Cheer Sitter

by Kat Rose

  Cheer Sitter

  Kat Rose

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  Disclaimers: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic, adult language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable which may include: male/male sexual practices, multiple partner sexual practices, strong BDSM themes and elements, erotic elements and fetish play. This ebook is for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither the publisher nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles. Please note that this is a work of complete fiction; it is intended as a fantasy only. No act or description is endorsed by the writer, publisher, editor, or distributor. All active/relevant characters are consenting adults over the age of eighteen. Also, they aren’t real, so one could argue consent is an impossible concept since consent requires intelligence and these are just figments of someone’s imagination. This book may also include tacit or secret consent. This work is a fantasy. It should not be taken as anything else.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, people, or events is purely coincidental. Any trademarks mentioned herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored by or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks used are specifically in a descriptive capacity. All characters should be assumed to be over the age of 18. The cover model is also over the age of 18.

  First Edition

  ©2017

  Cover retrieved from Shutterstock.

  Cheer Sitter

  I'm sitting in the student union, the second floor, off to the side under the huge picture of a griffin. That's our mascot. It's a huge oil painting, massive and kind of awesome, especially with the cityscape beneath. It's the kind of picture that’s designed to inspire students. It was probably meant to say something like "You can always achieve your dreams. Don't let anything stop you."

  Okay, I need a little bit of that encouragement, especially now because I look up from my laptop, and there she is. She's stomping toward me, swinging her arms.

  Of course, she's gorgeous with her reddish brown hair tied back into that ponytail, her sharp features, her big eyes, her tight waste and her gorgeously toned legs. Yes, she has a perfect body, but there's something else about Julia. I can't name the exact equality.

  Or maybe I can.

  It's aggression. Raw and powerful. More than a little intimidating.

  She might be small and cute, but she is also intimidating. There's something about her scowl and the way she seethes. Like right now, she is marching over to me, her arms rigid, her shoes stomping down against of the carpeted floor.

  "Oh hell," I say, wondering if I should just slam my laptop shut and rush off.

  It's a silly thought, so I'm obviously not going to do it. If this is going to be my career, then I need to learn to deal with people like Julia.

  "What the hell, dude?" Julia snarls just as she comes within earshot. Her voice cuts through the air, and a couple of other students seated at other tables glance in our direction.

  "Good morning," I say, do my best to appear nonchalant. But I'm nervous and grinning.

  Silently, I tell myself to be cool. Seriously, this is important. If I want to be a journalist-blogger, then I need to be able to stand up to people like Julia.

  On our college campus, she's in charge. She's a senior, the captain of the cheerleading team, and generally recognized as the most popular person. This is a big school; that says something.

  "No, not good morning," she says. "How did you get those pictures?"

  "I have my sources," I reply.

  "Not good enough. Tell me right now who gave you those pictures. Oh, and you're also going to take them down off that stupid little blog of yours."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that."

  Her features, usually pale, begin to turn a bright, angry shade of red.

  Strangely enough, she doesn't say anything for several seconds. I count them off in my head, one, two, three, four, five. With each count, I'm tempted to say something, but I know that I need to be quiet and impassive because I'm just a journalist.

  "Those pictures are going to get a lot of my friends in trouble," she says. It's clear she's trying to maintain her cool.

  "Then maybe they shouldn't have taken those pictures in the first place?" I ask, doing my best not to sound snide, though I don't think I really succeed. I need to take another approach, "Look, Julia. I appreciate where you're coming from. Those pictures are pretty intense. You got your friends drinking, making out with some guys, showing off some rather indiscreet poses, so yeah, this is going to be embarrassing for a wild."

  "Take them down right now."

  "No."

  Her arm shoots out, her palms slamming onto the table in front of me. "Dylan, I trusted you. I give you lots of interviews and lots of really good pictures. I'm pretty sure the only time you get any hits on your little blog is when you get to interview me or one of my friends. Tell me I'm wrong."

  I don't; I can't.

  "Look, I'm a journalist blogger. That means I need to get hits. You're right. You and your friends are popular, but I want something that will go viral. The pictures I posted this morning, going to do that." I grinned at her, mostly because I'm nervous. I can't quite ignore the anxiety storming in my chest. "Unless you have a better story, I can't take anything down. I won't. I have my ethics."

  Is that true? Probably not. I mean, I did get those pictures from a hacker. Whatever. It's all about the clicks and page views.

  "Last chance," she snarls, showing him her teeth.

  "Now. I'm sorry."

  "Okay," she stands up, and she looks deathly calm. To be honest, I don't like it. I'm still seated, but my heart's pounding now, and I can feel the heat run along my neck, over my cheeks, down my shoulders and along my arms. I haven't even moved, but it feels like I just ran a marathon or something.

  "Look, people forget about this."

  "You're right about that," her tone is cold. "Just remember, I gave you the chance to get out of this."

  Julia turns around, and I expect her to walk away. Instead, she raises her hands into the air, and she snaps her fingers. It looks like the starts to one of her cheerleading routines.

  What the heck?

  That's when I noticed two guys. The second level the student union is big, wide, open and flat. More than that, there are only a couple of groups of students up here, so it's easy to spot them as they make a straight line toward us.

  Instinctively, I close my laptop, grabbing it. I unplug it and I start walking. I glance over my shoulder. Yeah, they're coming. Those guys are big. Were they g
oing to do? Kick my ass?

  Unfortunately, the answer is probably yes, so I start running.

  I start kicking the carpet, jumping from step to step. At the same time, I hear her say something. She's laughing, and I know I'm in trouble.

  I run out through the door onto the patio. I take the steps down onto the first floor. I run, down the concrete path way back toward the parking lot.

  Stupid, stupid move.

  I never should have left the student union. Up there, there were witnesses. Now, I realize that it's late enough in the day that there's no one else around.

  I keep running, panting, my heart kicking in my chest. I hear it, the boom, boom, boom of my pulse along with the frantic rasps from my lungs.

  I'm not built for this.

  Another glance over my shoulder, and I see them. Hell! They're close! Those two guys, each one built like an aircraft carrier, are getting closer and closer. They're huge, and their fast.

  If I had the energy, I’d smirk because now I don't need to even think about attempting the running of the bulls in Pamplona. Hell, I'm doing it right now, only the bowls in question happen to be a pair of fast football players.

  I make it to my car. I got my key out in one hand, my laptop cradled under my other arm. I slam into my door, and I start to get the key into the slot. The big, beefy hand grabs my wrist, yanking me back.

  "Sorry, man. Julia isn't done with you quite yet."

  It's like something out of a movie. They grabbed me, and I dropped my laptop. It clattered as to the concrete. I'm panting, taking in whiffs of asphalt and exhaust.

  A van screeches up beside us. The two football players hold me by my arms. The door opens, and they throw me inside.

  "Want to hear something funny?"

  I can't see her face. The second or they had me in the van, another set of arms grabbed me and pushed me down onto the floor. Yes, I tried to kick out, but Julia's friends are way stronger than me.

  On some level, I know I should take this as a lesson. It means that I should probably go hit some self-defense classes or something, especially from going to be in the business of kissing people off. But what the hell? Julia is supposed to be a freaking cheerleader.

  The world's dark around me. The moment they threw me into the van, someone pulled the black hood over my face. So they got me down, and I can't see anything, I don't know where were going, and I don't know what will happen to me either.

  Okay, so I try to think about this rationally. They aren't saying anything, which gives me time to think. I still have the advantage because I have access to my account. Even if they took my laptop, they don't know any of my passwords or anything. And it's not like I'm often some war zone or something. These are terrorists who are going to torture me.

  "What's funny?" I finally ask.

  "You." It's Julia's voice, cheerful and energetic. "You! You're so funny! You really thought you could get away with pissing me off. What made you think that, Dylan? Don't you know who I am? I mean, obviously know who I am. You've been writing about me for the last two years."

  "Let me go. If you don't let me go right now, I'm going to go straight to the administration."

  "No, I don't think you will."

  The van vibrates around us. We are driving, heading off to some unknown location. Again and again, I tell myself this is probably just some prank. She wouldn't really hurt me. It's not like she's going to have me killed or something. Even so, I wonder about this girl. What do I really know about her? She's protective of her friends; that much is always been obvious.

  Why did I think I could get away with something like this?

  I was doing it for the numbers on my screen. That's what I tried to explain to her; that's what I needed her to understand. Journalism isn't necessarily about writing or spreading good information. Instead, the business of publishing has become brutal. You need to get people to pay attention to you. Since most people aren't going to pay for the news anymore, and especially because they want something that will entertain them, they just wander around the web, looking for the next, new, shiny object. If you want to make money, you need hundreds of thousands or millions of views. That's how writing works now. That's how information works.

  Is it rife with corruption? Heck yeah. People can just go online and spout out whatever they want. It's dangerous, but I found a story that was true.

  The pictures of those cheerleaders were a perfect blend of drunk and sexy. People would come to my website to harangue them, to talk about how this would be the future of our country. At the same time, they wouldn't be able to look away because those girls were beautiful and perfect, just like Julia.

  If I just promise them that I will delete the pictures, and then I'm sure she will let me go.

  But I can't do it. I won't. This is it, my chance to prove just how brave I can be as a journalist.

  My mouth is dry, and my heart keeps pounding in my chest. Occasionally, I try to move, to sit up, but I can feel strong hand still pushing against my shoulders and arms.

  They are going to let me go.

  Then the van stops. "What's going on?" I asked.

  "Just hold him still, boys," and Julia commands.

  I don't know what's going on, especially when they won't talk to me! But then, she does something. I feel cold metal against my ankle. She starts cutting, and I can hear the blades as they ripped through the fabric of my pants. She's cutting them!

  "Don't move, Dylan. He wouldn't want me to make a mistake. These are very, very sharp scissors." Sure enough, she cuts of my pant leg, moving along my Shin, past my knee, all the way up my thigh.

  She does the same thing with my other leg. She's cutting me out of my clothing!

  I take a breath, thinking that I'm going to tell her she can't do this. But no, the words just die down my throat. "You see, Dylan," she says, her voice tender and mocking all at the same time, "You shouldn't mess with someone like me. You see, I'm something of a mean girl. That means I'm brutal and relentless. You, on the other hand, are accused little geek. Yeah, you might be sweet and everything, but I don't care. I don't like it when people mess with my friends."

  She yanks away in the shredded remains of my pants. She pulled off my shoes, my socks. Then I feel her as she straddles me.

  She starts cutting again. I can feel the dull side of the scissors as she uses them to cut through my shirt. She snips at the fabric, shredding it. Pretty soon, there's nothing left, and I'm naked in front of these people.

  My face is definitely bright red right now. Fortunately for me, the hood over my head means that I can't see what she is doing.

  But then, I feel something cold right above my cock. It's cold and pasty but also smooth. "It's okay, Dylan. Just relax."

  "What’re you doing?" I ask, my voice muffled through the hood.

  "You know how you said that people will eventually get over your little exposé? Well, you're right about that. But now, we need to give the people another story. So I think this will work nicely."

  She's touching my pubic hair. Or rather, she drag something down along my skin. I recognize the sensation. It's a razor blade. Is she shaving me?

  I want to ask her again what she's doing, but I stop myself. I'm pretty certain that she isn't going to give me a real answer.

  She doesn't just stop with my pubic hair, however. She daintily shaves at my scrotum, between my legs, down my thighs, even all the way to my ankles. She takes her time. The second seem to stretch on, and I make sure not to move. If I twitch or start to struggle again, I'm sure that she will cut me.

  "All done!"

  She snaps her fingers, and I hear the rustle of a plastic bag or something.

  I don't know what she's doing, but another set of strong hands grab my ankles and lifts my legs up into the air.

  Suddenly, I feel especially vulnerable. My buttocks are raised, my asshole vulnerable.

  A thousand different possibilities swirl through my head, but I tell myself that I can handle th
is. I just need to be brave.

  "Oh, look at that. He's so cute!"

  What she talking about?

  Then I feel it, my erection.

  "It's okay, little boy. If you get excited, that's normal. Does this mean you have a crush on your babysitter? Is that what this means?"

  "What are you talking about?" I demand, sneering through every syllable. If she thinks she's going to intimidate me, I want to disappoint her. I want her to understand that I'm not going to back down, and this little stunt won't change anything.

  She giggles.

  My big brash display gets nothing but giggles. "Silly little boy. Here. Let me show you just how much you like your babysitter."

  She reaches down, and her fingers skim along my cock. She touches me lightly, just enough to make me shiver with anticipation. Then she wraps her fingers around my circumference, and she squeezes. It's almost enough to make me come.

  "See? You like this. I guess we don't need to worry about you saying anything to the administration."

  I don't understand. This doesn't make any sense.

  Then I feel it, something soft and cotton against my buttocks. Another sensation, a very different sensation, scratches at me. It feels like plastic along my inner thighs. But no, that can't be right. My legs are lowered back down, and she bring something up and over my groin. Again, there are those dueling impulses: stiff plastic and cotton.

  Resisting the urge to ask her what she's doing, I hear something rip. Then she pushes down against my left side, then my right, just below my hipbones.

  Next, I feel something slide over my hands. At first, I think that some sort of glove or something, especially when she pulls it tight around my wrist. But I try to flex my fingers, and I can't. It feels like I'm wearing pillows over my knuckles. What the heck is she doing?

  What does she have planned for me?

  "Not bad," she says. "Let's get him to the nursery."

  They don't take the hood off of me. Strong arms pick me up, and I walk along, naked now except for whatever she made me wear. I keep trying to figure it out, but I don't understand. What would be plastic and cotton?