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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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The Computer Geek Cheerleader
by Cindy V. (address withheld)
***
A college student who feels a little superior to the
other students is forced by the cheerleading squad to
dress up like one of them and perform a task that he
would never have thought possible. (MF-teens, bi,
reluc, cd, huml)
***
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 construct 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 criticism?
It was about the sixth basketball game of the season,
and the Harvard on the Hill players were into their
pre-game warm-ups. 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
lay-ups. 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 excruciatingly 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 lay-up 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 sensuously 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-I... " And she
left her sentence unfinished. 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 my 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 cheerleader," 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 simply had 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 remember 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'll be over. If we
hear you were any trouble though, well, it'll 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.
END
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 49