“So,” he said, looking me up and down, “the cheerleader wants to be my slut.”

I stood still as he walked around me.

“Hunh. I don’t think so.”

****

He had a rep around school, and not in a good way. But it was in the way I wanted.

The talk in the girls’ room was that he forced girls to do sick, perverted things, and laughed at them when they did. That he treated them like shit, expected them to kiss his ass, kiss his feet, kiss his…

And that was just what I wanted.

But he was twenty-three and I was sixteen. He dealt drugs, and had money.

I was a junior in high school. A cheerleader. People thought of me as the sweet girl next door, all pretty hair and toothpaste smile. All polite and everything.

They didn’t see me watching hardcore porn on my laptop at night, stripping in front of my window with the lights on and the drapes open, pulling my toys out from the bottom of an old gym bag and fucking myself sore with them, twisting my tits, buggering my ass, stretching my cunt, and playing with my clit, all while fantasizing about someone treating me like shit, forcing me to do sick, perverted things, making me kiss their cock, then shoving it down my throat.

I wanted him. But after he had laughed at me, and just walked away, I decided I had to force the issue.

I put on the sluttiest clothes I had, got out my makeup box, found the lipstick I called “Cocksucker Red”, and made myself up heavily. I looked more whore than wholesome.

I knew he walked into a certain alley every evening at around 7:30, where he did his drug deals, so I positioned myself in the shadows and waited.

“Heyy, it’s the cheerleader. But she don’t look like one, does she? What’s up, twat?”

“I want you to fuck me, I want you to fuck me bad.”

He smirked at me. “Really.”

“Yes. Really.”

He stood looking at me for a good, long time, rolling a toothpick in his mouth.

“OK, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You meet me at the High Street Mall on Saturday at noon, by Penney’s. Wear high heels, a skimpy crop-top you think might turn me on, that cheerleader rah-rah skirt you got, and nothing else. Got it?”

I nodded, already wet, and starting to breathe heavily through my nose.

“Then we’ll see if you got what it takes to be my cunt. Right?”

And he walked away.

****

I started at 7 am, taking a shower, masturbating and cumming three times before I got out, doing my hair and dressing with great care, doing everything I could think of to make myself look like something out of my parents’ worst nightmares, except for the make-up and high heels.

Then I threw on sweatpants, a hoodie, and sneakers, made sure I had the right make-up in my bag, told my parents I was going to the mall with Charlene, borrowed the car, and left.

I got to the mall before 11 am, shucked the hoodie & sweats in the car, strapped on the heels, grabbed my make-up bag, and went into the ladies’. I spent a long time getting my make-up just so, then stepped back.

I looked scary fine.

I put my make-up bag back in the car, threw my change purse over my shoulder, and got to Penney’s 20 minutes early, finding a quiet corner overlooking the entrance, but feeling incredibly exposed. And nervous.

And wet.

****

He was late, of course. He didn’t show until almost one. But he knew I’d still be there.

He smirked when he saw me, and said, “Follow me,” and walked to a service corridor. We walked through the “Authorized Personnel Only” doors, halfway down the hall, then he stopped and turned on me.

I was hyperventilating at this point.

“So, here’s the deal. I’m going to – accessorize – your wardrobe, then you’re going to walk from Penney’s to Macy’s, slowly, without stopping or talking to anyone. If you make it, I’ll fuck you tonight. If you don’t – well, we’re done. Capiche?”

I nodded.

He walked over, yanked down my strapless crop-top, exposing my tits. He pulled out two nipple clamps linked by a chain from his pocket and fitted them on me, tight. I winced, but forced myself not to move. When he was done, he pulled the crop-top up, roughing the clamps as he did. The chain dangled from beneath my top.

He took a thick, leather dog’s collar, and a one-inch wide leather leash out of a paper bag, then threw the bag on the floor. He fitted the loop-handle on the leash around the collar, then strapped the collar tightly – too tightly – around my neck, then closed a small lock to the D-ring on the hasp. I was trapped until he let me go.

He ran the leather leash down under my crop-top, then pushed my skirt down to my ankles, exposing my shaved cunt. He dropped the leash between my feet.

“Squat.”

I did. He roughly parted my labia, pulled the thin leather between my soaking lips, then hauled it up tight, ran it through my ass crack, looped it up through the crop-top, around the collar, and fastened it back onto itself, secure. There was a D-ring on the leash clip, to which he fastened another lock. Then he clipped the nipple chain to a ring on the leash.

“Stand up.”

I stood gingerly. The rough leather stretched tight, pulling hard on the nipple chain, and rubbing my clit, cunt, asshole, and crack. I swallowed hard. He pulled my skirt up and snapped the waistband.

“There ya go. Show me you can take it, cunt, ‘cause I can sure dish it out.”

Then he took my purse and car keys, dropped them in a garbage can, and walked away.