tyattlee@yahoo.com.au
Story is for ADULTS ONLY. The story is fiction.
COACH STEELE
Chapter 4
by Ty Attlee
This is the last episode of `Coach Steele,' for my career in the boat crew has come to a regrettable and painful end. To those readers who have sent me emails, I can't tell you what a kick it's been knowing that I've gotten into your heads with my adventures in discipline with Coach Steele. So thanks. For my very special readers (you know who you are!) who have corresponded in personal ways, I want this last episode to provide the correct closure, and I hope that my story has achieved the standards you required of me. My writing skills have come a long way, thanks to your coaching.
Nifty provides a wonderful resource on the web for people like me, who live in isolated (by world standards) conditions and it has enabled me to connect with like-minded people from faraway places, so I hope anyone who has followed my short and abbreviated story to consider donating money to the archive. Yes, I am breaking "fourth wall" protocol in the body of the story, but this final chapter is intended as a diary entry and wholesome conclusion.
To get ahead and stop boring you, I was whipped by Coach Steele and kicked out of the boat-crew, so if that's what you want to hear about, read on! One special reader has ordered that I write all the details. Fasten your seatbelts to hear about my humiliating demise!
The morning after my fuckup, I was late for training. My clock said 3:56am and I knew I was fucked. In those moments my head spun as I wondered what the fuck I could do. I wanted to turn back time, at least ten minutes, so I could sprint down to the Surf-Club. But the reality was; there was no way I could get there in time. Every training morning, no one in the crew had been late – now I was the fuckup!
I had a hangover, but I snapped on my race-bikini and sprinted, hoping that if I was fast enough, maybe I could sweat off my shitty hangover. The other three were at attention at the muster-stands under lights, ten whole minutes after 4:00am. They were waiting for me.
It's a little bit hard to remember what happened next. Coach Steele wasn't noisy and nor did he show any anger that I recall. I was told to muster in the boat-shed with my toes on a specific crack in the floor. I remember Coach Steele spending some time making sure my toes were right where he wanted them, and there I stayed. My crewmates rolled the boat out while I watched, and Coach Steele vented his anger on them. They shouldered the boat and commenced a soft-sand punishment-drill with one team-member short. Their wayward, missing crewmember was mustered in the shed while they humped the boat on the 5k track. I felt sick, and it wasn't the hangover.
I could hear the Coach on the Suzuki's loudspeaker as he tracked them on the run, and he wasn't being merciful. I hated to think how only three guys could carry that boat, and the whole time I didn't dare move my toes off that line in the cement. Derek, Justin, and Sean were being hurt real bad and it was all my fault. They drilled the track four times, were watered under the shower-nozzle, and then drilled again. As morning broke I heard the phone ringing in the office, and I knew it was about my crime the night before. For those not in the know, I had caused some broken glass while in a drunken state, and the consequences are something I am very ashamed of. I would have gladly drilled to exhaustion for punishment, but the Coach was making the others do it for me while I stood to attention. Those guys suffered Hell-Day thanks to my fuckup.
I couldn't answer the phone, couldn't move, just waited while the guys were tortured on the track. I heard the Suzuki getting softer and louder as they traced in the sand five kilometres, up and down, as the sun came up. I knew the sand would be getting hotter and hotter. My dick was hard, but I didn't feel any excitement. It was just tension, and my dick is hard all the time anyway.
The roller-door on the shed was wide open and I could see the surf as the sun rose. The crew was still out there drilling, but the Coach came in to me. He was calm – not even businesslike – just calm. He went into the office and came out with his set of handcuffs. The last time I'd seen them was last season when he nailed up a crewmember for an infraction. He grabbed one of my wrists and swung them on. They closed with a clickety-click.
"Get them over the rail and get the other one on," he said. His voice was cool, just as if he were telling me to wash the boat or clean the floor of the clubhouse back in my U17 days, but now I was in such big trouble, I was trembling and my cock was hard in my racers.
The overhead rail is part of the board racks, and I had to jump to flick the cuffs over, then I had to fiddle around to snap them onto my other wrist. I was right up on my toes, hanging with my wrists locked overhead. Coach Steele took out his penknife and snipped my racers off. Just then, without him saying anything, I knew I was out of the boat-crew. The crew race-briefs are special blue and yellow jobs supplied by Spank, and I had been stripped of my colours.
The coach was gone to take care of the crew that I was no longer part of, and I was left to feel the forlorn remnant of my broken crew-membership with my toes as it lay at my feet on the cement. My cock was swung hard up into my belly, but I really felt no emotion. I guess being ejected from the crew was a shattering blow.
I found that if I hopped up, I could grab the rail and hang there without the strain on my wrists. The roller-door opens onto a relatively unpopulated part of the beach, so whenever I saw someone coming past, I dropped down to my toes and twisted my wrists so that I presented my backside instead of my erected crank. Even in the shade of the shed, the heat made me sweat and I felt it running in my armpits and my butt-crack. I imagined the guys out there drilling in the sand, and I also imagined the word getting around to the regulars that there was one of the crew rowers hauled up naked in the shed.
There were a couple of surfers who I think were tourists. I'd never seen them before and they came right into the shed. They just stood staring and grinning. I could see from their eyes they were stoned. I said "What are you looking at?" and one of them said "You!"
Jinky Mills was there, and I said to him "Jinky, shut the door, will you?" but he didn't. Some regular pervs came up close and started touching, so I slid down the rail, inch by inch, hand over hand, but of course I couldn't get away. Some kids wouldn't dare come in through the door. They just hung around like flies because someone said "Ty's gonna get a whuppin'! I seen the coach cutting off some flex!"
In the clubhouse there are these big windows with blinds, and there are long plastic rods to twist which make the blinds open and close. That's what he used. I guess he just cut it down. When he came, everybody scattered – except me of course!
"Get back to your position," he said calmly, and I slowly slid back down the rail, hopping and jerking with my hands up there in the cuffs.
"Hurry up!" It was the old Coach Steele thundercrack, and I jerked real fast to get my toes back on that line. I noticed that my Spank race-brief was gone, so I guess someone took it, and even though it's sliced and ruined, I suppose someone's getting some use out of it.
The plastic rod whizzed in the air, almost making a whistle as Coach Steele tested it. It was long and made of clear plastic. I heard one of the female committee members outside trying to shoo people away, but I saw Jinky Mills and one or two others peeking around the edge of the door.
The Coach said in his calm voice that a lecture at this point would serve no purpose, and I didn't contradict him. I was ready for the whip. The first stroke was like a red-hot wire on my ass. It was such a shock, and I yelled "FUCK!!! FUCK!!! FUCK!!!" I remember thinking that there was no fucking way I could take another cut with that whip, and I kept on yelling "FUCK!!!".
"Did that hurt?" Jinky Mills yelled into the shed, and Coach Steele turned around and thundered "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" The shed amplified his voice, and I heard no more from Jinky. Please, just one! I thought. A new sweat had broken out on me, and my ass burned with white-hot fire. I knew then that I wouldn't be sitting down for a long time, and a funny thing, I wondered how I would be eating my dinner that night, standing up.
The rod whistled as it was tested and flexed in the air, and now, as I remember that sound, my ass clenches and my body stiffens. The second stroke was about ten times worse than the first. There was snot dribbling down my face. I remember all my thoughts very clearly, and the words at my lips in those moments were "No Coach! No more!" But those words didn't come. I just hung there hooting and howling and dribbling snot.
There were two more cuts. The coach delivered them with all his strength. It was only later under the shower nozzle that I started to cry. The water cut my ass like brand-new whip-strokes, I was kicked off the boat-crew, and my former crewmates were undergoing a Coach Steele Hell-Day. I made sure to finish my blubbing before I got out from under the water. I found someone's old Speedos in a bucket in the clubhouse and ran home with the Speedos yanked down at the rear so they didn't go against my whip-burned butt. Those four red cuts are only starting to fade now.
Well, that's the end of "Coach Steele" on Nifty. The real coach and I still have a future, and life goes on. I would like to write that Sean carefully smeared soothing cream on my rump and kissed me on the lips and licked away my tears, but he suffered Coach Steele's Hell-Session that day, and I can't blame him for not talking to me. I also wish he sucked my cock. I go all queasy in the tummy when I think about him, and thankfully I know we're still friends.
I'll say I've been replaced in the boat crew with a kid I know well and I wish him and the rest of the crew the best of luck. And Coach Steele? He's roaring and hollering and drilling that crew while I do patrols and practice with the board. The new kid is bigger than me and their positions have been shifted to make a more balanced and stronger pull. They'll have to maintain strict discipline throughout the season and stay away from booze and partying. I get a lurch of regret when I hear Coach Steele's voice drilling those guys, but I also feel a twang of excitement. Maybe, if I'm still around next season, he'll coach me in the board events. I'm too light for the boat anyway. Whenever I go into the shed now I look to the spot where I took my whipping and suck-back at the memory and feel those hot stripes on my ass. Coach Steele dominated my life for a few short weeks, and deep down, I want him to do it again.