One of coach’s cheerleaders sending in his progress photo for the week. Exactly as coach asked him to. Hidden within those perfectly waxed cheeks is a bloated, puffy, rose-pink pussy that has been trained and trained until it’s ready for anything.
The cheerleaders are the perennial little brothers of Jock Nation (little sisters, depending who you ask), and are treated with a level of affection befitting their place. The jocks and bulls are taught to care for their cheerleaders like they’re fragile things. Delicate, almost sacred. And yet, they are ultimately holes. The cum dumps of Jock Nation.
It’s another paradox of Coach’s – like putting all his jocks in chastity while building them up as tops, or raising his bulls as gay while having them breed pussy – that his cheerleaders should be coddled and demure and protected, and yet be totally immersed in the masculine vulgarity that Coach relentlessly drills into his boys. The liberated, crude and sometimes barbaric words and deeds that come as easily to the jocks as their boners, fist bumps and goofy smiles.
It’s a fine line. There’s nothing demure about being the on-call fucksleeve of a 300lb brute who stops eating only long enough to take a pussy, take a nap, or take a shit (and sometimes not even then), and yet there is something demure in the way that a cheerleader holds himself while he serves. Cause serve he does. Cheerleaders are the support class of Jock Nation. They are there to worship the breeding bulls and top jocks. Specifically, to worship their masculine virtue (and at no point should they ever seek to limit how these men express their masculinity). He retains his cheerleader spirit by being supportive, affirmative, coy and, well, demure. When a jock rips a hard fart, a cheerboi giggles while the jocks laugh; when a bull is lost in a porn swamp and yells “I need to cunt a hole!” a cheerboi bites his bottom lip and pleads to the bull with his eyes; and when Coach – Daddy, to the cheerbois – says it’s time for bed, a cheerboi puts up a token, effeminate resistance until Daddy lifts him onto his shoulder and takes him to bed himself, where he enjoys a light spanking before he nestles into Daddy for the night.
The progress photo is part of this demureness. He doesn’t bend over enough to show off his loose, puffy cunt – a consequence of vulgar masculinity on his body – but he bends over just enough to give a tease; to make his Daddy Coach (and anyone else who sees it cause Coach will certainly share the picture with his boys) wonder about what lies within. It’s not about muscle or fat, gains or losses. Such things matter, and Coach’s assistants keep a meticulous record of a cheerleader’s body, but the progress photos are more fundamental than that. They are a weekly reminder to the cheerboi exactly why he’s here, and exactly how he should show it.
Read the first Jocked novel here!
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