Simon Finkel Vs The Cheerleaders From Hell Pt 03

Simon Finkel vs The Cheerleaders From Hell

Part Three

by The Preve

Inspired by the picture "Cheerleaders Having Some Fun," by Voloh

Two Years Later.

The young man, handcuffed and spreadeagled, writhed on the bed. A squirt of seed spritzed into the woman straddling his groin. He was nude, and oiled head to toe. The woman slid her pussy up and down his slick cock. Her fierce face looked down at him, like the lioness to the gazelle. She alternated biting her lower lip, and licking her tongue along it.

The young man kept his face blank. "I'm going to hurt in the morning," he thought.

He dared not show any sort of emotion. Certainly not anything resembling weakness, especially to this woman. His job and possibly, so the stories went, his life, depended on his performance.

After this, he would be a lowly intern no longer . . . maybe. The woman was known to break many promises.

He couldn't refuse this woman, however. No one could. No one dared. She broke people: mentally, physically, sexually. Man-eater and ball-breaker couldn't come close to describing her. The woman didn't discriminate. She plowed through both sexes, and all sexualities.

Ms. Bryant was a predator, and built like one. A hard body more akin to a stalking panther, with nails every bit as sharp. The intern felt every bit of those claws as they raked across his chest. Her catlike tongue licked the blood they drew.

Her teeth weren't fanged, but the white perfection, and ferocity of her smile, gave off that impression. The tattoos on her body completed the predatory image. She didn't over-indulge in ink but kept them strategically placed. Few knew of them, as the power suits she wore covered most.

The young intern wasn't a virgin. He'd dated a few friends with benefits. It didn't mean he was overly experienced, though. Cece Bryant provided a great example of his naivete.

Cece Bryant, co-founder and CEO of Athena Athletic Footwear and Fashion, or simply Athena, was the type of beautiful Amazon worms like himself never dreamed of fucking. Instead, she ordered him into it.

It wasn't as if she'd walked into the mail room, grabbed him by the shirt, and dragged him to her bedroom. Her personal assistant did that . . . sort of . . . and it wasn't the bedroom. It was the PA's office.

The PA informed him Ms. Bryant had noticed his progress as an intern, and taken a personal interest.

"You are to take this special package to her building," she'd said, showing him a box. It didn't matter the contents. "You will arrive at 10pm sharp."

The building in question was one of those Waldorf apartment complexes. The employees were expected to be accommodating, while simultaneously looking the other direction. The lobby was quiet when the intern arrived.

The concierge directed him to Ms. Bryant's apartment, a twitch of a smirk on his face.

Ms. Bryant let him in. He knew what to expect, and what was expected. The mail room supervisor had given him tips.

"So the Bitch Queen's got her eye on you," he'd said. "She likes her BDSM, hates weakness. She sees strength as a challenge too. The trick is to keep to the middle. Be submissive, do everything she says, don't show defiance. Oh, don't raise a ruckus or brag about it either. The stupid fucks who do get 'reassigned', fired, or . . . disappear. Some of her family are 'Family' knowwhatImean?"

It was not to say he wasn't terrified. In the case of Ms. Bryant, who wouldn't? Life, along with his parents, taught him to keep his cards close. Plus, his parents were aristocratic Virginians, old school in many aspects (albeit more progressive in others). They instructed him in the art of gentlemanly behavior. Maintaining composure was a vital component of his current activity.

She'd met him at the door, pretty straightforward, nude and oiled. The oil enhanced the muscle tone of her hard body.

"Well," she'd said, "Actually on time. Damn, I was going to extract a penalty for tardiness. I might anyway."

The intern dared not respond. Some instinct warned him Ms. Bryant was not someone to speak to unless she commanded it.

"I'm sure you know what this is about. Give me some fun and it'll go better for you. Fuck up, and believe me, I'll make you suffer."

The intern didn't gulp. Ms. Bryant would see it as fear. He merely nodded and waited.

"Come on in, put the box down, strip and oil up, and get in bed."

The intern did as commanded.

Cece watched the intern strip, her pussy already wet and waiting. She anticipated the pain she would visit upon this young man's body. Her wet pussy reflected the desire for the act, not the man. He was nothing, really. Just an anvil to hammer her libidinous energy upon.

She always liked a good fuck after a successful deal. Young pups like this were also good to take out her frustrations.

Fortunately, the former was the case for this one. News arrived that day, the SEC signed off on her company's acquisition of Streak Athletic Shoes. The deal meant $175 million into her bank account.

More money was on the way, soon as she strip-mined the company's main manufacturing plant, sold its assets, and moved production overseas.

Overall, she was going to make more money this quarter than the year previous. The very thought nearly made her cum.

Instead, the lowly intern she'd glimpsed delivering company mail, on her rare visit to the floor, would receive the benefits.

"Who's that?" she'd asked her PA.

"Just one of the new interns."

"Send him to me tonight."

Cece Bryant rarely dipped into her stock of interns; too young and inexperienced for her tastes.

It was more fun breaking older executives. A lot of them were just as predatory as she, but nowhere near as strong. She was the alpha bitch, and made sure everyone knew it.

She received a lot of hate for that, of course, going all the way back to her tenure on the US Women's Soccer Team. No one could ignore her athletic prowess, a near phenomenal talent, helping power the team to international fame, championships, and three gold medals.

Extremely lucrative endorsements accompanied her transition to professional; money which helped her co-found Athena with a teammate/lover/eventual murder victim.

The convenient removal of her business partner (accomplished with the aid of some "Family" relations, in exchange for lucrative rewards) cleared the path. Afterwards, nothing could stop the Bryant juggernaut.

Currently Athena enjoyed a status as the world's third largest athletics company, and was set to grow even larger. Cece Bryant's net worth sat in the billions. She was determined not to stop until the title, "World's Richest Person" belonged to her.

Tonight she decided to forego the assistant CFO (an alpha male fratboy with more than a few non-consensuals under his belt), or a hire from one of the sex salons (some of her relatives had investments in a few).

A lowly mail room intern looked the best bet. She didn't feel like taking one of the girls. This young man just happened to catch her eye.

The now nude and slick intern stood by the bed. His well-formed body pleased Cece's eyes. Not perfect, but toned, with a nice ass. He exercised, obviously, but not to the intensity of the other execs. She also noted little body hair, other than a faint dusting around the pubic region.

The intern climbed into bed.

"On your back. Spread 'em."

The intern spread his arms and legs. Wrist cuffs were at the top bedposts, ankle cuffs at the bottom. The chains for the bottom cuffs were longer, to accommodate the varying heights of the occupants.

Cece cuffed the intern's wrists and ankles, briefly wondering whether to bring out the leather hood.

"No," she decided. The intern's face was carefully passive. "Let's see if I can draw some fear out of it."

Something about the waiting lamb rested in the intern's face. His features were soft, not angular or chiseled like the higher ups. His wide brown eyes and dark mop of hair stirred something in her memory. Something faint, a familiarity, fleeting and just out of her reach. She dismissed it. She'd had fresh meat before, probably came from that.

No words were spoken. He wasn't required to talk, just take it, and react.

Cece made sure to stroke him rigid, and straddled his waist. His cock was average, flat, but long and thick enough, hard.

Her pussy took him in; it's girth felt good against her walls.

"Feels nice," she thought, "Maybe there's some potential here."

Cece was less a bouncer and more a pump and grinder. Her body quickly drew cum and orgasms from the intern. His flexing torso reflected her own, with ripples flowing between the two bodies.

He kept a blank face. Occasional moans and grunts burst from his mouth.

His impassivity frustrated Cece. She wanted more, so she raked her nails over his chest, drawing some blood. He hissed mildly but maintained composure.

"Mmmm," she purred, "You're a good little fucker, aren't you? Are you as good with your tongue?"

The intern didn't answer.

"Let's see what you can do, bug. Suck my pussy. The better you do, the less I'll bite."

Cece rose from his cock, which slurped softly from her pussy. She stood, turned around, and positioned herself over his face, letting her cum, and his, drip on it.

The intern's cock pointed hard and wet, white jizz seeped from its peehole.

Cece knelt down and planted her wet pussy on the intern's face, while she swallowed his cock into her mouth.

The young man performed well. His tongue slicked across her clit and into her tunnel. He sucked their mingled cum remaining within.

Cece bobbed up and down his cock, raking her teeth along its length. At intervals, she took him out of her mouth to lick and nibble his balls.

"These are pretty firm," she thought, "I didn't expect this."

Cece contained enough experience to know how hard to bite, and how not to. Later, looking back, she realized her relative gentleness with this one. More often her bites and scratches were about making them beg, the strong and the weak.

Am I getting soft? Or is he stronger than I thought?

In any case, his taste and feel were pleasant. His skin was smooth and soft. His sweat tasted pleasantly salty, along with the nutty flavor of his cum. His performance didn't qualify as first rate, but he did well enough.

Cece enjoyed the intern for several more hours. Her hands, mouth, tongue, and pussy squeezed pain and cum from his body. He remained impassive throughout, giving off neither strength or weakness. He didn't beg, but wasn't unresponsive either. When Cece finally finished and uncuffed him, the intern lay in bed until his limbs could move.

Cece watched him. His strange lost lamb look stirred something, once again, but it fled from her grasp.

"You can use my shower when you can get up, kid, but make it quick."

The intern didn't answer. She hadn't given him permission to speak, and a response could create an excuse for punishment.

Circulation came slowly back to his arms and legs. When he finally rose out of the bed, he swayed for several moments, and looked at Cece. She pointed towards the bathroom, he staggered in.

"There's something about this kid," Cece thought, listening to him shower.

She didn't understand why he intrigued her. He was nothing; a lowly intern to be used and discarded.

He was better than most at enduring her, but she'd had better. Still, there was no ego, or arrogance about him, but no humility either.

Maybe I should try him again in the future.

The intern returned from the shower and looked, expectantly, at her.

"Yes, you can put your clothes back on."

Cece watched the intern dress, and did an act, shocking to herself: she complimented him, and asked a question. She'd never asked any earlier fuck.

"You did well, kid, not as well as others, but good enough. What's your name?"

Um, Travis ma'am. Travis Cutter."

"Your accent's southern."

"I'm from Virginia, ma'am. Richmond."

"A southern gentleman, then."

"That's how my parents raised me, ma'am."

"Well Travis from Richmond. Expect a bonus in your check next pay cycle. You did well. Keep your trap shut about this."

"Yes ma'am. Thank you ma'am."

The intern finished dressing and left. Cece stood in her apartment, thinking. She'd had southern before. Plenty of young, ambitious grads and execs from down there. This one, though, stuck in her head.

"Maybe I should look into him," she thought, heading for the shower.

Travis leaned against the lamppost outside the building. His knees shook; gasps of relief aspirated from his mouth. The craziest, most terrifying experience of his life, and he got through it.

"I did it!" he exulted. "Thanks Mom! Thanks Dad!"

Keeping a stone face was the Cutter way. So said his Dad, Elias Cutter, former Marine colonel. Elias and his wife, Travis' mother, came from Old Southern Aristocracy, where maintaining propriety was paramount.

If Travis wasn't theirs by blood, he was a Cutter by tradition and upbringing. It was those traits which carried him through the night and, hopefully, up the ladder.

He took out his phone and called an Uber. Some people, at the dorm, at work, might ask him for details, but they'd get nothing. Ms. Bryant's implied threat was taken to heart. Besides, he was too much a gentleman to brag.

Hollywood

Naomi Grace (nee' King) lounged on her patio; all sunglassed and bikinied, sipping Mimosa, and poring over the latest box office from Variety.

A pile of scripts lay on the table beside her. Coffee rings and curled pages showed some had passed through several hands. Most, however, were fresh, sent directly to her. Her agent, Cass Rosenbaum, noted several highly lucrative offers from the Big Ones.

Naomi's asking price commanded nothing less than eight figures, but she was more than worth it.

Her name on the marquee alone guaranteed a twenty million plus opening at the least, no matter how the movie performed in the long run.

Naomi wasn't above working for scale, so long as the script was worth it. They usually were, given her high standards.

She recognized the value of good script's award potential to her prestige. The payoff was in the rack of statuettes on her shelf, including two best actresses, and one supporting. Supplemented with three Emmy's and two Tony's, and Naomi held the status as one of the youngest actors to achieve the Triple Crown. Feats like these often took actors decades. She accomplished them in less than fifteen years.

"If that spoken word album comes through, I could even EGOT," she thought.

The big mainstream movies, mostly romcoms, were good for money and exposure. She was America's Sweetheart after all, at least from her mid-twenties to early thirties.

Naomi didn't exactly hit the ground running, after Julliard. She didn't have to struggle as hard as her colleagues either. The first year of her professional career was tough, but not overly so. After that, luck and good roles just seemed to fall into her lap.

Some snarkers, tabloid gossips and the envious, suggested that luck included a few important cocks, but no one found anything juicy, in spite rigorous investigations.

The reason nothing was found came from nothing to find. Naomi was determined to rise on her own talents. There were better methods than the casting couch; blackmail and rumor mongering for example. Plus occasional "accidents" on rivals, and the rare murder.

She even needed not be directly involved. A seduction of a reporter or PI here, a manipulation of a fan there, and things just took care of themselves.

When a deranged fan murdered Candace Bregham, first pick for the lead in Madame Dubarry, Naomi stepped into the role. Her brilliant performance did much to land Naomi that year's best actress. It helped when she dedicated her performance to Bregham's memory. Her public relations received a major boost.

The fan's loud proclamations his act came on orders from Naomi herself, via email, were dismissed as lunatic ravings. While authorities did find email to that effect, the messages were traced to a notorious Russian troll farm. "Some sick fuck from that crew catfished the poor guy," was the opinion of the investigator.

The story floated around media as a cautionary tale for our times (and if one of the hackers just happened to, coincidentally, be related to a former co-star/lover of Naomi, or a private detective, earlier, pinpointed the future murderer as a persistent stalker of the Julliard graduate, it might raise some eyebrows among those who noticed, but nothing beyond a few conspiracy theories. She'd already won her award by then, and sometimes killing two birds with one stone brought forth benefits).

That was Naomi's way, and her gift: prying details and pulling strings. She had no idea what exactly would happen, or if her schemes would actually work. She tossed the dice, and armor-plated herself. Nothing could be traced to Naomi if her schemes went south. She made sure her pawns were as exposed as herself.

Naomi smiled, basking in the memory of a loathsome toad of a producer, early in her career. He underestimated the young ingenue, whom he'd tried coercing to the casting couch; big mistake.

No one was more shocked than he, when footage of his rape of a young starlet found its way online. The snowball effect, of further revelations of his serial activity, caused earthquakes through the entire industry.

"He really shouldn't have threatened my career," she thought, "Amazing what you can learn from a professional voyeur."

Including how to utilize the best surveillance equipment. A fresh-faced young starlet proved the perfect sacrificial lamb. Naomi had no sympathy for her.

"Young, optimistic, and stupid," she sneered, "Perfect."

Naomi didn't bother to warn the young woman, or try to protect her either. She simply followed the starlet to the estate, and set up the camera.

"The idiot didn't bother to close his blinds," she smirked, "But that prick was always overconfident."

It was one of the few occasions where Naomi actually soiled her hands.

The, no longer quite so young, starlet came out of the experience scarred but wiser. Nowadays she was Naomi's biggest rival.

I'll have to do something about that.

Today, Naomi enjoyed some downtime. She'd spent the last year and a half on three films. The first just dropped. The second was set to premiere in a month. The third was in post production.

The first film was her first action role. Reactions from critics and audiences were extremely positive.

"Take that Charlize," she thought, reading the Variety article.

The phone buzzed. She picked it up.

"Hey! Hey! My girl Naomi," Cass, her agent, sang.

"Hello, Cass."

"So, you take a look at the Sorkin script I sent? It's perfect. Another Oscar guaranteed. Spielberg himself is circling it."

"Yeah, it's fucking good but . . . I'm thinking of giving Hollywood a rest for awhile. I'd like to get back on the stage. The new Mamet play looks good. I heard they're talking Pulitzer."

"Hmmm, yeah, that's a good choice. New adaptation but real solid. Hey, it might work out you can do both. Scuttlebutt says the film could get delayed for a year or two. You can go to New York. Do the play. Maybe add another Tony to your collection, come back, and do the movie."

"I knew you'd understand, Cass," Naomi smiled.

Of course Cass understood. She had no choice. Naomi was her biggest client, and always made great decisions. Cass never questioned Naomi's judgment. She knew the vicious psychopath underneath the America's Sweetheart mask.

Naomi terrified the fuck out of her, as she did ninety-eight percent of Hollywood, but she'd made Cass a shit ton of money. Cass wasn't going to mess with that.