Professor Jane Wentworth hated, HATED, basketball. She couldn't stress her hatred of it enough. From the dribbly ball to the sweaty jerseys to the courts and stadiums, everything about it was disgusting and a monumental waste of time. She said as much in her lectures, chastising the modern university focus on sports over smarts that led to idiots filling her classes instead of students eager to get their education.
Her mistake was not caring when the star athlete recorded her ranting between facts about the Spanish Civil War. And refusing to budge when the department told her to recant. That led to the chain of events that put her in front of a mirror, wearing a top with the word BALLIN on the chest.
"Hurry it up, Sweet Tits. We've got a game in five."
Jane rolled her eyes. "I got it, asshole. I got it."
She stared at her stupid reflection. Each boy on the team had marked her with a tattoo of their choice. Bobby on her left thigh, Mark on her neck. Steve loved the picture of a sexy woman on her arm to remind her of her purpose on the team even in the rare times when she wasn't showering with them in the locker room. As bad as that was, the nails, earrings and sexy makeup were worse. How in the hell was she supposed to play if she couldn't handle the ball?
... Is what she would have thought if she didn't know better. Strutting out of the room on her worn out tennis shoes, she headed down the hall and through double doors into her grand debut.
"Aaaaaaaaaand introducing the brand new cheerleader slash mascot slash clown of the team, Miiiiiss Ballin Baller!"
Under the hot lights and hotter cameras, Dr. Jane Wentworth waved at a crowd whose enthusiasm made her nipples hard with rage. The jumbotron hanging from the ceiling had her face, name, nickname, and tits plastered everywhere, perfectly in time for one of the boys to yank her top and expose her floppy big breasts. She spun around and stamped her foot in frustration, to the audience's delight. This was part of the show, they knew. She had pasties of the team mascot to prove it.
Squeezing her girls back into their tight package, Jane ignored the catcalls and wolf whistles. No point in condemning everyone for their behavior. She didn't have a microphone, and the announcers had strict orders to interpret everything she did to fit her new persona. She could still show a pissed sneer when the announcers retold the past few months with their own twist.
"You might remember Miss Ballin Baller as Jane Wentworth, that uptight history professor who said she hated basketball. After she went on her little tantrum, the university encouraged her to spend some time with the team. Not only did she find out she LOVES the game, but when she found out she knew less about her own subject than the captain of the team, she filed to have her own doctorate revoked and offered to take this new job to make up for her comments. Let's hear it again for Miss Ballin Baller!"
Another eruption of cheer left an aggravated pit in her stomach. Most of it was true... but they shouldn't say it! Not like that! She thought her challenging the captain on competing lectures of her specialty would be a shoe in. She never thought a meathead like him would have that much knowledge even if it was his major. Legally, she had no room. She had signed the papers, agreed to the terms, and lost. Now she had to play ball.
Bouncing the hated orange thing didn't ease her frustration. It grew. Each up and down added another angry layer as she approached the free throw line. A hush fell in the stadium.
"Here it is, folks," the announcer said. "If she can sink it in five shots, free popcorn. If she can't, the minx will have to practice at halftime."
She HAD to get it in. Anything to cut the humiliation down. She made her first shot. Nothing but net. The bad way. She made another. Then another. Then another. Between the booing and the cheering, she didn't know what they wanted more. Food or more chances to watch her fail. With her last chance, she paused and concentrated really, really hard. Day after day after day of enduring practice with the boys had to count for SOMETHING.
She threw the ball. It hit the backboard. If this were one of those pathetic sports movies, she might have sunk it, but she was real. In the real world, tossing a ball at the backboard with all your might sent it careening right back at you with full force. It slammed her in the chest, knocked the wind out of her, and dropped her on her sexy ass. Shaking the cobwebs out of her head, she slammed fist into the wood floor.
"No!" she shouted.
"Aww, too bad for Ballin Baller. She'll get it one of these days. Hey, at least we'll get to enjoy her sexy moves while she's cheerleading for her team!"
Lifting herself off the ground, she head for side court. The defeat already stung. A swat to her ass added a new sting, and she glared over her shoulder at the perpetrator, Brian.
"A for effort, teach," he said. "Or should I say Baller?"
"No, no, it's Sweet Tits to us," added Nate.
Raging as it was, she walked off to join the cheerleader line. Who by their expressions, had some fun and embarrassing ideas of their own to try on her.
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Professor Jane Wentworth hated, HATED, basketball. She couldn't stress her hatred of it enough. From the dribbly ball to the sweaty jerseys to the courts and stadiums, everything about it was disgusting and a monumental waste of time. She said as much in her lectures, chastising the modern university focus on sports over smarts that led to idiots filling her classes instead of students eager to get their education.
Her mistake was not caring when the star athlete recorded her ranting between facts about the Spanish Civil War. And refusing to budge when the department told her to recant. That led to the chain of events that put her in front of a mirror, wearing a top with the word BALLIN on the chest.
"Hurry it up, Sweet Tits. We've got a game in five."
Jane rolled her eyes. "I got it, asshole. I got it."
She stared at her stupid reflection. Each boy on the team had marked her with a tattoo of their choice. Bobby on her left thigh, Mark on her neck. Steve loved the picture of a sexy woman on her arm to remind her of her purpose on the team even in the rare times when she wasn't showering with them in the locker room. As bad as that was, the nails, earrings and sexy makeup were worse. How in the hell was she supposed to play if she couldn't handle the ball?
... Is what she would have thought if she didn't know better. Strutting out of the room on her worn out tennis shoes, she headed down the hall and through double doors into her grand debut.
"Aaaaaaaaaand introducing the brand new cheerleader slash mascot slash clown of the team, Miiiiiss Ballin Baller!"
Under the hot lights and hotter cameras, Dr. Jane Wentworth waved at a crowd whose enthusiasm made her nipples hard with rage. The jumbotron hanging from the ceiling had her face, name, nickname, and tits plastered everywhere, perfectly in time for one of the boys to yank her top and expose her floppy big breasts. She spun around and stamped her foot in frustration, to the audience's delight. This was part of the show, they knew. She had pasties of the team mascot to prove it.
Squeezing her girls back into their tight package, Jane ignored the catcalls and wolf whistles. No point in condemning everyone for their behavior. She didn't have a microphone, and the announcers had strict orders to interpret everything she did to fit her new persona. She could still show a pissed sneer when the announcers retold the past few months with their own twist.
"You might remember Miss Ballin Baller as Jane Wentworth, that uptight history professor who said she hated basketball. After she went on her little tantrum, the university encouraged her to spend some time with the team. Not only did she find out she LOVES the game, but when she found out she knew less about her own subject than the captain of the team, she filed to have her own doctorate revoked and offered to take this new job to make up for her comments. Let's hear it again for Miss Ballin Baller!"
Another eruption of cheer left an aggravated pit in her stomach. Most of it was true... but they shouldn't say it! Not like that! She thought her challenging the captain on competing lectures of her specialty would be a shoe in. She never thought a meathead like him would have that much knowledge even if it was his major. Legally, she had no room. She had signed the papers, agreed to the terms, and lost. Now she had to play ball.
Bouncing the hated orange thing didn't ease her frustration. It grew. Each up and down added another angry layer as she approached the free throw line. A hush fell in the stadium.
"Here it is, folks," the announcer said. "If she can sink it in five shots, free popcorn. If she can't, the minx will have to practice at halftime."
She HAD to get it in. Anything to cut the humiliation down. She made her first shot. Nothing but net. The bad way. She made another. Then another. Then another. Between the booing and the cheering, she didn't know what they wanted more. Food or more chances to watch her fail. With her last chance, she paused and concentrated really, really hard. Day after day after day of enduring practice with the boys had to count for SOMETHING.
She threw the ball. It hit the backboard. If this were one of those pathetic sports movies, she might have sunk it, but she was real. In the real world, tossing a ball at the backboard with all your might sent it careening right back at you with full force. It slammed her in the chest, knocked the wind out of her, and dropped her on her sexy ass. Shaking the cobwebs out of her head, she slammed fist into the wood floor.
"No!" she shouted.
"Aww, too bad for Ballin Baller. She'll get it one of these days. Hey, at least we'll get to enjoy her sexy moves while she's cheerleading for her team!"
Lifting herself off the ground, she head for side court. The defeat already stung. A swat to her ass added a new sting, and she glared over her shoulder at the perpetrator, Brian.
"A for effort, teach," he said. "Or should I say Baller?"
"No, no, it's Sweet Tits to us," added Nate.
Raging as it was, she walked off to join the cheerleader line. Who by their expressions, had some fun and embarrassing ideas of their own to try on her.