I don't want to be here.
Seeing the school looming in the distance brings back bad memories. Ten years have passed and I have hair on my balls, but I still break out in the same cold sweats when I see the ridiculous uniforms. Above-the-knee skirts for the women, peg pants for the men, white shirts and ties for both. The little attractiveness they had was lost when they were dressed by young adults who were already starting to put on a few pounds. I look at my new companions and take it back: not so young. I see one who might even be close to retirement.
I like, like everyone else, to see a mini-skirt swinging over contoured legs, I just don't have the head for it right now and loosen the knot in my neck a little more. Funny thing is, I've come for precisely that reason. I look again at the hundreds of students coming through the gate in order, none of them seem to be having an anxiety attack like I am. I hesitate for a second as I walk through them: once they close I'll be stuck there for three long months.
I know I got a place thanks to someone dying of cancer, a car accident or I don't know what bullshit, but the truth is I didn't want to be here. If it wasn't for Marta...
I'm surprised to see the same number of women as men. I figured it was more of a female thing, but somehow that somewhat lessens the embarrassment I feel. I haven't told anyone at home where I was going, my mother would die if she found out, so my boss is going to cover my back by saying I'll be on one of the international engineering projects out there. When the court order came the world came crashing down on me, but the paperwork has turned out to be easier than expected.
The closer I get, the more I detest the simple metal structure that makes up the school. It can accommodate two hundred students and the dormitories are in the back annex. All paid for with government subsidies. Another silly expense for the coffers if you ask me, a new way to siphon off money for sure. The new law looked like something out of those dystopian sci-fi books Martha loved so much.
Volunteers with purple bandanas on their arms greet us shouting at the entrance of the building.
"Look at your names at the entrance! Please follow the instructions you received by email! Your bags are already in the dormitory; cell phone use is not allowed during sentencing! Please come in orderly! Four rows! The meeting starts in fifteen minutes in the Assembly Hall! Follow the green dates!"
I don't even remember the first thing I've been told, so I get carried away by the crowd. I feel a soft bulge pressing against my arm and when I look down, I discover that it belongs to the front of a woman my age. She's very short; her head doesn't reach the top of my shoulder. She's probably in her mid-twenties, although with women it's always difficult to get the age right. She wears her hair loose, in tight ocher curls, and our eyes meet for a moment to avoid each other, distressed. People push us and I have to keep my balance so as not to carry her away. She smiles gratefully at me as she notices my efforts.
"Sorry," she whispers, shyly.
Jesus Christ, what the fuck is someone as adorable as her doing in this shit? It's not like she needs to, just the sight of the tight buttons of her shirt withstanding the force of at least two generous tons and my cock automatically wakes up happy. Well, it might not be so bad after all to be here.
"Don't worry."
I feel a hard bulge at the level of my hand on the other side, and as I turn my head hoping to find another miniature beauty, I'm sorely disappointed. A guy is shamelessly rubbing his package against my hand. And on top of that, he's got it horse-sized. Dumbfounded, I look up to find the grin of an oxygenated blond guy a head taller than me. Sure, fuck, to make his package reach my hand requires a minimum of size, but what a beast of a guy. And I don't have your tastes, sorry. I walk away looking disgusted, but that doesn't seem to matter to Mr. Monster, because he winks at me before continuing on his way. I'm regretting it, I should have run away. Concentration camp or extradition doesn't sound so bad, does it?
One at a time we pass through the security arches. Four guys are very rigorous in the search for cell phones, tape recorders and other prohibited technology. Those who are found with one of these items are taken to a side room, and every time the door was opened there were shrieks that made me glad I had left everything at home. I am frisked by a man who I think lingers too long on my neck and ass, though I say nothing. He even makes me spread my legs apart and runs his hands over my pants massaging every nook and cranny of me.
"At least ask me out on a date first," I growl as he reaches for my package and meticulously squeezes my testicles.
"Right now you're not even good enough for half a blowjob," says the guy, without taking his hand away from my most sensitive area. "But when you get out of here... well, call me, I'll be in the sentry box."
But do I look gay? I won't deny that hurt a little, so I keep my big mouth shut and move on, where the green arrows above our heads mark.
The auditorium is not far. The problem is that it's hot as hell, and if the outside was already hard to bear, the inside is a festival of body odors barely constrained inside the uniforms. I hear screams begging for air conditioning and I smile to myself, because I'm sure they don't plan to spend a penny too much on us. Resigned, I enter the large room where more than half of the students are already crammed in. There's a stage in the back, with red drapes and spotlights. It is still empty.
I sit down in a corner, as far away as possible, and as I look at the woman next to me I realize it is the little curly-haired angel I had felt in the hallway. She recognizes me too and gives me that smile that makes my blood pump to my crotch with excitement. I didn't have time to notice her before, but she's wearing a short skirt, the kind my grandmother would use as a rag. For such a short girl, she has knockout legs. Fuck, I don't have enough light to appreciate
"I'm sorry, I'm sweating a lot," she says in my ear, trying to make herself heard over the shouting of the people. We may all be adults, but it's clear we haven't changed that much since our childhood.
My eyes run unwillingly to the damp areas marking her shirt, under her armpits and cleavage. Because, yes, thank you, Apollo, Aestas, Freys, Áine or Miochin, whichever god of summer rules this earth, it is so hot that the beauty has decided to put the first four buttons of her shirt out of her misery. From my privileged height, I can see in first line the lace of a pink bra and some flesh forming a deep, dark cleavage. She looks suffocated, lifts her skirt a few more inches and I wish - and I've never felt anything so much in my life - to know if she's wearing the same kind of underwear. I notice she's dropped her tie on the floor and rush to pick it up for her, but I've miscalculated. The scents of his skin reach me from inches away and I begin to salivate at the citrus notes he gives off. My nose gently brushes against her calf and I linger a second too long as I try to suppress my urge to lick her.
She picks up the tie from my hand with the same grateful smile. Is it just me or has she glanced sideways at my package? My God, that I've been touched by a nymphomaniac, please, please, please.
"Good morning," says a man's voice over the PA system.
All the heat goes out of me when I look at the stage. What the fuck? The guy in question must be the school principal. He's a regal, grown man who's past the midpoint of his life but still maintains that gallantry of the gentlemen of the last century. The problem is that he wears a bloody black harness, crisscrossed across his chest, and a dungaree that barely covers his privates.
Everyone present falls silent at such a spectacle. Okay, it's not the first time I've seen a guy in a harness, but it's the first time I've seen him in real life and not behind a screen. And damn, imposing.
Besides, he's not the only one dressed like a maniac. The row of men and women behind the scenes show an amalgam of somewhat peculiar outfits. From swimsuits, corsets, ruffled dresses, to tailored Italian suits.
"Good morning. Please keep quiet. We welcome you home for the next twelve weeks. I am director Alan Zarangona. Behind me you will find your teachers and tutors. Check the lists at the entrance and if you have any questions, the secretary's office is on the second floor."
"Is that the director?," whispers the girl next to me, leaning close to my ear. Her breath on my skin prickles my goose bumps.
"It seems so," I whisper, pulling away a little. We look into each other's eyes with an amused smile and I decide to jump in. Hey, it's Paul.
"Vera," she replies, holding a hand to her throat to catch a bead of sweat that has accumulated there.
I force myself to look away and follow the guy's speech.
"...will be until eight o'clock in the evening. You are expected to attend all of them in order to get the proper accreditation. The last week there will be special evening classes, according to the development shown during the course."
Vera, she has a beautiful name, will we be in the same class? I know some are segregated, but from what I have read most are done in mixed groups. The poor thing must be having a really hard time because I can even hear her gasping next to me.
"I strongly encourage you to pay attention to all of your classes. No violence of any kind will be allowed against faculty or volunteers, but please know that we are allowed by law to use brute force to restrain you if necessary. You can always come visit me in my office if you wish. Those punished will be sent to the same place and I will take action myself."
A slight moan from Vera catches my attention, is she giving her something? Surprised, I look at her and see that a hand is caressing her under her skirt and her breathing is agitated. She's swaying her breasts like melons in the back of an old car. Is she touching herself? No, no, I can see her both hands. She stifles the emerging moan by biting her lip as her nostrils dilate uncontrollably and, fuck if it isn't the most exciting sight of my life. I lean over a little to see the face of the lucky guy sitting next to her who has managed the feat of getting this beauty to agree to that approach - and a little to curse him too for getting ahead of me - but my face demurs as I realize it's the six-foot adonis from down the hall, Mr. Monster. But wasn't this one gay? He winks at me again as he keeps moving his hand under her dress, not stopping. The smell of her flow hits me like a shock, slightly acidic and I can almost taste it. Her eyes are closed, and her hands squeeze the backs of the armchair so hard her knuckles are white. Oh, fuck. She's going to cum. She's going to cum!
"Welcome to the School of Sex."
The applause hides the muffled scream my partner utters, unable to bear it any longer, when she reaches ecstasy in front of everyone.