Tricia Takes One for the Team

If there are two things in life that I really hate, they must be: stereotyping and racism. So I have to warn you in advance that this story is about both of them. But it's a story that needs to be told because the ending is so satisfying.

I was born and grew up in New York City. One of the stereotypes that I would like to dispel right away is that all Jewish males are smart. I'm Jewish, but in high school I was only an average student. Still, my parents want me to go to college, so I applied around. I had been told by Guidance that southern colleges were easier to get into, so I applied to a couple of them. Not only was I accepted by both of the two I applied to, but "Ole Miss" even awarded me a scholarship. I found out later it was because they wanted "diversification" on the campus. They didn't want ALL of the students to be white Christians from the South, and since I was a New York City Jew, I was just what they wanted for diversification. So as strange as it might sound, I went to Ole Miss.

I had always loved sports, but I was never very good at it. Still, at Ole Miss when I volunteered to be business manager of the football team, they jumped at the chance to have me. After all, who would not want to have a genuine Jew as business manager?

And it was as manager of the football team that I got to meet Tricia (short for Patricia) Williamson. Tricia was one of the cheerleaders for the football team, and she fulfilled all of the qualifications: She was about five-six, 110 pounds, beautiful blonde hair, blue eyes and a figure that any girl would have died for.

She was not adverse to dating football players—as long as they were white, which was about half the team. Being business manager, I got to know her pretty well on the bus rides to other schools for games. As we all know, dark-haired Jews love blonde girls, so I asked her out—and was surprised when she accepted my invitation. The source of my attraction for her apparently was because I was from the big city of New York—almost an alien in other words.

My last name is "Miller," and I did not realize until she went into one of her rants while we were on a date that she was totally unaware that I was Jewish. She apparently did not know that "Miller" could be a Jewish name, ala Arthur Miller, and since I did not have a big hook nose, she never suspected a thing.

"You would have liked it a lot better here at Ole Miss in the old days," she said one night while we were on a date. "I was not here at that time of course, but my daddy, who went here, told me Ole Miss used to be a school for only white people from good families."

"Really?" I replied.

"Yes, and now look at all the colored who are here. Half of the football team is colored!"

"I know."

She leaned over conspiratorially. "It all started with the Jews, you know."

"Really?"

"Yes, back in the early sixties, the school had to start letting Jews in because of a court order. It all came from that Eisenhower—that's a Jewish name you know."

"No kidding?"

"Then it was only a matter of time before they had to start letting the coloreds in. The Jews made it possible."

"I'll be darned."

Tricia not only was very pretty, but to my surprise she also was sexually active, hotter than a southern firecracker in other words, and it was not long before we were doing it on a regular basis. I lived in one of the dorms with two other roommates, but they always went out drinking on Friday night. Tricia would come over shortly after they had left, and we would spend most of the evening fucking like rabbits. Despite having a sweet, pretty, innocent face, Tricia was sexually adventurous and ready to try any new position—or any new perversion. She always insisted on both of us doing it completely naked on top of the bed with no covers on, or up against the wall, also naked. And the door had to be left unlocked. I think the idea of possibly getting discovered appealed to her.

Also, she hated condoms. "I want to feel it squirt inside me," she said with a smile. So she made sure she took her pill regularly. This was okay with me because I didn't like condoms either.

One of the things I liked about her the most was her unusual blonde public hair. Instead of being rough and crinkly like most girls, her maidenhair was straight and silky, like southern corn silk. I loved licking it and pushing my tongue through it.

But despite the fact that she was a sexual treasure, I was beginning to get really pissed off at her because of her constant rants about the "coloreds" and about the "Jews." I decided I was going to dump her, but before doing so, I would have one final fling with her—one that would really surprise her.

Damon Williams, a black man from Jackson, Miss., was the captain of the football team and a good friend. When I told Damon about my plans, at first he was scared of the idea. "This is the South, you know," he said. But when I explained to him how there could not possibly be any repercussions, he started getting interested. The idea of a southern black man having sex with a beautiful blonde white cheerleader really appealed to him. But it was not only him.

"You have to line up seven other players," I said. "I'll leave that to you. You can pick anyone you want. The only requirement is: They have to be black."

Damon grinned. "It's a deal. When?"

"Line up in the hallway outside my room around eight p.m."

He shook my hand. "Will do."

That Friday night, Tricia arrived at my room around 7:30. She was wearing a pretty white linen dress and low-heeled white shoes.

"How about a couple of bourbon-and-waters before we start?" I asked.

"Sure." She liked to drink, and this time there was a method in my madness. After three stiff drinks, she decided it was getting too warm in the room, so she took off all her clothes, underwear too. She put her hands on top of her head. "What shall we do now?" she asked coyly.

"I want to do something a little different tonight," I said.

"Great. What is it?"

"Well, I happened to find a copy of COSMO magazine that some guy's date must have left in the Social Room. I was reading this article in there that said a woman can greatly enhance her sexual pleasure by having her boyfriend put a blindfold on her. That way, she can fantasize that she doesn't know the person she's having sex with. It could be a complete stranger."

"Wow. That sounds kinky but fun, so let's do it. Do you have a blindfold?"

"Not a real one, but I can use my scarf."

"Okay."

"The article also says that her boyfriend ought to do it to her from the back, doggy-style, which will add even more to her not knowing who it could be."

"That sounds like fun too—and I like it that way anyhow."

"Let's do it then." I got the wool scarf I had uselessly brought down to Ole Miss and blindfolded her with it, tying it in the back—as she got on all fours on the bed. "The article also said the boyfriend ought to make it last as long as possible. So if he feels himself getting too excited, he ought to withdraw until he calms down a little, then stick it back in again. So I'll do that too."

"Sounds good."

One of the things I had discovered about Tricia was that it did not take her long to get sexually excited. Just talking about it excited her, so I could feel with two of my fingers that her little blonde pussy was already warm and wet. Gently, I inserted my cock in her and pumped a dozen times or so. "I'm going to have to pull out already," I said, "I'm getting too excited. I'll walk around a little bit."

"Okay, I'll be here."

I pulled it out, walked quietly over to the door and opened it. Damon and his seven buddies were all lined up in the hall, all of them with wicked but nervous smiles on their faces. I put my finger to my lips for them to be quiet, pointed to their shoes to indicate they were to take them off, which they did, and then motioned for them to come in. They lined up against the wall near the bed, Damon in the lead. I could see they were enjoying the view of naked Tricia already. I motioned for them all to drop their pants and shorts, which they did.

"Okay," I said, "I guess I'm ready for a second round."

"Good, cause I'm ready to come again."

"You're making my cock even bigger with talk like that."

"Great."

I motioned for Damon to come over. He climbed on the bed behind her and eased his big black cock inside her. Then he took her by the hips and savored the experience as much as he could, going in and out of her slowly a dozen times before coming.

"Wow!" she cried. "You were bigger."

"This will be a night to remember then, because it's still big."

"Then let's do it again."

I couldn't believe we were going to get away with this, but I could see she was so foggy from booze and lust that the only thing which mattered was the way her pussy felt. Rational logic did not enter into it.

I motioned Damon away.

"I can't believe I'm still hard," I said.

"Neither can I. I know you came in me. I could feel it."

"I know, but I'm ready to go again."

"Then let's do it."

I waved the next man, Tyrell, on.

So gradually, we worked our way through all eight members of the team. Finally they stood there, some with limp and dripping dicks, and some with still semi-hard cocks. I gave them all a silent high five.

But this was too good to waste by letting her think it all was me. It was time to end the charade.

"Tricia, I'm afraid I have a confession to make," I said.

"What's that?"

"You can turn and face me."

She did—but left the blindfold on.

"I know how you feel about Jews," I reminded her.

"So?"

"Well, apparently you don't know that 'Miller' is mostly a Jewish name, like Arthur Miller, the playwright. My grandfather's real name was 'Muelenberg.' They changed it to 'Miller' when they came to America."

She pulled the scarf down.

"So for the last three months, you have been well-fucked by a New York Jew," I said.

She stared at me in disbelief.

"I'm even thinking about calling your father and telling him about it. But not only that. You know that you've been well-fucked tonight, but not all of it was by me. Most of it was by these eight fine gentlemen here." I pointed over her shoulder.

She turned to view eight black football players, several of them with still-dripping dicks, others looking like they were ready for another round.

"AGHHHHHH!" She started to scream. And she was still screaming when I threw her clothes at her. "You can get dressed now, and if you want to keep this delightful little story quiet, I would suggest you not report it," I said. "Because if you do, everyone on campus will know about it—that you were ganged-banged by the black members of the team." She glared at me with daggers as she started to dress. Finally, when she was finished dressing, she turned and tried in the most dignified manner she could muster to walk to the door.

She turned at the door. "FUCK YOU!" she cried.

"I think you already did," I replied.

And then she left, slamming the door. Ah well, all's well that ends well. But I had the feeling that my chances of getting another date with her were over.

On the other hand, I and the guys did enjoy for many a Friday night the video we had taken After all, what's the point of blindfolding a naked girl unless you're going to videotape it?

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