2 Hours later
Kota walked through the hallways of Westfield High with his binder tucked under one arm, the morning light filtering through the grimy windows and casting long shadows across the linoleum floors. The bell for this period had rung five minutes ago, but he wasn't in a rush. His second-period math class had dragged on with the substitute droning about quadratic equations he already knew backward, and the walk to the gym gave him a chance to shake off the lingering fog from last night. His body still felt off. But the shower and clean clothes had helped. He rolled his shoulders once, trying to loosen up, and pushed through the double doors to the gymnasium.
The first thing that hit him was the quiet. No squeak of sneakers on the polished wood floor, no thud of basketballs, no shouts from dodgeball games or laps around the track. The gym was empty except for a single figure in the center, bent over in a downward dog pose. Kota blinked, then froze. What happened to Coach Harlan? The broad-shouldered, late-40s PE teacher with the whistle around his neck and the endless stories about his glory days on the high school football team? Harlan had been a fixture since Kota's freshman year gruff, predictable, always barking orders for push-ups or suicides. But he wasn't here. It was like everyone over the age of thirty had vanished overnight. First the English teacher, now this. Whatever. Who cared. The school cycled through staff like cheap gym socks anyway. (When writing this part I realised it sounded like another event happened, no I just retired the old teachers and replaced them with hotter ones)
He stepped farther in, door swinging shut behind him with a soft thud. That's when he really saw it. GYATTT. The new teacher—assuming that's who this was wore skin-tight leggings that clung to an ass so absolutely monumentally jiggly it looked like plastic surgery had gone wild. Twin globes projected out in defiance of gravity, each cheek easily the size of a basketball, soft yet somehow firm, rippling with every subtle shift in the yoga pose. The fabric stretched translucent over the curves, the deep cleft visible even from twenty feet away, swallowing the waistband completely. Kota's mouth went dry. He'd seen exaggerated asses before the post-Vanishing standard had turned most guys into walking monuments to glutes and thighs but this? This was next level. Hypnotic. The way they wobbled as the teacher transitioned to a warrior pose, one leg extended back, cheeks clapping softly together even without impact it was obscene.
He tore his eyes away long enough to notice the rest of the class. Twenty-five other students lined the far wall, backs pressed against the padded mats like they were trying to blend into the scenery. Some leaned forward with wide eyes, others shifted uncomfortably, but all of them stared openly at the teacher's display. One kid in the corner some senior Kota didn't recognize had a hand shoved in his pocket, moving subtly but unmistakably. Playing with himself. Right there. In class. Kota felt a familiar heat creep up his neck, then lower. His own cock stirred despite the soreness from last night, thickening against his thigh in the cargo pants. He swallowed hard.
He edged closer to the group, binder clutched to his chest like a shield. "Why are you all just standing there?" he whispered to the nearest guy a Seniors with a backwards cap and a dazed expression.
The kid didn't look away from the teacher. "I think I'm enjoying the new faculty," he murmured. "Been like this for ten minutes. Dude hasn't noticed us yet."
Kota glanced back. The teacher flowed into another pose child's pose now, ass high in the air, cheeks spreading slightly under the leggings. The jiggle was mesmerizing, waves rippling outward from the center like water disturbed by a stone. A student to Kota's left asked quietly, "You think he still hasn't noticed us?"
Kota shook his head, eyes glued to the sight. "Doesn't seem like it."
That's when a dumb kid some Seniors with a metal water bottle dangling from his backpack strap fumbled his grip. The bottle hit the gym floor with a deafening clang, rolling across the wood in a slow, echoing arc.
The teacher startled, popping up from the pose with surprising grace. He turned, and Kota got his first real look at the face. Soft, narrow shoulders sloped gently under a gray loose tank top, the fabric clinging to a slim, almost delicate frame. The face was equally soft smooth cheeks that looked like they'd never seen an ounce of facial hair, high cheekbones softened by a gentle curve, lips full and naturally pink. His hair was a light brown, tousled in a way that suggested bedhead rather than styling. The voice that followed was soothing, warm, high-pitched in a way that felt almost sexually comforting maternal, with a Rural Midwest drawl that rolled like honey over gravel.
"Oh gosh, I didn't notice y'all there. Must've been lost in my flow." He giggled. "Sorry about that didn't mean to keep you waitin'."
The class shifted awkwardly, a few mutters of "no problem" and "it's fine" rippling through the group. The kid who dropped the bottle flushed red and scooped it up, shoving it back into his bag. The teacher smiled soft, genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners and brushed his hands together. "Well, alright then. I'm Otis. Twenty-seven, but folks say I'm an old soul. Been teachin' PE for a couple years now, mostly up in the Midwest before movin' down here. Love yoga, love gettin' folks movin' in ways that feel good for the body and mind. Y'all get ready in the changerooms grab your gym clothes, whatever you need and come back out when you're done. Then we'll do some stretches to start the day right."
He turned back to roll up his yoga mat, the monumental ass jiggling with every bend and twist, the leggings stretching taut over the curves. The class hesitated for a second eyes lingering then broke into motion, heading for the doors to the changerooms. Kota fell in with them, binder under his arm, still half-hard and trying to adjust discreetly as he walked. The freshman in the corner stuffed his hand deeper into his pocket, face flushed. They all entered the changerooms, the door swinging shut behind the last straggler, the echo of Otis's soothing voice lingering in the gym outside.