A Man Who Lost Confidence, to a Gentle Chastity-Reversed World

Chapter 61: Co-Ed PE, It’s Stimulating

A woman with short, brownish hair approaches, introducing herself as Juri Muranaka. Perhaps due to the school’s lax rules, students and teachers sport varied hairstyles and colors.

She’s been teaching girls’ PE but will now handle both genders. Her white jersey sleeves are rolled up, revealing tanned skin, and she exudes the youthful, lively vibe of a college-aged sporty girl.

“For co-ed PE, we’ll change activities every two weeks. Next time, we’ll do mat or vault exercises, but today, since it’s our first session, I want everyone to suggest what they’d like to do, and we’ll decide from there!” Ms. Muranaka explains.

The girls propose various sports—basketball, badminton—but their ideas are scattered, hard to unify.

“Hmm… A majority vote could work, but I’d like the boys to suggest something too…” she says, glancing at us.

Most boys avoid her gaze. Are they reluctant to propose, scared to make eye contact with a woman, or both?

I don’t know, but one thing’s clear: my bad habit of staring at her body got me caught. Our eyes meet.

“You’re… Sato-kun, right? Any ideas?” she asks, checking my name on my jersey.

Unprepared, I scramble for a safe, simple, fun sport. But I’ve got nothing. The class’s stares pressure me—saying something dumb could get me mocked. That’s what I fear most.

I can’t rely on Asagi-san or Maki-san here. Panicked, I blurt out a childish suggestion.

“D-Dodgeball… or something.”

I instantly regret it. High schoolers won’t accept such a lame idea, and the teacher will surely reject it.

But Ms. Muranaka reacts unexpectedly. “…I think that’s good. What about everyone else?”

To my surprise, the girls don’t object. Some even say, “Sounds good!” or “I wanna try it again.” The boys, though confused, don’t oppose either.

With 26 students, dodgeball works perfectly for two teams of 13. Still, I didn’t expect my weak suggestion to be accepted.

“But first, we’ll do pair stretches! Like in middle school, we’ll draw lots for partners initially,” Ms. Muranaka says, bringing out two lottery boxes—one for boys, one for girls.

This setup ensures mixed pairs, likely to encourage interaction. In my old world, girls might complain, but here, they might see it as a chance to touch a hot guy.

With cool guys around, I pity the girl stuck with me. I’d prefer pairing with Asagi-san or Maki-san, who accept me. New interactions are tough for me.

Everyone draws lots and searches for their partner. Even girl-girl pairs are a win if they’re friends, but a guy like me is a dud.

Nervously, I look for the girl with number 7. Asagi-san and Maki-san are paired with other girls, glancing at me apologetically. It’s just luck, nothing to be done.

I’m relieved they’re not with other boys—a selfish thought I confirm inwardly as everyone pairs up.

In the thinning crowd, a tall girl remains, holding a number 7 lot. I focus on her.

She’s gal-like, with long, curly blonde hair—likely dyed. Her makeup, with long lashes and striking eyes, feels polished, very trendy.

In my old world, she’d date college guys, ignoring boys my age. She’s the type I’m worst with. I’m scared to even talk to her.

I must avoid upsetting her. Hesitantly, I approach.

“U-Um… Number 7… I’m Shun Sato… If you’re okay with it, we could stretch together…”

I’m just scared, despite telling myself not to judge by looks, waiting for her reaction.

“…I’m Yayoi Kurokawa. It’s fine, I don’t mind,” she says in a low voice, looking at me.

Her tone is curt, but for someone like me, a proper response is a relief. I feared she’d ditch class rather than pair with me. Now, I just need to avoid making her uncomfortable.

We find a spot as Ms. Muranaka instructs us to choose from example stretches. Kurokawa-san says, “I’ll sit,” facing away and sitting on the floor. She spreads her long legs wide, signaling me to push her back.

Her slender legs are captivating, and her gym clothes reveal a clear green bra line. She doesn’t care, exposing her back to me.

I worry touching her will get me called out for harassment. She turns, saying, “…Push my left leg,” urging me on.

Her pretty face speaks calmly, not angry, but her emotions are hard to read, leaving me unsure how to act.

Using her words as permission, I slowly touch her back. Her warmth through the gym clothes distracts me, but I focus, pushing from her shoulder blades.

Her long hair’s scent dazes me, and I avoid the bra line. Her occasional “Ngh” sounds make my heart race.

Somehow, I finish her forward bend. She says, “…Thanks,” and I’m relieved. I was terrified of complaints.

She stands, facing me. My eyes drift to her chest, where her green bra outlines her large—maybe 87cm—breasts.

Like others here, she’s unbothered by her visible bra. In my old world, it’s like guys not caring about undershirt transparency.

The girls wear colored bras under white gym clothes, and I’m the only boy excited by it.

“…You okay?” Kurokawa-san asks, noticing my gaze on her chest.

I panic, meeting her curious eyes—the first emotion I’ve read from her. “S-Sorry, I’m fine,” I stammer.

“If you’re okay, I’ll push next,” she says. Relieved, I sit and spread my legs. Her large hand touches my back.

I thought she might dislike touching me, so I’m grateful as I stretch.

In my old world, stretches were solo or with outcasts. This situation was unthinkable.

Glancing around, I see girls in gym clothes, many with visible bras outlining their chests. It’s like an AV scene, but it’s real.

Rumors that this school’s entrance exam includes looks might be true. The girls are all cute and unguarded, making it hard not to get aroused.

An erection in a jersey would be obvious, and Kurokawa-san would regret pairing with a creepy guy. I finish my stretch carefully.

No signal to end yet. Kurokawa-san looks at a girl pair doing a back-to-back stretch, lifting each other to stretch the body, like in my old world.

“…That okay?” she asks flatly, not joking.

It was an example, but it involves gripping wrists. Is she okay with it? Her striking eyes make my heart pound, but I can’t stall. Despite fearing a trick, I murmur, “Y-Yeah, okay.”

She nods, turning her back. We go back-to-back, and she grips my wrists. Her slender hands feel like they’re holding my pulse.

“I’ll lift,” she says, bending and lifting me. My view shifts to the ceiling, but my focus is elsewhere—our butts are touching.

The sensation through her shorts overwhelms me. I’d glimpsed her large butt, and even through fabric, it’s clear. Soft despite two layers, I nearly moan, chanting mantras in my head to suppress arousal. But it’s undeniably erotic.

She holds the pose for ten seconds, tiring for her, while I fight my urges. It’s my fault for being weak to lust.

“…If you’re okay, my turn,” she says.

Now I lift her. I worry about my strength, and showing strain might hurt her feelings.

Does she not care about touching me? A dull guy like me feeling her butt should bother her, but she shows no sign, her expression unchanging.

I grab her slender wrists and lift. The soft “muni” sensation hits me again through my jersey.

Telling myself it’s just stretching, I endure ten seconds. She’s light, so it’s not taxing—only her butt’s softness registers.

The whistle ends our intimate moment. Facing each other, she says, “…Thanks,” calmly. I can’t read her intent but hope she doesn’t hate me.

Being accepted, not rejected, is a relief, though I don’t deserve more.

The whistle sounds again, and Ms. Muranaka gathers us, dividing the class into A and B teams using our numbers. With 26 students, six boys split three per team.

In B team, I only know Kurokawa-san. Asagi-san and Maki-san are in A, spiking my anxiety.

“Okay, each team picks two outfielders, then we start!” Ms. Muranaka says.

Instantly, the other two boys volunteer as outfielders, approved. They look relieved, likely avoiding the inner court.

This leaves me as the only boy with ten girls in the inner court. It’s uncomfortable, and I feel curious stares. Being watched by cute girls is unbearably ticklish.

For dodgeball, the girls who were wearing jerseys strip down to their gym clothes. From my spot at the back of the court, their bra lines are clearly visible.

Struggling with where to look, Kurokawa-san sidles up beside me. Being about my height, our eyes meet naturally.

“Don’t… push yourself too hard,” she says, echoing Asagi-san’s kindness.

I manage a clumsy smile, saying, “Th-Thanks.” She responds with a quiet “N” and faces forward.

The game progresses lively, with everyone cheering. But with girls at the forefront, I rarely touch the ball.

Kurokawa-san guards me, intercepting balls aimed my way. Despite our similar height, her athleticism far surpasses mine.

The ball’s softer, but she might be protecting me from injury. Feeling pathetic, I survive in the inner court.

As the game nears its end, it’s close. Our team has four left, including Kurokawa-san and me; the other team has three.

I can’t hide anymore and step to the front, Kurokawa-san beside me.

Initially, I glanced at her chest, but now there’s no time. A girl across from us holds the ball, aiming at either me or Kurokawa-san.

I sense hesitation in balls thrown my way, maybe consideration for boys. But I’ve relied on Kurokawa-san’s protection. With fewer players, that won’t do.

The girl throws at Kurokawa-san, who tries to catch it but misses, sending it flying. Cheers erupt from the other side, but the ball’s still in the air.

If I catch it, she’s safe. Acting on reflex despite my poor athleticism, I dive for it, unaware Kurokawa-san is doing the same.

She grabs it first and falls, and I crash into her. Screams ring out, likely fearing injury, but I feel no pain—just an awkward position.

“…Ah,” Kurokawa-san murmurs.

I hear her from her chest, my face buried in her breasts. Even through fabric, their softness and firmness—large and perky—are undeniable.

Confused at first, I process the sensation, then the situation. Panicking, I pull away, but the fact I’ve harassed her remains.

“S-Sorry!” I blurt, blood draining, nearly prostrating myself.

“…I’m fine. You okay, Sato-kun?” she asks curiously, genuinely concerned.

“I-I’m fine, but… I touched you…” I stammer, ashamed of stating the obvious harassment.

She rises slowly, replying calmly, “…That’s my line. You’re not feeling bad, are you?”

I’m at fault, yet she blames herself. Before I can correct her, Ms. Muranaka rushes over.

“You two okay? No injuries?” she asks worriedly.

Kurokawa-san says, “…I’m totally fine.” I nod, unhurt.

“Good, but… Sato-kun, don’t push yourself too hard,” Ms. Muranaka says.

That’s the third time today I’ve heard that. I wasn’t pushing, just guilty. My collision made Kurokawa-san drop the ball, worrying the teacher needlessly.

Kurokawa-san is out, and I’m sidelined for safety. A girl replaces me, but our team loses.

“Sorry, everyone… It’s my fault…” I bow to the team, fearing complaints.

But it’s recreational, so no harsh words come.

“No way, don’t worry! We just lost normally,” one says.

“You went all out and didn’t get hurt—thank goodness!” another adds.

They’re kind, likely because I’m a boy. Grateful but hating my athletic ineptitude, I think a cool guy would’ve caught it cleanly.

At the end, Kurokawa-san asks, “…You’re really not hurt, right?” worrying about me.

Yet I recall the soft sensation, unable to meet her eyes, mumbling, “…Yeah, I’m fine.”

In the boys’ locker room, others ask, “Didn’t that gross you out?” or “You really didn’t mind?” teaching me this world’s norms. I reply, “I didn’t mind…” and they look shocked.

Back in class, waiting for Ms. Arai, I feel girls’ curious stares, likely for not minding touching a girl. I’m vaguely uneasy about being teased.

Ms. Arai enters, conducts homeroom, and dismisses us. Asagi-san stands, turning to me.

“Sato-kun! Let’s go home together?” she says, calling Maki-san over.

Asagi-san greets her friends cheerfully as we leave. They smile back, but I feel their curious gazes on me, their intent unclear.