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This is for Lori, who asked us for stories. :) Feel better sweetie.

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[Image of Little Miss Naughty] Cheerleaders Don't Get Spanked
by Mija

I was a cheerleader.

O da shame!

But I really was. Sorta anyway. 'coz my being a cheerleader wasn't based on any talents (or whatever being a cheerleader normally is based on); it was a punishment for someone else.

You see when I was in fifth grade (so I was like 11?) my best friend Trisha's older brother was on the school's basketball team. The school went kindergarten through eighth - so the cheerleaders of course were all eighth grade girls. The coolest prettiest girls too. Title IX? Yeah, like whatever.

The basketball team went to a tournament so Trisha invited me and a few friends to come along and watch. During half-time the other schools all had cheerleaders out in the center of the court doing cheers and tumbling and yelling for their school. But our school didn't 'coz our cheerleaders had decided they didn't want to come all day on a Saturday. Besides, they were more into football. And getting tan. Sister Saint Francis, the principal, was way mad and poked us with her cane. In her saintly Irish accent she told us to get out there and cheer for our school.

We all just sat staring at her (and the cane 'coz it was still moving and getting closer all the time!!) until Trisha - a born leader - leapt up and pulled us out there with her. I can't remember what we yelled or did - something along the lines of "Yah! Team!" I bet. We were a lot littler than the players or the other cheerleaders so I bet the people in the stands applauded 'cause we looked cute. Littler girls can totally get away with that. And frequently do too.

What I do remember is us running off the court, tennis shoes squeaking against the wood floor. Trisha went straight up to Sister and like started making demands.

"Sister, since we're the ones doing the cheering and going to the games, I think it's only fair that you make us cheerleaders."

I held my breath. No one made demands of Sister as far as I knew. Still, I mean, Trisha was sorta like Sister in some ways. She didn't take stuff from anyone.

"You girls are here, aren't you now? And you'd be coming to all the other games too I expect?"

We all chimed in together to reply "Yes, Sis-ter!" (that can be a song if you sing it right).

I'm sure Sister was still fuming that the older girls who were supposed to be there hadn't come - you could sorta tell. And her word was law - or whatever is stronger than a law. We were the new school cheerleaders!

But more was to come. On Monday, she announced at morning prayer in front of the entire school that the old cheerleaders were to turn in their uniforms to her office no later than tomorrow. And we were to go and pick them up. Man-o-man if looks could kill we'd all be dead meat on sticks. But they can't so we just smiled smugly at the older girls. Ha!

Anyway, that's the good part of this story. And explains partly how I ended up hanging over my dad's knees wearing a cheerleader uniform and saddle shoes.

Right? I mean it makes sense. You needed to hear how I got the uniform anyway.

Okay so we started cheering at games. Of course we were terrible -except for Lisa who did gymnastics and so could do very graceful cartwheels (gag!) - but we wore bright yellow sweaters, short blue pleated skirts that snapped onto navy blue cheer panties, white ankle socks and saddle shoes. We looked pretty cute - though the skirts had to be pinned at the waist with safety pins coz we were a lot smaller than the school's usual cheerers. So they weren't really that short. But still, what do you want?

Yeah, well the spanking. Right.

Anyway, since Trisha's brother was on the team, her mom drove us to the games (she was his mom, she had to go). And they picked me up on the way to weekend games. Anyway, Trisha thought it would be good if we wore make-up 'coz the cheerleaders from the other schools did, so before the games I started sneaking into my mom's bathroom and using hers. No biggie. I mean, she never said she noticed and I'd just run out to the car really fast.

Okay, so she'd always told us not to use her stuff. I mean, but cheez, that was when I was a little kid. Now I was 11 and much more careful.

So on this Saturday, she came up and I was busy putting on some blush so I didn't hear her coming.

"What Do You Think You're Doing??" (It really was in caps.)

This was totally loud. When people talk really loud and unexpectedly you get surprised, right? Which I did. And dropped the blush, of course. So it broke, of course. It really wasn't my fault.

But my mom didn't see it that way and totally lost her mind. Totally, and started yelling at me about not respecting her stuff and how she could never have anything nice without someone always wrecking it. I felt bad about the blush and everything, but I wasn't responsible for everything in her life breaking so I started yelling back that it was an accident and anyway it wouldn't have happened if she wasn't yelling at me all the time.

She slapped me and I stopped yelling, ran to my room and closed the door. Hard. Okay, so it was sort of a slam. But slapping people is mean.

I lay on my bed and fumed at the injustice. I mean, I was old enough to be a cheerleader so I was old enough to wear make-up. And I only used hers because I didn't have any of my own. I vowed right there and then to hate her forever and ever no matter what she ever did.

Which meant I couldn't hate her more for what she was doing right then. But suddenly I could hear it through the walls. Telling my dad I'd gone into her stuff again and broken it and how she never could have anything of her own. She didn't mention anything about slapping me or anything else she did. Just me. Still, I thought she sounded like she was 6 and whining about not getting a big ice cream or whatever. I waited for my dad to tell her to, like, get over it.

He said something, but I couldn't hear it. (I could hear her 'coz she was totally yelling but normally the walls don't let you hear much) So the next thing I hear is my dad calling for me to come down there right now.

At first I thought he'd seen Trisha's mom 'coz it was like right on time for them to be there. But when I got to the kitchen I was horrified. My dad had gotten the ping-pong paddle (don't even ask all about it, it's just too embarrassing) down out of his closet and was holding it.

He didn't really say much. Just blah-blah-blah about my mom's stuff and respect and all that. I nodded and tried to look interested and sorry, but what I was really thinking was "I gotta get going - I've gotta ride to catch."

Anyway, my mom chimes in with "and wipe that martyred expression off your face, missy!"

Like she should talk? Who slapped whom over spilled make up? Cheez! Like, don't even make me laugh.

It wasn't funny though 'coz the next thing you know my dad was sitting in a kitchen chair and yanking me over his lap. He didn't need to flip the skirt up, but did anyway. I held my breath waiting for the first whack - trying to make sure the tears started right away.

My dad tried to yank down my cheer panties but couldn't. As he pulled harder and harder, I remembered the snaps attaching them to the skirt. I was afraid he'd rip them off (and how would I explain that one??) and so piped up with,

"Daddy, they snap to my skirt."

Next thing you know I'm back on the floor, feeling a little dizzy, 'coz of the blood moving around my head.

"Take 'em down, miss-know-it-all." Which you gotta admit was completely uncalled for.

Gingerly I unsnapped my cheer panties and pulled them down a little bit, so my under panties showed.

"Those too, young lady. Down to your knees."

My hands were shaking with shame 'coz omigod but I pulled them down and then he pulled me back over his lap. And started right away with the paddle, going on something about "someone getting too big for her britches" or something totally red-neck like that.

Then I stopped being able to hear because I was crying for real now. Wailing really and trying to kick the paddle away as he whacked and whacked, not just on my bottom but thighs too.

In case you've never been whacked with a ping-pong paddle lemme just tell you this isn't a toy and you don't want to be.

Just when I was sure I couldn't stand anymore, I heard the horn. Trisha's mom was there. I wiggled and tried to choke out to my dad that I had to go, now, but whatever I said was just completely blown out of context and he's paddling me even harder now, telling me he'd decide when or if I got to go. Or if I went to every game with a damn sore backside.

And I'm squealing now,

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," like a jillion times and completely howling and kicking. My dad's pretty strong though and just held me there and kept whacking. Through two more horn honks.

He'd just stopped when the doorbell rang.

Okay, I died and saw my mom get up (oh yeah, didn't you know, she's like watching this, probably smirking too) to go to the front door.

"Go on, if you want to go, get in there and wash your face."

He waved the paddle in the direction of the bathroom and I ran - but first tripped over my cheerleader panties and underpants 'coz they were wrapped around my ankles. But anyway, I hobbled to the bathroom, hearing my mom tell Trisha I'd be out in a minute as soon as I washed my face.

The water felt cool, but in the mirror I could see my face was all red and my eyes were swollen. And then I sorted out my panties and stood up on the toilet. If I pulled my skirt down as far as it went it hid my red legs.

Which was fine. So long as I stood in one place with my skirt pulled down all the way. If I moved, though, you could see pink, going to cherry red blending into dark red, stopped only by navy cheer panties. My dad had really done himself proud and I was sure anyone would guess that this cheerleader had just had a walloping.

Yeah well, anyway, I sat silent in the car on the way to the game. If Trisha noticed I'd been crying, she kept it to herself. But when we got there, I had to see other people. And the bench was hard, and I kept squirming and trying to keep my skirt under me (yeah, well you try sitting on wood with bare spanked legs if you think that's so freakin' funny) and hoped no one noticed. Of course this was the game the guys decided to finally start playing and scored at least 25 times.

When we leapt up to cheer for each basket, I spun around to face the crowd so fast I must have been a blur. 'course I forgot there were people on the other side too, but they were further away so maybe they didn't see.

Even so, long before half-time I could hear bits of whispers all around me. '-kinda red-' '-think she got-' 'cheerleader on the end-' 'spanked'. My bottom still stung at the end of the game.

I was dying, but I stumbled through my routine. I totally can't even remember the final score. Or most of the ride home. It was a haze filled with Trisha's brother reliving every shot. It took the longest time.

So long that he finally took a breath. And that two-faced-twerp Lisa of the perfect cartwheels asks like she was saying nothing,

"So, Annie, why'd you get spanked?"

There's a word for girls like Lisa. But I get my mouth soaped if I say. So guess.

Anyway I lost it. I burst into tears and told them that I'd gotten in trouble for using my mom's make-up, crying so hard I couldn't even talk. Great, just great. No one in the car really said anything, though Trisha's mom passed me the Kleenex box. And I felt like a total baby, everyone knowing (okay so seeing too) that my bottom was all red and that I'd been spanked. My cheerleader uniform felt totally wrong 'coz I knew no matter what I was the most uncool person on earth.

And cheerleaders are cool. So even though I like had the uniform and cheered at games, I knew the rest of the year I wasn't really a cheerleader.

'coz cheerleaders don't get spanked. And I do.

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