Hashtag Mia Too

For the moment, I had a breather. My hand reflexively reached for my neck and the unusual adornment around it: a black leather collar with a single stone—a ruby—dangling into my suprasternal notch. I stood with my back against the wall and scanned the room for my man, or more specifically, his champagne glass and the level of its meniscus.

The important people were all here—the front office big wigs of the Saint Petersburg Dalis'—general manager, head scout, secretary, CF0, and the two owners. There were six of us newbie cheerleaders—all women—with precious stones on our chokers, and six of the VIPs with matching charms on their glasses—all men.

Donovan Monari raised his flute, with the matching ruby charm around the stem of his class, clinked it with Brian Nielsen, then drained it. That meant he would need a refill. He was my charge for the evening and, apparently, for whatever portion of the night that followed.

I hustled, walking straight toward him, or as straight as I could, trying to avoid co-owner, Darius Coltrane, who was partially in my path. But DC, as he was called, turned just as I was about to breeze past him. I jarred his arm, and his glass, as I sideswiped him, spilling a little of the bubbly on his right sleeve and a little on my apron front.

I professed my sincerest apology and told him I would be right back with a napkin, but he chuckled and swept the drops from his sleeve and then, putting out a hand right at the level of my groin, brushed the liquid from my apron front, gently nudging my pubic bone.

I stood still, embarrassed at my faux pas, and blushed as I cast my eyes downward, not wishing to meet his. All I could repeat was "I'm sorry, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."

"Now, now," he said. "No need for apologies. It was an accident. Maybe even a fortuitous one at that. I've been watching you all night, Ruby," he said. "You're going to really liven up the squad I'm sure. Or at least, I'm hoping to be able to testify to that tomorrow to the board."

I didn't know what he meant, as he had a diamond around his wine glass stem. So, all I could say, as I looked demurely down, was "Thank you, Mr. Coltrane."

Awkwardly, I waited another minute as he groped me with his eyes, before commanding me to attend to the holder of the ruby-charmed glass.

#MeToo kept poking its finger into my temple, but instead of it reminding me to be cautious, it weirdly turned me on. I had applied for this job because I was curious about some of the behind-the-scenes activities that, incredulously, I had heard went on. That was reinforced by my learning that many cheerleaders had quit, even before the end of their first year. The others who had stayed on, I fantasized, were doing it for more than just to enjoy the sisterhood.

Besides, it was a decent job, paying $25 an hour for practice times, and $150 per game, although there weren't many worthy benefits. We were offered a lot of promotional opportunities, however, and career-building experiences, like photoshoots for official team appearances, which led to being seen in magazines and on the Dalis' cable network. We also could be given special assignments when the team was playing at home, to earn extra money. All those could have been legitimate reasons for wanting this job, after getting through this opening day party, and ample justification for enduring an evening of impropriety. But, actually, it was the impropriety that intrigued me.

Luckily for me, the squad's matriarch, Mia Thieu, a seven-year veteran cheerleader, had befriended me, and let me know the scoop on some of the haughty honchos. She was actually breaking a rule in doing so, as the veteran cheerleaders were sworn to secrecy about this hazing party. Part of the fun was finding out the next day what happened to each rookie girl, and whether they had the mettle to continue on.

It was like a sorority in some ways, as the cheerleader leaders only wanted a certain type of girl. And they realized that their own days were finite. With the new girls coming in being more fit and athletic, it was only a matter of time before the experienced cheerleaders would be replaced by those more nubile and daring younger women. So, they had to take advantage of their power at this juncture in their careers.

Donovan, Mia had told me when the reception began, was a straight shooter: polite, respectful, and mostly settled for first, and rarely, second base. Coltrane was a different animal altogether, she had added, without going into detail. But that didn't matter tonight, since I had drawn Donovan Monari.

I left Darius Coltrane's side and went straight off to Mr. Monari. Taking his glass, I rushed over to the bar, refilled it, and brought it back.

"Is there anything else sir," I inquired, able to look him in the eye as I asked.

"No Ruby," he said, "I'm set for the moment. Thank you."

I retreated to my place along the wall and kept my eye on him.

It didn't take too long for me to see how unpredictable life is, and how my future had abruptly changed. Darius Coltrane wandered over to the side of the room where the big windows overlooked the golf course and the beach beyond it, and where Donovan Monari stood alone. The two began talking, and a few moments later, their glasses were exchanged. Now Coltrane had the ruby glass, which meant, to my sudden uneasiness, that I now had him for the evening. I looked around in a panic for Mia.

The party was winding down. Invited guests had drifted off, and there were just a few additional people cramming the bacon-wrapped scallops into their mouths or licking their fingers from the last of the puff pastries. Trying to get their money's worth, I thought, before heading home to their ordinary lives.

The front office folks were still here of course, and the five other new cheerleaders. But I couldn't spot Mia. She must have left earlier, and I now more urgently than ever needed to ask for the scoop on DC. Her absence meant I was now on my own with him, and, despite my initial bravery, I felt myself become more than a little nervous.

Donovan Monari walked over to his new Diamond, Brenda Lee, introduced himself, and I heard her laugh at his probably tasteful joke. The CFO beckoned for Sapphire, and she stood at his left side as he finished his conversation with the head scout, Sanders Lord. Sanders, in turn, handed his glass to Emerald, and asked her to get his coat, and to meet him in the hallway. The other two girls were presently leaving with their front office men, one of whom had his arm draped across her shoulders, and the other, leading her by the elbow through the doorway.

I shouldn't have been doing all that gazing, for by the time I looked up and found Darius Coltrane, he was across the room, near the punch bowl, scowling at me. My eyes immediately fell downward. Why I did this, I don't know, although for some reason I sensed his power, and my only power, in return, was to surrender.

I hurried his way and again apologized. Again, he dismissed the apologies, but asked, instead, how I thought I had been doing tonight in attending to him. Although it had only been those two times, when I spilled his champagne and when I had been gazing elsewhere and not focused on him, I told him that I could have done better, should have done better, and that I would do better.

"I would like to help you learn to be better, Ruby, and I would like to start tonight. Are you agreeable to that, Ruby?"

#MeToo violently shook my arm. #MeToo screamed at me. #MeToo pleaded with me. Yet for whatever reason, I answered, "Yes sir."

"Good girl."

We walked to his car, a black Tesla Model S. He opened the passenger door for me, and shut it after I slid onto the black leather seat. He got in on the driver's side and started the engine. Having discarded the server's apron, I was now sitting in my two-piece cheer-leading "evening gown," it was labelled. The top was a low neckline halter top in gold with delicate straps tapering to an accentuated waist with elastic band. A tantalizing midriff of bare skin separated it from a mauve skirt flaring to the ankles with a generously beckoning slit up to mid-thigh.

DC had on a sports coat. It was a warm Saint Pete evening, and so it made sense for him to be turning on the air conditioning. But he turned it on to nearly max and after 10 minutes, I had goosebumps.

During our drive, he kept asking me questions to which he seemed to have already known the answers. In fact, he knew much more about me than I would have imagined. How did I like my time at North Carolina? What was it like playing soccer in the world cup trials? Things like that.

I answered, as briefly as I could, as I wasn't used to these types of questions—open ended, requiring personal revelation, ones making me feel so vulnerable. But I had little choice, as he continued to probe, and I felt compelled to respond.

He glanced over at me, sitting with arms crossed and legs tight together, stifling a shiver, and he put a large hand on my bare left knee, a hand surprisingly warm compared to the interior of the car, and he slid it up one thigh and then down the other. Without thinking, I let them drift apart.

We got out at the Dalis' general office. The drive from the country club had taken 30 minutes, and, if this had been Donovan Monari, my evening would probably have been over. But I had DC, and it seemed like the night was only beginning.

He put one arm behind the small of my back and ushered me through the door, past the security guard who no doubt had witnessed this scene unfolding countless times. We went to the elevator and up to the top floor. Silently. The only sound was the drone of the motor hoisting us to the 20th floor. The doors clicked open, and again I felt his hand on the small of my back directing me first left and then right, down the hallway to a door marked Boardroom. We went inside and he flipped on a bank of lights.

There was a large round hardwood table in the center, probably 10 feet in diameter, with twelve leather-upholstered chairs on wheels all around it. A semi-circle of windows with curtains opened to the night sky, and below us, streams of headlights and taillights radiating in a myriad of directions all over Tampa/Saint Pete.

"Wait here," he commanded. Then he left.

I waited five minutes, ten minutes, maybe longer. I did not dare to move, to look much past where I could see from where I stood. I did not stride over to gaze out the window or mosey over to survey the trophies in the glass cases along one wall, or study the photographs of Coltrane and Monari with other important dignitaries from the state, the country, and even the world. Nor did I test the texture of the floor, a parquet carpet of the team's colors, with varying tints and shades of violet and ochre.

It had been a long day, and I was tired from rehearsal all morning and early afternoon, from the preparation for the event, with the training at the bar, and now from being made to stand in this room for what seemed like twenty minutes.

I was startled by the click of a door knob being turned, and glanced over my shoulder to see Darius Coltrane standing in a bright yellow smoking jacket, violet velour pants, and charcoal turtleneck.

DC was a black man in his late 50s, with a scalp that he kept cleanly shaved. He had a neatly trimmed beard, with a touch of gray along his chin and into the side burns, framing a distinctive well-proportioned face. He was not LL Cool J handsome, but would have rated a nine of ten in any men's glamour magazine. He was muscular, as if he probably worked out, and his physique wasn't diminished by any superfluous adipose. Now over the annoyance of being asked to wait alone in this room, I started to feel again that attraction which began with his beguiling touch in the car on our drive over here.

"Your squad has been actively rehearsing, I am told," said DC. I haven't seen any of your new routines, and would very much like to, as our first home game is in less than a week. Please situate yourself on the table and show me the, what do you call it, "The Rag Dali"?

I was puzzled by how he knew these things—and moreover, why he knew these things. Were our cheerleader routines that important to him, when he had all the pressing things in the business to be worrying about. And yet, he seemed to be aware of every detail of every facet of this organization.

I usually did my routine with nine others, so my going solo was not going to be the same for him as he would be getting from a field show. He probably knew this, so I did not bother to explain, but merely pointed to my high heels and gestured towards the shiny wooden tabletop.

"Oh yes," he said. "Kindly remove your heels."

In my cheer-leading evening gown and ruby dangling from a black choker—I stood facing him on the mahogany sheen. With the song 1,2 Step by Ciara playing in my head I did a left hip bump, right hip bump, turned right, big step, genuflection, left arm high, right low, switch left, look right, pelvic thrust, face left, face right, face forward, left turn, breasts out, shake them twice, turn away, then back around, quick squat, hands on head, shake booty, swirl hair, arch back, breasts out, head to right, head to left, back to front.

His eyes were fixed on mine. "You are good. And bad. And that's good."

"Now, do the Dali Baby—but make it the bare baby Dali."

I hesitated. This was where things get surreal, I thought. It was Salvador Dali's thing and of course our team was named after him. So why should I be surprised.

He went over to the sound system, took the remote, and pressed the button for the Dali's theme song. It had a slow introduction that lasted about 30 seconds, before it got up-tempo and hot. It was during the introduction that we would suggestively discard our warm up togs, and get down to our game-time uniform. Right now, without any sweats to take off, I would be stripping down to nothing.

It was a saxophone solo, and I did what any good stripper would do—at least what I thought any good stripper would do—and started with removing my halter top. Crisscrossing my hands under the tight elastic, I lifted it, wiggling it above my breasts, and shook them out. Then I removed the entire piece and twirling it in my right hand, above my head as I swished my hips, I threw the top his way. He caught it, passed it under his nose, giving a wry smile as he did so, then dropped it nonchalantly to the floor.

Next, as I alternately wiggled my hips right, left, right, left, I eased my skirt down my thighs, past my knees, and all the way to the floor, making sure that I turned in doing so and bent over, to give him a full view of my bare ass. Then I stepped out, twirled to face him, and kicked the garment in his direction. He caught it as well and once more passed it beneath his nose, took a deep breath, closed his eyes and smiled. He seemed such a quintessentially sensual man.

The sax solo ended when another sax, an alto, joined the tenor, and a staccato beat was begun by the stand-up bass, traps, then more horns entered and finally a piano.

My movements became more than automatic, as my motivation soared to impress this man—jump on the right, move my chest to the left, right arm behind right buttock, left in front, and walking, left, right, left, right to the edge of the table, hands clap in front, spread wide, and a big squat, partially up, arms outstretched down between my groin, two pelvic pumps, chest out, breasts flung, back arched, arms to knees, hair flipped backward, neck in a circle, whirl hair, right arm up, left arm up, chest out, looking skyward, left turn on left leg, arms above my head, looking away, then toward him, two pelvic rocks, hands on hips, look away, look toward, swirl my hair, turn to face him, kick right, kick left, bend over at the waist, then arch back, undulate spine up to head, throw head back, turn left, run right hand over head, down right breast, outstretch arm, pivot right, run left hand over head, down left breast, outstretch arm, and, throw hands up in a V, arch back, twist right, and, as the horns blared, I stared straight ahead, right at Darius Coltrane.

Breathless I stayed in that frozen pose, not daring to move, until I was given permission. The song had ended. The room was silent. All I could hear was my breathing. But I waited.

DC did not take his eyes off me and walked slowly to the leather couch on one side of the boardroom. He sat on the middle cushion. "Come over here" was all he said.

I got down carefully, still panting, and began to walk over toward him, sweat rolling off my bare shoulders, down my arms, running in rivulets over my naked breasts and down my abdomen. I stared downward, not daring to meet his eyes. From his tone I could tell he did not approve of something, just not what. I merely followed his instructions and walked in short strides over to the couch, stopping directly in front of him.

"For whom did you dance this song?" he asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

It was obvious for whom I danced it, I thought. Why was he asking me this? So, I answered, "For you, Sir," I could barely get it out.

"No, Ruby. You danced this for the crowd. For the fans."

I kept my gaze lowered, not understanding at all, with cold sweat droplets beginning to populate my back.

"When you dance it for me, you do not look me in the eyes. Is that understood?" He was straightforward; he had uttered a simple declaration followed by a bland interrogatory. No tone of harshness. No edge.

I nodded, "Yes, sir."

"It's important that you learn that. Would you agree?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good girl. I want to help you learn it. Would you like my help?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good girl. Lay across my lap."

"Yes, sir."

I moved the two steps to an end cushion, knelt on it, then stretched out prone across his thighs, my bare buttocks directly in front of him, my hands crossed beneath my right cheek, my vision directed into the room, away from him. A little whiff of perspiration from my axillae wafted to my nostrils. Hard work sweat, I confidently concluded. Not from fear. But then, I thought, was it also from arousal?

The exhilaration of dancing had put me in an excited state. I had nailed every turn, twist, shake, and swirl, and I had done it naked, barefoot, and on the slippery tabletop. And when that happens—when I feel triumphant—it makes me hypersexual. I never know in what way my arousal will take me, but tonight, with DC, it brought me to my submissive side.

The first cupped hand hit me lightly on the left cheek of my buttocks. That was followed by a slightly harder one on the right and then in succession rhythmically, left, right, left, right as if he were beating my ass like a djembe. I felt the burning intensify, maybe tensed my butt cheeks involuntarily, but it was starting to pain me, and then miraculously, he altered the sensation.

His fingertips skipped over my buttocks and posterior thighs, and then one finger passed thru my perineum over my anus before drifting off over my sacrum and up my back. A few more light touches on each buttock were soon followed by more cupped hand spanks, to a different rhythm.

I let the heat, the burn, the sting, build and build. My breathing increased. I'm sure he must have heard it for he again changed the sensation to a little tickle in my inner thighs and over my buttocks with one finger again neatly passing over my rosetta.

Some more spanking ensued, harder this time. Then the questions to which there was only one answer "Yes, sir."

"Are you happy with your new job, Ruby?"

"Are you happy tonight being Ruby, Ruby?"

"Do you find this spanking helpful, Ruby?"

"Are you learning how to dance for me, Ruby?"

With each question, he paused in the spanking and gently rubbed the raw, red-hot flesh of my buttocks with his cool palm. Once I had professed my "Yes, sir," he resumed the spanking, always using cupped hands but getting more severe in the intensity.