Lap of honour + Pic

I knelt there for a moment longer, breathing heavily, the warm cum on my lips, my fingers deep inside my dripping pussy. Through the hole, I heard the quiet question: “Can I have your knickers as a keepsake?”

Without thinking, I slid my tiny red knickers down and handed them to him through the hole. A satisfied laugh came from the other side. “Thanks, sweetie. You were already really wet.”

I stood up, my legs wobbly, my heart racing. My short cheerleader skirt was still on, but underneath I was now completely naked. No more knickers. My swollen, glistening labia were exposed, my clitoris throbbing and sensitive. A thin, warm trickle of my own moisture was already slowly running down the inside of my left thigh.

I quickly straightened my skirt and skimpy bikini top, took a deep breath and stepped out of the small press room.

The game wasn’t over yet.

No sooner was I outside than two of the winning players grabbed me by the waist and lifted me up as if I were the trophy of the evening.

“Lap of honour with our stand-in cheerleader!” they roared with laughter.

Before I could protest, they were already carrying me onto the pitch. My short red skirt immediately rode up. Because I wasn’t wearing any knickers, my bare, dripping pussy was visible to anyone close enough. The players held me aloft between them – one hand firmly under my bum, the other on my thigh, their fingers just millimetres from my pubic area.

The crowd went wild.

I felt the cool stadium air directly on my bare, hot pussy. Every step the players took made my skirt flutter further up. My swollen labia opened slightly with every step, and I felt another thick drop of my wetness ooze out and slowly run down my skin. It ran down the inside of my thigh and finally dripped onto the turf.

My face was flushed with both shame and lust. They’re all too far away, I tried to reassure myself. The lights are glaring, the stadium is huge… no one can see the details. They just think I’m still wearing my knickers…

But my body betrayed me. My nipples were rock-hard and clearly pressing through the thin top. It throbbed so intensely between my legs that I had to clench my teeth to stop myself from moaning out loud. The hand of one of the players under my bottom pressed tighter. His fingers now lay directly on my bare, smooth skin, just centimetres from my dripping slit. With every step, his fingertips brushed lightly over my outer labia.

I grew even wetter.

A second player, carrying me from the other side, slid his hand a little higher under my skirt. His fingers glided over the underside of my left breast, then lower, until they were almost between my legs. He was ‘stabilising’ me – at least that’s what he called it, chuckling quietly.

I felt every single touch like an electric shock. My pussy clenched, even more moisture ran out and made the insides of my thighs glisten. I was so aroused that I could barely breathe. The shame of being carried naked and dripping in front of 15,000 people mingled with such intense lust that my legs trembled slightly.

The crowd shouted my name. The big screens showed the celebrations, but I didn’t notice that Jan had also switched his filter to the stadium camera.

I waved and smiled, pom-poms in hand, whilst my bare pussy opened wider with every step the players took and my own wetness ran visibly down my thighs. The players deliberately held me a little lower, so that the skirt slipped up even higher. I felt their warm fingers brush over my bare mound again and again – sometimes ‘accidentally’, sometimes on purpose.

The players had noticed it long ago.

As they carried me high above their heads through the stadium, their warm hands could feel exactly that I wasn’t wearing any knickers. My bare, burning-hot and dripping pussy lay exposed beneath the short skirt. With every step, their fingers “accidentally” brushed against my smooth, swollen labia. Sometimes just lightly, sometimes much firmer, sometimes on purpose.

One of the two players, a tall, broad-shouldered striker, grinned up at me from below and whispered so quietly that only I could hear:

“Fuck, Lisa… you’re soaking wet. No knickers on? You’re really horny, aren’t you?”

I blushed bright red, but couldn’t reply because I was trying at the same time to wave the pompoms and not moan out loud. A thick drop of my wetness slowly ran down the inside of my thigh and dripped onto his hand.

The players exchanged a quick glance and laughed quietly.

When we had almost finished our lap of honour, they gently set me down right in front of the centre of the pitch. Both stood very close to me. One placed a hand on my lower back, the other on my bum, under my skirt, right on my bare skin.

The striker leaned towards my ear and whispered in a rough voice:

“Listen, sweetie… you’ve got a choice.

Either we take you to the team changing room now… or we let you crowd-surf with the fans.

But I’m warning you: if you surf, we’ll keep you up there long enough for everyone in the stadium to see how wet you are. And we’ll make sure the skirt stays up.”

My breath caught in my throat. My pulse was racing. It was throbbing so hard between my legs that I had to press my thighs together. The thought of being carried naked and dripping over the heads of 15,000 people made me feel both panicked and incredibly horny.

But the changing room… that sounded safer. Less public.

I swallowed hard and whispered in a trembling voice:

“...Changing room. Please.”