A Cheerleader in the Hood Ch. 01

CHAPTER 1 - I discover that I am an illegal alien

The moment that I stepped out of the University sports facility changing room showers I sensed that something was amiss.

Chloe and three other girls from the cheerleading squad were around my locker, trying to force it open.

One of her companions saw me and nudged Chloe. The pretty brunette turned to face me.

"Well, well," she said, "If it isn't our sweet little Cherri Pye. You were quicker in the shower than usual."

"That's my locker. What are you doing?" I asked as indignantly as I could. Chloe rather scared me, and she was squad captain.

"We're just setting up your 'squad dare', bitch."

"But Coach Lafitte says we're not to do squad dares any more," I said, feeling the colour rise to my cheeks.

"Bullshit! It's a Bayton tradition. Every new cheergirl has to do one, even Goodie Two Shoes Coach's pet, blue-eyed English bitches like you."

She smirked, unpleasantly.

I wasn't really surprised at the name calling. Chloe had seemed to resent me from the moment that I had arrived in Bayton, and I had heard her claim that simply by being on the squad I was denying an opportunity to a local girl. The fact that I had obtained a scholarship seemed irrelevant to her.

"Coach Lafitte says we mustn't," I reiterated, pouting somewhat.

"Coach Lafitte says...Coach Lafitte says..." mocked Chloe, mimicking my English accent. She suddenly went quiet, and I sensed that there was someone behind me.

"Cherri Pye," said a peremptory voice, "Come to my office immediately."

I turned to see Coach Lafitte himself.

"Sir, I...I'm getting dressed, Sir. Could you please give me a moment or two, Sir?"

"I said immediately, Miss Pye, come along now."

"Sir, yes, Sir," I responded, immediately and deferentially.

I pulled my towel around me as best I could. It was quite small and it was all that I could do to tuck it in, just below my left shoulder. Even so, most of my left flank was exposed and I hadn't had a chance to dry myself. I was still dripping wet.

I could hear the other girls snickering behind me as I walked out of the changing room. I meekly tailed Coach Lafitte, my bare feet leaving high arched footsteps in the hallway, my long blonde hair sticking to my face and shoulders. It seemed unjust that I couldn't have been given five minutes to change, but I knew that it did not do to argue with Coach Lafitte.

I followed him into his office, and he sat down at his desk. He didn't offer me a seat. I stood in front of him, clutching the small towel about me as best I could, dripping water onto his office floor.

"Now, Miss Pye," said Coach Lafitte, "What's this that I hear about your visa application?"

"Sir, my visa application, Sir?" I replied uneasily.

Coach Lafitte had a slight accent, and apparently was not originally from America, but he had been in the army or something, and demanded to be addressed in what he called the military manner. This involved putting a "Sir" at the beginning and end of sentences when talking to him. I must admit that I found it quite exciting to address a man in such a fashion. Especially a strong, powerful, black man like Coach Lafitte.

"I have been informed that there is a problem with it."

"Sir, I...I didn't know, Sir."

He looked at me sternly. I'm sure that I blushed from tip to toe. I colour easily, and under male scrutiny, my curves only partially concealed by the small towel. I could feel the blood rushing to my face.

"You can confirm that you are Miss 'Cherry Pye'?"

"Sir. Yes, Sir."

"Spelt C-H-E-R-R-Y-P-."

"Sir, no, Sir," I interrupted him, "'Cherri' is spelt with an 'I', Sir."

Coach Lafitte grunted disapprovingly. He looked me up and down, his fierce eyes taking all of me in.

"What a ridiculous way to spell it. Did you not notice that the spelling was incorrect on the student visa application that was provided for you?"

"Sir, no, Sir," I responded, quietly.

In truth I had paid little attention to the application, having been so thrilled to have obtained a cheerleading scholarship that I had, wrongly as it turned out, assumed that the University Admissions Office would not make such a basic error.

"So you can't even spell your own name?" he chuckled, "And they say all cheerleaders are blonde bimbos."

Despite his jocular tone, I felt myself blush even redder. Was he insinuating that I was a blonde bimbo, or was he merely being sarcastic? Or even ironic? I am a blonde, it is true, but I had, after all, been awarded a scholarship to study "Hospitality Management" , even if this was contingent upon me making University cheerleading squad.

"Sir, I'm very sorry, Sir," I said.

"Well, it is certainly a regrettable slip-up on your part," he went on, "You could of course be sent back to England immediately. We wouldn't want that now, would we, Miss Pye?"

"Sir, no, Sir," I answered swiftly.

I could feel tears begin to prick my eyes. Obtaining this cheerleading scholarship was probably the best thing that had ever happened to me, and I could hardly bear to think what it would be like if it simply came to an abrupt end after a week or two.

"Well, Miss Pye," said Coach Lafitte, "The good news for you is that I have a blank replacement visa application here. But how do you propose to persuade me to sign it and make it official?"

"Sir, persuade you, Sir?" I looked at him perplexed. What did he mean?

"Yes, Miss Pye. Why should I expend time and effort in my busy schedule to sort out your self-inflicted problems? What do I get out of it? It would be simpler to send you back where you came from. There are plenty of local girls only too eager to take your spot on the squad."

"Oh...oh no, Sir. P...please, don't do that, Sir" I stammered. I knew that all of my dreams of becoming a professional cheerleader were in danger of being crushed.

"Well," he said, looking at me sternly, "You'd best start persuading me then, hadn't you, Miss Pye?"

With that he got up from his chair and walked casually around his desk towards me.

I swallowed. My throat felt dry and constricted. It was just a trivial administrative error on a visa application and yet he was turning it into such a big deal. Indeed, it seemed that he expected something specific in return for sorting it out.

He came and stood close to me. He must have been at least a foot taller than me.

I looked up at him quizzically.

I wasn't at all sure what he wanted me to do next. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before, but it occurred to me that perhaps what he wanted was a friendly kiss or a hug. I had found Americans of both genders to be a lot more "touchy-feely" than English people, and I reasoned that a kiss wouldn't be too bad.

Even though Coach Lafitte was fairly old, at least thirty-five, he was kind of ruggedly handsome, and still had a fit body.

As I puckered up to kiss him, to my dismay, I felt his strong hands upon my bare, wet shoulders, pushing me down, and further down, until I was on my knees in front of him. My face was now level with his groin and I noticed the unmistakable bulge in his trousers. I realised with a disconcerting shudder of apprehension in my belly exactly what it was that I was going to have to do to persuade him to sign my replacement visa application.

I must admit that I hadn't considered that such things were part of administrative procedure, but I did, of course, desperately want to stay at the University. If this was what it was going to take then I decided that I might as well make the best of it. I looked up at him nervously from my knees. I had performed oral sex even before becoming a cheerleader, and I knew, in fact, that I was reasonably proficient at it. I have a delicate mouth, full lips, and an agile tongue, with one or two little secret tongue moves that I had discovered that boys liked. Even so, I had never had to operate under such circumstances, with my whole future at stake, depending on how well I performed.

"Drop the towel, and undo my pants, girl," said Coach Lafitte, matter-of-factly.

I gasped at his request. Surely he could undo his own pants? And why did I need to take my towel off? It seemed to make sense that I get things over as quickly as possible, and secure Coach Lafitte's signature, so I untucked the towel, feeling the air cool upon my still moist body. Then I reached up and ran my hand over the large domed swelling at Coach Lafitte's crotch. It felt very hard indeed and as I squeezed I even felt it move slightly.

I slid down his zipper to find his manhood straining hard against the thin material of his underwear. I reached hesitantly inside the gap and felt my fingers close around his rod of flesh, warm and surprisingly thick. I released it from the confining garment and it practically sprang to attention in front of my eyes.

I cannot deny that it was an exciting spectacle - long, and black, with his scrotal sac dangling beneath. I already felt a little hot and bothered. My upbringing in England had been somewhat sheltered, and in fact I had never seen a black man's organ before. Desperately anxious to please him, I gently ran the tips of my fingers up and down the solid flesh, sliding his foreskin back to reveal more of his already glistening glans.

I felt a strange little shudder surge through me as I moistened my lips. It felt somehow right that I was here, down on my knees, wet and nude before this large black man, he looming over me, his hands on his hips, looking down on me, waiting for me to attempt to convince him to reapply for my visa. I opened my mouth widely and moved forward, placing my lips lightly around his member, pressing against his tip with my tongue.

I knew, even from my limited experience, that men liked this, and sure enough he gave a guttural moan of appreciation. His taste was saltier and somehow more manly than the few English guys that I had sucked. Doing it to them had felt more like a chore, a duty, but now I could feel myself going gooey inside, all my thoughts suddenly centred upon the task at hand..

I moved my hand to grip the upper part of his shaft. That way I would only have to suck the lower half of his manhood, and by using my hands on him, should cause him to climax faster.

"No hands, girl. Put them behind your back, and don't move them unless I say."

I obediently put my hands behind my back. Coach Lafitte was obviously a man who liked to be in control. I gazed up at him, feeling terribly submissive, as I began to suck and lick up and down his sleek male organ.

I felt amazingly helpless and incredibly vulnerable, kneeling nude on the floor, my hands behind my back, utterly at the mercy of this powerful man who could make or break my whole future as a cheerleader. I had never been used in such a controlling and demeaning manner before, and yet his abrupt command sent a quiver of pleasure coursing through me, and I could feel a warm wetness seeping into my sex.

I was shocked at my own reactions. Could it be true that deep down I craved a man who would dominate, a man who would tell me what he wanted me to do, and would demand that I do it?

I tried to persuade myself that I was not that sort of girl at all, and yet I was unable to prevent a stifled moan as I sucked him, and even felt a little of my love fluid seep out of me. I desperately hoped that he wouldn't be able to sense my arousal. Why was I feeling and behaving like this? I was a nice, well mannered English girl - the sort that wouldn't say boo to a goose - and yet here I was, kneeling before a large black American man, sucking and licking him as if there were no tomorrow, and getting thoroughly turned on by the whole episode.

He was even bigger in my mouth than I had expected. His glans alone seemed to fill me. Yet even after I had opened as wide as I had ever opened, he continued to press forward. More and more of his shaft rammed into my face and throat until I feared that I might gag. I felt the throbbing power of him as he began to thrust into me.

His pace was fast and demanding, and he gripped my mane of blonde hair, using it simply as a handle, a device to pull my head to and fro, demonstrating to me the pace that he required of me.

It was hard work, and painful on my neck, but I compliantly accelerated to the rhythm that he demanded, his male member deep now in the back of my throat. I looked up at him once more, and saw his eyes, hard and masterful, dark brown, staring back down at me.

I felt another surge of moisture and a thrilling shudder pervade my naked body. When previously performing in this manner, I had always been able to suck and lick at my own pace. The English boys that I had known had hardly dared to breathe whilst I serviced them, almost as if they were in fear of annoying me somehow. Coach Lafitte, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly what he wanted, and demanded simply that I supply it. And my whole future depended upon how well I pleased him!

I sucked eagerly, even devotedly, using my tongue and lips for all I was worth, concentrating on giving him as much pleasure as I possibly could. My head bobbing back and forth, my mouth gobbling and throat gurgling. My pert breasts jiggling fitfully with every vigorous jab of his thrusting, athletic hips.

There were electrifying tremors of excitement deep inside me now, perverse feelings of a kind that I had never felt before. Not being able to use my hands made my task more difficult, more onerous, yet somehow more exciting, more thrilling, more submissive, and even more appropriate, and I worked yearningly and sensuously, pleasuring him deep in my mouth and throat.

As I began to near breaking point, aghast at the possibility of finding myself climaxing whilst servicing him, I felt his huge manhood twitch and jerk, with the grunts coming from his throat suddenly turning louder and more urgent.

Then, to my joy and relief, he erupted - thick, viscous fluid pumping imperiously into the back of my begging throat. I struggled to take in his copious discharge, so warm and salty and masculine against my little lapping tongue.

"Swallow it, girl," he said, casually, "All of it."

I had never previously been given such a command. The English boys had always allowed me to spit out their ejaculate. Yet I was so desperate to please and obey this masterful man, that I tried frantically to swallow every drop of his male juice, looking up at him obediently from my knees as I did so, trying to show him my willingness to comply with his orders as I gulped it all down. Spurt after spurt flowed into me and despite my best efforts the warm fluid began leaking from the corners of my mouth, dribbling down my chin and onto the smooth white mounds of my bare breasts.

Coach Lafitte continued to pump his hips back and forth until every last drop of his semen had either disappeared down my throat, or was on my body. Only then did he release his iron grip of my blonde hair and ease his still twitching member from between my widely parted lips.

I remained where I was, kneeling before him, his semen running down me. I felt as if I could no longer as much as move without his express permission and I anxiously awaited his assessment of my performance. Had I done well enough that he would agree to sign my replacement visa application?

He took my blonde hair once more and, casually, as if my tresses were nothing more than a cloth or a rag, used them to wipe his member clean of my saliva and stray drops of his man juice.

It was such an offhand manner in which to use my prized locks, which mean more to me than anything, and I know that I should have been terribly horrified and offended about it, and yet I found it absolutely thrilling. My only regret and concern was that he hadn't paid any attention whatsoever to my own sex, now practically throbbing with desire, wet and hot, as if beseeching the penetration of a man.

My own desires seemed basically irrelevant to Coach Lafitte, as once he had completed wiping himself on my hair, he simply pulled up his zip.

"Well, Miss Pye," he said, "You certainly give very good head and most of the coaching staff agree that you're the hottest little number on the squad this year. Furthermore you can't even spell your own name correctly on an important form. From all of that I would say that you're definitely cheerleader material, wouldn't you?"

From my knees I looked down, blushing. Did this mean that he would sign?

"Sir, yes, Sir." I said meekly. I didn't know what else to say.

"Well, you can get up now and I'll sign your application."

I felt tears of gratitude prick my blue eyes. I picked up the discarded towel, rose to my feet, and wrapped it tightly around myself once more.

"Sir, thank you, Sir."

He scrawled a signature on a form. I saw my picture on it, and various of my details.

"I'll inform you when your new visa comes through. In the meantime, please bear in mind that you are technically here in America illegally. Do not attempt to leave the country. or have any dealings with the police or customs. You can't afford any more slip-ups - you are on your last chance now. Is that clear, Miss Pye?"

"Sir, yes, Sir. I promise i won't let you down, Sir," I had never been in any sort of trouble with the authorities, and certainly didn't expect to start now.

"See that you don't, girl. Don't bother closing the door on your way out, I am now leaving."

"Sir, Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir," I replied, and walked slowly back to the changing rooms, my mind in a whirl of conflicting emotions.

Behind me I heard him leave his office and walk away in the opposite direction to the staff car park.

I was practically on fire with desire.