But I'm (not) a Cheerleader!

"Thank you for taking the time to see us tonight, Coach O. I really appreciate it."

"It's no problem at all, Bob. How can I help?"

"Well, you see, he went to see his mother this weekend, and she dropped him off dressed like this." Bob glanced towards his son. "I am not comfortable with it, frankly, and my friend Rod said that you'd have some sound advice."`

Daniel glanced at himself in the locker room mirror, confused, growing more worried with every moment. His clothes were perfectly normal: dark skinny jeans, blue converse sneakers, a beanie to cover his neck-length mop of blond hair, and a knit sweater. The sweater was form-fitting and maybe a little long, the sleeves were touching his knuckles and the hem went past his ass, but it wasn't a dress. It was a nineteenth birthday present from his mom! It wasn't like he was wearing makeup or anything.

Not in front of his dad at least.

Coach O put his hand on his chin, fingers the size and color of kielbasa stroking grey stubble. "I think I know exactly what you mean. I don't want to get too political but there are forces within this country that do not want to let boys grow up to be boys. I've seen some young people guided down some very dark paths, it's heartbreaking."

"Coach, that's the first sensible thing I've heard all week." Bob's relief was palpable. "Where do we go from here, is my question."

"Well, we can't have him dressed like this, that's for sure. We should have him try a few outfits, see what brings out the man in him."

"Daniel, you heard the man. Strip down to your underpants, and we'll figure it out from there."

"W-what?"

"Son."

Daniel felt his heart pounding in his ears. "Yes, dad." There were no stalls in the locker room and the showers were open plan. At the far end there was an alcove with a boot rack—on the few occasions he turned up to gym class he would come in late and change as quickly as possible in this alcove when everyone else had gone on to the field. Muscle memory made him walk towards it, and when he realized what he was doing he expected them to tell him to stop. They didn't, however. They followed him. Now he was in the alcove, with a rack of dirty boots on one wall, a mirror on the other, and two middle-aged jocks boxing him in.

His hands shook as he took off his beanie. He kicked off his shoes next—

"Danny, what did I tell you about untying your laces before taking your shoes off? You'll wreck them like that."

"Sorry dad," he mumbled. White ankle socks came off next, he was relieved he hadn't worn a pink or purple pair. He undid his jeans, slowly, fumbling with the buttons, mostly trying to put off removing his sweater. He hated having a bare chest, it was embarrassing. When the jeans were around his ankles, he caught a glimpse of himself side on in the mirror. Without pants, it kinda did look like he was wearing a dress.

Daniel touched his sweater, but his hands faltered. He hated seeing his chest, for some reason, and didn't want to take it off. He looked up.

"Um," he said.

Coach O looked at him blankly. His father crossed his arms.

"...Okay," he said. His stomach did a flip as he removed the sweater. It was cold in the locker room. He rubbed his arms and shifted from side to side, trying to avoid the gaze of the two men in front of him.

Coach O sighed. "Bob, I gotta level with you, this might be a problem. He doesn't have the physique for a lot of regular outfits. Just look at him."

Bob sighed in turn, and his expression softened, one more pitying than disappointed. "Yeah. God, I didn't know fatherhood was going to be like this. Is there anything we can try?"

"We'll try a little of everything," said Coach O, slapping him on the back before looking Daniel in the eye. "Don't you worry son, we'll have you sorted before you leave here tonight."

"Thanks?"

Coach O handed him a plastic bag. He opened it up and found blue jeans and a white t-shirt, smelling of stale fries and damp cardboard. He wasted no time putting them on, already shivering from the cold.

It was not a good fit. The t-shirt somehow managed to be both completely formless and also highlight every pointy, knobbly bone in his upper body. The jeans were like rumpled cardboard tubes, the outfit made him look like a PS2 character.

"Awful," said Coach O. "It's not his fault," he hastened to add, "but it's just not right. Come on, we'll try the next one."

Daniel didn't like taking his clothes off a second time any more than he liked it the first time, but at least he wasn't wearing weird-smelling dad clothes any more. He'd barely stepped out of the jeans before the next set was shoved his way, a grey suit on a hanger with a floral print shirt.

The suit actually fit him. Well, almost. If anything it was a little too tight, the slacks hugging his inseam, the blazer flaring out at the back, the buttons pinning him in like a corset. He felt less bad wearing this one, though he didn't think it was doing whatever his dad and the coach expected it to do. It smoothed down rather than emphasized his shoulders, made his hips pop out, and didn't exactly accentuate his more masculine features.

He gave the men a hopeful smile. They looked back at him in consternation.

"God, it looks a lot better, but it feels worse than the one his mom put him in, if you catch my drift."

Coach O sucked air in through his teeth. "I'll be honest, it makes him look kinda... like a lesbian woman."

"I'm not a lesbian!"

"I know, son, I know. Let's try another outfit."

"What about something more active?" asked Bob, "Something that'll let him move around naturally."

Coach O had turned around, and was digging through a laundry hamper. "I've got just the thing. Catch!"

Daniel caught the shorts in his hands and the shirt on his face. It was a soccer outfit, clearly one that had been worn today, still damp with sweat. He took off the suit and carefully hung it up. He held the soccer shirt in his hands. Dark blue, streaked with grass stains, almost damp enough to wring. It stunk of Axe spray, powdered milk, and boys. He hesitated.

Coach O snapped his fingers. "Wait. That outfit's wrong."

Daniel looked up at him. He was cold again, but putting on a wet shirt and damp shorts wouldn't exactly help with that. He hoped that the coach would find him a dry set of soccer clothes. The coach went back to the hamper and pulled out four more items: two socks, an athletic cup, and a jock strap.

"You'll need to put these on first, so get your skivvies off."

"You want me to take my underpants off?"

"Yeah, and your socks too."

"B-but—"

"What, you afraid some girl is gonna pop her head in and laugh at your pecker? It's just us boys in here, son, nothing for you to be embarrassed about."

Daniel felt like there was actually an awful lot to be embarrassed about. His hands shook as he eased his blue boxer briefs down his legs, and he cringed as he brushed up against the muddy rack of shoes while pulling off his socks. The knee-length soccer socks were dry, at least, which was more than he could say for the jock strap. The jock strap was visibly stained around the crotch, a little yellow, a lot of grey. It held the cup in place at least, which meant he didn't have to spend long with his penis and testicles on display.

The shorts clung to his skin as he pulled them up his legs, sticking to his butt from sweat. He almost passed out when he put the shirt on, his head trapped in damp fabric, a solid wall of boy-smell permeating his mouth and nose. He gasped for air when his head popped through the collar, which only seemed to intensify the smell. He was shivering again, but not from cold. The men looked him over.

"What do you think?" asked Bob.

"Hard to say," said Coach O. "Feels like we're moving in the right direction, but he looks about twelve in that getup."

"We need to go further. What's the butchest we can get?"

"Football uniform." He looked Daniel dead in the eye. "Right, c'mon, strip down outta that and we'll get some pads on you."

Daniel clawed at the shirt, hyperventilating, praying they wouldn't make him take off the jock strap, or realize that his stiff little cock was pressing up against it.

He stripped down to cup, strap and socks before Coach O passed him a football uniform. The shorts were tighter and he toppled over as he tried to get them on, dirtying himself on the muddy floor and baring his ass to the men.

"Not much body hair on him, huh."

He heard his dad sigh. "Yeah, I don't think he even shaves. It'd almost be better if he did."

Daniel burned with embarrassment as he wriggled the shorts up his hips. He picked up the jersey, and cringed when he saw the name on it. It belonged to Jim Dustin, his old AP bio lab partner. Sweet, friendly, not a total lunkhead, absolutely massive. Daniel looked like a child next to him. He'd almost asked him out once, and wished he'd followed through with it. The jersey stunk of him.

It looked comical on him. The pads sloped down halfway to his elbows and his nipples poked through the sweat-soaked fabric. The two men gave him doubtful looks he struggled to stay upright.

His dad sighed. "It's not going to work," he said, defeatedly.

"Let me try one more thing, and then we'll move to plan B." Coach O took a helmet and placed it over Daniel's head. "Let's see if he looks a little more butch like this."

The helmet's grill came down. Something was wedged into it, something damp and pungent, reeking of chemicals, right over his mouth and nose. Daniel felt his skin prickle, a flood of heat to his hands, feet and face, something went slack inside him. His cock throbbed from the inside of his body. He went to take the helmet off, but in his panic he breathed in deeper, intensifying the sensations as he pawed at the straps.

"Damn, I'm sorry Bob, I think you're right. We're just going to have to—hey, what's he doing?"

Coach O flicked the grill up and removed the object tangled inside it. "Huh, a used jock strap soaked in amyl nitrate. Dunno how that got in there."

"Amyl nitrate—" Daniel gasped like a fish. "W-what?"

"Come on son, get those things off, you look plain ridiculous."

He had help this time, his father pulling the jersey over his head as Coach O yanked down his shorts. He could have sworn that one of them pinched his nipple but his head was so jumbled and his skin so feverish that he couldn't know for sure. As he peeled off his socks, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror—his lips were cherry red and his cheeks looked like they'd been powdered with a whorish amount of rouge. He was still staring at himself when they threw the next set of clothes at him.

He picked up the top, looked at it, blinked, and looked up at his dad. "But d-dad, I'm not a cheerleader..."

Coach O's voice sounded funny coming out of his mouth. "Trust me kid, you're ninety percent of the way there. Just put it on."

His heartbeat thumped through his limbs, sending two shakes a second from shoulder to fingertip as he fumbled to pull the royal blue crop top on. It was a little tight around the shoulders and a little loose around the chest, which felt bad in a way he couldn't place. The skirt fit perfectly. These clothes weren't sweaty and hadn't just been worn. They smelled pleasantly of laundry powder and a hint of perfume.

He saw himself in the mirror again. His hair was a mess, his jaw was slack, and he had no pom-poms, but other than that a cheerleader stared back at him. He looked back at the two men.

His dad was nodding. "Yeah... this could work."

"It will work." Coach O grinned. "Give us a spin, kid."

"A... spin?"

"Yeah," said the coach, twirling his finger. "Spin around, show us how you look."

Daniel wanted to ask to step past them into a more open space, but the words wouldn't meet the concepts and the request died in his throat. He shuffled to the side to avoid the unpleasantly dirty rack of shoes, gave a start, then tried a little pirouette. He spun around 400 degrees and stumbled a little, his skirt and stomach both flipping upwards. He stifled a giggle and hiccupped.

When the room stopped spinning and he stopped seeing double, he saw Coach O and his dad stripping off their own clothes. Somehow, he didn't think they wanted to try on a new set of outfits. They were both down to their y-fronts already.

"Uh, dad?"

His dad took a step towards him. He took a step back, and backed into the corner. His dad reached out and placed his hand on top of his head, ruffling his messy hair, resting it there.

"Son, I've been wrong about some stuff. I saw the changes your mother made, I saw your new clothes, and I didn't really know how to deal with it inside. I guess all my life I've been expecting a big strong son and that's not who you've turned out to be. But you know what, Daniel? You're still a great kid, I still love you just the same, and I feel bad for putting these expectations on you."

Daniel felt something scrunching up in his throat. "Dad..."

"You're not my big strong boy and I still love you." The hand stopped ruffling his hair and gently but firmly grabbed it in a bunch. "But the thing is, you can't really be daddy's perfect little princess either. I'm the overprotective kind of dad who's always fighting off designs on his daughter's virtue, but since you're not a virgin, that's off the table."

"Dad, what do you—"

Bob ignored him. "You know where that leaves you, Danny? If you can't be daddy's big strong son or daddy's perfect little princess, you're gonna have to be daddy's dirty little whore."

"Dad!?"

His dad tightened his grip, yanking at his hair and making him squeal. "Not 'dad,' 'daddy.' Tell me 'yes daddy.'"

Daniel's heart was pounding at a thousand beats a second. "Yes daddy!"

"That's daddy's girl."

He wasn't told to get on his knees, but pressure from the hand led him downwards, cramming him into the corner with his back pressed into concrete and two men with their cotton-clad groins inches from his face.

"Get us ready, kid." They each grabbed one of his wrists and pulled his hand towards their underwear. He tried to grip at the waistline but there was no strength in his grip, his fingers were arcade claw cranes slipping weakly over the prize beneath. He was unsure if he'd managed to pull down the elastic or if the men had grown impatient and done it themselves, but he found himself being slapped in the face by a pair of massive half-hard cocks, sticky from sweat, heavy with the smell of musk, aftershave and dried piss.

They were warm and spongy in his hands. It didn't take long for him to get into a good rhythm of stroking them. He'd had a lot of practice, though doing two at once was new. They were both uncircumcised and imposingly thick. A bead of precum was welling up on the tip of his father's cock.

"Give it a kiss, son," said his dad, his voice ragged.

"Daddy..."

"Don't make me ask again, Danny."

"Yes, daddy..."

With his lips an inch away from the cock, Daniel became stuck. It was as if the hydraulic fluid had drained from his pedals, his mind stomping and flailing but not causing anything to move. The smells of the changing room were gone, as were the smells of sweaty clothes, laundry detergent, day-old Hugo Boss aftershave, and everything else. He could only smell dick. The stink of dick was all consuming and overpowering, too overwhelming to be separated down into its component scents, every part of it was dick and dick was all he could smell. He could feel the smell clinging to him, he would carry it on his skin for days, he was already tasting it. He could feel his mouth flooding with saliva.

A hand touched the back of his head, he felt the heat radiating off the tip, and then he felt it. It was on his lip. Dick. His dad's dick. His dad's dick was leaking precum all over his lips, and he was about to kiss it.

He let his lips part ever so slightly, and kissed it. The warmth was shocking, like sipping coffee on a cold day. He could taste salt, and sweat. It twitched.

Daniel moaned.

"That's my boy," his dad murmured, "now let me in."

Daniel had no time to react as his dad pushed forward, his lips parting as the cock slipped between them, the foreskin rolling back as he took the head in his mouth. For a split second the smell of cock intensified further, a hint of sourness under the salt, but it was washed away by his saliva. He looked up at his dad, who was watching him patiently, and then began to stroke the shaft as he softly sucked on the tip. It took him a moment and a nudge to remember to stroke Coach O at the same time but he built a jerky, clunky rhythm, pausing every few moments to swallow down the mixture of precum and saliva that was filling his mouth.

His dad began to thrust, making spit spill from his lips, his cheeks bulge, and his stomach twist nervously. The deeper it went into his mouth the more it stretched his mouth, and he was already feeling the burn in his jaw from the first two inches. Something deep in the back of his mind was screaming at him, and with every moment it came closer to the front.

His dad gripped his hair hard enough to make him squeak in pain, and thrust in as deep as he could. It wasn't very deep. Daniel gagged, unable to breathe, no longer stroking the cocks, now gripping an immovable pair of thighs in an attempt to push away.

"Glmphhh!"

His dad pulled out in a single motion, leaving him to hack and retch, but did not release his hair. "C'mon son, keep stroking."

Daniel kept coughing, but reached up to grab their cocks again. His shaky hands needed guidance, and he kept losing his grip on his father's cock from how slick with spit it was. Whatever thought had been in his mind had disappeared, replaced with his task: just keep stroking.

Coach O took a half-pint bottle of whisky from his jacket pocket and nipped at it. He passed it to Daniel's father, who also took a nip, before offering it up to his son.

Daniel looked up at him. "Are you sure? I've never had liquor bef—mmmf! Mmmnnnnn!" He protested in vain as his dad pushed the bottle between his lips and fed it to him, tilting it up as he forced his head back. Raw, burning booze spluttered out between his lips as he guzzled it down.

His dad let him go. After a minute of coughing and wheezing, he gathered his senses. The bottle was empty, tossed into a trash can behind them. His throat was raw, it burned, and his lips were tingling. He'd never drank more than three beers in a sitting, and this was hitting him all at once, settling uncomfortably in his stomach and fogging his mind.

He was still stroking their cocks...