excuse to practice the art of bullying.

But that day felt different.

For the first time in her life, Wyatt stepped confidently into the men's locker room. It didn't matter that she was physically in no way a man. The sound of the heels on her thigh-high boots announced her presence loudly against the tiled floor, but no one looked up from their business to mock her, to tease her, or even to ogle her. Despite her outward appearance, Wyatt had become normal, accepted. She blended in.

Dozens of guys in various stages of undress milled around, tossing deodorant sticks back and forth, slamming locker doors, making the usual morning racket. A few nodded at her in casual greeting. One said, "Morning, Wyatt," as if nothing about her wearing a skin-tight red leather minidress was out of the ordinary at all. With each greeting, she smiled, or winked, or even blew a kiss. Acting flirtatiously was like speaking a first language, while trying to behave like she would have before their failed experiment felt like speaking something she learned in school.

She reached her locker, spun the dial, and tugged it open. Inside were her gym clothes- grey t-shirt. Black shorts. Sneakers. They held the slight scent of teenage boy in them, a reminder that she should bring them home that night for a wash. The smell was slightly intoxicating, a smell that didn't just come from her own clothes, but from the air around her. Everyone around her carried it, and she wanted more. It took an act of will to not stick her nose into her shorts and take a deep breath. The very idea of it made her lick her lips.

The leather minidress squeaked slightly as she peeled it upward. She shimmied out of it, exposing bare skin to the fluorescent lights and the humid buzz of the room. A few guys looked her way, but only with the bland attention that locker rooms gave freely to anyone in their periphery. She toed off the thigh-high boots, stuffing each boot into her locker. Cold tile touched her feet. Better.

It was amazing to watch the transformation of her clothes. As soon as the last boot was in the locker, the dress and boots both returned to their normal state: jeans, polo shirt, sneakers. It was as if her old life was hiding in the men's locker room, waiting for her to discover again.

Then, standing naked, surrounded by men like something out of a porn shoot, Wyatt stepped into her shorts.

They dissolved before they reached her hips.

The black fabric shimmered, rippled, and shrank upward, re-weaving itself around her legs as something else entirely. Tiny pink bikini bottoms were the only thing covering her nether regions, riding high as if to emphasize her hips, their thong wedging itself firmly between her cheeks. Her t-shirt wriggled in her hands like a living thing, twisting into a tiny bikini top which, by the look of the material, would not cover much area. The sneakers she had just set on the bench elongated into extremely high heeled sandals.

Wyatt stared at herself.

"Of course," she muttered.

The universe was laughing in her face.

She pulled the bikini top on, tying it with surprising dexterity behind her back, cheeks hot but hands steady. Nothing to be done. Not unless she wanted to show up naked. She bent over to buckle herself into her heels, then straightened, taking note that she had pulled off the maneuver without bending her knees, a feat that old Wyatt would never have been able to accomplish.

By the time she sashayed out onto the hardwoods of the gym, the teacher had split the class into two scrimmage teams. Wyatt drifted toward the group wearing green pinnies, hoping to get a little more coverage for her body. Unfortunately, as soon as the pinnie landed on her shoulders, it shrank and spun its way up her torso, transforming into a tight green choker that wrapped around her neck.

In her old life, she had never been good at basketball. Wearing high heels and having huge breasts hadn't improved her skill in the least. Instead of moving like a gawky, uncoordinated nerd, she now moved like a runway model, unable to do anything that would compromise the sexy poses her body kept forcing her into.

But the teacher didn't seem to notice.

"Great hustle, Wyatt!" he called as she flinched away from a pass she had definitely not been expecting.

Later, when mincing her way down the court, he shouted, "Looking sharp out there! Ever thought about trying out for the team?"

Wyatt blinked at him. "No?"

"You should!" he said, beaming.

Wyatt missed a bounce pass so badly it rolled between her ankles. A guy beside her grabbed it, patting her shoulder.

"Good pass," he said, smiling warmly.

"Thanks," Wyatt answered.

And as strange as all that was, the game itself wasn't the weirdest thing about the class. Every time one of the guys brushed past her, Wyatt found her hand drifting out, fingertips grazing an arm, a chest, a hip, or even the front of their shorts without really meaning to. It was like her body kept trying on a version of herself she didn't recognise, all instinct and flirtation and softness. The boys didn't even react beyond easy smiles, like this was normal.

Like she was normal.

The whole thing was ridiculous. She made her way to the sidelines to grab her water bottle, an excuse to clear her head and get some space. Her mind wandered to Gary. Was he having an easier time that morning? She could feel her heart beating faster as an image of her best friend came to the front of her imagination. The way his pleated skirt had hung on his long legs had lit a fire in her that morning. Had he been wearing anything beneath that skirt? What would it be like to find out?

A fantasy began to form, one where Wyatt was sitting, straddling Gary's lap, the pair wearing matching bikinis, just like the one she was wearing. Wyatt could feel the heat of Gary's body against her own. A bulge began to form in Gary's bikini bottom, a sign of affection, a sign of arousal. She reached between their bodies and took hold of the bulge.

"Hey baby," she cooed, "why don't you let me take care of that for you."

She blinked.

She was no longer on the sidelines. Instead, Wyatt was kneeling on the hardwood in the middle of the basketball court. One of her classmates was standing above her, which one she couldn't say, because her entire field of vision was taken up by the sight of, inches from her face, her own hand rubbing the growing erection held in the young man's basketball shorts.

"Wyatt?"

She froze, her hand still squeezing her classmate's penis. Slowly, she looked up.

It was Chad Klein, a guy on the track team. The last conversation Wyatt had had with Chad involved the triple-jumper shoving both Wyatt and Gary into a pair of garbage cans in the school hallway. He was looking down on Wyatt with a friendly smile.

"Uh...sorry," she said, uncertain what she should do.

He only grinned. "No need to be sorry. Guarding is part of the game. But I'm pretty sure that's holding."

She stared up at him, unable to process what he was saying for a moment. Then, heat flooding every inch of her, she clued into what he meant and slowly let her hand drop from his erection.

She climbed to her feet. The game resumed. Again she moved to the sidelines, wanting as much distance as she could get from the other players. This time she was careful to concentrate on the game, to stay in the moment. It was bad enough that she was naturally flirty, that her clothes kept making her look like a centerfold, but now she couldn't trust her own actions. Whatever was going on with her, it was getting worse.

She hoped Gary was getting on better.