Kota pushed open the heavy bathroom door with his shoulder, heart still hammering against his ribs like it wanted out of his chest. The fluorescent lights in the hallway felt brighter than usual, harsher, as if someone had cranked the wattage just to spotlight him. He kept his head down at first, expecting the usual barrage—snickers, whispers, someone yelling "flat-ass micro king" or worse. But the hallway didn't erupt the way he braced for.
Instead, it went quiet.
Not the tense quiet before a fight. The kind of quiet that happens when every pair of eyes in a crowded corridor suddenly locks onto one person and refuses to look away. He felt the weight of those stares immediately—dozens, maybe hundreds, sliding over his shoulders, his back, his hips, lingering longer than they had any right to. Not pity. Not mockery. Something hotter. Hungrier.
He risked a glance up.
A junior with platinum-dyed hair and hips so wide they practically brushed both sides of the lockers as he passed stopped dead mid-step, lips parting. His eyes dropped straight to Kota's crotch, then flicked back up to meet Kota's gaze with open, shameless want. Another boy—shorter, darker skin, cheeks so plump they created their own shadow under the hallway lights—bit his lower lip and let out a soft, involuntary whimper. A group of three seniors near the vending machines turned in unison, one of them clutching a half-drunk energy drink so hard the aluminum crinkled. Their expressions weren't cruel. They were… awed.
Kota's stomach flipped. This wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He'd just been pantsed in front of half the senior class. They'd seen his dick—four inches soft, hanging thick and heavy like it didn't belong on his otherwise normal body—and instead of laughing, they were staring like he'd walked out naked holding a winning lottery ticket.
He picked up his pace toward his locker, shoulders hunched, trying to shrink into himself even though at six-one he couldn't really disappear. The clapping started—soft at first, the rhythmic meaty slap of massive asses shifting as boys turned to follow his path with their eyes. Then murmurs. Then outright whispers that carried.
"Is that… real?"
"Four soft. Jesus."
"Flaccid monster…"
"He's been hiding it this whole time?"
Kota reached his locker and fumbled the combination, fingers slippery with sweat. The metal door clanged open louder than it should have. He shoved his backpack inside, pretending to organize notebooks he didn't need, just buying time until the bell or until the floor opened up and swallowed him. Neither happened.
The first one approached from the left.
A slim, light-skinned boy named Riley—everyone knew Riley because he posted thirst traps on the school's underground group chat almost daily. His ass was legendary even by current standards: twin globes so round and projected they looked cartoonish, each cheek easily the size of a soccer ball, jiggling with every careful step he took in skin-tight ripped jeans that rode low enough to show the top of a neon-green jockstrap. The cleft between them was so deep it swallowed the waistband completely. He stopped a foot away from Kota, close enough that Kota could smell the vanilla body spray and the faint musk underneath.
"Kota," Riley breathed, voice pitched soft and needy. "Why the fuck have you been hiding that cock?"
Kota froze, hand still on a textbook. "What?"
"Don't play dumb." Riley stepped closer, one manicured hand reaching out to rest lightly on Kota's forearm. His nails were painted glossy black. "We all saw. Four inches hanging soft. Thick as my wrist. That's not normal anymore. That's… that's god-tier. Please. Just let me see it again. Just a peek. I won't tell anyone. I swear."
Kota's mouth went dry. "I—I'm not—"
Riley dropped to one knee right there in the hallway, not caring who watched. His free hand slid down to grip Kota's calf, fingers digging in just enough to feel possessive. "Please," he whispered, looking up with wide, glassy eyes. "I've been so good. I edged for three days straight thinking about Magnus's 2.2, but now… now there's you. Just show me. Let me worship it. I'll get on my knees right here if you want. I don't care who sees."
The hallway had gone dead silent except for the faint wet sound of someone swallowing hard nearby. Kota felt heat crawl up his neck. He yanked his leg back—gently, because Riley looked like he might cry if he pulled too hard—and stepped sideways. "I gotta go," he muttered, slamming the locker shut.
Riley didn't let go immediately. He clung for another second, cheek almost brushing Kota's thigh. "Please," he whimpered again, voice cracking. "Just the tip. Just let me taste—"
Kota twisted free and walked fast, heart in his throat. Behind him, Riley stayed kneeling for a long moment before someone helped him up, murmuring comfortingly.
He didn't make it ten steps before the second one intercepted him.
This boy was taller, broader in the shoulders but still unmistakably femboy in presentation—long lashes, glossy lips, a cropped hoodie that left his midriff bare to show the dramatic flare of his hips. His name was Jayden, captain of the unofficial "twerk team" that performed at pep rallies. His ass clapped audibly with each hurried step as he caught up.
"Kota, wait up!"
Kota slowed but didn't stop. "Not now, man."
Jayden fell into step beside him, matching his stride effortlessly despite the hypnotic bounce of his cheeks. "Listen. There's a thing tonight. My place. Parents are gone till Sunday. Everyone's coming—well, everyone who matters. Used to be Magnus's crowd, but he's sulking because he found out someone saw a four-incher soft today and now he's refusing to show up. Says his 2.2 doesn't feel special anymore." Jayden laughed, low and throaty. "Which is bullshit. But the party needs a centerpiece. You. Come through. No pressure to perform or anything—just… be there. Let people see you. Let them appreciate."
Kota shot him a sideways glance. "Appreciate what?"
Jayden's eyes dropped meaningfully. "You know what. You're walking around with premium meat in a world full of appetizers. People are thirsty. I'm thirsty. Come on. One night. Free drinks, free food, free… whatever you want."
"I don't party like that," Kota said, voice flat. He sped up again.
Jayden didn't push, but his voice followed. "Door's open if you change your mind. 214 Oak Hollow. Nine o'clock. Bring that monster and watch the room lose its fucking mind."
Kota rounded the corner toward the science wing, pulse roaring in his ears. The third approach came quicker, quieter.
Eddie.
The same Eddie who'd helped Kyle yank his pants down ten minutes earlier.
Eddie looked different now. Head bowed, hands clasped in front of him like he was praying. His usual cocky swagger was gone; instead he moved with small, careful steps, massive ass swaying submissively rather than dominantly. The cheeks that had clapped so proudly earlier now jiggled in tiny, nervous tremors. He was wearing gray sweatpants that clung obscenely to every curve, leaving nothing to the imagination.
"Kota," Eddie said softly when he drew level. "I… I'm sorry. About earlier. That was fucked up. Kyle was being an asshole and I just… went along. I didn't think. I'm really sorry."
Kota kept walking. "Whatever. It's done."
Eddie hurried to keep pace. "No, listen. I want to make it up to you. For real." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Janitor's closet. End of C hall. Five minutes. I'll… I'll do anything. Suck it. Ride it. Let you use my throat, my ass, whatever you want. No one has to know. I just… I saw it. And I can't stop thinking about it. Please. Let me apologize properly."
Kota stopped dead.
He turned slowly. Eddie's face was flushed deep red, eyes glassy with something that looked dangerously close to tears. His lower lip trembled. One hand rested lightly on his own hip, thumb brushing the waistband of his sweats like he was ready to pull them down right there.
Kota stared at him for a long second. The hallway around them had thinned out—most kids already in class—but the few stragglers watched with open fascination.
"No," Kota said quietly. Firm. "I'm good."
Eddie's face crumpled. "But—"
"I said no." Kota turned and kept walking, leaving Eddie standing there, shoulders slumped, cheeks still trembling with every shaky breath.
The rest of the day passed in a surreal haze.
In AP English, the girl—well, boy—who usually sat three rows back kept twisting in his seat to stare. Every time Kota shifted, eyes tracked the outline of his jeans like heat-seeking missiles. During chemistry lab, his partner—a quiet kid named Milo with an ass so enormous it knocked over a beaker when he turned too fast—kept "accidentally" brushing against him, murmuring apologies that sounded more like invitations. In the halls between periods, heads turned. Whispers followed. Phones were angled discreetly. By lunch, the rumor mill had distilled it to a single phrase that echoed off lockers: "Kota's packing."
He ate alone at the far end of the cafeteria, hoodie up, staring at his sandwich like it had personally betrayed him. Across the room, groups of boys clustered, glancing over, giggling, biting lips. One table full of twerk-team members started a slow, deliberate clap—cheek against cheek—in perfect rhythm. It wasn't mocking. It was… appreciative. Worshipful, almost.
When the final bell rang, Kota practically ran to the parking lot.
Khalil's old Ford F-150 was already idling at the curb, exhaust puffing white in the January chill. Kota climbed in without looking back, slamming the door harder than necessary.
Khalil glanced over as he pulled away from the curb. His father looked the same as always—broad shoulders straining the seams of his work jacket, salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed, eyes tired from another twelve-hour shift framing houses along the bayou. The radio played low, some old-school R&B station that never talked about current events.
"How was school?" Khalil asked, the question automatic.
Kota stared straight ahead at the road. Streetlights flickered on early, painting the dashboard orange. "Fine," he muttered.
Khalil nodded once. "Good. Any trouble?"
Kota's fingers tightened on the strap of his backpack. Trouble? He could still feel Riley's hand on his calf, Eddie's pleading whisper, Jayden's casual offer of an entire party built around his dick. He could still see the way the hallway had gone quiet, then electric, when his pants came down. He could still feel every pair of eyes crawling over him like he was fresh meat on display.
"No," he lied. "Just… normal day."
Khalil grunted approval and turned up the radio a notch.
They drove the rest of the way home in silence, the truck rumbling over cracked asphalt, past strip malls and fast-food signs and billboards advertising lube brands with cartoonishly exaggerated asses. Kota kept his knees pressed together, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight between his legs. Four inches soft. He'd always thought it was nothing special. Average, maybe below. But today—today the entire school had looked at him like he was carrying a weapon of mass seduction.
He didn't understand.
He didn't want to understand.
But deep in his gut, something unfamiliar stirred—curiosity, maybe. Or fear. Or both.
The truck turned onto their street. Lights came on in the windows of their small brick house. Khalil killed the engine.
"Homework first," he said, same as every night. "Then dinner."
Kota nodded mutely and climbed out.
Behind him, the neighborhood was quiet. Normal. But inside his head, the hallway stares, the begging, the invitations—they looped on repeat.
And for the first time in his life, Kota wondered—just for a second—what it might feel like to stop hiding.
To let them see.
To let them touch.
He shoved the thought down hard, locked it away next to all the other things his father had taught him never to want.
But it didn't disappear.
It waited. Patient. Heavy.
Like the cock between his legs had been waiting all along.