This is a short story from a trip to America. Some of you might know which girl/family this relates to, but do try to keep it to yourself. As always, more TMI stories are available on Lilu’s blog!

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In essence, I got under the short skirt and into the itty-bitty panties of a cheerleader; a blonde-American baton-twirling pompom-smooshing cheerleader. She looked a lot like Hayden Panettiere — but this was before Heroes, so at the time I simply thought her beautiful and enthusiastic with a face-illuminating and crotch-tingling smile. Rarely does a night go by when I don’t think of her, and of how jealous other men must be of me. They can only fantasise about some of the things I’ve done to alluring, sweet-tasting girls. But I’ve been there. And in the case of this cutie, multiple times. I never thought I would be that guy, but now that it’s obvious what I’ve become, I suppose I ought to embrace it. But back to Heroes: I wouldn’t be surprised if Claire, the world-saving cheerleader, was based on this girl; perhaps the writer or producer had spied from the gridiron’s sidelines this girl in action. I would merely raise an eyebrow if in actuality it turned out Peter Petrelli was based on me. Or Sylar, as the case may be.

Anyway… where was I… ah yes, somewhere in middle America…

We’d done it with the lights out — she was young, shy — and then, later, with the lights on. Pink, luminous, fresh skin. She glowed.

Frontways, backways, sideways, she was insatiable! This was back when I was younger. I don’t know how I would keep up if I were to try again today. I hope to God that she was not my last cheerleader though.

Outside, against a tree, in just her short red skirt. The tree’s rough bark left markings on her back that later she made me kiss; I was only too happy to comply. I love soft skin.

The baton had been put to good use, each strike and every thrust only serving to make me feel more like the alpha male I must surely be. What more fitting title could be awarded to a man that has ravaged a beautiful cheerleader?

Finally, with her skirt tossed to the floor, the baton thrown into a corner and her naked and exhausted body curled up beside me, I looked at the only unsullied object that still lay unused on the bed.

Cheerleader pom-pon (pompom).

I gently ran my fingers through the soft strands of the pompom. Silky, cool to the touch.

I looked down; still hard.

Back my eyes strayed to the fluffy red poof.

Why not…

It’s not like she’ll ever know…

I grabbed both red puffs and did my worst. Up, over, under and down between.

It was surprisingly nice and one hell of a sensory overload. Rustle rustle, followed by frantic fluffle. Speeding up and eyes shut, I can’t even begin to repeat here what was on my mind that afternoon. But I had made too much noise! She started to stir… but it was too late to stop. I hoped if I was quick I might finish before she woke.

But I wasn’t fast enough and things very quickly got messy.

She sat up and quickly glanced at my euphoric face and then back down. She gasped and instinctively reached out to grab her beloved red pompom. But of course it was sticky. And of course she then flung it away into the corner of the room. And then of course, knowing my luck, there was the yelp… of a cat! Did I mention she had a cat? A long-haired cat with a sticky pompom now stuck to its face.

The cat ran out of the room and down the stairs with a wet, burbling hiss.

The longest pause followed, the cheerleader and I petrified with anticipation at what was surely about to occur.

A shriek! An angry ascent! A disgusting, twisted grin on my face as realisation dawns on me. Her mother steps through the doorway holding a very sticky cat out towards me.

‘Is this yours?’

The danger of knowing too much
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I am a tall, hairy, British writer who blogs about technology, photography, travel, and whatever else catches my eye.