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Tyrell’s specialty was his ass. He possessed a truly monumental posterior, round, high, and absurdly plump. One of their mandatory "conditioning" exercises involved standing on a small platform in the center of the main gymnasium while the entire school watched. Dressed only in a leopard-print thong Abernathy had called ‘ceremonial athletic wear’, he would be instructed to perform squats, lunges, and then, the grand finale: clapping his cheeks together. The sound echoed through the cavernous space, a wet, percussive slap that drove the pale, watching boys into a frenzy of hoots and catcalls. The teachers, however, remained silent, their eyes glazed over, a quiet, intense hunger in their stares. Coach Harrington would often join him on the platform, his hands gripping Tyrell's hips, guiding the motion, his fingers pressing deep into the soft, yielding flesh. "More power, son! Make it thunder!"
his buddies cant help their growing dicks when they see him jiggle in the locker room. Its just instinctual for them to grab, grope and spread something so fat and so soft.