Kota woke up the next morning with a knot in his stomach that twisted tighter as the alarm blared from his nightstand. The events of the previous day replayed in his mind like a glitchy video loop: the pantsing, the stares, Riley kneeling in the hallway, the endless stream of obsessive messages in the group chat. He'd lied to Khalil about it all, burying the phone back in the drawer and pretending to study until dinner. But now, in the gray light filtering through his blinds, the ego boost from last night felt less like a thrill and more like a weight. The school loved him? Obsessed over him? What did that even mean in a world where "love" seemed to translate directly to desperate, horny begging?
He showered quickly, avoiding the mirror as always, though he couldn't help but glance down at his body. Four inches soft, hanging heavy between his legs—still a mystery to him why it caused such chaos. His ass remained flat, unremarkable, a stark contrast to the exaggerated curves everyone else sported. Dressing in baggy jeans and a loose hoodie, he hoped to blend in, to make the outline less noticeable. Breakfast was silent: Khalil already gone for an early shift, leaving a plate of eggs and toast with a note—"Work hard, stay strong." Kota scarfed it down, grabbed his backpack, and headed out into the crisp January air.
The walk to school felt longer than usual, the Houston suburbs stirring with the sounds of pickup trucks and distant highway hum. He kept his head down, earbuds in, blasting old hip-hop tracks from pre-Vanishing playlists Khalil approved. But even the music couldn't drown out the anticipation gnawing at him. What would today bring? More whispers? More offers? Part of him—the part he'd shoved down deep—wondered if he could leverage it, like he'd thought last night. Skip classes? Get homework done for him? But the larger part, the one shaped by Khalil's iron lectures, recoiled at the idea. "Real men don't beg or bend," his father would say. Kota wasn't sure what category "dominating" fell into, but it sure as hell didn't sound like building houses or playing football.
Westfield High loomed ahead, its brick facade and chain-link fences a familiar cage. As he pushed through the front doors, the shift in atmosphere hit him like a wave. The hallways, usually a cacophony of clapping asses and locker slams, hushed slightly as he passed. Eyes tracked him—not with the bullying sneers of yesterday, but with a mix of awe and hunger. A group of juniors near the water fountain parted like the Red Sea, one of them—a slim boy with dyed blue hair and cheeks that jiggled even when he stood still—bit his lip and murmured, "Morning, Kota." It wasn't casual; it was loaded, like an invitation wrapped in two words.
He nodded curtly, hurrying to his locker. But the attention didn't stop. In homeroom, his desk was already surrounded. Notes slipped under his textbook: scribbled hearts, phone numbers, explicit drawings of exaggerated asses presenting toward a crudely sketched large cock. "For you," one read, signed by someone named Mateo, with a winky face and "DM me for preview pics." Kota crumpled them, face heating, but the teacher—a skinny man in his late 20 with a massive rear that strained his khakis—didn't intervene. Instead, he glanced at Kota with a knowing smirk.
First period English dragged on. The lesson on pre-Vanishing literature felt irrelevant, especially when half the class kept stealing glances his way. One boy, a lanky senior named Lucas with hips flared wide enough to knock over chairs, "accidentally" dropped his pencil near Kota's desk three times, each retrieval involving a slow bend that showcased his enormous, wobbling cheeks. "Oops," Lucas whispered the last time, eyes locked on Kota's crotch. "Need help with anything?" Kota shook his head, focusing on his notes, but his mind raced. This was power, unasked for but potent. He could probably ask for test answers, or silence from the old bullies like Kyle and Edmond. But did he want to? The confusion swirled, mixing with a forbidden curiosity about what it might feel like to... indulge.
By second period math, the whispers had evolved into open propositions. During group work, his partners—two boys with matching bubble butts that clapped softly as they shifted—leaned in too close. "Heard about yesterday," one murmured, voice breathy. "If you need relief during lunch, the old storage room's empty." Kota muttered excuses, solving equations with mechanical precision to avoid eye contact. The teacher, another adapted man with a perpetual sway in his walk, called on him more than usual, praising his focus in a way that felt laced with envy.
Lunch was a minefield. He grabbed a tray and headed to his usual isolated corner, but a crowd formed before he could sit. Jayden from yesterday approached first, his cropped hoodie riding up to reveal the dramatic curve of his hips. "Party tonight still on," Jayden said, sliding into the seat across from him uninvited. "You'd be the star. No pressure, but... imagine the line-up."
Others hovered: Riley, now in fishnet stockings peeking from ripped jeans, batted his lashes. "I meant what I said yesterday. Just a peek?" Eddie lingered at the edge, looking sheepish, his massive ass trembling slightly as he shifted weight. "Sorry again. Make it up?"
Kota ate in silence, shaking his head, but the ego flared again. They weren't mocking; they were venerating. In a world where cocks had shrunk to nubs, his "monster" made him a rarity, a dom by default. Khalil's voice echoed in his head—"Disgusting, weak"—but the attention chipped away at it. Maybe he could test the waters without crossing lines. Ask for small favors, see how far this "love" went.
The intercom crackled midway through lunch, pulling him from his thoughts. "Kota, please report to the principal's office immediately." The cafeteria went quiet, then buzzed with speculation. "Oohhhh, in trouble?" someone teased, but it lacked malice—more like excitement, as if being summoned meant something elite.
Kota's stomach dropped. What now? The pantsing? He slung his backpack over his shoulder and navigated the halls, ignoring the trailing stares. The principal's office was at the end of the admin wing, a glass-doored suite that always smelled faintly of stale coffee and desperation. He knocked once, then entered at the muffled "Come in."
Principal Theodore Hawthorne—Theo, as the rumors called him—sat behind a massive oak desk cluttered with untouched paperwork and a nameplate that screamed nepotism. At 22, he was barely out of college, his appointment a blatant favor from his father, a powerful lobbyist who pulled strings on the school board. Everyone knew it: Theo had no real authority. Students ran wild, teachers handled discipline in the halls, and Theo's attempts at sternness usually dissolved into stuttering retreats. He was tall—6'3" easily, towering even seated—but his frame was lanky, with skinny arms that looked like they couldn't lift a textbook, let alone enforce rules. His skin was pale, fair in a way that suggested indoor living, and his voice carried a faint British lilt, a remnant from his mother's side, polished but wavering.
Today, Theo tried to look imposing, straightening his tie and clearing his throat as Kota entered. His uniform—crisp shirt, slacks—did little to hide the exaggerated lower body: hips flared dramatically, leading to an ass that ballooned outward in defiance of his slender upper half. Each cheek was a monumental globe, easily tripling the old standards, projecting shelf-like and jiggling subtly even as he shifted in his chair. He stood to greet Kota, the motion sending a soft clap echoing in the room, his cheeks rippling like waves.
"Ah, M-Mr. Abdel," Theo began, his voice attempting sternness but landing in a posh, stuttering falter. "P-Please, have a seat. We n-need to discuss yesterday's... i-incident." He gestured to the chair opposite, his skinny arms flailing awkwardly before folding across his chest. As Kota sat, Theo paced a bit, trying to build authority, but his huge ass swayed hypnotically with each step, undermining the effort. "I've r-received reports. Multiple, actually. About an exposure in the h-hallway. Nudity, Mr. Abdel. That's a s-serious violation of school p-policy."
Kota shifted uncomfortably, the chair creaking. "It wasn't my fault, sir. They pantsed me. Kyle and Edmond—"
Theo held up a hand, interrupting with a shaky wave. "Y-Yes, yes, I'm aware. But the rules are c-clear. Any display, intentional or n-not, could lead to suspension. S-S-S-Suspending you for nudity... unless..." He trailed off, beating around the bush as his fair British tone cracked. He stopped pacing, leaning against the desk, his massive rear perching on the edge like a cushioned throne. The wood groaned under the weight. "Look, Kota—may I c-call you Kota? We're both young men here, navigating this... peculiar world. My f-father always says education is about opportunities, not just rules."
Kota frowned, sensing the shift. "What do you mean, unless?"
Theo's face flushed, his stutter worsening as he danced around the point. "W-Well, you see, I could... overlook this. Make it disappear from your record. Even b-boost your GPA to a solid 3.8—nothing suspicious, just a quiet adjustment in the system. And a recommendation letter? To any college you want. Harvard, Stanford, wherever. My dad's connections run deep; he lobbies for education reforms, controls the board here. He'd sign off without question."
Kota's eyes narrowed. "Why would you do that? What's the catch?"
Theo swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He glanced at the door, ensuring it was locked, then lowered his voice to a whisper, though his British inflection made it sound almost theatrical. "If... if you'd... d-dominate my femboy ass." The words tumbled out, rushed and red-faced. "Just this once. Or... more, if you like. I've seen the video—everyone has. That... that monster you have. In a world like this, it's a gift. And I... I need it."
Kota's jaw dropped. "No. Absolutely not. Sir, that's—"
But Theo was already moving, his resolve cracking into desperate action. He started unbuttoning his shirt, fingers trembling.
"P-Please, hear me out. It's not just about the job or the rules. It's my d-dad. Always has been. He pushed me into this position—'Theo, you'll be principal, show the world what Hawthornes can do.' But I have no backbone, as you can see. I ztutter like a fool, I can't control a single student. Teachers laugh behind my back, kids ignore me. Dad's always criticizing: 'Stand tall, Theo. Be a man.' But what does that mean now? With this body?" He gestured wildly to his huge ass, the motion sending a jiggle through it. "He made me this way, indirectly. Lobbied for post-Vanishing policies that ignored the changes, pretended everything was normal. But it's not. I grew up under his thumb—private schools in London, then here, always 'excel, Theo, or you're nothing.' Mummy tried to soften him, but she vanished like the rest. Left me with him, this towering expectation I can't meet."
As he yapped, shirt half-open revealing a smooth, slender chest, Theo's daddy issues poured out in a torrent. "He controls everything—the board, my career, even my apartment. 'No weakness, Theo.' But I'm weak. Look at me—6'3" of nothing but skinny arms and this ridiculous ass. It claps when I walk to meetings, and Dad just glares. 'Control yourself.' How? It's who we are now! I tried therapy, but he cut the funding—'Hawthornes don't need shrinks.' So I hide here, pretending to run a school while everyone else does the work. But you... you have power. Real dominance. Not like Dad's fake authority from money. If you took me, dominated me, maybe I'd feel... something. Strong, even in submission. Please, Kota. It's all his fault—pushing me, breaking me down. Last Christmas, he yelled for hours because I stuttered during a board speech. 'You're embarrassing the family!' But if I had this—your cock owning me—maybe I'd stand up to him. Or at least forget for a while."
Kota stood, backing toward the door. "Stop. I said no. This is insane."
Theo didn't listen, slipping his shirt off completely, letting it puddle on the floor. His torso was lithe, almost fragile, contrasting sharply with the exaggerated lower half still clad in slacks. He fumbled with his belt next, the buckle clinking as his stutter laced the ongoing ramble.
"Y-You don't understand. Dad's issues go back generations—his father was the same, lording over him. Made him marry Mummy for status, then ignored us. I was homeschooled half my life because he didn't trust 'common' education. 'You'll be better, Theo.' But I'm not. This job? A joke. He bribed the board—donations, favors. Students know it; that's why no one respects me. Last week, a teacher had to break up a fight because I froze, stuttering orders no one heard. Dad called that night: 'Useless.' But if you... if you pinned me down, made me submit, it would be my choice. Not his control. Rebellion, in a way. Please. I've dreamed of a real dom since the changes. My own nub is pathetic—barely an inch. But yours... god, yours."
The belt came loose, and Theo began shimmying his slacks down, the fabric catching on the immense swell of his hips. Kota froze, protests dying as the principal's desperation filled the room. Theo's ass emerged inch by inch—planetary cheeks(GYATTTTTTTT)
pale and plush, each globe dwarfing his skinny frame. The deep trench between them gaped invitingly as the pants lowered, revealing no underwear, just smooth skin and a faint sheen of oil, as if prepared. "See? I'm ready. Dad would hate this—his perfect son bending over. But that's why I need it. To break free from his shadow."
Kota's mind reeled, the scene unfolding too fast. Theo turned slightly, presenting the full view, cheeks clapping softly as he bent forward over the desk. "Just dominate me, Kota. Own this femboy ass. I'll make your life perfect—GPA, letters, anything. Forget Dad's control; be mine instead."
The slacks pooled at his ankles, and Theo kicked them aside, now half-naked, his huge ass on full display, jiggling with anticipation. He reached back, spreading one cheek slightly, exposing the pink hole within the deep cleft. "P-Please..."
But it was too late for no; the undressing had begun, and Theo's yapping continued, a floodgate of daddy issues refusing to close.