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Old 10-Sep-22, 11:28
blueblade999 blueblade999 is offline
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Default Re: Quarterback vs. Cheerleader (A Good Deed, Part 4)

This story began in “Courage or Cowardice?”, where Parts 1-3 of “A Good Deed” are presented.


The morning after the fight with Grant I apologized to Grandfather for failing to kill him in the ring. Grandfather said not to worry about it, I'd done my best, no one could've done better. But I saw him look down sad-eyed at his desk a couple times, and he seemed old and tired suddenly, and that made my heart constrict. How could I disappoint this gentle man who'd given me everything?

"Grandpapa," I said. "I'll go to the hospital where they've got him and finish the bastard."

"No, Belle," he replied, sinking into his chair. "It's too public, and that trash Grant is too clever. You'd get caught. The lawyers and I couldn't protect you then. That'd be way worse than things as they are."

"But, grandpapa --"

"No, Belle. If you did that you'd be in that douchebag's power. Or his family's power. I forbid it!"

Well, that was that.

I went back to my day-job, doing high-level work for grandfather's mercenary/security company the Red Weld—named after the legendary (female) merc Red Weld, who founded it. Grandfather had taken it over after Red’s death. I focused on the job to distract myself. And I did a couple of cage fights to stay in trim and maintain my following, turning three more privileged male assholes into boys whining for Mama. That’s right, just two fights, but three men—in one fight I took on two strapping fellows at the same time and made them familiar with my fists and my body-holds, and with the floor of the ring that was splattered with their blood and their tears. The fight club got some great footage of one of them blubbering as he was bent back almost double in my half-nelson camel clutch, his abdominal muscles pulled almost till they snapped—while I smiled triumphantly down at him. Poor little boy.

The next week I flew to the West Coast for four days to review security for a new complex. On the second night my friend Alem called me and said:

"Belle. The old man's had a heart attack. A big one. He's sinking. You'd better get back here."

"What happened?"

"He had it at dinner tonight at Griotto's. He hasn't regained consciousness."

"I'll come at once." I thought fast, and figured that my assistant Takashi could finish the West Coast job without too many screwups. Anyway this was more important. "I want to be there when he wakes up."

"Of course, Belle," said Alem. "But it's not just that. I mean...."

"What?' I snapped.

"People are talking. Saying you failing to kill Grant stressed him out so much that caused the heart attack. It's nonsense, but some people are running with it."

"Who?"

"Brand."

I snorted. "Of course, the douche. He's always had it in for me."

"He said, apparently, that your failure literally broke the old man's heart."

"Did he?" I said, feeling that chill settle into me that was more dangerous than any passion for mayhem.

"He's got a following, Belle. I know you'll inherit alot if the old man goes. But the terms are you only get the directorship of the Red Weld if no one challenges you."

"Or if I beat the challenger," I said.

"Well, yes. But it looks like Brand's positioning himself to challenge you. And you know how good he is now."

"Thanks for the heads-up. I'll be there in - four hours tops."

I thought about things on the plane. Alem was right about grandfather's will - he left me his own possessions, the house and a good bit of cash. But I got to control the Red Weld only if nobody fought me for it, and won. Now it sounded like Brand was jockeying for enough support to challenge me - using my own failure against me. In my secret heart I did fear grandfather had broken down because of my failure - but for that prick to say it, and say it to other people in the company! I balled my hands.

Then I smiled, remembering. Brand was a man whom I'd humiliated during our last year at high school, when he was a quarterback and I was a cheerleader. And remembering, and needing to be rested for my arrival, I slept. I dreamed about it.

It was a Tuesday, and no game that evening, and the football team and cheerleaders had finished their practices at the same time. I was in the red cheerleader’s costume, and hot, sweaty, and tired from our workout, but I felt good – strong, relaxed, with my muscles well-used.

I realize in these little memoirs of mine I haven’t described myself. I will now. Bear in mind at this time I was just turned seventeen, but imagine this teen grown into her full strength, power, and womanhood and you’ll have a good enough picture. I’m 5’8”, a natural blonde. My hair was platinum when I was a lot younger, but it’s turned a lovely gold and so far stayed that way. I’m white obviously, if anyone cares. But I have also a bit of Seminole from my mother’s side and a little Korean from my father’s, which help to make me look smoking hot.

Brand, the quarterback, came by with some of his teammates on their way to the change rooms, while there were still a lot of us out on the field. They were big, strong, confident boys, in some discomfort after their practice for sure, but enjoying the splendid power and feel of their muscles after exertion. They were talking about rugby, and laughing at it, and especially at the idea of women’s rugby. Brand seemed loudest in mocking it, saying anything with tits shouldn’t be allowed in a tackle sport.

“Well not that kind of tackle sport anyway,” said his friend Tip, and the boys laughed. A couple of them glanced at us cheerleaders, to see if any of us had heard.

“I think girl rugby players who don’t hide under armor are a lot braver and tougher than guy football players who do,” I said, so that everybody heard.

“It’s no sport for a girl, Belle,” said Brand immediately – he hated to be opposed. “Just like football. That’s why none of you are on the team.”

“Us cheerleaders are better than the football team anyway,” I said.

By now a lot of the kids – cheerleaders, football players, helpers, spectators – were listening to us. Brand felt it, and felt he had to raise his voice to show his dominance in front of the crowd. He stepped toward me in his armor, trying to look as big and imposing as possible, and said, “You girls are lighter, and maybe more flexible. But we’re better in every other way.”

“I think we’re better,” I said. “We can even kick your jock asses in football.”

There was silence among the crowd.

“At least I can kick yours anytime, Brand,” I said, and smiled sweetly, mockingly in his face. I raised my arms above my head, clasping my wrists with each hand, and flexing my bare arms slightly so that anyone who cared to could see my power. And they all cared to.

Brand swallowed. “You’re just trash talking, Belle. No way you can back that up.”

Still with my arms above me I said, “I bet I can beat you at football right here and now, Brand. Even with you in that armor and me not.”

“I couldn’t do that,” he said, laughing nervously. “It wouldn’t be fair to you. I’d have to allow you a handicap.”

“No handicap, Brand, I don’t need one. My cute cheerleader’s runners can walk all over you anywhere, anytime.” I lowered my arms, raised my taut, muscled left leg so it was parallel with the ground, and twirled my foot at him. I also ensured he got a decent view of my strong thighs. Decent, but not too much. He didn’t deserve that.

“It wouldn’t be fair, Belle,” he said again.

There were some murmurs from the crowd. Brand flushed.

“You’re just afraid I’ll beat you, Brand,” I said, lowering my leg. “Are we seeing your real color here – yellow?”

“Fuck you, bitch, no one calls me yellow!” he shouted, his face and voice suddenly very mean, even brutal.

He wasn’t wearing his helmet. But he had his armor on, and I had none.

He came at me like a tornado.

But I was ready for him.

When he was almost on top of me I put my right hand just beside his left shoulder and, synchronized perfectly, did an aikido pivot which took me out of his path as he went on by and spun me around so I was now facing his back.

He had barely registered that I wasn’t where he expected when my right foot darted out and my toes drove hard into his arrogant ass.

It didn’t hurt him much, but the crowd laughed, which frazzled him—which was what I wanted. He spun around to face me, his own face an ugly red.

I would have smiled sweetly at him but he dashed at me immediately, keeping low so it was harder to overbalance him.

So this time I just shimmered to the side, then crouched, sweeping out my left leg and knocking his feet out from under him. By the time he was rolling cursing on the turf I was a few yards off, examining my nails, with the boys’ football under my left arm.

The onlookers laughed again, and most of the girls cheered.

“Go Belle!” called one.

“Take her, Brand!” called one of the boys.

“Maybe you should call on your teammates for help, Brand,” I said.

Brand roared like an animal as he sprang to his feet. “No one interferes!” he shouted to his team. “This is just between Belle and me.”

I could tell by his eyes that he wanted to throttle me. He advanced again—but slowly this time, walking forward deliberately.

I backed up, facing him, holding the football out to him.

He charged, wasting breath shouting, “I’m gonna teach you a lesson, Belle!”

I spun and hared off, with this fast football player in hot pursuit. I tore along the football pitch. He was behind me, close. He almost caught me once—that is, I let him almost touch my left shoulder. I glanced back, smiling, taunting him—I saw him register my smile—as I rounded the goal posts and started leading him back toward our starting-point. The cheerleaders were whooping with delight, while the boys were cursing and urging Brand to “Get her, man!” My muscular white thighs flashed in the stadium lights as I blazed along. I’d seen the look of surprise on his face—he hadn’t expected a girl, even a fit cheerleader like me, to be able to outrun him the whole length of the field. And he could see I was hardly tired, while I’d kept up such a pace that he was huffing with the exertion of it. He had to do something to end this chase. I looked back once more, and laughed, goading him, but letting him get a bit nearer—and then, just as he launched his powerful body into a flying tackle aimed at my waist I picked up speed again. His gripping hands closed on air, and he ended up crashing hands-and-head-first into the ground with the full weight of his tackle.

“Fuck!” he cried, hurt.

I spun and dashed at him across the intervening turf—he was still belly-first down on the ground—and I saw his usually-smug face glance up at me in surprise and fear before I pivoted on my left leg just in front of him and delivered a right kick that had behind it almost the full force of my charge. The kick splattered his nose into ruin and knocked one of his perfect teeth down his throat before it snapped his head back. He screamed.

The girls cheered. Some of the boys groaned. We were back close to them again, and they could see and hear everything.

I stood over the fallen boy, looking down on him with my hands on my hips.

“Brand,” I said, “If you win this you’ve just beaten a girl. If you lose you lose hard. Either way I win, Brand. You’re a big loser, like all guys who go up against women.”

I knew that would burn him despite his injuries and the pain he was in, and push him to renew the fight. He’d wobble up in a moment, then come at me, leaving himself wide open in his rage to get at me—

My right foot jerked, the sky spun, and the ground came up to whack the back of my head—hard! Stupid girl! my mind yelled. Brand’s hand had licked out and gripped my ankle, and now I was down, and he was hurtling his much heavier body on top of me. Thanks so much, Overconfidence, I thought, as I lost the fight to keep my arms free but kept my legs unpinned for the moment.

Brand had been a school wrestler as a freshman. Playing football he hadn’t had time since then to continue with it, but he practised on weekends sometimes and I knew he still regarded himself as a credit to the sport.

He would be confident now that he had superiority.

His mistake.

Except—wham! He hadn’t pinned my legs, but he drove his right knee up between my thighs—hard! The jarring impact rocked my pelvis, then ran up my spine to my jaw and my teeth. Agony! I screamed. In a moment he did have my now-rubber legs pinned, and he was breathing down on me from a leering face only a few inches above my own.

I struck out with what I could, driving my forehead into his already-broken nose. Now it was his turn to scream. But he still kept my arms and legs pinned. So I again crashed my forehead into his hateful face. This time he gulped in pain, and relaxed his hold on my right arm—and I tore it free, brought my elbow up so it was in front of my mouth—then once more drove it into the shattered red mass where his nose had been. This time he bellowed like a slaughtered ox (or so I imagine), bringing both hands to his face and rolling off me onto his side in a frantic attempt to get away.

But he wasn’t getting away that easily. He’d taken this fight to the ground, and I meant to punish him there.

We were both damaged. But I recovered sooner, got my legs into some kind of working order, then slid around and got them around his tummy in a scissor-pin.

He dropped his hands. “What the fuck?” he mumbled.

I squeezed.

He got his hands—tried to get his hands—between his gut and my tightening legs. But I had already gripped him so hard that he couldn’t get in. I squeezed, paused, then squeezed, and paused, then squeezed, relaxing slightly after each squeeze in order to exert even more force and pressure the next squeeze.

He could hit me—or try to—but I guess he had enough wrestling training still in him that he wouldn’t punch, even down and out as he was.

His breathing became labored. I was squeezing the breath out of him with my strong cheerleader’s legs. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he babbled, wasting even more breath.

I squeezed.

I crushed.

I gazed into his pain-filled eyes, and murmured, “Brand, this is the only way you’ll ever get between my thighs, you loser.”

He roared in frustration and rage. Suddenly, galvanized by my taunting (why can’t I shut UP?) he drove his powerful thumbs into my thigh muscles, not trying to insert them between him and me but simply attacking my thighs. He attacked high, thrusting both thumbs brutally into my adductor right below my crotch. In a moment they felt like burrowing tubes of hot iron.

I relaxed my scissor-pin. Then he did get his hands between his belly and my legs and broke free, scrambling out and up onto his knees. And he did finally seem to get that this was more MMA than strict wrestling, and swung round on his knees toward me and drove a hard right into my face.

The sky and the ground changed places as my head rocked.

But I still had my reflexes, my training. Even as the stars still shook in the sky I pivoted around on my ass and slammed my pointed right foot into his belly—the belly I’d just brutally massaged. He doubled over—then my flat-footed left came up against his face with a sickening smack and his head snapped back, his whole big body following and he crashed down onto the turf on his back.

I was on him in a half-second, driving punch after punch into the broken red smear that had been his face until he was blubbing, and the cheerleaders were laughing in derision.

I shouted out, "Can you take pain like a woman, Brand, or only like a man?"

But in a moment when I paused—I was still hurting, and disoriented—he buffeted me with a hard right and dragged himself to his feet, with me still half on him, then shook me off and ran.

He ran from me. He fled.

The girls shrilled with laughter. The boys were silent, except a few watchers who were there more for the girls.

I tore after the quarterback.

And the quarterback fled in terror from the cheerleader.

Tried to flee.

I caught up with him, the star runner.

I tackled him.

In front of his friends—in front of the school—this cheerleader tackled our quarterback and took him down.

I had him over on his back in a moment, gripped his ankles, spread his legs wide. I stood suddenly. He was on his back, his legs splayed, with me standing, holding him by his ankles. He kicked, but I was strong. And fast.

I spread his legs as far as my arms would go, despite his flailing.

I’d heard him say once that his crotch guard had a lot of work to do, to hold in everything he’d got down there. “But I trust it,” he’d said, and laughed.

“Do you trust it now, Brand?” I asked, meeting his eyes—and his grew wide with terror.

He shouldn’t have trusted it. it didn't help much against the power of my kick as I drove hard into his balls, bursting the groin cup. His scream sounded like I was tearing out his throat.

“You’re not a quarterback, Brand!” I cried over his howls. “You’re a quarter of a man!”

Then I bent, got my arms under his twitching form, got into the right position, and hoisted him up—lifted. Lifted him over my head.

There were gasps from the whole crowd, girls and boys alike, as I stood there with the broken body of my powerful foe held at arm’s length above me.

He groaned.

And he gasped out, “Oh, God, Belle—mercy! Please, mercy!”

I laughed.

Then—I threw him up and over the goal. My strong muscles were a smooth ripple of steel. He sailed up feet-first and over the crossbar. His kicked ass just clipped it as he went over and tumbled down toward the ground.

I was thinking about him landing with a meaty THUD and lying splayed there like a sack of dead potatoes.

Grandpa had said there’d be no special protection for me when I was at school, just because I was his grand-daughter. I’d have to make my way—if need be, CLAW my way—just like everybody else. So I wasn’t counting on Grandpa getting me out of it when I did that to Brand. No: instead I’d just calculated the throw, and done it so he’d land first with his feet, before his torso and head hit. I figured that that would prevent too much damage.

His body fell heavily toward the turf.

And suddenly his teammates were under him, and four of them caught him together as he came down.

So there was no satisfying meaty thud on the turf after all.

But I’d half-calculated on that, too.

I looked at the team. I knew each of them wanted revenge. Wanted to destroy me. But I said to them, “Look at your captain, boys. If you all come at me, even in an ambush, what are the odds I won’t murder at least five of you before you get me down? Not to mention the matter of my payback on you later on?”

July, the captain of the cheerleader squad, came forward with three of the other girls. It was night, but I could tell they were all flushed and exhilarated from what they’d seen.

July looked the huddled football team up and down and said, “And that doesn’t include what the REST of us will do to you eunuchs if you go after Belle. She’s off limits, alright? No one touches her. Understand?”

There was a sullen silence from the boys.

“Do you assholes UNDERSTAND?” – And her voice cracked like a whip, like I’d never heard it before.

“Yeah, July, we get it,” said the fullback, Harper. And several of the others echoed him.

“Good,” she replied. “Then take your excuse for a quarterback away somewhere where he can simmer in his well-earned humiliation.”

The cheerleaders laughed again.

And I awoke from my dream.

But this was now the man, full-grown and about fifty times more dangerous, who was now challenging me for control of the company that should by rights be mine.

I would have to finish Brand THIS time.

(Next episode: “A Good Deed, Part 5.”)

Added after 33 minutes:

MvF,
I accidentally posted this story on The Forum. It should be with the Stories, and I've put it there now. You may want to delete it from the Forum.

Thank you.

Blueblade999

Last edited by blueblade999; 10-Sep-22 at 11:28.
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