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Madeline Hemming was one of Dr. Lowenstein's latest patients. She was an upperclasswoman, a junior, 20 years old, in her third year at Templeton College, and she had finally decided to do something about her problem; her secret problem. She lied down on the doctor's couch.
Dr. Lowenstein spent the initial part of their first session gathering basic history, and then asked why Madeline had come for treatment. The doctor had already read the intake forms that Madeline had completed, but it was always best to have the patient describe the problem for himself, or herself.
Madeline explained that she loved to play dress-up as a little girl. It was one of her favorite games. The princess costume was perhaps the one she liked the most. What girl doesn't like being a princess? But, she liked them all: prom queen, fairy, bride, angel, teen disco girl. Her Barbie costume was a close second to the princess costume. She really did like playing Barbie, as she could pretend that the real Barbie doll was her little sister and they would go out shopping together for, of course, new outfits. She really admired Barbie so much, as she had so many, many, many different outfits. There was her silver dress, her tangerine Oscar dress, her Barbie darling dress, her contest winner dress, her waltzing dress, her golden girl dress, her rose dress, her silver star dress, her shimmering gown dress, her sleek and dazzling dress, her belly dress, her sophisticated dress, her summer dress, her wonderful white dress, her falling leaves dress, her pink silk dress, and her designer evening gown dress. It just never seemed to end. She particularly liked Barbie's pink and pretty dress. She sometimes went to sleep dreaming that she could grow up to become a Barbie doll.
Well, it wasn't surprising that her interest in costumes continued into adulthood, albeit transformed. Being an adult provided another layer of complexity, or more accurately, pleasure, to her interest in costumes. It was like the child who loved puppies becoming a veterinarian. Well, it wasn't quite like that. For Madeline, the outfits now had a degree of sexual undertone to them. Actually, they had a substantial degree of overtone. Madeline really loved cosplay, dressing up in a costume that defined a specific role, and then going out in public and playing that role, seeing if you could get away with it, not get caught, as you pushed the limits of the role into some form of sexual indiscretion. One might even say that she was obsessed with it.
Madeline in fact chose Templeton College largely because everyone came to class wearing a costume. The college administration called it a uniform, but it was pretty close to her own school girl costume: white blouse, black tie, plaid skirt, white socks, black Mary Janes, and even white cotton panties. She thought the white cotton panties was a really dedicated, authentic touch, the sort of special detail that she gave to her own costumes. Nobody was supposed to see your panties, yet the administration saw fit to have each girl wear white cotton panties. She was impressed.
She thought now though of transferring. She had been attracted to Templeton in large part because the college seemed to embrace cosplay. But, it wasn't too long before she realized that it wasn't that much fun wearing the same darned costume day after day after day after day.
More importantly, her cosplay was becoming a bit of a risky problem in life. She explained why to Dr. Lowenstein.
"Doctor, this is all confidential, isn't it?"
"Oh yes, dear, very much so. I would only break confidentiality if someone was in imminent danger of injury or death."
It wasn't that Madeline found her admission to be particularly embarrassing. She wasn't at all ashamed about what she did. Her concerns were more immediate and practical. "So, like, um, if I admitted to breaking a law, or something, not that I would. I'm just askin' hypothetically like, you know. If I admitted to doing something illegal, you know, you wouldn't call the police?"
"I wouldn't. In fact, even if I wanted to do that, which I wouldn't, I would risk losing my license. You could get me into trouble."
That was reassuring. She did though still look around the room, as if there might in fact be someone there. Once fully reassured, she began her story.
Cosplay was not an easy fetish, or game, as Madeline preferred to describe it. First, it took a good amount of work and skill to create a good costume, as well as a few pennies. One wanted, of course, a costume that would be fun and sexy to wear, as well as to see. Madeline was more than willing to put in the work. She felt considerable pride in creating a good costume. She was an artist of fashion. The pennies (more like dollars) were a problem, but she would usually manage to scrape together the necessary bits and parts by scouring reclamation stores.
Cosplay also required a bit of acting skill, and a substantial amount of planning and preparation, as well as courage and daring. One could at times go in blind to a new site and target, particularly if one wanted to experience novel and idiosyncratic shifts in the game. But, this could also be rather reckless. Cosplay was inherently risky because there was always the danger of getting caught and exposed, and some cosplays would be considerably costly if the deception was discovered. Dressing up in costumes had been fun as a child, but the risk in going out into the world in costume contributed to its fun as an adult. All of this: the skills, the acting, the adventure, and the danger, was what made it so satisfying, so enriching.
Madeline first told the doctor of a cosplay involving one of the more traditional costumes: the cheerleader. She decided it was best to begin her story with a costume that wasn't really so bad or risky.
It is not difficult, of course, to obtain a cheerleading costume. Madeline though needed one that would pass as a Templeton cheerleader, and the college didn't simply offer these uniforms at the local bookstore. An official uniform had to be ordered through a licensed distributor that carefully screened all purchases for official authorization.
Madeline was eventually able to garner all of the necessary components from various sources, some of which were, let's just say, less than exactly sanctioned. It was, though, an indiscretion that she felt should be excusable. She wasn't planning on using her uniform for any destructive, harmful, or exploitative purposes. Well, that wasn't entirely true, depending upon how one understood the word, "exploitation." The risk, though, was part of the excitement, an integral part, going out into the world dressed in your costume, pretending to be someone you're not, enjoying the fruits of that role, and escaping detection. It was often really very exciting.
When leaving her apartment she would usually wear a large coat over her costume. A cheerleading costume would not arouse much suspicion among her neighbors, but she didn't want them to ask her about it, and she certainly didn't want them to eventually realize that she was leaving her apartment in various costumes. That would suspicion, and inquiry.
She drove to her location. Madeline had carefully investigated and scouted her site in advance. There was no physical or legal danger with this particular cosplay but there was appreciable risk with respect to her status as a Templeton student, and certainly with respect to her relationship with her parents. They would probably never understand her interest, her obsession, in cosplay.
Once she arrived at her destination she parked her car, removed her coat, and entered the Templeton Athletic Center.
The athletic center actually included only a few locations for athletic activities. There were a few handball courts, a work-out room, and an undersized basketball court. It was primarily a set of offices for various coaches, managers, staff, and assistants. Madeline attracted little attention as she wandered through the halls in her Templeton cheerleading uniform, other than the usual "smiles" from men who appreciated her school spirit, and striking figure. Cheerleaders were one of the few students allowed to wear something other than the Templeton uniform on campus. It was an exception that nobody protested, particularly the male faculty.
Madeline filled out a cheerleading uniform extremely well. She was a rather petite girl, always a plus for a cheerleader who needs to be tossed high into the air. But, she was disproportionately large "on top;" in fact, very much so, which was another very nice attribute for a cheerleader, so she felt. At least, she certainly filled out well her white sweater with the school nickname, "PURITANS," blazoned across her chest in large red lettering. The letters stretched and curved across her thrusting breasts, as the sweater was filled beyond capacity.
The particular risk at this moment was coming across an actual cheerleader, or someone who knew the squad. She was not, though, too worried. She had conducted a few trial runs, and not once had she come across a cheerleader on this side of the athletic center. In fact, a number of persons greeted her with smiles. She would wave back with one of her red pompoms, give them a big large smile, along with a very cheery greeting. Her heart though was racing at the thought of getting caught. She felt like she was some sort of spy, working undercover, infiltrating an enemy organization. She so much enjoyed cosplay.
It did not take long for her to get to her final destination, the office of Jackson Jones or, he preferred, Jack. She knocked on the door.
"Yes, come in."
She took a deep breath and began her play.
She opened his office door part way and peeked around. "Mr. Jones?"
"Yes?" Jack replied. Jackson Jones was a junior assistant to the football coach. He was in charge of securing tapes of the games of opposing teams, and then editing them to highlight particular plays and players. It was pretty important work, although at times tedious.
The pretty girl peeking around his door asked, "Do you have a moment for me, sir?"
He really didn't. Well, actually, he did. Nobody is really that busy at Templeton. It wasn't like they were at Longwood. But the Coach did want an edited tape of Longwood's last game. Templeton had not been able to beat Longwood for sometime now, and rumor had it that the Coach would be looking for a job if he couldn't beat them at least once. Still, it wasn't like Jackson was on the verge of discovering the cure for cancer. He could free up a minute or two for a student. And, besides, this one was rather pretty. She had long dark hair, very large, twinkling brown eyes, and an engagingly cheerful smile. He could use a break from the drudgery of reviewing and editing tapes, and a brief moment with a pretty undergraduate never did hurt. "Sure, sure, come on in."
"You're so cool, Mr. Jones," she gleefully and gratefully replied, and pranced into his office.
As soon as she entered, Mr. Jones was glad that he had decided to see her, as she was a sight to see indeed. She was a cheerleader, and a very enticing one at that. She was a pretty little minx, and one with such large tits that quite noticeably jiggled as she almost leaped into his office. Cheerleaders were known for being amazingly exuberant, energetic, and enthusiastic, and this one was certainly no exception. All of the teeth showed with her smile, and her breasts just seemed to be bounce and bobble with enthusiasm, like they were wiggling with excitement.
She went right up to him, shifted the pompoms and her purse into her left hand, and held out her right. "Mr. Jones! Hello! I'm Diane, Diane Weston."
They shook hands. Her eyes were firmly fixed on his. His were trying hard not to look down at what was wiggling beneath her eyes.
"I'm so grateful for this opportunity! I know how busy you are and everything, like I don't want to bother you or nothing, it's just that I really, really, really need to talk to you and everything, and so, well, I just had to come over, and so, well, here I am!"
He had no idea what a cheerleader could possibly want to talk to him about. He had nothing to do with the cheerleaders, regrettably so. "Yes, well, it's nice of you to stop by, naturally, but I'm not sure what it is you want, of me."
"Oh yes! Of course! How silly, how just so stupid of me." She shifted one of the pom poms back to her right hand. "I'm such a ditz! I'm so, so sorry. Yes, how would you know? Let me explain."
It wasn't like he was trying to stop her from explaining. He waved his hand for her to get on with it.
She laid down her pompoms and explained her predicament, all the while fixing and fussing with her hair, pulling her long brown strands back over one ear, as she tilted and turned her head, giving him different looks, different poses, all of which seemed a bit flirtatious. It was like she just couldn't get her hair in the precise way she wanted it, due in large part to her continuously tilting and tipping her head, causing her hair to again fall back over her face. He wondered if all this self-conscious energy was nervousness or just a way to draw attention to her hair, her face, her eyes, her prettiness. "Oh yes, yes, thank you. Well, you see, sir. I'm not actually a cheerleader. I mean, I was in high school, but not here, not yet."
Well, she sure looked like a Templeton cheerleader. She was wearing a Templeton cheerleader sweater, and the traditional pleated skirt, with the red and white alternating stripes, white socks, and white tennis shoes.
"I know I look like one. Don't you think I look good?" She dropped her purse, picked up the pompoms and gave him a little pose, holding the pompoms high above her head, and thrusting out her chest.
Did cheerleaders really know how sexy they looked? Of course they must. But, it was a bit of a loaded question. She did look extremely nice. He just didn't want to explain why. He nodded his head.
"Don't you think I would make a good cheerleader? I think so. I mean, I would look really good as one, don't you think?"
"Yes, yes, I do." He was a bit confused. If she was not a cheerleader, what was she doing in a cheerleading uniform?
She smiled broadly, like she was so, so glad, so relieved, to hear him say that. "Oh, I think so too! Everyone says I have good milkshake. I knew it was the right thing to come to you."
He still didn't understand, and he certainly had no idea what she meant by 'milkshake,' but he couldn't help but wonder if she was referring to her big tits. What could he possibly offer this girl? "Yes, well, um, what can I do for you?"
"Oh Mr. Jones! Don't be so silly. You know," she asserted.
He certainly did not know, that was why he was asking her.
"I'm trying out for the squad, and I just wanted to come, like, and talk to you about it, you know." She said, more quietly, "Personally, and everything."
"Um, yea, okay," he replied. He was of course quite willing to talk to students about their concerns and problems, but only the football players actually ever did approach him. He did wonder, though, what she meant by "personally?"
"I'll be happy to talk to you." Even if she made no sense, he would have to enjoy talking to a cheerleader, particularly one with breasts as big, beautiful and bouncy as these. It wasn't right, of course, to give preferential time and treatment to students simply because they were pretty girls with large boobs, but you couldn't deny the pleasure of their company. And it wasn't like he was setting a precedent he couldn't subsequently follow. He'd be happy to help any cheerleader.
"Cool! You see, Mr. Jones, I really, really, really want to be a cheerleader and I thought that it wouldn't hurt if I talk to you about it, and like maybe you could put in a good word for me, or something, you know."
Now he understood. She apparently thought that because he was affiliated with the football team he might have some connections with the cheerleader squad. He wasn't really sure why she would make such a connection, and he seriously doubted that any good word from him would be at all helpful. Heck, he didn't even know to whom he should speak. He could find out, but even if he did, why would they care what he had to say? He was an assistant coach, with no actual authority or influence over anyone, even the football players. His authority went no further than obtaining and editing game tapes.
"I mean, like, you're in the football program, and everything. They'll listen to you."
"Well, I don't really know about that."
"Don't be so modest, sir," Madeline replied, stepping up even closer to him and resting a petite, soft, feminine hand on his shoulder, her breasts towering before his eyes. "You're a coach on the football team. They'll have to listen to you."
He wondered if he should disavow her of this misunderstanding, but how often does an attractive girl, and one with big tits, tell you how big and important you are. It was nice to finally have someone think he was consequential, significant, a man with important connections. He just shrugged.
"For sure, Mr. Jones. Here, let me show you." Madeline stepped back to demonstrate her cheerleading skills.
She dropped her pompoms and said, "Clap your hands!" She clapped three times.
"Stomp your feet!" She stopped her left, her right, and then her left foot again. It wasn't much of a cheer, but those breasts were really bouncing around under her sweater. He seriously questioned whether she was even wearing a brassiere. But, how could you have breasts that large and not wear a brassiere?
She picked up the pompoms and alternately thrust out each one, at each syllable, saying, "Puritans can't be beat!"
Her bounding bouncing breasts bobbled around, kind of following the lead of the pompoms, but adding their own fascinating twists, wobbles, and wiggles, like they had a life of their own. His dick twitched instinctively.
She yelled while dropping down on one knee. "Go red, go white!" There was again more bouncing and bobbling. Jack had to wonder if the cheer was designed to bring her breasts expressively into the routine, highlighting their importance, generating fan spirit.
She added, shifting to the other knee, "Come on team you can do it!"
She leaped back up onto her feet and then went down into splits, her breasts bobbling mightily, "Just put some power to it!"
And, while throwing both hands up in the air, she finished, "Goooooooo Puritans!"
She paused, smiling broadly, her arms still outstretched, her breasts floundering around and then slowly jiggling back into position. She asked, "What do you think? Awesome?"
Actually, he wasn't terribly impressed. Well, that's not true. He was very much impressed with her breasts, and she was certainly very pretty. But, it wasn't a particularly impressive cheer, although he wasn't too sure that any cheer was necessarily that impressive. "Yea, that was good, Diane. It was real good. I think you'd be a real good cheerleader."
His tone lacked any obvious enthusiasm.
"It wasn't very good, was it." She dropped her hands down, although remained in her splits.
"No, no, it was fine. It was good."
"It's because I have brown hair, isn't it," she said, shifting the pompoms into one hand while she self-consciously fingered her long strands, curling them around and around a finger.
"What? No! Not at all!" He was sincere about that. He hadn't thought about the color of her hair at all. Although, now that she brought it up, he did wonder if she would be even prettier if she was a blonde. Blondes do make good cheerleaders.
She got back up on her feet, feeling a little deflated. "Head cheerleaders are always blonde."
"That's not true. Is it?"
She started counting them off on her fingers. "She was blonde in 'Bring it On,' 'Super and Spice,' 'But I'm a Cheerleader,' 'Cheerleader Beach Party,' 'Splitz,' 'Revenge of the Cheerleaders,' 'The Swinging Cheerleaders,' 'Cheer!'"
"Okay, okay." He was willing to concede the point. "But, aren't there always cheerleaders with brown hair?"
"Yea, tokens. Affirmative action quotas."
"I seriously doubt that."
"Do you think so? I mean, do you really think I'd have a chance?"
"Absolutely, definitely. You look very good, honest."
She took a deep breath, her breasts filling up like balloons, standing even higher on her chest. She let the air out in a big sigh, an exasperated sigh. However, one could hardly say that her balloons actually deflated.
"I don't know. I've tried so hard. I've practiced so hard. I even bought a uniform and everything."
"Well, c'mon, cheer up," a rather ironic remark, he felt. "I mean, have you even tried out yet?"
She looked dejectedly down at her feet. He wondered if she could even see them past those breasts. One foot traced little circles with her toes. She wrung her hands. She dejectedly confessed, "Yea, last year. I didn't make the cut."
"Oh," he said softly. "I'm sorry."
"Yea, so was I."
There was a moment of awkward silence. He didn't really know what to say. "Well, you know, not everyone can be a cheerleader. I mean, is it really that important?"
She raised her head, her eyes widened in shock. "Oh, Mr. Jones! How could you say such a thing? Cheerleading is everything, and it can really make a big difference. Lots of famous people were cheerleaders, you know. It's not like we're all just a bunch of bimbos or anything. Cheerleading can be the first step to a real big career!" She started to count them off on her fingers. "Ann Margaret, Paula Abdul, Jessica Simpson, Marilyn Chambers, Kirstie Alley, Patty Hearst, Natalie Maines, Lindsay Lohan, Brooke Shields, Ann Margaret, Calista Flockhart, Madonna, Sally Struthers, Cheryl Ladd, Britney Spears, Alicia Silverstone, Raquel Welch, Vanna White."
She wasn't actually making a strong argument for the absence of 'bimboism.'
"Sandra Bullock, Lily Tomlin, Halle Berry, Cameron Diaz, Katie Couric."
Well, now the list was becoming more impressive.
"Jamie Lee Curtis, Cybill Shepherd, Meryl Streep, Ruth Bader Ginsburg!"
"Yea, that one is kinda surprising, even to me."
Mr. Jones really didn't know what to say or do. It was indeed a striking list, but he really didn't think there was anything he could do to help her, or to say, other than that she should just keep trying. Heck, that was the mantra of the Templeton football team, and it didn't seem to be doing them any good.
She looked back down to her feet and said, quite softly, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor, "You know, Mr. Jones, I will do just about anything to be a cheerleader."
"Excuse me?" He wasn't at all sure he understood her correctly, but his dick twitched again at the potential implication.
She moved up closer to him again, standing right before him, her eyes now looking directly into his.
He looked up into her eyes, which shined so sweetly and innocently above those jutting twin towers.
"I want to be a cheerleader so terribly bad. Really, I will do anything, anything at all." She bit her lower lip, as if she was terribly nervous about what she was saying.
Yes, he had heard her correctly but, tempting as it was, he certainly did not want to mislead the young lady. "No, no, no. I don't have anything to do with the cheerleading squad. In fact, really, I don't think I could be of any help."
"Now you're just saying that, aren't you, Mr. Jones, cause you don't want to disappoint me, cause you don't want to put in a good word for me. You really don't think I could be a good cheerleader."
"No, no really, I swear. I don't even know who to talk to about it."
"You can be honest with me, Mr. Jones. I will understand if you feel like I'm not good enough." She looked away from him to ask the next question. "Mr. Jones, can I ask you a most terrible secret question?"
That didn't sound good. He felt though that he could hardly refuse to answer a question. "Yea, okay," he said, hesitantly.
"Um, well, it's not an easy question to ask."
He really didn't want her to ask this question. "That's okay."
"Well, okay, but you have to look away. I don't want you looking at me when I ask."
What could she possibly ask that would be so embarrassing? Was she about to confess to some sort of crime? "Okay, sure," he replied, and swivelled his desk chair away from her.
"You're not looking?"
He absolutely was not. "No, no, I promise."
"Well, okay, okay. And, um, don't laugh."
Now he in fact did want to hear the question, although he wasn't too sure he would want to answer it. "I promise. I won't."
"Okay. Okay. Okay, my question is, well, um, Mr. Jones."
He was feeling like he was tingling in anticipation. Just spit it out already!
"Yes, well, alright. Mr. Jones, do you think my breasts are too big?"
His eyes widened. Thank goodness he wasn't looking at her, as his shock and discomfort would be so apparent in his eyes. "Excuse me?"
"I mean, I do like them and everything, but do you think they're too big, you know, for cheerleading?"
Actually, now that she mentioned it he did wonder about that. They did fly around a lot when she was doing her cheer. Perhaps her boobs would be a problem, at least for parents watching the game. But, he had appreciated, at a certain level, the way they had bounced, wiggled, and waggled. Still, how do you tell a girl that? And, besides, he didn't really know. Her breasts were really, really big, but it wasn't like they were ridiculously humongous or anything. "No, no, I don't think they are."
"Well, I guess you actually can't tell if you aren't looking at them, can you."
He didn't say anything, but it was a very good point.
"Well, okay then. You can turn around."
He swivelled his chair back around, to face her, to face her breasts, to which his eyes immediately went.
Madeline was thrusting her chest out to give him a good look. They were big. They were so very big, perhaps looking especially big because she was such a diminutive, petite girl in every respect other than her breasts. No, these breasts would look big on any woman. But, could they really be too big? Was there a regulation for cheerleader boob size? Wouldn't you predict that cheerleaders' breasts are larger than the average breasts? Where would you look that up though? Wikipedia wouldn't have that information, would it? In any case, Diane's would draw some attention, but isn't that all part of the purpose of cheerleading? Aren't cheerleaders supposed to draw attention, to be pleasing to the eye, and his eyes were really very pleased by these.
"You don't have to stare at them, Mr. Jones!"
"I'm sorry," he replied and looked somewhere else, anywhere else, but they did seem to stay in his line of vision. It was like the proverbial elephant in the room, but this time there were two of them. You really couldn't ignore them, especially now that they were the point of conversation. He was confused. She wanted him to look at them, but doing so seemed so offensive, so insensitive, so wrong.
"Here, let me give you a better look," she said, and began to pull her sweater up.
"What? Wait! Wait! What are you doing?" This wasn't right, was it? His heart began to race, for a number of reasons, not all of which were good.
She didn't slow one bit, replying as her taught white tummy came into view, "You really can't tell through the sweater."
"Girl! Diane! No, no, wait, someone might come in."
But, she didn't listen. She leaned forward, the sweater pulling up past her breasts, which flopped out like two humongous mammaries, hanging, swinging, begging to be milked.
Jack reveled in the realization, the concrete revelation, that the girl wasn't wearing a bra. Naked breasts were always a delightful sight, no matter their position, their posture. But, there was something uniquely appealing when they were hanging down, like udders. They filled up so wonderfully well, like water balloons stretching and straining, as if these jugs of milk actually needed any accentuation in size.
Madeline pulled the sweater up past her face, but it got caught there. "Darn it!" She pulled, wiggled, and struggled to get it over her head, her breasts all the while joggling, waggling, and bobbling in the open air.
Jack's cocked swelled with appreciation, and with her face covered he took the opportunity to grasp his cock through his slacks, not only to provide a much desired squeeze to his rapidly growing erection, but also to shift the position of his dick so that it could comfortably expand and grow within his boxers. He wondered, briefly, if he should offer to steady her by grabbing hold of those bulbous bobbling boobs. At the same time, he glanced nervously at the door, beads of perspiration quickly forming on his brow as his eyes tried to watch the door as they also continued to enjoy the more pleasing view of those swinging, jostling, wiggling mammaries.
Madeline abandoned her effort to get the sweater off and stretched her arms straight out from her body. "Here, help me Mr. Jones, pull it off, pull it off my arms."
"I really don't think."
She interrupted him. "Hurry, I'm smothering in here!"
He was really very uncertain as to the appropriateness of this. Actually, he was quite certain as to the inappropriateness, but it would not be good school spirit to deny the request of a cheerleader. Would it? He did as she asked, grabbing hold of the arms of her sweater and pulling it off her body.
She exclaimed, "Wait, wait!" as soon as he had the sweater off her body.
She must be having second thoughts. Thank goodness for that, although he had to admit a part of him was disappointed. What would be wrong with just a little quick peek?
"Don't look! Wait, don't look!"
He again swivelled his chair around and handed the sweater back to her, without turning his head. A moment of panic swept through him as he wondered if in fact she might now be upset, realizing what she was about to do, about to do for him so that she could be a cheerleader. Thank goodness this had ended before it had in fact gotten out of hand.
But, she didn't take it. "My hair is all messed up. Just me let me fix it first." She did have real nice hair, long and wavy, even it wasn't blonde. If she was going to show Mr. Jones her breasts she should at least look her best. "Don't you have a mirror or something in here?"
She didn't in fact have a change of heart. On the contrary, she was only worried about here hair? "Uh, no, no, I'm sorry, no mirror."
"Wait, there's one in my purse." She picked up and fumbled around in her purse, extracting her compact. She smiled to herself as she fixed her hair, standing topless in Mr. Jones' office. It didn't take her long to get her hair the way she wanted it, but she let him wait a bit longer. She wanted his anticipation to build. She knew how much guys were dying to get the first look, the first time they get to see her naked breasts. Her heart was beating in anticipation.
"Okay," she said softly. "You can turn around now."
He did so quickly, her sweater still resting on his lap, which was fortunate, as his cock quickly reached maximum erection at the sight that greeted him.
"Diane" was standing before him, sweaterless and braless. It wasn't clear if she really needed a bra. Her breasts were indeed quite large but they were standing up very well. Madeline though was cheating. Her arms were crossed beneath her breasts. She was thereby holding them up, as well as pushing them together, providing a very nice round full shape and deep cleavage. He did not, though, begrudge her this gesture, as her crossed arms held and framed her breasts so wonderfully well. They were standing up so proudly from her chest, above the two more colorful pompoms, each one hanging just below its respective mate, complementing with colorful red and white strands the pure white hillocks capped by the perky red nipples. He was transfixed, mesmerized, hypnotized by these large white sloping globes with such stiff, pointy nipples that seemed to be begging, yearning, to be kissed, pinched, and suckled.
She admonished him, "You're staring again!" But that was Diane speaking, not Madeline. Madeline was quite flattered by his ogling gaze.
They were so white, so large, so round. He had seen breasts like this only in magazines, in pictures, not in real life. These were the breasts of one's imagination, of one's dreams, of one's lust. He slipped a hand beneath her sweater, squeezing the swollen cock in his lap.
"You don't think they're too large?"
"No, no, not at all."
"You're not just saying that?"
"No, no, not at all." He was feeling a bit limited in his speech. He was really quite impressed, if not stunned.
She smiled appreciatively. "You're so sweet, Mr. Jones."
He didn't feel particularly sweet. He did feel pretty hard. He knew what image he would be jerking off to that evening.
"They do though wiggle a lot when I cheer. Would you like to see another one, another cheer?"
"Very much so," he replied, feeling a little guilty but even more excited.
She smiled, knowingly.
She slowly uncrossed her arms, releasing her breasts from their perch. They fell a bit. They were, after all, real, and really big. But, they did not fall far. They were large, but they still had the firmness of her youth. Mr. Jones rubbed and squeezed his cock beneath her sweater. He was feeling so jealous of younger men.
Madeline did her cheer, but this time with considerably more aplomb and enthusiasm. The pompoms thrust up and out, the legs bent and kicked, and the hips cocked and swung, as she exclaimed rhythmically,
"We're hot! You're not! We'll beat you till you pop!"
A cheerleader can look incredibly hot and sexy when she prances and poses for your entertainment, for your pleasure, but there is a qualitative leap in pleasure when she does so with her naked boobs flouncing and bouncing around, and particularly with ones as big as these.
"We're mean! We're lean! We're a fighting machine!"
She's right, he thought, she really needs to be on the team. Her tits though were always one turn, one twist, one bounce behind the rest of the movements of her body, and they would delightfully overcompensate as they tried to catch up, flying and bouncing and jiggling in all sorts of different directions. He had to wonder if they were throwing her off balance, like bags of water would do hanging from a ballerina.
She provided a big ending. "We're mighty!" She squealed as she thrust her arms out straight. "We're tough!" She added as she posed with her arms bent at the elbow, clenching her muscles. "You're just a powder puff!" She finished, as she pointed her finger at Mr. Jones.
She smiled proudly when she was done, her fists at her waist, holding her red pompoms, her big white pompoms standing out boldly before her. "What do you think, Mr. Jones? Did you like it?"
This time Mr. Jones was smiling quite enthusiastically. He so much wanted to grasp those bubbly breasts in his hands. "Yes, it was really quite nice, very good in fact."
"Oh Mr. Jones!" She exclaimed with considerable relief and gratitude. She impulsively stepped up to him, bent over, and wrapped her hands around his shoulders to give him a big hug, embracing, absorbing, his face into her soft, warm, squishy melons. "I'm so glad, I'm so glad!"
"Mmmmph!" He responded, his voice muffled by her engulfing pillows. He often wondered if girls realized how sensual, how erotic, it felt when they would innocently embrace you, crushing their breasts against your arm, or your chest, at times even your face. Well, this didn't feel so innocent, not with his face crushed against her bare, naked bulbous breasts.
She suddenly seemed to realize what she was doing, how provocative and inappropriate it was. She let go of him and pulled back. "Oh, sorry, excuse me, Mr. Jones. I kinda just lost my head there. But, I was just so excited that you liked it! I've practiced real hard at it." She gleefully clapped her hands, briefly hopping up and down with delight, her boobs seeming to shimmer and shake with equal enthusiasm and joy.
"That's fine, it's fine." Mr. Jones was regaining his sanity. He had indulged this young lady, and himself, for a little while, but he now realized that it really should end before it went too far. He handed over her sweater. "Here, you better put this on before someone opens the door. I don't really think anyone will understand why a pretty undergraduate has her top off in my office."
Once he was uncovered though, his real interest, his real sentiment, was revealed.
"Golly, Mr. Jones," Madeline said, her eyes fixed on the bulge in his slacks, "I guess you really did like my cheer, didn't you."
He looked down to see the guilty evidence and quickly covered himself up. "My gosh, I'm sorry! Yes, well, yes, I am so sorry. I shouldn't have let that happen."
"That's okay, Mr. Jones, lots of guys must get woodies watching a cheerleader. I don't mind."
"Yes, well, this is hardly the time and place for that, don't you think?"
"Well, then, will you maybe, you know, put in a good word for me?" She got down on her knees before him, now looking up at him with those large, pretty, brown eyes. He could not help but think of a puppy, looking up so pleadingly, so submissively, so plaintively, begging for some attention, some consideration, some petting. He could never refuse that look in a sweet, adorable puppy. How could he refuse this young girl? Perhaps he should at least give her a few pets. Of course, though, once you start petting a puppy, she just wants even more.
Puppies, though, don't wait patiently for your attention. If they don't get it right away they press harder, and Madeline did just that. She got up higher on her knees and placed her hands imploringly on his thighs, like a pup more assertively encroaching ever more closely into his private space.
But, what was perhaps more disconcerting than her hands were her naked breasts, which were now resting on his knees. It would appear to be more comfortable for her that way. They were probably providing quite a bit of encumbering weight. But did she not notice, how could she not notice, how her breasts were now so prominently presented? Each was perched on a knee, as if the puppy was laying in his lap toys with which to play, boy toys waiting to be wrestled and squeezed.
She said very quietly, as if she didn't want anyone else to hear. "You know, Mr. Jones, cheerleaders know how to make guys really, really happy."
He suspected that might in fact be true. Of course, it wasn't like they selected cheerleaders on that basis, did they? But he really, really couldn't, shouldn't take advantage of her like this. Even if he did have some influence over the cheerleading selection he shouldn't use her in that way, and given that he didn't have any actual impact, it was even more wrong. But, once one has a full erection, once one feels the blood engorging one's cock, it's so hard, and it's so hard to think clearly.
She pushed apart his knees and maneuvered herself up closer, in between his legs, his thighs, bringing those breasts marching up closer and closer to him, to his crotch, to his bulging stiff dick.
"Diane, no, um, listen, girl, I don't think."
"Shhhhhhhh," she quietly shushed him. "Let me do the thinking."
For some reason, that did not seem like terribly great advice, although he really shouldn't stereotype a cheerleader in that way. "No, listen, I really should tell you that I honestly don't think I can actually help you."
By now Madeline had slid her breasts all the way up his lap. Her big, warm, luscious soft pillows were now comfortably resting on his crotch, or more precisely, on his dick. He shifted his hands back away from himself, and from her, throwing them back behind himself, trying desperately to avoid any inappropriate contact with those youthful breasts, while at the same time experiencing a much more inappropriate contact with his thrusting dick.
Madeline wrapped her hands around his waist and pressed her breasts deep into his crotch, smiling at the feel of his stiffness as she said, "Now, we've been all through that, Mr. Jones. I know who you are and what you can do. I think you could make me very, very happy too."
She softly ground her naked boobs into his lap, into his stiff dick, all the while smiling up at him. She said seductively, "Big boobies are good for some things, aren't they, Mr. Jones."
Madeline smiled triumphantly. She so much enjoyed the power of the cheerleader. She had him wrapped around her finger, or more precisely her breasts were literally wrapped around his erect cock, and she gave him a little squeeze to accentuate the point.
Keeping her twinkling eyes fixed on his, she let go of her boobs and burrowed her hands beneath them, searching around for a treasure hidden beneath the big bubbies.
Jackson lurched in his seat as he felt her fingers moving along his crotch. "Diane, what are you doing?"
She replied innocently, "I was just looking for something." She let her fingers briefly slide along his stiffness, and then shifted to the left of his bulge, grasping hold of his zipper and quickly sliding it down.
"No, no, no!" He protested, "No, Diane, please, you really shouldn't do that. You, we, really can't."
His body though contradicted his words. He could have forcefully shoved her away. He could have reached down to pull his zipper back up. But, he did not. He only said what a part of him felt, and instead did what the other part felt even stronger. He let her reach into his pants, into his boxers.
But as soon as her fingers made contact with his erection he squirmed away. This really wasn't right at all. This was in fact very, very dangerous. Yes, she was the active participant. It wasn't like he was demanding, requiring, that she show him her tits and grab hold of his cock in order to become a cheerleader. But, what if she found out that he really couldn't help her? What if she in fact failed to become a cheerleader? She would likely be awfully disappointed, and might feel terribly exploited. He let go of the chair to grab her arms, to try to discourage her from grasping hold of her goal.
"Oh my gosh," he gasped as he felt her feminine fingers wrap around his cock and firmly extract it from his slacks.
Madeline smiled in triumph. "Cheerleaders are really very good at many different things, Mr. Jones, and one of them is getting big hard penises out of tight spots." She smiled mischievously up at him as she softly slid her fingers up and down his length. "We can get them into some pretty tight spots too."
Perhaps it was the concrete sight of his hard naked cock in the young lady's hand, poking out from in between her bulbous breasts, that jolted him fully back to his senses. In any case, his sense of responsibility, of duty, finally took control. Just as she wanted to be a cheerleader he wanted someday to be a coach, perhaps even more than she desired, or needed, to reach her goal. And, getting caught in his office with his cock in the hand of a topless coed would surely ruin his entire career. "Diane, that's really enough," he asserted, and he pulled her hands away, something he could have, should have done, before.
Her voice became softer, more sultry. "Have you ever done it with a cheerleader, Mr. Jones?"
He actually hadn't. For a moment he wondered how many men had done it with a cheerleader. Maybe that was in Wikipedia? Probably not many at all, at least proportionally to all men, and many more probably would have wanted to, or at least they must have thought about it. He shook his head.
"Have you ever wanted to?" She leaned over and planted a soft wet kiss on the head of his hard dick.
Yes, he had certainly wanted to. The wavering of his resolve, the weakness in his will, was evident in the nervousness of his response, his voice, and the swelling of his exposed cock. "Well, yes, certainly, I would think men have probably thought about it, but that's not really the point."
He gasped as he felt her tongue lick the head of his dick. "Oh, Diane, please," he groaned, not entirely sure whether he was pleading for her to stop or to continue.
She assumed it was the latter and continued to lick and lap at the head of his cock, like it was a sweet, tasty treat, and for Madeline it was indeed. She so much enjoyed licking a man's cock. A hard stiff cock was so very impressive: so manly, so powerful, yet capped by such a delicious soft bulb.
She even enjoyed their smell. It was a sort of earthy, musky aroma, like a rustic, woodsman, masculine cologne.
She did though stop to ask a very important question. "You won't tell anyone we did this, will you Mr. Jones?"
He shook his head. Frankly, she was clearly holding the upper hand, quite literally so.
"It's very important, you know, for a cheerleader to keep her reputation. If she were to do anything that might embarrass the school she would be off the squad for sure."
"Oh, I understand. I certainly do." He wasn't about to tell anyone anything about this.
"And, you will put a good word in for me, won't you?"
He finally gave in. He just couldn't have her stop now. "Yes, yes, I will, very much so." A part of him felt guilty, but it's difficult for guilt to drive your behavior when your stiff dick is leading the way, being tempted, pulled, and drawn by the tongue of a pretty cheerleader.
She smiled broadly, as if she had finally obtained her dream. "Oh Mr. Jones! I'm so grateful, so happy. A man as big as you, you know, must be terribly powerful and influential. After all, didn't Abraham Lincoln say, 'Speak softly and carry a big stick?'"
He didn't correct her. After all, it wasn't like he was her history professor.
She let go of his cock, got up off the floor, and turned her back to him.
What was she doing?
He didn't have long to find out. She bent over, thrusting her bottom back toward him and lifted up her skirt, presenting to him the soft round curves of her red pantied butt.
"Would you be so kind sir as to pull down my panties, Mr. Jones?"
Did she lock the door? Clearly she hadn't. He wondered if he should at least do that, but he really didn't want to interrupt her. What if by doing so she became self-conscious, aware of what she was doing, aware of how wrong it was? He reached out, grasped hold of the waistband of her panties, and pulled them down, opening up to his eyes the terribly delightful sight of a young lady's naked white tush. It looked so defenseless, so enticing, so tempting, poking back at him as if she wanted him to take a big bite out of that round white apple, split down the middle so that he could spread it open and enjoy the fruit hidden inside, and beneath this delicious fruit was an even better desert, the small, soft, white pie of her cunnie, poking out between her thighs, just asking, begging, to be fucked.
He pulled her panties all the way down to her ankles, Madeline being careful to let her bottom accidentally bump his face a few times as he clumsily extracted her ankles from her cheerleading panties.
Jackson's cock was now yearning to be satisfied, his balls aching for release. He started to get up, wanting to take her just like this, bent over in his office, her cheerleading skirt tossed over her back, her bottom submissively upraised for his pleasure, his mounting.
But, as he started to get up she turned around, pushed him back down, and straddled his legs, presenting right before his eyes a so provocatively sexy frontal view of her young luscious cunt.
She was hairless. He had never actually seen such a thing. He had heard girls doing this for the pleasure of a boy. College girls today were doing so many things now that were just unheard of when he was a student, even though he would argue that it really hadn't been that long ago for him, or at least he felt that way. He wasn't so sure though that she had shaved for the pleasure of a boy, or a man. She could be doing it as a cheerleader. You certainly wouldn't want any stray hairs slipping out during a routine, nor perhaps would you want the outlines of hairs to be evident through the tight panties. Of course, she then risked the clear sight of a camel toe but that would be rather innocent, wouldn't it? It certainly looked rather innocent now: so virtuous, so virginal, just a naked white, hairless slope, split by an enticing slit. Well, maybe it wasn't so innocent looking.
Madeline sat back down into his lap and slid her slit up against his hard dick.
Jackson groaned with delight at the feel of her warm, soft, wet slit pressing against his hard, stiff dick. Yes, hairless was very nice, visually and tactually.
Madeline wrapped her arms around him, pressed her naked breasts against him, and said, "You know, I should warn you, Mr. Jones, that I haven't been with a lot of guys since I'm not a college cheerleader, not yet. I'm still awfully tight, you know. I just think you should know that."
He felt like cumming right then. It took considerable concentration to restrain himself.
She slowly slid her slippery slit up and down his stiffness, and whispered into his ear, "Can I do another cheer for you, Mr. Jones?"
He closed his eyes and responded, equally softly, "Yea, yea, sure," although there was something now much more that he wanted than simply a cheer. He wanted her cunt.
Madeline smiled and whispered, "I slip. I slide. On the coach's cock." She matched her actions to her words.
"I jiggle. I wiggle. His thingie makes me tingle," she added, as she wiggled her bobbling huge jugs against his face and then, as she thrust her pussy lips against his dick,
"I hump. I pump. I want him all inside." She was now gyrating her naked wet cunt against his dick.
"He's hard. He's stiff. His thingie makes me drip."
She rose up higher and positioned her cunnie slit atop the round head of his cock, and then slowly, sensually, softly, screwed it down onto his dick, gently twisting her bottom round and round as she fitted his thick cock into her hot, wet, tight cunt.
"I'm hot. I'm wet. I need his cock so much."
She drove her cunt up and down his cock, the room filling with the sound of her slurping, sliding slit slopping against him.
Madeline was riding his cock fast to her climax. She always came more quickly, more intensely, more wonderfully, in cosplay.
She gasped, "His stick, so hard, so long and so thick."
Jack wasn't far behind her. After all, it wasn't too often that a pretty coed cheerleader with giant tits was riding up and down his hard, stiff dick.
She moaned, "I'm so small. So tight. I don't think he can fit."
He was not an old man. At best he was middle-aged, but it had been some time since he felt a cunt as snug and tight as this. It felt so, so good.
"I push. I strain. He gives me every inch."
She pulled him tightly against her as she thrust her hips, fucking his cock with her young, wet, tight cunt. Being a cheerleader was so cool, so exciting. Actually, more than half her fun was being the fantasy for the man she was fucking, enjoying the fact that she was the dream of this man's life. What could be more stimulating, more satisfying, more wonderful than being the dream.
"We pump. We hump. He fills me up so good."
She scratched his back with the nails of her fingers and whimpered into his ear,
"I shiver. I tremble. He squirts so hard, so much. Oh, Mr. Jones," she gasped as she felt her body melt into his, and she gave herself over to her orgasm, trembling and shivering into his arms.
He felt his dick twitch and jerk in the cheerleader's slit, as if it was thrusting, jerking, struggling to escape from a wonderfully smothering skin-tight engulfment, an absorption that was so satisfying, so fulfilling, so gratifying. He breathed deep sighs of relief and satisfaction as he felt his cum surge through his cock and release into the wet confines of "Diane's" tightly clinging pussy, quickly filling her up with his hot, sticky stuff.
He grabbed hold of her soft round bottom and pulled her cunt more tightly against him, thrusting forward to squirt his stuff as deeply inside as he could, while at the same time burying his face into those lusciously large and soft fleshy pillows. His face felt as engulfed by her boobs as his dick felt absorbed by her cunt. He snuggled into her womanly jugs, gasping and groaning as he felt his cock spurt and spit into her tight girlish cunnie. It was an orgasm he would long remember.
The next day Jack went to the office of the Director of Cheerleading to put a good word in for her. He felt rather uncomfortable doing so. He didn't know the Director, and he worried that even attempting to do this might put him in jeopardy. Would not the Director wonder why this Assistant Coach felt so strongly about this particular applicant? But, curiously enough, the Director replied, "Diane Weston? Absolutely! You are in fact the third person to nominate her. We are really looking forward to her application, but I must say we have not yet heard anything from her."
That was a bit odd, but he did feel better about trying.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Dr. Lowenstein's heart was beating rapidly at the end of the story, and there was a warmth between her legs, her thighs. Professionally, it was called counter-transference. She had been well trained as a clinician and was prepared for such difficulties. Still, it was a little disconcerting to have her patient's life, her story, affect her so significantly, to stir within her such base, primitive feelings. At the moment, she felt more like a voyeur than a clinician.
It took considerable strength, and clinical acumen, to gather herself, to regain her professional demeanor. After all, she was there for the benefit, the development, the growth, of Madeline, not for her own prurient interests. It was at times very difficult being a sex therapist; although it was also very satisfying, very pleasing, particularly when she was alone, in her bed, at night, and she recalled that day's sessions. Sometimes she even played the tape of a session, as she played with herself beneath the covers, the sheet, of her bed. She felt she developed even further insights into her patient's conflicts and problems when she masturbated to their sessions. She would gain a better appreciation, a better understanding, of their perspectives, their fantasies, their impulses, dreams, and wishes. And, besides, it was rather fun.
Dr. Lowenstein did now though understand Madeline's concern, or at least she thought she did. Madeline was placing herself at considerable risk by engaging in this "cosplay," as she preferred to describe her fetishistic escapades.
Dr. Lowenstein was quite reluctant, as a therapist, to attempt to govern a patient's life. Patients were free to make their own decisions. It was important in fact for them to do so. A therapist can not, and should not, control a patient's life. But, she also felt some responsibility in at least informing Madeline of the risks that some behaviors might entail.
"Madeline, I understand that pretending you're a cheerleader could be enjoyable, even a bit stimulating," she said, as she pressed her thighs together.
"Oh, it was really very, very stimulating, Dr. Lowenstein," Madeline replied, as she pressed her thighs together.
"Well, yes, of course, but you do appreciate that you might be placing yourself at some risk. I mean, what if you were caught posing as a cheerleader? I wouldn't think that the college would look favorably upon such behavior."
As soon as she said it, Dr. Lowenstein regretted the remark. It did sound rather paternalistic. It was important to convey to patients an unconditional positive regard, no matter what their behaviors, interests, or peccadilloes. This was particularly important in sexual therapy.
"I know I take risks, doctor, but that's really part of the fun, the thrill. It's not the risks that trouble me."
Apparently the doctor didn't understand. "What does trouble you, dear?"
"It's just that this is pretty much all I do now. Cosplay is not easy. I mean it can take a lot of planning and preparation, and well, it's also a lot of fun. And, someday I'm going to get caught and get into all sorts of trouble."
Wasn't that the precise point she had been trying to make earlier? But it is always best to have the patient come to an insight herself rather than simply provide it to her. She pretended not to have noticed. "Do you really think so?"
"Well, yes, like, you know, well, one of my more favorite cosplays is being a nurse."
"You've pretended to be a nurse?"
"Oh yes, many times." Madeline then proceeded to recount her most recent nursing cosplay.
"Are you here for your sperm donation?"
"What?" The young man asked as he looked up into the prettiest brown eyes he had ever seen. Well, at least the prettiest he had seen for a few days. She was though the prettiest nurse he had ever seen, and certainly the one with the biggest tits he had ever seen. This petite doll of pretty femininity was leaning down toward him, her hands on her knees, her face just inches from his eyes, the front of her uniform bursting with the bulging strain of her breasts, which appeared to be barely restrained from their release by the tenuously clinging, straining buttons of her uniform. He read the name on the tag, "Nurse Betty Sizemore."
Timothy was in the waiting room of an ancillary branch of the Templeton clinic. He was there for a blood donation, waiting for his name to be called. He hadn't heard about any sperm donation. He had not in fact ever done anything like that before. In fact, he must not have heard this nurse correctly. It would not be surprising for such a pretty face to confuse your mind. "Excuse me?"
She smiled patiently and exclaimed, "Sperm donation!" with the most engaging and sweetest smile, as if a sperm donation was somehow an everyday, routine sort of thing. She tilted her head as she smiled, and then stood back up straight, her hands clasped demurely before her.
The standing up straight did little to diminish the prominence of her breasts. On the contrary, they now thrust out like two big white beach balls. He tried to pretend that he didn't notice. He had heard that girls can tell when you are looking at them there, and he could imagine that it might be annoying to them. But goodness, when you have breasts as large as these, what should you expect? Still, this was a nurse. You really shouldn't look at a nurse like that. It wasn't like they were wearing some sort of revealing blouse or negligee, and she was a professional, a member of the health care system that warranted your respect.
Still, his cock swelled in his pants, and he could not help but feel that her appeal was in part precisely because she was a nurse. He wasn't at all sure why she looked so especially enticing, so alluring. She was wearing the traditional nursing uniform: the simple white dress that came down to her knees, buttoned all the way to the small, rounded collar; with matching white nylons, white pumps, and the white cap. What made her so bewitching, so tempting? Perhaps it was the fact that the buttons did appear to be on the verge of bursting through their loops, her breasts placing considerable strain on the strength of the threads.
Perhaps though it was the fact that the uniform was entirely white, conveying a purity, an innocence, a virtuous modesty. Sluts and skanks didn't wear nursing uniforms, only good girls would be a nurse. Perhaps more than this, though, a nursing uniform conveyed her willingness, her desire, to be caring, considerate, helpful, and healing. It was a feminine garment, a feminine profession, whose mission was to do what she could, as a nurse, to cure your ills, no matter what may in fact be troubling you, to make you feel better, to make you feel good. She was devoted to your comfort and care, not as a doctor, who only looked upon you as a sick, malfunctioning organism whose treatment, successful or not, provided a very handsome salary. Nursing was a vocation, not an occupation, a calling, and one that paid very little despite its importance, its value. The nurse was a woman with a heart and sympathy for her patient's feelings, his concerns, his needs. Yes, a nurse is really very attractive, very appealing.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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Posted by ATCFNM at 7:58 PM