Cheerleader
by Cindy V.
What kind of students attend "Harvard on the Hill"? That's what we
call it sarcastically - it's really just a two-year community college.
Mostly for people who work by day and go to school at night. The full
time students like me are people that for one reason or another
couldn't get into a four-year school.
Not that I'm not smart. I probably know more about computers than the
teachers here. I can program them in six different languages, and I
can take them apart and put them back together again. And I'm also
pretty good in math. Unfortunately what I'm not good at is just about
every other subject. My English and History grades were not good
enough to get me into a decent college. So here I am.
About the only computer course they offer here that I might learn
something is a course on the Internet. Not that I haven't spent
countless hours surfing the Net in search of pictures of naked women to
download. But the teacher is a woman, who probably hasn't spent half
the hours on the Net that I have, and she is making us design our own
personal Web page. And while I mastered the dinky HTML language in a
couple of hours, I can't seem to constuct the kind of interesting,
colorful, graphics-rich Web page that the teacher is looking for.
Meanwhile I keep teasing most of the other students who think this HTML
language is brain surgery. I guess I don't have too many friends in
class among either the boys or the girls.
There aren't too many school activities at a school like this, and not
many people take advantage of them anyway. The part-timers really
don't have the time. And the people that do take part in the
activities are pretty bad. Especially the basketball team.
So I go to the basketball games at night. There aren't very many fans,
and my nasal voice carries pretty well anyway. So I guess it's no
secret when I yell at our players for not hustling. I do get the most
pissed looks from the players and even from the cheerleaders. Well,
OK, I guess I yell at the cheerleaders when they miss a flip or
something. Can't they take a little constructive critcism?
It was about the sixth basketball game of the season, and the Harvard
on the Hill players were into their pre-game warmups. Now of course
these basketball players are guys who were not good enough to get
basketball scholarships from a four-year school, although in truth they
are not half bad. But they don't practice every day like they probably
do in a real college, and the guys were a little rusty, missing easy
layups. And I was letting them have it, screaming at them, calling
them a bunch of girls.
Suddenly our head cheerleader got up and said something to our
basket-ball coach. Then our coach walked over to the visitors' coach
and said something to him. Then both coaches walked over to the
announcer and chatted with him. Then the announcer spoke into the
public address system.
"Ladies and gentlemen. We are going to try something new tonight.
Major league baseball has its designated player. Tonight we are going
to have a designated fan. Each team will pick one fan from the
audience, and this fan will suit up and play with the team. This will
give the fans some idea how hard it is to play college basketball."
(Author's note: Jim Bouton suggested this in his book "Ball Four" many
years ago, for baseball.)
The opposing team's coach went into the stands, pulled one of their
fans out, and brought him into the locker room to change.
While I was watching this I didn't notice that our team's whole
cheerleader squad had climbed into our part of the stands. Suddenly,
they surrounded me and began dragging me out of my seat and onto the
basketball floor.
"Won't you be our designated fan,?" they cooed at me. "You're always
yelling at the players - you can probably do much better, right Paul?"
they teased me. Although I had no desire to do this, there were too
many of them to resist, and before I knew it I was in the middle of the
gym floor.
"Someone toss me a basketball uniform, please?" yelled one of the
cheerleaders. A basketball shirt, followed by a pair of basketball
shorts, came flying out.
"No sense in making you walk all the way to the locker room to change,
right Paul?" one of the cheerleaders asked. And with that the girls
descended on me, removing my shirt and pants right in the middle of the
gym floor, in full view of everybody! I was down to my undershorts
pretty quickly when one of the girls said, "You know, sometimes this
game gets a little rough. Maybe he ought to have a jock strap." So
someone tossed one my way, and sure enough the girls yanked down my
shorts! There I was, stark naked! But to add insult to injury, as the
girls grabbed my cock to put it on me, one of them said, "Oh, I think
he needs a smaller size - his equipment just isn't big enough to fit in
this!"
At this point the entire gym was howling in laughter at my predicament.
But the team didn't have any smaller jock straps.
"This will never do," said one of the cheerleaders. "We can't have him
injuring his jewels, can we? And he obviously can't fit into one of
these jock straps." And with that one of the cheerleaders said to wait,
and she ran into the women's locker room. She came back a few minutes
later - waving a pink panty girdle! "Will this do?" she asked.
The girls ceremoniously folded my cock between my legs, and squeezed me
into their excrutiatingly tight panty girdle. Then they put the
basket- ball shirt and shorts on me, with my own socks and sneakers.
The crowd applauded wildly.
I tried to run back up the steps to the seats, but everywhere I turned
there was a big basketball player blocking my way. I was stuck. So
reluctantly I returned to the center of the gym.
The team resumed doing its layup drill. I got in line, waited for my
turn, and when someone passed me the ball I dribbled in for my shot.
Unfortunately I had forgotten about the panty girdle I was wearing. It
was terribly confining, if you know what I mean. Before I was close
enough to the basket to take my shot, I just had to let go of the ball
and adjust the girdle and my cock to a more comfortable position. The
cheerleaders were hysterical with laughter as they saw immediately what
I was doing.
The game began, and thankfully the coach did not make me start. It was
a pretty uneventful game, but the cheerleaders were getting restless
and wanted to see me get in and make a fool of myself. They huddled
together and then started yelling, "We want girdle boy." Eventually
they got the crowd to yell it too. We were down by fifteen points in
the second half and looked like we were going to get blown out anyway,
as usual, so the coach relented and put me in. The other team's coach
put in their designated fan too, and we were supposed to guard each
other.
Now I know the basics of basketball from a fan's point of view, but of
course that's a different thing from the player's point of view. The
first time someone passed the ball to me I wasn't expecting it and it
whizzed past my ear. The next time I did catch the pass, but as I
dribbled it a couple of times I didn't use my body right and an
opposing player stole it from me. Another time I thought I could
dribble towards the basket, but I ran right into an opponent and they
called me for charging. Meanwhile on defense people were running right
into me and knocking me down, but I never had position and never got a
foul called. Eventually the coach took pity on me and took me out. I
did get a standing ovation, but it was in laughter more than anything
else.
After the game I noticed the cheerleaders huddled together as if they
were taking a vote. In fact that is what they were doing. They voted
on who from our team should be named the game's most valuable player.
I did get one vote out of sarcasm, but of course someone else won.
After the team had taken its showers and dressed, the cheerleaders
announced who had won. The guy who won seemed really excited - I
didn't understand what the big deal was. He went over to the group of
cheerleaders, reached out his hand for one of them, and the two of them
walked away hand in hand. She must have been his girlfriend, I
guessed.
The cheerleaders surrounded me. "Wash that girdle and bring it with
you at the next game, Paul," one of them said to me. "Or else."
I was glad to leave and end this awful experience. I had no intention
of ever showing up at another basketball game again. I figured I'd
never even run into the cheerleaders or the basketball players again -
we certainly travel in different social circles. But a couple of the
cheerleaders were in my Internet computer class. They started hanging
around me in class, giving me pointers on designing my Web page. "You
need to use colors," one of them explained, and she showed me how to
get a pink background. "You can insert little graphics files too,"
another cheerleader explained, as she showed me how to add a graphic of
a rose. These were little touches I had never considered in designing
a Web page.
The night of the next basketball game came. I decided I had better be
as far away from the gym as I could. So I found a computer terminal in
one of the far off buildings, and thought I'd spend a few hours surfing
the Net.
All of a sudden a message flashed across my screen - "You have ten
minutes to get to the game!" First of all it was about two hours before
the game was to start. And second, I know the college computers are
networked, and it is just a simple network command to send a message to
any user like that. So I ignored it. There are thousands of computers
on campus - no one could ever find me unless they knew where to look.
Five minutes later came another message - "Leave for the game
immediately, or you'll be doing some new cheers for the team." I
thought that was a pretty odd thing to say, but I still figured I was
safe, so I ignored it.
Then five minutes later came still another message. "Time to get ready
for the game!" And with that the entire cheerleader squad surrounded me
and pulled me off my chair. As they held my arms, one of them sat down
at the terminal and started typing. "Wait a minute," I complained.
"I'm still logged on." The cheerleader who was typing smiled sweetly at
me but continued at her task.
We all watched her at the terminal. She was sending out a message to
the whole school. It read: "The cheerleaders are having a fundraiser
for charity at the basketball game tonight. There will be a booth set
up at the main entrance of the gym, and we have brought in a new
cheerleader for tonight named Paula. Paula will be running a kissing
booth for charity. One dollar per kiss, and when you see Paula and
watch her kiss, you know you will be getting your money's worth! So
even if you're not a big basketball fan, come on down to he gym to meet
Paula."
The cheerleaders were howling with laughter as they read this message.
I didn't see what was so funny about it until one of them started
pulling me out the door, saying "time to get you ready for the game -
Paula."
Oh, no - they couldn't mean that - could they? The cheerleaders
dragged me out, across a few campus buildings, into one of the women's
dorms. They took me into one of the dorm rooms, and then into the
bathroom. At this point I still thought they were just teasing me,
until suddenly many hands started removing my shirt, my pants, and in
fact all of my clothes!
They tied my hands to the shower rod above my head, leaving me exposed
and naked. But before I could even worry about modesty, soft hands
were rubbing a cream into my chest, onto my legs, around my nipples,
even around my ass. Then on my thighs, and higher, higher, gently in
my crotch, oh, oh. And then one of the girls was sensously rubbing
cream up and down my penis, and it was heavenly. I was getting so
aroused, but she rubbed me slowly, teasingly. I felt my orgasm
building, building, and then ...
And then she let go of my penis before I could cum, and asked the other
girls if it was time to rinse the cream off of me. Then someone
started spraying me with the shower hose, wetting me down, washing off
the cream from my body - and with it all my hair! They had used a hair
remover on me! They patted me dry with a towel, leaving me still tied
to the shower rod, and then rubbed a sweet smelling cream all over me.
A moisturizer, someone said. This time they left my penis alone,
ignoring my begging them to stroke it as they did before.
The girls left me alone in the bathroom for a few moments, hands still
tied to the shower rod. Then they returned carrying all sorts of
stuff. "Let's work fast," one of them said. "We need to be at the
game soon."
And with that two of the girls wrapped a pink corset around me, told me
to take a breath, and started tightening it in the back. This was much
more confining that the girdle they squeezed me in last time. This one
went to just below my nipples and ended at my crotch. In fact, with a
tug they were about to snap it closed between my legs, when one of the
girls said, "Wait a minute. Before you hide away his cock, let's take
a picture so we can remember how much he's enjoying this."
One of the girls came back with a camera. "Smile, honey," she said to
me." I wouldn't smile. She wouldn't take the picture. She said to her
friends, "Can't we make him look like he's enjoying this?"
Another girl came over with her makeup kit. "I have an idea," she
said. She fiddled in her bag and emerged with a long soft brush. She
dipped it in the powder, and started stroking it on my cheeks! "I
don't think he's embarrassed enough. I think he needs a nice blush."
She merrily worked away on my cheeks, stroking on the pink powder. I
felt ridiculous.
The girl with the camera said, "Well he does look sweet with that
blush, but that doesn't make him look like he's enjoying this any
more." "Just wait," replied the girl with the makeup brush. She dipped
the brush in the powder again and made believe she was going to put
some more on my cheeks. But then she did a surprising thing. She
started stroking it on my nipples instead! I tried to resist, but I
was tied.
She was grinning as she gently teased my nipples with her soft brush.
I could see them getting pink. Was it from the powder? Or was it from
the touch of the brush? The brush felt so soft, so sensuous. It felt
wonderful. I felt almost dizzy, it felt so good. Then all of a sudden
- FLASH. Someone took a picture. Everyone was giggling. They were
staring at my cock. I looked down. My cock had grown - the nipple
teasing had really turned me on. Now they had a picture of me in a
corset, wearing pink blush on my cheeks and my nipples, and with my
cock erect like I was loving it.
The girls were hysterical. But the one with the brush was not done.
"Gee, if the brush on his nipples turns him on, I wonder what would
happen if I ... " And she left her sentence unfinshed. The other
girls were cheering her on. "Oh, come on, go for it, girl." So she
dipped her brush in the powder again, and looked me straight in the eye
with an awful mischievous grin. And we looked each other eye to eye,
until I felt her - stroking my cock with her brush!
Oh no. She was painting my cock pink with makeup. But I loved it. It
was humiliating. But it felt so good. Every now and then she'd stop,
and there'd be a flash from the camera. Then I'd look at her with a
look of longing in mu eye that said, "Please don't stop." And she'd
continue. And stop. And continue. And stop. It was heavenly. But
it was driving me crazy. "Please, please let me cum," I begged her.
The girls were hysterical, knowing how much control they had over me at
that moment. They huddled together. "Should we? Or shouldn't we?"
Finally one of them said, "Well, PAULA." She emphasized the Paula. "We
did promise that there would be a hot Paula at a kissing booth before
the game tonight. Will you do it? Huh? Pretty please?" And with that
someone gave my penis another stroke with the makeup brush.
My mind wanted to say "No", but I was delirious at the point. I was so
close to cumming. but tied as I was I couldn't do this myself. So
without thinking I said "Yes." And with that she went back to stroking
my cock with the brush. Up and down, the full length. Then just my
balls. Then the head. Then underneath where it is so sensitive. I
couldn't hold back. I was at that point of no return. I was just
about to cum when someone yelled out, "Smile, honey!" And without
thinking, I smiled. Then I came. And while I was cumming - FLASH.
They caught me on film.
The girls were hysterical with laughter, having humiliated me in front
of them. They had me in a corset, with blusher on my cheeks, and my
nipples, and my cock, in the act of cumming. Nobody had to explain my
predicament to me. They had me in an embarrassing photo, and I had to
go through with my promise. To be Paula. At a kissing booth.
The girls worked quickly. They cleaned me up. They waited until my
erection subsided and then they snapped the corset closed at the
crotch. They slipped a pair of pink panties on me, and then white
socks. Someone was untying my hands, and then while I was still
getting the blood circulating in them they put my arms through the
straps of a pink bra. They used something to stuff the cups, and I had
enormous tits. Meanwhile I was stepping into a skirt. Where is the
rest of it? The skirt ended halfway up my thigh. Now I understood -
it was a cheerleader's skirt. They were dressing me as a cheerleader.
How humiliating.
A cheerleader's school t-shirt followed, not hiding the size of my huge
tits. White socks and sneakers. And I was all dressed. Well, not
quite.
They sat me down on the toilet seat. Two girls started working on my
fingernails. They attached false nails, then painted them in a dark
red nail polish. Another girl plugged in some sort of curling iron and
was running it through strands of my hair. I wished I hadn't let my
hair get so long. Meanwhile one of the girls was applying makeup to my
face, as all the others were giving her suggestions on shades. I was
watching my facial transformation in a mirror, and it was fascinating.
Someone took a little white triangular sponge and started applying a
cool cream all over my face. "This is the Revlon Colorstay foundation
that is supposed to last for hours, and not rub off," one of the girls
explained. "Well, Paula will give it a good test tonight, won't she?"
someone else giggled. And another girl repeated a line from the
television commercial, "A woman should always make her mark - but not
with her makeup." The cheerleaders were hysterical with laughter.
One of the girls produced a pair of tweezers, and they all had to hold
me down as I felt my eyebrow hairs being yanked off. Then they
produced a tray with what must have been a couple of dozen eyeshadow
shades. There was a lively debate on what shades and how many to apply
to me. I felt one shade going all over my eye area, a second only on
my eyelid, and a third in the corners of my eye. I couldn't wait to
see what this looked like on me, but there were too many girls blocking
the mirror. Then I was told to look down and then to look up as
someone stoked black mascara on my eyelashes. My lashes felt funny as
the wet liquid gave them extra weight and thickness. Warning me to
stay extra still, one of the girls pulled my eyelid slightly, came in
very close to me, and started drawing a fine black line on my upper and
lower eyelids. The girls then admired the eye makeup job on me,
telling me I now had beautiful, deep-set eyes. And when they let me
look in a mirror - they were absolutely right. I had dark, dramatic
eyes.
The girl who had teased me mercilessly with the blusher brush appeared
with it again. "And we know what this is for, right Paula?" she asked
flirtatiously. I could feel my nipples and my penis, all of which were
quite confined, twitch as I thought about how nice they had felt by the
touch of that brush before. The girls giggled as they saw me squirm.
But the girl with the brush calmly stroked the vibrant blushing powder
on my cheek, making wider and wider circles as she blended the color
around. The girls gasped as they saw how erotic this made me look.
"Just because I wear lipstick doesn't mean he has to too," someone
giggled, another line from a Revlon television commercial. This girl
lifted my chin softly with one hand, giving me a moment to gaze into
her beautifully made up eyes. She slowly outlined my lips with a red
pencil, going a little further than my lip line, I thought. Then the
girls examined a number of lipstick shades, putting a small dot of one
on my lips, discussing its merits, wiping it off, and starting again
with another shade. Finally they agreed on a shade most of them liked.
With firm, deliberate, slow strokes, the girl in charge of the
lipsticks stroked the color on me. She did a small section of my lips
at a time. As she paused to examine her work, she would stick the tip
of her tongue out at the corner of her very pretty mouth. She
continued stroking my lips. When she was done, she gave me a tissue
and commanded me to blot my lips. I did, and then she showed me the
lip print on the tissue. It was a bold, red lip print, and it was very
humiliating to realize that it was mine!
The girls stood me up, made me turn around, and pronounced me ready.
"Ready? Ready for what?," I wondered to myself. And with that the
girls whisked me out of the dorm room and outside of the building. The
group started walking toward the gym. Guys were staring, of course,
but were they staring at me and how ridiculous I must have looked, or
were they staring at all the other cheerleaders.
Finally we got to the gym. "OK, last time I was the make believe
basketball player, this time I am the make believe cheereleader," I
thought. "Well, it will be embarrassing, but I'll live," I thought to
myself.
The girls shoved me into a little wooden booth and made me sit down.
"Oh no - I had forgotten about this - the kissing booth!"
"Now Paula, I'm sure you understand what to do," one of the girls
began. "It's one dollar per kiss, and it's a fund raiser for charity.
It's for a good cause," she explained, as if that was supposed to make
me feel better.
"Oh look - she's blushing," one of the girls explained. I must have
blushed a redder color than the powder they had applied to my cheeks.
The girls giggled hysterically at my plight. But then one of them
grabbed my face in her hands and said to me in great seriousness:
"These horny guys who are going to pay a dollar for a kiss are
expecting a real female to kiss them. So don't you disappoint them.
If any one of them figures out that you are not a real girl, then we
will give you a punishment far worse than you think this one is." I
didn't want to think about what worse they could do to me, but I knew
they were capable of great cruelty, and I believed them. I nodded
agreement.
There was an announcement over the public address system about the
kissing booth, and the guys started to line up. One of the girls
produced a little compact and told me to check my makeup before I
started. I opened the compact, and there was this face that looked
vaguely like mine, but with long dark eyelashes, elaborate eye shadow,
shapely but too thin eyebrows, far too much blush, and large sexy red
lips! It was kind of an erotic image. The compact also had a little
blusher brush and some blusher powder. That brush! The girls had used
it on me before. On my nipples and on my cock.
I remembered the lovely feeling on my nipples and cock from that brush.
I started to squirm in the chair as my cock started to get erect. My
eyes began to get a glazed look. The girls immediately knew what was
going through my mind - and elsewhere - and they giggled over my
discomfort as my cock strained against its confinement in the corset.
Meanwhile one of the girls took the opportunity of my discomfort and
disorientation, signaled to the first guy in line to come forward, took
his dollar, and motioned for him to get his money's worth. He held my
face in his hands as he kissed me, but I was in a far away world,
imagining the beautiful cheerleaders as they stroked my nipples and
cock with their blusher blush. In my mind I was not kissing some guy,
but kissing one of the cheerleaders. He broke the kiss off, and while
I was still in a daze the next one came up.
The next guy gave me a long, thorough tongue kiss. I was still
imagining that I was being kissed by one of the girls, and I was
getting more and more aroused. I was enjoying this kiss. But the
girls thought this guy was taking too long and getting much more than a
one dollar kiss! They had to pry him off of me. The act of physically
pulling him off of me really broke the spell. All of a sudden I
realized what I was doing - and who I was kissing!
The next guy stepped forward, and now there was no way I could imagine
I was doing anything other than what I was doing. Kissing a bunch of
horny guys, because the cheerleaders had made me do this. My cheeks
blushed with embarrassment - which the girls interpreted as showing how
much I enjoyed it! I kissed and kissed. The line kept coming.
Sometimes they would tongue kiss me, sometimes they would cop a feel of
what they didn't realize were my artificial breasts, sometimes they
would kiss me so hard I thought I would go through the booth.
Sometimes the girls would take a picture. No matter what, it was
humiliating.
The girls let me take a little break to check my lipstick. I opened
the compact again, but this time the blusher brush did not have any
effect on me. But my lipstick was really a mess. It was smeared all
over me. One of the girls handed me a tissue and a lipstick tube and
told me to fix myself. "So much for Colorfast lasting for hours,"
someone remarked. Obviously it wasn't true.
I cleaned myself up and applied some fresh lipstick. I tried to stall,
hoping something would happen to save me from this line of horny guys.
But it was not to be. The girls took the mirror and the lipstick away
from me and motioned the next guy in line to step forward. I was
absolutely stuck. I simplyhad to go through with this. I was sure the
punishment for doing anything less would be worse.
Finally it was getting close to the time when the cheerleaders were
supposed to be on the gym floor, doing their routines. "Five more
minutes until the kissing booth closes," someone announced. The line
of guys to kiss didn't seem to end. I thought my lips and were tongue
were getting numb. How many guys had I kissed - a couple of hundred?
I was totally and absolutely humiliated!
Finally they closed the booth and let me out. I got a tremendous round
of applause from all the guys - and the cheerleaders too, for being
such a good sport. And they had raised a lot of money for charity. I
figured they would let me go now. But I was wrong.
"Time to start our cheers," someone said. And they grabbed me by the
hand and let me down to the gym floor. Oh no - they expected me to be
one of the cheerleaders for the game! Well, I was dressed for it, in
the tiny cheerleader skirt and all. Before I knew it I was on the gym
floor, in with the cheerleaders, a pom pom in my hand, trying to
imitate what they were doing. They did a couple of very simple cheers
that I was able to follow, and when they did the more complicated stuff
they let me sit down since I'd never follow them. These girls were
really good gymnasts and dancers. I couldn't imagine how I had been so
stupid to criticize them in the past. Of course, that's part of what
had gotten me in this mess!
The game started, and the girls clued me in on what cheers I should
join in on and when, and what cheers to just stay seated. It became
sort of fun. I got into the spirit of it, wiggled and jiggled myself
just like they did, and the crowd loved it. When the girls freshened
their lipstick to get ready for the next routine, so did I. It was kind
of fun, pretending to be a cheerleader, the most popular and prettiest
girls on campus.
Finally the game was coming to a close. The cheerleaders huddled
together and took a vote on the game's most valuable player. It was a
unanimous vote, by everyone except me. Maybe these girls really don't
understand basketball, I wondered. I'm sure the person they voted for
was not the one who had the best game. He would sure be surprised, I
thought.
The game finally ended. We had lost, as usual. The basketball players
took their shower. When they were done and dressed in their street
clothes, they came over to the cheerleaders to find out who we had
voted for. When we told them, no one was surprised at who we had
chosen. This was awfully strange. Certainly the team knew who should
have been picked that night, but they were not at all surprised.
The guy who was picked smiled a big grin, and held out his hand.
Towards me. I didn't understand. Someone produced that Revlon
lipstick and quickly applied another coat to my lips. I didn't get it.
What was happening now?
The girls laughed at my confusion. Someone explained. "Don't you
remem-ber at the last game when the guy who was picked as the most
valuable player took the hand of one of the cheerleaders and the two of
them went away together? We have a little tradition with the team. We
pick the MVP. Then he picks one of us. This time it looks like he
picked you."
I was beginning to feel a setup here. The guys at the kissing booth
didn't know that I was a guy dressed as a cheerleader, but certainly
the team knew. Why was this guy so happy, and why did he pick me?
"Picked me for what?" I asked innocently.
The cheerleaders and the basketball team were all hysterical with
laughter. "Don't you know?," one of the cheerleaders asked me. "It's
your job to give him a blow job. Do a nice one, and your day will be
over. If we hear you were any trouble at all, well it will be worse
than one blow job, that's for sure."
The basketball player took my hand, and we slowly walked back to the
locker room.