Of all the weird things that happened to me today, this is definitely the weirdest. I'm twenty-eight years old, okay, I'm short, and I'm still sometimes mistaken for a teenager, but it's been over a decade since I taught my last physical education class. And at least eighty percent of the class attendees were like me. So watching clearly out-of-shape adults running laps around a soccer field is, to say the least, unappealing. I mean, my excitement subsided as soon as we stepped outside and were greeted by the person who will be our coach for the next three months.
The locker room change was difficult. Very difficult. I don't know what the boys' locker room was like, but our locker room reeked of desperate women. Only instead of deaths and accidents, here what we were asking for was orgasms and pleasure. But with five minutes, we haven't even been able to let off steam in the privacy of the bathroom, although I think two girls a little older than me who were sitting on the other side of the classroom have locked themselves in the same stall together. Whether they succeeded or not, I'll have to wonder. I envied their boldness and proceeded to change my skirt into shorts and a white T-shirt, for which I was grateful. It's approaching noon, and my skin is shiny with sweat.
I wash my face as best I can in the sink and glance at myself out of the corner of my eye. I don't know what I expect to see there, but it's still me. My hair is messy, so I tie it up with a hair tie, but it's still me. I don't know, I was hoping to look more mature or sensual, and instead I keep seeing all my imperfections. At least exercising will help with my swollen belly button.
So I go outside and my gaze is fixed on the tallest woman I've ever seen. She must be almost two meters tall. She has wide hips and shoulders, but she has killer curves that she accentuates even more with the leggings that are part of her school uniform and the white T-shirt. My T-shirt sticks to my breasts, which I can barely fit into my sports bra, and hers, on the other hand, are marked on her well-formed abs. Are they real? Judging by the size of her biceps, I'm sure they are.
I force myself to look at other parts of her body, like her smile—or rather, the lack of it—the sharpness of her jaw, and the roughness of her dark eyes. One side of her hair is shaved, and the other is in tight braids that sweep back and clear her face. Her skin is tanned, and she radiates strength and charisma. She hasn't even broken a sweat, and she's standing in the sun, imperturbably waiting for everyone to arrive.
Paul comes out and smiles shyly at me. The rest of the boys are also filing out fairly quickly. They're wearing white tank tops and shorts, though theirs are looser. The teacher looks at the clock at the school entrance twice more and frowns as she counts how many of us are there.
"Two people are missing," she says, her voice much deeper than I expected, making my stomach tense.
"I think they're in... the bathroom," says one of my classmates.
I glance over and find a plump woman with glasses. I like her instantly, as she's tried to cover for those two despite not knowing them at all. I flash her a smile, and she blinks quickly before responding with another.
But the teacher's no idiot. She looks young, but from the way she moves around this courtyard, I'm sure it's not her first day. She snorts and in four strides, enters the girls' locker room. The rest of us stare at each other in confusion. In the daylight, outside of that classroom and the spell our tutor has cast on us, seeing each other becomes a little difficult. No one is calm, even the idiot adolescent strays away from the girl with glasses, who, I assume, was his partner in the test. I don't know, I was too busy with the things Paul and the teacher were doing to me. I've been so sorry it wasn't him who brought me almost to climax. I hope we can learn together in the future…
My thoughts are interrupted when we hear the women's screams inside the locker room. Astonished, we see the coach emerges again, dragging the two remaining classmates, completely naked, to the ground.
"Put me down! Beast, put me down now!" said the black-haired girl, the one in her late twenties. She carried her over her shoulder and didn't flinch from the punches and kicks the other one was throwing at her.
The second one was being dragged by the arm, livid, and biting the trainer's hand, but the trainer wouldn't let go. She was dark-haired, with long legs and freckles scattered all over her body, like a dotted map of the earth.
The trainer arrives in front of us and then throws them both to the ground, right in front of us. They scream in fright, and dust rises as they land next to each other.
"Very well!" Since it seems they haven't gotten any better, Of course, ladies, this is a sex school, but that doesn't mean you can have it anytime, anywhere. This is the first day, and I won't force you to visit the principal, although you deserve a warning. So today you'll do our first training session just as you arrived at the field: naked.
"What! He can't force us! We weren't doing anything wrong!"
Well, that would be a lot more believable if your tits weren't hanging out, red and showing signs of bites and hickeys. It's not my fight, so I stay quiet, just like everyone else.
"I decide what's okay and not okay in my class. You're five minutes late. So that's five laps of the field for everyone. This way you'll learn that covering for those who aren't following the rules won't do you any good." She looks at the girl with glasses, and she blushes. "Now, come on, come on, come on, come on!"
We all start running, including the two naked girls, though I think I hear them cursing at the coach. The yard is clear of stones, but I'm sure it must be burning like hell; I can feel the heat through my own sneakers.
I keep my pace pretty well—I do a bit of running, after all—but by the second lap, I'm already panting. I see Paul running alongside the rest, and he's holding up pretty well; he's not dripping off his shirt like some of the others. For some reason, this makes me proud, and I pick up the pace, determined to at least finish among the first.
"At least let us put on our sneakers! Please!" I hear the brunette girl beg. The other girl is on the ground, crying, her feet burning hot. The coach agrees, and they run off to the locker room, only to emerge seconds later, naked but still wearing sneakers.
Watching them run is like one of those antelope documentaries shot in slow motion. Their breasts bounce and jiggle, though they're nowhere near as big as mine. The one with the black hair is athletic and takes long strides. The one with freckles is taller, but clearly doesn't exercise much, like me. Her long legs tangle and stumble on flat ground, and she almost falls a couple of times. Maybe she's older than she looks, because she's complaining about her knees when, on the last lap, I catch her arguing with the trainer again. Oh, I don't think this girl's learning.
"But I had meniscus surgery! I can't run!"
"I don't care. Unless you bring me a doctor's note, you can crawl those laps, but you'll complete them today before your next class, no doubt about it."
She's a tough nut to crack, but I can understand. Adults can be a bit tiresome; it's not like it's easy to manage twenty of us with fifteen-degree sexual frustration. What a lot of things this woman must have seen.
I'm out of breath on the final stretch. I've lost my rhythm, and I'm sweaty from head to toe. I wipe my slit with my T-shirt and realize the mark remains. I'm so tired I don't care. I drop to my knees and crouch down to catch my breath, begging for a shadow. And voila! Someone stands right in front of me, creating what I've been craving. I look up and see the girl with glasses offering me a cold bottle of water.
"Thanks," I mutter, before snatching it from her hand and drinking eagerly. A few drops trickle down my chin and land on my chest, cooling me off for a moment.
"Don't drink too much, or you might throw up. It's to prevent heatstroke, not to make you sick," the coach warns, looking around at everyone present.
We're lying on the ground, a wreck. Only a couple of us are standing up, the younger ones or those who exercise the most. The rest of us have completely lost our composure.
"Now that I finally have your attention, we can begin. I'm Lucia, and I'll be your trainer for the next few weeks. I don't accept ineptitude or lies, so I strongly recommend that you leave these outside of class hours. As I mentioned before, some of our schedules will be after the practical anatomy classes taught by your tutors, so I don't want, under any circumstances, for you to mistake this institution for a mess and miss class to fuck like crazy. You have a 5% maximum of justified absences accepted from the lessons in order to pass, and believe me, you'll need every one of them."
I already knew that; it was among the papers we had to sign to be able to access a position. Although from what I see, maybe not everyone has read it before… There are people whispering about this news, as if it's new.
"Please be quiet. I hate raising my voice. My classes are eminently physical and mandatory. We'll include hikes, individual and group exercises, and daily stretching and strength routines. This will help you overcome a sedentary lifestyle, which is one of the most common causes of bad sex. A bad lover won't stay in shape or be able to perform the basic exercises required for sexual activity. This not only affects their adult life, but also their life as a couple. Pleasurable sex requires a healthy lifestyle. There are pelvic exercises that are ideal for this, but we'll get to that later. First, cardio, second, flexibility. So, come on, pair up, and let's stretch your legs.