Lisa and the Cheetah Cheerstars

This is a fantasy about pro football cheerleaders. Every character in this story is over the age of 18.

*****

You open the door and breeze into the perfumed, hairsprayed, giggly and jiggly pussyfest that is the cheerleaders' locker room. You are a cheerleader for the Fort Worth Cheetahs and your squad—the Cheetah Cheerstars—are America's Sweethearts, the best cheerleading team with the hottest girls in the league.

A whiteboard says "Bikini cal shoot next week! MAKE SURE TO TAN, LADIES." You remember that you have a tanning appointment with your bff on the squad, Charlie, a pouty-lipped, bobbed-hair waif with an elfin look. You and Charlie are the biggest lezzies on the team. You can't wait to take off all your clothes and be with her, alone and naked and glistening with oil in the tanning room underneath the massive state-of-the-art stadium. Most of the girls on the squad are hetero, and several are bisexual. You and Charlie are the biggest lezzies, always showering together and flirting during your dance routines and going back to her condo after gameday. This is causing a big problem in the team dynamic.

You toss your gym bag and sparkly pom poms in your locker, where an attendant has hung a very luxurious, white bathrobe with your name monogrammed in pink. They haven't picked the outfit you'll be practicing in today yet. No bother. You decide to strip naked and walk around nude in your heeled locker-room slippers, flaunting your tight, toned body and pierced labia. Earlier today you put in the silver hood ring that Charlie got you on your first date together after making the team.

"Hey bitch," says a voice behind you, nasal and heavy on the vocal fry. Oh no. It's Megan, standing there, hands on hips, head cocked, sneering. The six-year veteran and co-captain. The biggest-haired bimbo on the team, and by far the most hetero. She doesn't like you, and Charlie hates her even more.

"Guess who has a standards meeting before dance practice today." She turns on her heels with a smirk. Oh fuck, you think. A standards meeting? Where did I fuck up? As a rookie, you've never been in one of these "counseling sessions," but you have heard they are a strict and severe experience. Cheerleaders who have three standards meetings in a single season are on notice for immediate dismissal. Nearly every cheerleader on the team has been through at least two.

That's when I come out of a door located between the co-captains stalls there in the locker room. The Standards Director for the Cheetah Cheerstars. I'm a total sleaze. Balding, wearing glasses and a purple bathrobe, black socks, carrying a giant tumbler of some kind of mixed drink. I take in the scene. Yes. My ladies. We are in year two of the Trump administration, who in his first month in office rammed through legislation to shield his Miss USA pageant from lawsuits, and effectively ended sexual harassment litigation. I was a shitty sports writer for the Star-Telegram, but when the Cheetahs had a job opening for a cheerleading publicist I jumped at the chance.

I have since molded the squad in my preferred image of cheerleaders: extravagantly feminine sex objects. Cheetah Cheerstars merchandising, especially their pinup calendar and DVD, has tripled under my administration and the team has reaped enormous licensing profits from pay-per-view features and a pornographic Internet site. The money I've made for the club effectively guarantees my total control of the cheerleading team, and standards meetings are how I keep everyone in line.

Megan saunters over to me and slips her hand inside my bathrobe, rubbing my hairy chest as she throws a threatening glare at you. I grope Megan's ass through her booty shorts and say nonchalantly, "Lisa, and Charlie, come to my office." The other cheerleaders avert their gaze and shudder. I turn to Megan and give her an exploitive kiss, sucking out her tongue and lower lip. She saunters over to you and grabs you by the wrist, harshly. I crook my finger at Charlie and say, "Now." She totters nervously on her high-heeled sandals and I grab her at the bicep and pull her inside. All four of us disappear behind the door to my office as the locker room murmurs.

The office is painted entirely black and is dimly lit. Large nude portraits of the team's veteran members, in pornographic, pussy-spreading, boob-clutching, nipple-pinching centerfold poses, line the walls, lit by small lamps over them. There are studio lights and a camera on a tripod behind my desk. My desk is a disaster, strewn with porn magazines, DVD cases, two big handles of liquor and an ice bucket. A nasty porn slideshow is playing on my screensaver. A velour couch that looks like a pair of red lips is against the wall, next to a cheesy vanity pouf that looks like a high-heeled shoe. The office reeks of booze, cheap cologne and cigarettes.

On the wall facing my desk is a chain running through three rings. Megan handcuffs your wrists behind your back and then locks you and Charlie to the chain. Megan stands at your side, stroking your neck and licking your ear with little kitty-cat flicks of the tongue as I begin the pretext for our "counseling" session.

"Uh, girls," I say boozily, "we gotta back it down on the lezzie crap. I mean it's hot, we definitely like bi girls here, but you're out there for the male gaze and you need to act like it."

You're confused. So is Charlie. All you do is dance during timeouts and at halftime, maybe visit the skyboxes to smile at the big season-ticket holders. "Ladies," I say curtly, "what about this is hard to get. We had you up in the auto-mall's luxury box against Miami and you spent more time eyefucking each other than you did any of the men in there."

You blush. Charlie is likewise chagrined. No one told you about this part of the job! "You don't have to blow the guy but Christ, make him think you want to," I grumble. "Get it?"

You stammer out an affirmative. Charlie does too. Megan is chuckling at your misfortune. The truth is every cheerleader goes through a standards meeting. I always think of some way they haven't performed appropriately. Then we have an instructional session, and it usually ends with the girl dabbing a washcloth on her cheeks and forehead and replacing her fake eyelashes.

"So I need you two to be a lot more outwardly hetero," I say, "and we're gonna start with Charlie." A knot of fear forms in your stomach. Charlie sets her jaw and shakes her head, preparing to meet her fate.

I stand up and walk to the back of the room as Megan, ever the bitch, unlocks Charlie from the wall chain and leads her over to my desk. There are metal loops at the corners of the desk. Megan locks Charlie's wrists to them, leaving her spread-eagled over my messy desk, her ass high in the air, poised daintily on her heeled slippers.

Megan saunters back over to you and holds you by the neck, forcing your chin high. "Watch and pay attention," she commands.

"Thank you, Megan," I say nonchalantly, as I remove my robe. My penis is semi-hard but already it looks enormous to you. It's bigger than the strap-on dildo Charlie fucked you with after the big win over Tampa Bay, when you two first fell in love.

"Oh God," Charlie whimpers, as I fish through a desk drawer for some lube. I squirt some in the tip of my fingers and rub it around Charlie's exposed, hairless pussy, murmuring something coercive in her ear. Then I squirt more in the palm of my hand and stroke myself to a full erection.

"We need to educate you two on the feminine ideal of the Cheetah Cheerstars," I say. Charlie looks up at you with a silent, pleading expression. "Just breathe deeply," I say. Her eyes roll back beneath her painted lids and her face dissolves into a mask of pure lust, despite herself, as I enter her pussy from behind.

"Watch her, bitch," Megan commands, pawing at your tits and licking your face. Bound behind your waist you cannot turn. When you lower your head or try to look away Megan grabs you by the jaw and forces you to watch me fuck Charlie.

"On ... game ... day ..." I grunt, pumping into Charlie with such force that the desk rocks off its legs, "your ... pussy ... is ... for men."

Charlie moans and grips the edges of the desk as I fuck her pussy hard, making loud popping noises against her thighs and ass.

"You ... fuck ... men. You ... want ... men. You ... want ... to fuck ... men," I command.

Charlie's expression is a howling visage of sexual pleasure mixed with fury. She clenches the edges of the desk, trying to endure the pounding as best she can. Megan has now squatted down in front of you and is fingering your pussy to make sure you are wet. She spreads apart your pierced hood and slithers her tongue around your velvety pink folds before dipping it inside you and licking after your clit. "Like this, bitch?" she purrs. Unable to grab the back of Megan's big hairdo, you buck your pelvis forward into her mouth.

Charlie moans loudly, but they are now moans of pleasure as I pound into her buttery pussy. "If ... I get ... one more ... complaint ... from a ... season-ticket ... holder ... I am ... going ... to fuck ... the lezzie out of you." I growl.

"Both of you," I say, locking your gaze.

Then I pull out, and begin pumping my massive, glistening, purple flesh spear in my left hand. Several sticky whips of cum lash Charlie's butt and the small of her back as I groan through a powerful orgasm. I lean over Charlie, rubbing my slackening dick all over her ass, spreading around the cum as I whisper into her ear.

"Thank you, pussycat," I coo, as if we were a boyfriend and girlfriend. I kiss her on the back of her neck. She murmurs something happy and satisfied back to me. You're horrified. No! She's my bff! you think.

Your heart is pounding and your mouth is dry. The intensity of the sex is as intoxicating as the jealousy rising up in you, seeing your girlfriend fucked into a hetero persona by another man. You're furious, aroused, confused, wet, horny, angry. I unlock Charlie from the desk and take her by the hand as we tippy-toe down a short hallway to a shower. You hear the water come on and both of us giggle and murmur, soaping each other up. Oh no! She likes this?! No! She's mine! you think.

Megan again sashays over to you, uncapping a tube of red lipstick. "Let's freshen you up, bitch," she says, applying it to your trembling lips. Then she affixes a leather collar to your neck and attaches a leash, and unshackles you from the wall. Yanking on the chain, she pulls you in for a rapacious, probing kiss. "Let's go," she snarls. Charlie is in the shower with me, giggling. There are slapping sounds, either my hand on her ass, or our flesh colliding as we fuck. What's going on back there? You think about Charlie's soapy nude body, her pink, wet folds, and all of the places I am invading with my fingers and my cock, in ways your tongue never could. Her cries of pleasure are so authentic and satisfied that you shake with mute rage.

Megan opens the door to the locker room and leads you out, and you brace yourself to meet the humiliation of standing before your teammates. Except they have all gone to the practice field to work on their dance routines. Instead you see the starting offensive line, and their backups, of the Fort Worth Cheetahs, ten men, all helmeted, but otherwise nude, arms folded, rippling biceps and rock-solid thighs, huge cocks pointing straight out. They stand in a semicircle. Megan leads you to the middle of it, and forces you to your knees. The players close into a circle and start jacking off. You reach up, groping for their cocks, and open your freshly lipsticked mouth.