Free Use School V: Futa

The bell for fourth period has not gone yet and the corridor is full and somebody's phone is up on the notice board with the volume all the way up.

The stream is the ministry briefing. A woman in a grey suit at a lectern, reading it flat, and behind her a chart of the birth rate going down and down and down.

"...therefore, under Article Nine, all secondary institutions are declared open grounds. Any futanari member of staff or futanari student may avail herself of any non-futanari member of staff or student, at any time, on any part of the grounds, without prior arrangement. Conception is the object of the provision and completion within the body is the standard practice..."

The corridor goes quiet for about a second and a half.

Then the futas lose their minds.

Whooping, whistling, a bag in the air, somebody hammering the notice board with the flat of her hand. Skirts are being hitched up all along the corridor, one after another, and the sound that goes round is the slap of fabric and then a lot of girls going "oh" at what comes out.

"You. You're first," one of them says to the girl beside her, and the girl says, "First for what," and she says, "Guess," and lifts her hem.

Then the looking starts, and the talking.

"Look at the legs on that one." "Against the lockers, the metal's cold, she'll squeal." "I want her bent over a desk, not standing. Bending's better." "Look at her face, she's got no idea." "She'll know in a minute." "Who's got the most? Mine's not the biggest, someone go before me." "Doesn't matter, she's got three holes." "Are we doing holes or not? I'm doing holes." "Line up properly, she's not going anywhere." "Don't finish in her, I want her tight." "Too late to be picky, we're all going in her."

A girl by the window pulls her skirt straight and a futa puts a hand on the hem and pulls it back down again, and she makes a small noise and stops fighting it. Another has gone scarlet to the ears. At the lockers two of them are already pressed up against a third, one in front and one behind, and the third one's shoes have come off.

Then a futa turns round and looks at you, and grins, and does not look away. The ones either side of her turn too.

"Oh," says one of them, delighted, and hitches her skirt up to the waistband. "Oh, you. Come here."

The bell for fourth period rings.

You are halfway down the second-floor corridor with a register under your arm when the announcement finishes, and the futas come off the walls.

It does not matter whether you are staff or a student. It does not matter to them. Two of them are in front of you before you have decided where to go, and one is already reaching for your belt with the confidence of a girl who has read the statute twice and enjoyed it.

"You heard it," she says, grinning. "Same as the rest of us."

Behind them the corridor has organised itself in four seconds. A girl backed into the lockers with her skirt round her waist and a futa already behind her, one hand flat on the metal over her head. Two more arguing over her shoulder about who is first and settling it with rock-paper-scissors. A third holding a phone at shoulder height, narrating into it.

Three cocks are out along the corridor in a row, and the girls who are not being used are looking at them sidelong and pretending not to.

"Desk or wall?" somebody asks you, businesslike. "Wall's quicker. Desk's better, she can't close her legs on a desk."

"Both," says another. "Do her on the wall then bend her over the desk."

"Holes?"

"Holes. Obviously holes."

"I'll go last. Mine's thick, she should be opened up first."

The girl at your belt gets it open and looks up at you, waiting for the word, and the whole corridor is suddenly watching to see what you do first.

You have been teaching here eleven years and they have never liked you.

You are strict, you are loud, you hand out detentions like flyers, and the back row has been counting the days. Fourth period, thirty of them, and the announcement has just finished playing out of somebody's phone speaker at the front.

The girl nearest the door gets up and shuts it. Then she turns the key in it. Then she looks at the rest of the class, and the whole room starts to grin.

"Miss," she says, pleasant as anything. "You know what the law says."

The front row is already pushing desks back. Skirts are going up. Somebody laughs and it is not a kind laugh.

"Eleven years, miss," says a girl in the second row. "Eleven years of detentions."

"How many have you given me?" another asks, cheerfully, hitching her hem to her waistband. "Go on. Guess. I'll tell you after."

"Look at it. Look what's been sat in this room all term and you never even knew."

"She's going to be loud," says a third, matter-of-fact. "She's always loud. Same noise as when she shouts."

"Get her over the desk. Face down. That's how she does the marking, she's used to it."

"Skirt up first. Slowly. Let her hear us deciding."

"Nobody finish early, we've got a whole period."

The one at the door comes over and puts a hand flat between your shoulder blades, and pushes, not hard, just enough to mean it.

"Bend," she says.

You are the one they like.

Twenty-six of them and half of them owe you something: the sandwiches you bring on Fridays for the girls whose cards are empty, the two hours you stayed back to drill Kanji with Ogata, the way you never once read the marks out in order. Fourth period, the announcement just finished, and nobody is cheering.

They are looking at you instead. All of them, quiet, and then the noise comes, but it is not the noise from down the corridor. It is pleased.

"Miss," says Ogata, from the back, grinning so hard she can barely get it out. "Miss, we talked about it. While it was playing. We've decided."

"We drew lots," says another, holding up a torn page. "Properly. Nobody cheated."

Then they start talking, to each other, over your head, the way they do when they have forgotten you can hear them.

"She's going to be alright about it, isn't she. She's not going to be weird."

"Are you joking? It's her. She's an angel, she's not going to say no to anybody."

"She feeds the ones who can't pay for the canteen. Every Friday. Out of her own bag."

"She's like my mum, honestly. My mum's the same, she'd give you the last of anything."

"And she's never once made a thing of it, has she. Not one of us. Not even when Ogata's came out in the middle of a lesson and took the desk over."

"She just carried on teaching round it."

"That's why we're doing it gentle. She's not one of the ones you bend over a desk and get it over with."

"Chair, then. In the middle, where she can see all of us."

"And somebody hold her hands, not to pin her, just to hold them."

"Can we do it properly, miss? Not quick?"

Ogata clears her throat and looks at you and her grin goes a bit shy, and she reaches under her skirt and gets herself out and it is already heavy in her hand.

"You can say no," she says, quickly. "Well. You can't. But you can say if you'd rather not."*

A chair is set down in the middle of the room, facing the board, and a girl pats the seat of it.