My Little Cheerleader

Beginning when I was a senior in high school and on into my college years, my interest in sports was solely due to the cheerleaders who stood on each side of the long line of play; those unobtainably beautiful girls wearing those impossibly small outfits (it was the 70's). I would wait entire quarters for those brief moments when they would come running out onto the field and dance. Shaking their shoulders, stepping on each others knees, and dropping onto the field with their pom poms spread. I always came early for that perfect view. I knew just where they waited, just where they stood pacing their nervous energy. I went to all the games.

My night time dreaming was of dancing cheerleaders, of coming up behind them in their little red pleated skirts, wrapping my hands around their small tummies, touching their breasts, of stroking long legs beneath pleated skirts. I sat out in the cold night air watching those football games, watching the frost form on the seats. Who cares what the score was? I was watching those little birds fluttering at the sideline, giggling, leaning into one another. Applying their lip gloss. Standing in little red, or black, or white jumpsuits waiting to be unzipped before they ran out there with one pom pom in each hand. Shiny costumes, body fitting, halter tops and midriffs, loose skirts; impossibly small waists and bouncing breasts. Long blonde hair, brunettes, kicking their legs high and showing me what looked like panties (but they were shorts). It still sets my heart beating. I can remember it like it was yesterday.

So it was no small shock when my 19 year old daughter came home from her first week in college and breathlessly announced she had gotten onto the cheerleading squad. No small accomplishment in its own right, few Freshman ever accomplish such a feat especially since she had shown no interest while she was in high school.

She decided to stay with us after graduating high school and go to the local University. She had been complaining about how much work school was and that she never had any time to exercise or to do much of anything physical. Joining the squad, she said, solved all her problems. We agreed that if she continued to go to college and maintain good grades she could stay at the house.

I went into my room and closed the door leaned against the wall, held my hand to my chest. I had hundreds of images of cheerleaders in my mind, years and years of them. And then, my little girl wearing those outfits prancing around the house. What would I do? I was sweating.

For my part I looked at her, and in as non-plussed a voice as I could muster, beneath a crackling facade of calm, I said, "That's great sweetheart, just so long you keep up your grades."

"Oh I will."

And she bounded out down the hall.

*****

The inevitability of the moment arrived as she stood in my study wearing her first cheerleading outfit. Oh my god! I was trembling.

She was wearing a maroon and gold pleated skirt no lower than her upper thigh, a half top with a deep V enclosing her breasts perfectly, she had two little pom poms and small white sneakers, gold socks. When she turned I could see her bare shoulders.

"What do you think?"

I could see the little line of her navel, the curve of her hip tracing the edge of the top of her skirt as it dipped low on her concave tummy. She was in perfect shape, I had never realized. Her long slim legs standing spread before me. Her wide smile, bright blue eyes. Breasts held lightly in the maroon fabric.

"You look great. Great." I feigned a sort of calm. "But . . ." I frowned a little. I wanted to look at her longer. Keep her there. I could simply not help myself.

"But what, daddy??" She was standing on one leg, tipping her hip up into the air. Her poms pressed into her middle.

"You have your hair up."

"Oh I won't when I'm out there. It's just. It was up already. When I tried it on." She was relieved.

"You got a brush?"

"Hmmm. Hmmm"

"Here let me, let your hair down. I'll brush it for you. We'll get a proper look."

I had never offered that before, but I was mesmerized. She smiled, jumped up, her breasts moving inside her little top as she turned. No bra, the thought flashed in my mind.

She was gone just a minute, returning with brush in hand.

I set her on the cushion in front of me, and she splayed her legs out. Opening her skirt to unseen eyes. I was behind her. I began to pull the pins from her hair, the little plastic clip and her shiny long brown hair fell loose around her shoulders.

"There that's better."

And I began to softly brush her hair, breathing in her scent with each stroke. Her small maroon and gold top arching so low at each side I could see her shoulder blades. I leaned back and saw the low of her back.

"Mmmmm. This is nice." She breathed.

I was drawing the brush through her long hair starting at the top and to the right and working my way slowly, slowly. I was laying my hand on her shoulder - steadying her.

I croaked out, "100 strokes for healthy hair."

"That's an old wives tale."

"Well just the same. I'm counting."

She laughed and let me brush out her hair until it was soft and silky shining, and I let it settle around her shoulders perfectly.

"There."

She stood up again, leaning forward as she did so giving me a perfect view of her cleavage.

"There, now turn around."

She was utterly radiant. I was watching her red mouth.

I blurted out. "I've always loved a beautiful cheerleader. So . . ."

I paused . . . "skilled."

"You think I'm beautiful."

"You'll do fine."

**********

"Daddy!!"

I looked up from my paper. She was in her little outfit again.

It had been a few weeks and she had been going to practice, but I had not seen her and I was putting it all out of my mind. I was trying not to. Her course load at University had been very heavy and the topic of our conversation was focused on academics. I never brought up the cheerleading squad she had joined. I simply could not. My thoughts were getting too intense. I was stopping myself from thinking about her as . . .

*and then there she stood*

A Cheerleader!

Her hair combed out. This had to stop, I couldn't breath, I was sexualizing my daughter. My only little girl. I couldn't stop looking. At nineteen she had such a thin frame with those still developing hips, such a flat little tummy.

"Can I show you one of our new routines?"

"Uh, I don't know."

"Please daddy?"

"Uh, sure honey."

"Thanks. I need someone who can say what they think, sort of give me pointers and I think you would be perfect."

She walked back to the door and stood in the open area of the room. She turned on the tape, standing still and silent with her hands at her narrow waist. Ready!

At the moment the music began, she burst into her dance. I watched the line of her soft white tummy as she was bringing her elbows forward, arms bent, so that her breasts were squeezed together in the V of her top. And then head up she turned sideways, as her arms were held open, legs apart causing the skirt to flare up and out. Three steps forward, bending forward, touching the ground with both arms, her hair flying forward. All in perfect time to the music.

I felt myself rocketing back in time, sitting in those cheap bleachers, surrounded by kids talking, looking around, and me staring watching the cheerleaders, memorizing their every move. Their lithe little bodies, their smiles, the energy, their beauty.

Watching . . .

She jumped now and I watched her breasts shake in the thin fabric. Step step and kick. Her long legs rising up up and the skirt opening exposing her soft center. Her puss. That's what it was. I could see the line of fabric between her legs, of gold. They called them pants. But damn, they were even smaller than my memory. Kick . . .kick . . .kick. And a turn and bend, a sort of lurch forward and the whole of her ass came into view, the line of her ass down between her legs, the skirt laying up on her back.

"Woops. I lost my balance. It's not supposed to come up that high."

She reached back and pulled her little skirt back down over her ass and thighs.

She was breathless, shiny with sweat by the time she finished, the music was still playing.

"Well . . .?"

"It was . . . It was good. But . . .I think you could. . . use just a little more energy."

She was frowning.

"No no no. You were great, fantastic! I loved it, but . . . I know a little something about these things."

She was moving toward me, sitting. Her knees held together pointing toward me, tugging the edge of her skirt.

"When you move you are supposed to spring into position. Go faster, snap the muscles and then stop them just as fast."

I had my arms up and was trying to snap my elbows back in a mock attempt, my suit coat lifting up exposing a slight erection in my trousers. I quickly brought my hands back down.

"Well not like that. But you know what I mean?"

She stood back up, brought her arms forward, pressing her breasts together, and . . .

"Snap. That's right. That's it. Exactly . . . See how it feels."

She tried it again.

"Yeah."

"See, every move when it has that little snap just looks . . . so much . . ." and I let my eyes graze over her small body. "So much better."

I continued, "And your kicks."

"Yeah."

"You're a little off center when you do it. Try hold your center, stay stiff straight up and down when you kick. You let your legs swing you off balance. When you kick, its you kicking your legs not the other way round. Here let me show you."

And I turned her around away from me, put my hands on her bare waist. I was helping.

I kept telling myself - I was helping.

My cock was hard in my pants. Can't help that I thought.

"Here now, I'll hold you steady and you kick. You keep yourself still and the leg kicks, you move your leg the leg does not move you." And she kicked.

I said, "Again."

She kicked again. I gripped her tightly. Felt the bone of her hips and pressed my fingers into the top edge of her skirt. Letting my fingers just under the top line.

"Again."

I could feel the underskirt pants, the line beneath the edge of her skirt. My mind was swimming.

"Wow! I feel that too." She stepped back, flushed, "Cool."

I continued to stand behind her looking down her long dark hair. Looking over her shoulders. She was warm, shiny again with sweat. My hands were still on her waist when she turned around, facing me.

I suddenly felt awkward, shy, afraid. A million miles away again. I didn't know what to do. I looked away. She became unobtainable, I an eighteen year old kid.

She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

She had no idea.

"Hmmmm. Well, You're my personal trainer now. Thanks!!"

*****************

With that we began to establish a little routine.

Our routine. I enjoyed the titillation (though un-admitted to myself) the utter pleasure of watching her, and I was becoming less shaken up by my memories most of the time. But this had become like a dream come true. She was the cheerleader I could never be with. And now, I was with her every day.

Cheerleading became this little topic that we shared together. I could go to the games like I had always done in my youth, my eyes riveted to my daughter, to the line of young girls in cheerleading costumes, their sweats laying in warm crumpled piles at the sideline for them to change into between sets. I could watch them dress and undress. My daughters dark hair, bright smile, and body.

She was coming into my room now for me to brush her hair, because she really liked how I did it. Most of the time she wore her hair up, just like most girls now a days, but when she was getting ready for her cheerleading practices she walked in and without needing to say anything would simply hand me her brush, turn around and sit with her back to me.

She was so casual when these moments came. Many times it was while she was in her cheerleading costume which was pure heaven for me, but other times. . . in many respects even better.

She had these small thin T shirts she wore, very casual, just little straps of fabric at each shoulder. They were not exactly transparent but you COULD see through the thin fabric, and I loved the way the folds of loose cloth lay on her as she walked up to me, bent near me, turned herself. Some mornings she walked in wearing just a small sports bra, white or red, and sit with her back to me so that her whole bare back was positioned before me, but for a small line of the bra strap. Her small shorts had her in really just undergarments from my vantage point.

The warmth of her skin, together with the heat that emanated from me as I sat near her was utterly intoxicating, as I slowly casually stroked her hair. The room was filled with the smells of her perfume, of shampoo, the smell of warm hair being brushed.

The coaching had given me unfettered access to her body too, as I 'helped.'

I would grasp my arms around her waist, pressing my hands tightly into her skin or hold her leg up by her calves, stroking the underside of her leg as I did. Many times I was simply holding her bare feet as I pointed the position they should be turned.

When she was pushing her arms together, I had my hands on her elbows pressing them tighter tighter. It was I compressing her breasts together. She was all concentration and did not seem in the slightest either embarrassed or restrained. She was utterly comfortable with my presence and touch, with my eyes on her body and I wanted to maintain that confidence. I frequently got hard working with her, but assumed that she simply did not notice and that was that. It was silly to think about for that matter. I had no intentions of . . . she was my little girl. It was enough for me to be near this cheerleader, to watch, to touch . . .

This particular evening I was brushing her hair and as I did she was continually arching her back, twisting herself first one way then another, drawing her head down. Stretching over and over.

"What is it hon?"

"Oh, I pulled a muscle at practice today. It still hurts a little."

"Here let me."

And I set down the brush and lay my hands on her bare shoulders. She moved closer and settled between my legs which I held open on the sofa.

"Mmmmm."

And I pressed my thumb into her soft powder skin, turning my hands softly, stroking down her neck across her shoulders. Pressing my thumb into the base of her skull, stroking her hair with my hands.

"You've really gotten into this cheerleading thing."

"It's just so different. I needed it. I was always such a tom boy and now since I can't climb trees - I can dance, right. It's physical. I need physical. I need that more than just sitting around reading books."

"Well you've gotten so good. I love watching you."

She turned and smiled at me.

"I like something else abut this too dad. I like having something we share. Us."

I looked into her eyes as I drew my fingers down along her spine between her shoulder blades.

She arched her back, pressed herself into me, like a cat.

"Ohhh, that's it," she was growling. I had never heard her voice like that.

"I guess we are simpatico," I added, "You and I. We think the same. I've always noticed about you, that your interest in the world is physical. You like to touch it, feel its texture, swim in life."

She lifted her head. "Ha! I like that. Swim in Life." She turned to me, I could see her shiny lips. "It's true."

"The intellectuals live inside their head and ignore their bodies and argue nothing. They think the mind is first, but they got it wrong. The brain is second, not first. I've always felt like you understand that."

I was wrapping my hands around her waist and drawing back to the spine, rising higher and higher to her rib cage. She was pressing into my hand. Her body, twisting and hugging into me.

She paused, there was silence awhile before she said, "Yeah, but it can get you into trouble sometimes."

----

What did she mean?

I remained silent.

We set like this for quite awhile as I stroked my hand across her bare back. I was touching her shoulder blades, digging my fingers beneath the edges.

"You are really tight right here."

"From all the 'snapping,'" she growled again tipping her head low. "Mmmmmm."

I loved that little growl of hers. Why had I never heard that, noticed before?

"Oh my God you are good at this. MY trainer!" She turned her head and smiled. "What could I do without you?

"You'd do fine."

She was smiling, head down. I was watching her, smelling her. I could not stand it. This perfect little compliant body was pressing against me. Skin to skin. I was so close that my breath was touching her. I could feel the warmth between us. I was thinking about wrapping my arms around her, hugging her, pressing my hands up into her and touching her soft breasts, nuzzling my chin into her neck. Kissing her there. She was inches from me. I kept stroking her back, tracing my hands across her skin, just her back as she pressed into my hand wherever I touched her. Growling.

This moment was frozen in time. We shut out our minds. Like she had said. Our bodies. It was about our bodies. Our bodies first, our minds second.

But that could never be.

************

After that massage, we were somehow more familiar with one another than we ever had been. There was comfort, something more than comfort, and it was in the way we moved with the other. The way I brushed her hair changed, the way I held her, moving her into correct positions.

She was compliant. But that was not it, because when she came into my study and set by me, her hand on my shoulder she would turn me toward herself physically with a question, holding my shoulder - or my hand - and at that moment I was compliant. It was something else, of a kind of knowledge in the senses of the other. It was like two animals in a cage moving through the space and eating and sleeping day after day after day. Touching and simply knowing, a muscle memory of the other.

The way her shoulder flexed - I knew that. The length of her calf muscle I had a perfect understanding of. I could close my eyes and see her collarbone, the arch of her back and then just before I would stop myself - her breasts. The way they moved, their tension, the skin pressed against the light fabric. Their weight.

And we were like that now - but not. Not all of her. I was her father, and she was my daughter. Not all of her. Hell, not even 10% of her - really. I could brush her hair, massage her back. We touched, but then . . . I had to stop. NOT all of her.

She had joined the competitive cheerleading team, she wanted to push herself a little further, to be a little better. And I encouraged her. In truth, I wanted this to go on forever, even though I knew it could not. It was nearing the end of her first year, her Freshman year. Time was short and it was being made up for with intensity. The competition. We both knew it. We both knew what we shared.

We had worked very hard for her first competitive outing, composed of eight girls. And I must say in reviewing the routines when I was allowed to visit practice (which I had started doing as well), she was probably one of the top two. The routines were tight, and her body was toned, she was healthy, very ready. Incredibly so.

She came into my study, her usual routine and she sat down in the sofa and stared at - the floor. She did not say anything. I kept working, waiting. Just a few furtive glances, and away. What was wrong? This was unusual.

We had a very good understanding of one another, we did not go on and on talking and talking, but this was different. I turned toward her finally, expectant.

She did not have her usual confidence.

"Dad."