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.
