Posted by Ric delCampo on April 05, 2003 at 12:20:35:
A Season with the Dallas Cowgirls Cheerleaders
Chapter 4
Dallas Cowgirls vs. Pittsburgh Pro’s
While they greatly encouraged the play-on-words, the Pro’ in Pittsburgh Pro’s did not refer to Prostitutes. Rather it was short for Professional Women. They were a potential expansion team. A group of retired and semi-retired professional women: doctors, lawyers, accountants, counselors; all of whom were past their child baring years, and were all bored with their ordinary, predictable lives, who had put together a new Cheerleading team and applied to the League for membership.
As of now, there were only twelve women on the team. The average age was 47, the oldest 51. But they looked at least ten years younger. All had strove to achieve the league’s beauty requirements. A couple had received breast enhancement surgery. Few could pass the pencil test,* but, for these women only, the League had substituted a requirement for push-up bras. All twelve women easily met the requirement for breast size. Average breast size, post surgery, was 38 DD. (Size 35 and lower need not apply.) Others had plastic surgery to reduce age wrinkles and for weight reduction. All had spent months in the gym until their ab’s were flat and rock hard, their legs finely toned. Their body fat level lower than any time in their life.
They had hired the best personal trainers so that each and every one of them was in top physical shape. They had hired the top make-up artists and hair-stylist with the result that each woman was as beautiful as the day she was married.
Each provided her own uniform: The only thing uniform were the white silk dress shirts with pearl buttons. Other than that each woman wore a business suit of her own choosing. Minimum price per suit was $2,000.00. English and Italian hand tailored suits prevailed. They ranged in color from business gray to hot pink, from blue pin stripe to bright red. All wore mini-skirts, in some cases the min-skirt was barely longer than the suit blazer. But the hours in the gym had paid off and all had the legs for such short skirts. All wore nylons and stiletto high heels, again to show off their magnificent legs.
Each wore silk panties and bras from the most expensive European boutiques.
Each had bought a weapon of her own choosing, from snub-nosed, pearl-handle .22 auto’s to .44 caliber Colt revolvers with nine inch barrels. Of course none of these women had ever fired a weapon in her life, none had practiced with their weapons, and most had bought their weapon more with a thought to fashion accessory as a criteria than as an instrument for dealing death. In fact, most assumed that they would never live long enough to fire their weapon.
They were most concerned with dying well and leaving an elegant corpse. Therein lay another motivation: none of the women wanted to grow old, to age; they considered themselves to be at the peek of their beauty and wanted to die there. Each had planned the most elaborate funerals for themselves, not trusting ex-husbands or family to perform adequately. Each fantasized about her own violent death to such as extent the anticipation of the impending match made each woman wet.
Today’s match was to be an exhibition match, while the League decided if it would expand to include the Pro’s. There would only be twelve women to a team, with simplified rules, and played indoors, on a former basketball court. There would be only one quarter, though most bookies were giving odds it wouldn’t last even that long. Of course the Dallas Cowgirls were favored to win.
The Pro’s were surprised when the Commissioner herself visited their locker room just prior to the match. She dismissed the coaches, hairdressers, and make-up artists from the room.
“I bring you greetings from the Matriarch,” the Commissioner said, and gave a short spiel on the patriotic duty the women were doing. “I have a request from the Matriarch, one which must never leave this room.” She handed around a color photo of Raquel Ramos. “Do you recognize this woman?”
“It’s that Grandstander on the Dallas team.”
“That is correct. This woman must not be permitted to continue to flaunt our culture and laws. The Matriarch has ordered her death. You women are to be privileged to be her executioners. Your first shot must be aimed at her and you will ignore all other members of the Dallas team and continue to fire at Ms. Ramos until she is dead. The Matriarch would prefer that Ms. Ramos die by a head shot, into her face. She wishes that you destroy her face so there be no open casket funeral for Ms. Ramos. Do you understand?”
“Aren’t head shots illegal for just that reason,” Mrs. Piper Wickstrum, 51, the team captain asked.
“We have arranged it so no penalty will be assigned. Any black mark on your team will be erased.”
“If you do this,” The Commissioner continued, “I promise you I will permit the expansion of the League to include the Pittsburgh Pro’s. The government will pick up the tab for and provide each of you with a State funeral, and the Matriarch herself has promised to speak at each of your funerals.”
The women were quite excited at this prospect.
“You can count on us to do our patriotic duty!” Mrs. Wickstrum declared.
In the Dallas locker room Christine approached Raquel. “You have a visitor who insists on seeing you before the match.”
She led Raquel to a private office.
Raquel’s mother rushed forward to hug. “Raquel! My sweet Raquel!”
Raquel backed away, like a magnet repelled by one of the same polarity. She wouldn’t permit her mother to touch her. “What do you want?” she asked curtly.
“I want to tell you how proud I am of you,” her mother said. “I just want to give you a hug.”
“You haven’t hugged me since I was five years old,” Raquel said. “What’s changed now?”
“Can’t I be proud of my famous daughter?”
“Who? The worthless one?”
“Please . . .”
“Mother, what the hell do you really want? Cut the bullshit!”
“I just found out I’m not listed as your beneficiary. Don’t you want your money going to me?” She tried to seem sincere.
Raquel laughed at her.
“Please, dear . . .”
“Go ask your other daughters for money,” Raquel said. “As for mine, I’m going to spend it all. All on me!”
The referee lined them up back to back at the center of the court in an abbreviated opening. They would march thirty paces, turn, and open fire.
The Pro’s dance routine had been a brief march, a couple of suggestive gestures and poses, ending with a quick lifting of their skirts to flash their expensive panties.
Insults had been limited to one each.
Raquel thought it might have come as a relief to Christine not to be sole target as the match began. Christine seemed to have possessed incredible luck—thus far.
Still seething with anger, Raquel had positioned herself so she was standing back-to-back with the only Hispanic on the Pro’s squad. Octavia Fregoso was much taller than her mother, much more slender, certainly more elegant and beautiful, and much better dressed. Octavia was wearing an $4,000.00 Italian Armonia suit, blue pin stripes, double-breasted, four-button, tailored to accentuate her hard won waspish wait, a short skirt, black nylons and black shoes to accentuate her long athletic legs. Her black hair was sleek and shiny. Octavia wore an expensive push-up bra from Frederique’s, size 38DD. Her white silk blouse was stretched tight across her provocative bosoms. About the only thing she had in common with Raquel’s mother was the olive complexion of her skin and her age. Both women were in their late forties.
And while Raquel savored the moment when she could kill this surrogate mother-figure, she couldn’t imagine that Octavia was savoring the moment when her perfect body would be violated by the Cowgirls’ bullets. Octavia was determined to die with grace and sensuality and to be the most elegant corpse lying on the court. Octavia had already forgotten her instructions regarding Raquel.
The referee blew her whistle. The two teams took thirty paces, turned, and opened fire.
At least a few of them did.
Eleven of the twelve Pro’s tried to fire at Raquel. Only three succeeded.
Seven of the women still had their safeties on, never having learning how to use them. Three women didn’t even have any bullets in their guns, so ignorant were they of even that basic knowledge. Four others, using automatic pistols, hadn’t yet chambered a round, and three of them didn’t know how. This number adds up to more than eleven because some of the Professional Women suffered from more than one mistake.
Octavia Fregoso never fired at Raquel because a .44 slug slammed into her right nipple and buried itself in her breast. Octavia was so thrilled she wet her panties. She dropped her useless gun and clutched at her breast. Her back arched, her head tilted back, and her mouth gaped open. Octavia moaned.
Her left knee bent and she lost her footing. Octavia rather inelegantly fell to the floor. She did manage to arch one leg, so her skirt fell open, before she died.
A slug whistled by Raquel’s left ear, so close she felt it. The Cowgirl to her right screamed, dropped her Colt, and clutched at her face. She had taken a bullet to her left eye. The third bullet aimed at Raquel missed every one and slammed into the plexi-glass shield at the far end of the court.
No penalty whistle blew.
The Cowgirls’ first volley took out seven of the Pro’s, including Piper Wickstrum who took one of Christine’s slugs in her guts. Piper hugged herself as she bent at her waist. It was much more painful than she had imagined, thus much more exciting. She felt the burning in her guts, the rush of hot blood, the ripples of pain radiating through her sculpted body. Her nipples were rock hard and rubbed against the smooth fabric of her lacey French, $1,000.00 bra. She gave a little cry of joy, shuddered once, and fell dead. She legs were spread wide open. Like a Pro’.
Raquel shifted her aim to a tall, platinum blonde with bright, ice blue eyes and white lips, who, she suspected, had fired the shot into her fellow Cowgirl’s eye. The woman was dressed in an elegant pink suit. She wore a diamond-encrusted broach on her left lapel. Raquel aimed low for the cunt’s cunt.
Danielle Schwendmann was trying to aim at Raquel when the bullet slapped her right in her cunt. She shrieked and hurled her gun away. The Aryan blonde clutched at her wounded womanhood. She was so thrilled her panties became soaked with love juice. This was quickly diluted with hot, pumping blood. What death could be more sensual, more exquisite? Danielle dropped to her knees, gave a little half twist of her slender body, and sank to the hardwood. Danielle died experiencing the most lascivious fuck of her life.
Dr. Tammie Karns survived the first volley. She was so disappoint that she ripped open her red, $3,000.00 French hand-tailored jacket, exposed her white silk blouse barely retraining her firm ample bosom, thrust out her breasts, and screamed,” Shoot me! Dammit! Shoot me! Riddle my big tits with your hot bullets!”
Her spotless silk blouse was perforated with half a dozen bullets. Instantly it was soaked in her steaming blood. Tammie staggered back under multiple impacts. “Oh Fuck! That feels good!” she cried out and fell over backward, onto her back, tits up. One red shoe fell from her left foot.
Laura McMurray, forty-three, a tall redhead with sparkling emerald eyes, and dressed in a pale green Donna Karenina designer suit, took a slug to her belly button. She bent over, writhing in pain and excitement. It was so thrilling her pussy throbbed with excitement. She was about to die! Laura had never felt so vibrant, so alive—but that passed and she collapsed into a heap, her red hair haloed out around her peaceful face.
Julia Olson, a forty-five year old blonde lawyer, dressed in a conservative, gray English suit and wearing a double stranded pearl necklace, also took one in her very experienced cunt. She imaged it to be better then all the fuckings her wimpish husband had ever given her. Her lithe body quivered as pain waves were transmitted from her shattered womanhood to her brain. She was so thrilled. She licked her pouty lips, savoring her sexy death. Death was so exquisite. Julia held her footing as long as she could, then slowly sank to the floor. Her chest heaved with one last breath, the air rattled from her lungs, then she was still. Blood slowly trickled from her nether-lips, staining her white silk panties.
Shawna Barnes, forty-seven, an accountant, was the Pro’s last survivor. She wore a bright blue Seville Row suit with gold buttons and embroidered lapels. She had a $5,000.00 diamond earring in each ear. Shawna eagerly aimed her pistol at Raquel, but couldn’t understand why it wouldn’t fire. She really wanted to kill Raquel before she died. But dying was next on her list of things to do.
“Hold your fire,” Christine ordered, seeing Shawna’s difficulty. Christine nodded at Raquel. “She’s yours.”
Raquel holstered her weapon, walked up to Shawna, took her weapon. “You have to take it off safety, like this.” Raquel thumbed the safety switch.
“Then you can kill a bitch with it,” Raquel said. She thrust the muzzle deep into Shawna’s belly. She stared Shawna down and smiled wickedly at her. The two women stood eye-to-eye for what seemed like ten minutes. Shawan shivered in anticipation. Her pussy dripped love juices. Her heart pounded. Raquel assumed she was terrified. “Like this!” Raquel fired a single .32 round into Shawna’s flat belly.
Shawna clutched her wounded belly. She moaned, Oh, I’m shot!”
“And you’re fuckin’ dead too!” Raquel told her. “Fall down.”
Shawna obediently fell at Raquel’s feet. Her lovely body trembled and then was still. Blood slowly trickled from her punctured belly button and pooled beneath her. There was a serene smile on her luscious lips.
The crowd was on its feet shouting, screaming, cheering, and chanting: “Raquel! Raquel! Raquel!”
A clean up crew dragged the elegant corpses to the edge of the court and lined them up side by side. The sports photographers went wild.
Off to one side the Commissioner spoke to one of her assistants. “Auction the bodies off to the lowest bidders. And cancel the application for the Pro’s; they aren’t getting in my league.” Then off she stormed, wondering how she would ever break this terrible news to the Matriarch.
Final Score:
Cowgirls: 12.
Pro’s: 1.
End of Chapter Four.
*Pencil Test: To determine if a woman’s breasts are firm enough that she does not need a bra. Place a pencil under a woman’s breast. If it falls, her breast is firm enough for her to dress without a bra. If it stays there, she needs a bra. Cheerleader League rules require all applicants to pass Pencil Test. Bras are then optional, but preferred for decorative purposes.