Copyright 2010 by the author.
There is no direct sex in this but there are Speedos. I might be able to think up another story about Swim Coach From Hell if there is any interest shown.
I should really thank R. A. Swain, author of "Coach Adam's Humiliation."
Thoby Andover thobyandover@y7mail.com
SWIM COACH FROM HELL
Shucked to his Speedo bikini and with his toes at the white painted line, Mathew trembled and shivered. He knew immediately when he was hostage to Coach Hardcourte -- the bellowing tyrant of Barewood University Swim Team. The frightening tank of a man administered the competition swimmers with an iron efficiency, and the words from his mouth -- nay -- the orders from that bullhorn orifice, were the stuff of an incoming artillery barrage.
"GET YOUR FUCKING TOES ON THE LINE, FAGGOT-BOY!" had been the air-renting holler. The younger boys had scattered and the more junior coaches slipped silently from the scene, disappearing around the corners of the cement-block dressing shelter. Mathew stiffened on the line, his joints creaking and his knees popping in the chilled morning frost.
"SUCK IN! CHIN UP! FINGERS IN TO THE THIGHS! CHIN UP I SAID, FAGGOT-BOY! CHIN UP!" yelled the bullhorn, sending the early birds to flight from their breakfast in the lawn surrounding the salt-water pool. Mathew stood to attention like a rod, fixed to the painted line on the cement, his heart thumping a cadenced crescendo. "AND CLENCH YOUR BUTT, YOU JELLY-LIVERED PUNK!" the feared coach bellowed.
Mathew had glanced down quickly, making damn sure his toes were on the line -- not over it and not before it. He sucked his belly and extended his fingers and thumbs straight down by his sides, and stuck his chin up to the cold air of the pre-dawn sky. He saw night-time stars and felt his nips harden and pout in the frosty dawn. But fuck! He had expected a nice easy training session with Coach MacMillon after winning at the inter-college meet -- a few easy warm-up laps, a towelling-off and then probably a trip with the coach to the Krispy-Creme drive-through for breakfast. But Coach MacMillon hadn't made it to training this morning.
"MacMillon just phoned. His battery's flat. He won't be coming in," Coach Dearny had said as Mathew rushed past the office. Fantastic! No training today! He'd be straight off to Krispy-Creme then! But there had been a strange little catch discernable in Coach Dearny's voice.
"... erm... Coach Hardcourte's waiting."
Coach Hardcourte! A steel weight dropped in Mathew's belly. Then the foghorn voice hit the cold, misty air.
"... TO THE LINE, BOY! NOW! MOVE!"
Coach Hardcourte never spoke in normal tones. At least, no one had ever heard him do so. He ran the admin, organised the other coaches, scheduled the training, and occasionally -- very occasionally -- coached the grade A relay team if they'd been slacking off. His days of coaching full-time were over, thank God, but he still cut a fearsome swathe whenever he appeared. Coach Hardcourte. A mention of the name was enough to educe a worried gulp, and the sound of his voice -- well, members of the swim team were best advised to clear the hell out if that thundering roar was heard coming over the horizon.
How the fuck did this happen? Coach Hardcourte was never around for the early morning training! What the fuck? Mathew swallowed hard and stood with his knees together, as straight and as still as he could.
Ryan Hardcourte ran a trainer's eye over the pretty-boy U20 champion. Overdeveloped thighs. No good for speed in the water. Pecs too small for long-distance, but they were pert and upstanding, and with the super-slim streamlined profile, good for sprints. The melon of the kid's tummy had the necessary rows of bumps, which now fluttered and twitched under smooth skin. Back in the day, if Hardcourte had found a layer of fat on the belly of one of his swimmers at the start of the season, he would administer a winding punch to the guts. Those days were over. Pity.
Shaggy head. The little fucker needed a conversation with a set of clippers. And the low-riding, slimline Speedo was way too small. Hardcourte supposed that the tuft of hair showing above the drawstring at the pubic line was considered `cute' these days. A tightly-wrapped schlong was folded around to the left, reaching the hip and pressing its underside curve against the sheer nylon. A big vein pulsed visibly.
"DON'T STARE AT ME, FAGGOT-BOY! SUCK THAT FUCKING GUT IN!"
The kid jumped, and Hardcourte strode around him, snorting like a horse. He consulted his clipboard.
"Mathew Crack!"
"Yes, Sir," the boy yipped.
"That your name?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Well that's a fine fucking thing because from here I can see your coin-slot," the coach bawled from behind. "HEAR ME, BOY? YOUR RACERS ARE SO SMALL I CAN SEE THE FUCKING TOP OF YOUR BUTT-CRACK!"
The coach reckoned he could hear the kid whimper. If these swim-team faggots wanted to parade around showing their pubes and their ass-cracks to each other -- with their tiny bubble-butts and their wiggling hips -- then fuck it! He'd show them how to do it! This one was even named Crack, for fuck's sake!
"YOU WANT YOUR CRACK SHOWING, CRACK?"
"... N -- n -- no... S..."
"SAY `SIR, YES, SIR,' FAGGOT!"
"Sir, yes, Sir."
"THAT'S `SIR, YES, SIR,' BOY!"
"SIR... YES... SIR."
Hardcourte grasped the rear portion of the boy's Speedo with a mighty fist, and wrenched upwards good and hard, hoisting the swimmer to his tippy-toes. The ass-section of the nylon racer slipped into the tight cleft as if it belonged there. He then propelled the flailing, gasping boy by the stretched nylon across the concrete to the edge of the pool and flung him in. The ker-splash was a classic uncontrolled belly-flopper, and the pavement was wet for yards around.
Mathew gurgled and bubbled underwater in shock. The icy water knocked the breath from his unprepared flesh and his sphincter-hole puckered tight-shut, violently and suddenly sawed by the twisted rope of fabric gripped by his butt-cheeks. He surfaced, gasping.
"LANE ONE, YOU LAZY FUCK-BAG!"
He swam. It was quite a few strokes before he found rhythm and the black line at the bottom waggled in his blurred vision. The catapult assistance Coach Hardcourte had provided had not lent itself to a graceful entry or the start of a good lap, and Mathew had to blow the water from his nose before his breathing settled. Nevertheless, the coach's thunderclap voice was on top of him immediately.
"SHIT! TOLD ME YOU WERE THE UNDER TWENTY STAR! WHAT A FUCKING JOKE! YOU FLOUNDER LIKE FAGGOT, SON! GONNA NEED TO GET YOU SOME WATER-WINGS AND A FRILLY CAP!"
Coach Hardcourte's voice modulated between an ear-splitting roar and a slightly muffled burble as Mathew's head turned in the rushing water. He gained his momentum and strained hard, and the muscles at his shoulders warmed. A couple of times, he tried to snatch the Speedo out from his ass, but it had twisted and binded in there tight.
"LEAVE YOUR ASS ALONE, BOY! IS THIS A FUCKING JOKE?! SWIM! YOU FUCK-BAG!"
Obviously, his bared rump would be visible on the surface. Shit! It would look like he was lapping wearing a g-string! Just fucking great! Probably Tony would turn up at the pool. And Derek, and some of his other pals, and they would see him like this. In a thong and being abused by Coach Hardcourte! Those Krispy-Creme donuts seemed a long way away.
Tony Anderson heard the commotion well before he neared pool enclosure. What was it? Sounded like a hippo having a conniption. Wait a minute! That was Coach Hardcourte! And he was lapping some poor fucker!
Whoowee, Tony thought. No way am I going anywhere near this! Coach Hardcourte sounds fucking ang-ger-ree! He about faced and began to march in the opposite direction, but then he circled around again and made for the rear of the dressing block. Someone had to have fucked up badly to wind up being lapped by Hardcourte, and Tony wanted to see.
The booming voice reverberated on the concrete as he peeked carefully from the corner of the shed. There was Hardcourte, at the edge of the pool with a clipboard in his hand, stalking the unfortunate swimmer. So who was it? Yikes! The poor sucker was naked! No. He had his Speedo hoiked up his ass like a thong. Ha! Hardcourte must have done that on purpose! What a shit!
It was Mathew! But Mathew usually trained with Coach MacMillon. Well, whatever. For some reason, Mathew got unlucky today! That was for sure! Tony's genital meat twitched slightly. Nice butt, Mathew!
"OUT!" the coach screamed as Mathew splashed to the end of a lap. Tony saw his friend raise himself at the edge, bring up one leg, and hoist his wet rump from the pool. Mathew looked hard-worked and done-in. Fifty laps? Maybe.
"ON THE LINE, BOY. MOVE!"
The bedraggled swimmer leapt and landed on the line in an instant puddle, snapping his hands down by his sides. He hadn't even the chance to pull the Speedo from his rear. Tony winced as Coach Hardcourte began a murderous tirade.
"YOU CALL THAT A TRAINING RUN, BOY? LIKE FUCK! BACK IN THE DAY ONE OF MY SWIMMERS WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO STAND AFTER I'D PACED THEM! AND THEY SURE AS FUCK WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO GROW A BONER!"
A boner? Tony saw that Mathew had reached around to his front.
"LEAVE YOUR CRANK ALONE, FAGGOT!"
Throwing a boner was always a danger in a Speedo, but it was a little embarrassing to pull one while being-bawled out by Coach Hardcourte, surely! Tony wondered if he could circle around without being seen, to get a look at Mathews hard-on. He didn't need to.
"GET TO THE CAR-PARK, BOY! THERE'S WORK FOR YOU! MOVE!"
As Mathew turned and ran, Tony saw the upright prong at his belly. It had popped out! And now it curved like a big banana to the navel. It didn't even wobble as he ran.
Indeed, Mathew's cock was a steel pole thrusting proudly into the open air. But once around the corner of the dressing block, he was able to seize the behind of his Speedo and finally unfold it from his crack. Then, he bent his disobedient cock over hard, making it hurt, and put it back in its pouch. Fuck! How worse could this get? It was daylight now and there were a few guys around the pool who had seen the whole thing! The bawling-out, the popped erection. Everything! Coach Hardcourte didn't even care! Why was this happening?
Mathew cupped his front-packet with his hand. Thank God the hard-on had gone down! But what was he supposed to do in the car-park? In nothing but a Speedo?
"SEE THAT VEHICLE, BOY?"
He saw it. It was Coach Hardcourte's big old Ford truck, covered in splattered dried mud. And the coach was approaching with a hose. Mathew stood in the car-park, confused, as Hardcourte began hosing down the Ford.
"DON'T JUST STAND THERE, FUCK-BAG! WASH MY FUCKING TRUCK!"
Mathew looked at the coach questioningly. Wash his truck? What with?
"USE YOUR FUCKING SPEEDO! SHIT-FOR-BRAINS!"
He knew better than to hesitate, and with a quick wiggle, he was out of his racer bikini and using them to scrub away at the caked dirt on the truck, under the cold jet directed by Coach Hardcourte. As he worked, the coach directed him from place to place at top volume. "GET UNDER THE RUNNING BOARD, PUNK-BOY!" and "INTO THE TRAY, FAGGOT! GET ALL THAT DIRT OFF!"
Tony gasped as he viewed the scene from behind the shed. Mathew's neatly-muscled bare butt waggled as he rubbed at the vehicle and his cock jingle-jangled around as his hips moved. It took quite some time, but finally, the coach climbed into his clean truck and departed with a roar and shower of gravel, leaving the naked Mathew standing thoroughly wet and holding his ruined Speedo.
thobyandover@y7mail.com