Shaving Down the Swim Coach

Shaving Down the Swim Coach

Note: Any resemblance to real people is strictly coincidental. No real people are depicted in this piece of fiction. This story contains explicit male to male sex, domination, bondage, and s/m. If you don't enjoy reading this sort of material or are under the age of 21, DO NOT CONTINUE READING. If you regard this type of material as depraved then do not read this story. This story is fantasy and I DO NOT espouse or endorse unprotected anal sex!

Although I was a fuckup in high school, I proved myself both athletically and intellectually capable at Junior College and was able to transfer to ___ University after my sophomore year. At that point I was really coming into my own as a swimmer, having finally reconciled myself to the fact that the thing I did best was, in my own opinion, a stupid sport, boring and lonely to train for, of little use in the glory department except for the few lucky souls who scored big at the Olympics, and kind of effeminate really, thanks to all the slender shaved blond stage-mama's boys who seemed to populate the sport. I had just stumbled into it myself, having grown up a surf bum's son (and when I say "bum" I don't exaggerate). But from the time I first hit water I was a natural and so through all my fuckups over the years it was the one talent that never failed me. In high school when I was so stoned I could barely talk I could still smash the district record in 200m fly.

So I entered _____ University as a junior largely on the strength of my proven swim talent, only to find out that the coach who had recruited me had left for a plum gig in California, and was being replaced by his long time assistant coach, Coach Harrison. Harrison, I was told, was an old school hardass, not like Coach Gregg, who though an old guy was very "progressive" in his training regimen - a less-is-more kind of guy. Harrison on the other hand had been a swimmer who went into water polo, and so had more of a Spartan attitude about the sport - Spartan in the sense that every man on the team must be willing to die for, or in this case, kill himself for, the team. None of my new teammates was thrilled with the news, but I could tell they were going to just be pussies and accept their fate anyway, while nevertheless bitching about it like a bunch of girls.

At first this change really pissed me off - no one had said a word to me about the move and I only learned about it at a party during rush week. But I changed my mind the first day of practice when I actually saw Coach Harrison in the flesh.

Our school had three pools in its aging aquatic complex: an indoor 50m 8-lane, an indoor 25m-8-lane, and an outdoor 50m-10-lane. That day we were working out indoors, so in the crappy lighting I wasn't sure of what I was seeing as Coach walked up to us until he was right in front of us. And then I thought I was dreaming. Coach was so damn hot I swear I started to bone up - a real problem for me since I am so well hung my junior college teammates had called me Pegger (as in Pegasus, as in The Flying Horse - my stroke is butterfly).

Coach Harrison was in his thirties, about 6 foot tall, maybe 6'1", and probably weighed in around 185. He wore a red crew neck shirt with our team logo stitched on it in gold (team colors), gray coach's shorts, athletic socks, and tennis shoes. And a whistle around his neck, always the whistle. He had the looks of an old school movie star: sandy blond hair streaked with sunbleached gold, deep soulful blue eyes, Roman nose, square jaw, cleft chin, full but not plump lips, heavy blond beard that even at 4 pm required a shave, great tan. Incredibly handsome, rugged, chiseled. To this day I don't think I've ever seen a more handsome man.

His forearms were thick and hairy, his hands large and manly. His biceps and shoulders were round, firm, ripped, and well developed - large, but not bulky. His legs were as hairy as an 18 year old's and perfectly muscled - his calves were full, rounded inverted teardrops and his thighs were ripped-muscular but not overdeveloped - I can't stand guys with thunderthighs, especially because they always seem to have balls that have shrunken (or never grew) to fit the cramped space. Coach's crotch, on the other hand, seemed to have a big bulge, but with those coach's shorts, it's always hard to tell. What was easy to tell from the shorts was the muscular roundness of his small but perfectly formed buttcheeks, because his shorts were so tight in back you could see his panty lines (a jock or a speedo or bikini briefs - couldn't tell more). His shirt was a little too loose to make out his muscular development, but judging from the rest of him I supposed he was beautifully developed there as well. In any case he didn't have a beer gut or flabby tits like many of his 30-something peers.

Well, this sight made up my mind. This coach was going to get more out of me than any coach ever had. I was going to give him my all. Well, that turned out to be true I suppose, but not in the way I thought. And certainly not in any way he was expecting.

Because as it turned out, Coach Harrison was something of a bastard. He was every bit the hardass I'd heard, but not in the way that inspires guys like me - only the guys motivated by fear. And I guess this was obvious in my manner or something because no matter how hard I tried, Coach never thought I was giving enough. I had such a crush on the guy that he could have asked me to work out eight, ten, twelve hours a day - as it was, I did six - and I would gladly have done it, just for a few words of encouragement from those hot lips, or a smile on that gorgeous mug.

I guess he was just one of the macho guys who for some reason thinks negative reinforcement is the way to build strength - like a Marine D.I. or something (not surprisingly, I later found out he had been in the Marines). If only he knew that I'd have quit the team if he wasn't the hottest dude I'd ever seen - or that I would have done almost anything to please him.

So the pleasure and pain of swimming for Coach Sam Harrison went on, with its huge ups and downs. I seriously contemplated quitting. And then, one day about three weeks into the fall semester we were swimming in the outdoor pool because an unseasonable heatwave had made the indoor pool unbearable. It got so hot that Coach actually stripped off his shirt, and that was all she wrote. I couldn't quit now! I had to stay on the team just so I could keep looking at this guy day after day. The idea of maybe possibly seeing him in the shower - which never happened - was enough to keep me coming to practice indefinitely.

When he pulled his shirt off I knew why Coach had left swimming for water polo - he was too freaking ripped to ever be a world class swimming star! Swimmers need some body fat to help us stay buoyant - the more buoyant you are, the less drag and the less work you have to do. So the best swimmers, no matter how hard they work out, always have a decent percentage of body fat. (Most water polo guys do too, but I guess sheer strength helps more there or something.) But Coach had like 4% body fat - you could see his muscular definition from 50 meters away! (Literally - that's how far away I was when he pulled off his shirt - and even then it was lucky I had my mirror goggles on so the other guys couldn't see me staring at his torso.) His pecs were sculpted slabs of u-shaped mansteak and his eightpack abs looked like a brick wall where someone had chiseled into the mortar. Like me, Coach had been a butterfly star - it's the stroke for tough guys, strong guys - but Coach had probably had to work twice as hard to get down the pool as me. (My specialty, however, was the 200 fly, a grueling distance; Coach did the sprint events of 100 fly, 100 free, and 50 free - I too was a freestyler at those sprint distances.) Then again, from his muscular development it was apparent he at least had strength going for him. I could see why he'd be a fearsome water polo opponent - he was as hard as steel and all angles and sharp edges, except for his rounded tits, asscheeks, biceps, and shoulders - and they were so ripped they looked like knotty wood. The only soft rondure in his physique was his gorgeous blue eyes - and, I supposed, his nuts and his dick when it was flaccid.

But the real icing on the cake was that on top of all that hot handsome hardness was a thick pelt of hair that covered his pecs, golden blond on the edges to dark blond over the sternum, narrowing to a slender channel as it flowed onto his abdomen, where it again flared out in sleek golden fur over his ripped abs and swirled around his inverted navel and then grew into a thick treasure trail (wide enough to be a treasure superhighway really) leading down to his unfortunately concealed crotch. His whistle rested in the middle of his chest, like a little silver bird almost obscured in a nest of golden straw. All those hours in the sun had turned Coach's body hair golden even as it turned his skin a rich nut brown.

Something changed in Coach when he took off his shirt that day, and on other warm days when he paraded around stripped to the waist. He became less businesslike and actually seemed to strut. Whereas he was always focused on the team when "in uniform," when he was dressed more like "one of the guys" - that is, half naked at the swimming pool - he asserted his alpha male status. He was the big tan hairy muscle man lording it over us pale pasty pool pussies, with our fishbelly-white complexions and our chlorine-green hair and our slimy-smooth squidlike bodies.

Well, most of us. I was an exception and very proud of it. My black Italian hair didn't bleach like all the blond and brunette guys and my legs were super hairy, as were my forearms, and I had a pretty heavy beard for a 20 year old, which I emphasized with my sloppy shaving habits (I wore stubble before it became fashionable, when it was still something that indicated you'd grown up white trash, as I had) and van dyke face fur. My chest was just starting to get hair on it (in the center), but I had hopes for a Coachlike pec-rug in the near future. In any case, I too strutted my furry stuff, much to the disgust of the rest of the team who thought that I, like them, should shave.

Coach thought so too. Once the season had started, he started badgering me to do the body shave thing, seemingly for team unity as much as to improve my own times. However, maybe it was just my imagination running wild, but in addition to Coach's valid reasons for wanting me to denude myself - faster times, team morale, because he was the coach and he said so - I suspected Coach also had some other reasons bound up in his ego, his authoritarian nature, and maybe even his sexual identity. He seemed to want me shaved a little too badly, and offered to help a little too enthusiastically. But then again, I told myself, it was probably just wishful thinking.

At any rate, this all came to a head at a big invitational meet near the end of my first season with the team. As always, Coach had bitched me out for not shaving down but I won my fly events handily and came in fourth in the 100 free as well. Only two other guys on our team took gold in their events (and none in two, as I had) but our efforts had us in a very close second behind a nationally ranked team from one of the California powerhouses. It looked like it was going to come down to the 4 x 100 medley relay, which was being swum last for some reason. Our backstroke and breaststroke legs had us in fourth when I hit the water; I pulled us up to a virtual tie with the leader only to see Ted Kowalski, who had won the 100 free individual event, lose his leg to his rival on a Midwestern. We took second in the invitational.

Afterward, Coach was pissed, but not in my opinion, at the right people. I thought my leg had been brilliant - but not Coach. He huddled us together, gave us a pat on the back before he unloaded. We had done much better than expected, but we had blown a golden opportunity (Coach being, well, a coach, the pun was probably intended). Then he turned to me: "And you, DePillo, are going to shave down for the conference championship. I'm not going to lose by a hair again!"

I was stunned. I had kicked ass - and my body hair had nothing to do with our loss. "But Coach, I brought us from fourth to pretty much a tie for first... maybe the rest of the relay team should just grow some hair on their chests!"

Coach wasn't amused at my arguing with him - or with my subtle digs at my less than macho teammates. But I had a point.

"Okay, DePillo, I'll make a deal with you," said Coach in his sexy baritone. "Our last dual meet before the conference championship is next weekend against State. If you don't take gold in both your fly events, you are going to shave down if I have to shave you myself." He grinned wickedly. I have to admit the idea kind of turned me on... although with a few slight changes in the plan it was even more exciting to contemplate.

Coach must have assumed that he would get his way at last if I agreed to this threat; he knew that Reese Weston, my arch nemesis, was at State. Weston had creamed me in the past and I was 0-2 in our matchups. But what Coach didn't know was that I was confident of beating him now. I had grown stronger throughout the year and Reese's times had not only not improved but had gotten worse over the course of the season.

"You got a deal, Coach," I said. Coach was a little surprised at my ready acquiescence, given how hard I fought this idea on every other occasion. "But..." I added, "what about you?"

"Me?" asked Coach, simultaneously bemused and amused.

"Yeah, if I lose, I have to submit to a complete body shave, administered by you, right?"

Coach nodded, still looking confused, but he seemed to light up at the bit about "administered by you," as I thought he might.

"Well then, if I win, you have to submit to a complete body shave - administered by me!"

Unexpectedly, my teammates all hooted and cheered and laughed at this suggestion. A chant of "Coach, Coach, Coach!" went up - although I couldn't tell whether my teammates were cheering on the Coach to smack me down or the idea of the Coach getting taken down a peg by being shaved smooth. Maybe there were different motives at work among my seemingly asexual teammates.

His nerve steeled by his chanting, seemingly supportive team, Coach smiled a sly, I'm-gonna-own-yer-ass smile and said, "You got it Depillo! Better get your razor ready."

"Okay, Coach," I said, then thought to myself as I grinned back, shaking my head, "But I intend to be the one wielding it, not you!" The whole team had a good laugh, but as I pretended to look away and focus on the final meet announcements, I could tell some of the guys were checking me out, maybe thinking about watching Coach shave me down... and some of the guys were giving Coach the same look.

Well, some guys might have been intimidated, but I couldn't wait for the weekend. I was especially determined to kick Reese Weston's butt. Weston was one of the arrogant rich prep school frat brats I had come to despise during my time at _________ University. He epitomized everything lame about rich WASPy preps - he looked like a kind of soft version of an Abercrombie model, acting like he could buy you or anyone else, and generally gave assholes a bad name. Having my manly hair all shaved away would be really humiliating, but it was nothing compared to losing to Reese Weston. So if I lost the race I wouldn't, in my mind, be much worse off, but if I won... Well the thought of seeing Reese looking like he was about to cry was the icing on the cake and the rich seven-layer-cakey goodness was the thought of me getting to shave Coach's hot body. I had to ban the thought of having my way with Coach's body hair from my mind or I'd never get through practice. It's really hard to swim when you have a boner as big as mine tenting your speedo into a drag-parachute.

That week I had to beat off twice a day to keep my focus on my training instead of on considering what might happen if I won. And I had to change that thought to be WHEN I won. Losing, I told myself, was not going to happen. My loss would mean getting punked by a lameass fratboy... and my victory would be my own version of getting the gold - the golden body hair of god-bodied Coach Harrison.

The day for the dual meet came and I found myself swimming a bad leg of our 4 x 100 medley relay (swum first, as was customary then), but the other guys came through for once and we trounced State's team. I skipped the 100 freestyle but Coach entered me in both the 100 fly and 200 fly. I took the 100 - barely - but it left me exhausted for the 200. Coach wasn't going to make this easy.

What looked worse for me was the Reese Weston looked in really good shape. His split on the medley relay was a quarter second faster than mine, and his cockiness, I hate to admit, kind of unnerved me. Very few guys have ever been able to psych me out but I guess Reese could. Still, I had more riding on this than ever before. What Reese was too self-absorbed to ever realize was that I was a fuckup and during our previous matches I really didn't care badly enough to want to beat his ass. Now I had purpose - something he'd never seen from me. If I won I'd get to manhandle a much more macho asshole than Reese Weston, who wasn't man enough to lick the sweat off Coach's balls.

Up on the blocks I found myself mentally exactly where I wanted to be: "in the zone" confidence-wise. I knew I had untapped reservoirs of strength and endurance that I could bring into a swim if I wanted. And I wanted it really badly this time.

All of this was lost on Reese, who despite being seeded second to my number one seed - I had the fastest time in the conference for the year so there was no question - continued to act as if he were about to breeze through one of the hardest events in swimming and crush a guy whose times had consistently been better than his. Maybe he counted on his ability to psych out his opponents, or maybe he was just that cocky.

Or maybe, as I soon found out, he was peaking and swimming the best he'd swum all season. He beat me to the wall at the first 50 and by the 100 he was a body length ahead of me. He'd never had a lead on me like this before at the 100. I hit the wall well behind him.

But when I pushed off the wall and saw his pounding legs in front of me - where there should have been nothing but empty water - I tapped into those reserves I was sure where there somewhere outside the reach of my ability to fuck up. I thought of Coach's ruggedly gorgeous face, his hot pecs, and then let myself imagine his hairy round asscheeks. I started pounding the water with my whiplike legs, dolphin-kicking like a manic merman and pounding the water with my hips like I was ramming into Coach's hairy buttery buttcheeks with my horsecock. My arms stretched out and grabbed the water like I was reaching from behind for Coach's puckered nipples, I scooped the water from me like I was flying to catch a fleeing Coach, his face full of lusty fear at the thought of what I might do to him if - WHEN - I caught him. By the 150, I was only half a body length behind Weston.

I reached deep inside for even more energy and pounded my hips like the tail of a swordfish landed on a boatdeck; water was like air. I was now neck and neck with the frat bitch and after another three cycles of my flying arms I was the one with the body-length lead. Weston died out as I smashed into the wall, smashed the conference record, and smashed the little fratboy's confidence against me for the rest of our swimming careers.

I looked up, saw my time and knew it was a new pool and meet record, saw Weston struggle to the finish followed by the rest of the field, and saw my teammates cheering wildly. It had been a great race, and the whole Swim Center was on its feet. And then I saw Coach, a smile on his face like I'd never seen before, cheering and high-fiving my teammates. I smiled back, but it wasn't the smile of the prodigal son happy that he'd finally pleased Daddy; no, it was the smile of the Oedipal son who was going to have his nastiest fantasies fulfilled.

Or so I thought. The next week practice went on as expected considering that we were done with the regular season, and gearing up for the Conference Championships in two weeks. Coach said nothing about our little bet, and I for once was a little too intimidated by him to say anything either. The team, however, hadn't forgotten, and at least half the guys asked me when I was going to collect on my bet with Coach - but it's not like any of them were going to have the balls to ask him about it either.

I considered bringing it up in practice, but I guess I didn't want Coach to agree and allow himself to be shaved down in front of the other guys, or worse, as part of one of the group shaving parties before the Championships. I wanted him to myself, I guess because I fantasized that it would turn into more than just a simple collection on a bet. I knew a fantasy like that was hopeless; Coach was straight, married (though somewhat shakily, I heard; seems that Coach had had fooled around on the side a little too often), politically reactionary, ex-military - in fact if he knew which way I actually swung he'd probably try to kick me off the team. I was streetwise and tough in ways that no one else on the team was and I fucked around with women plenty in those days, too, so I guess everyone just assumed I was straight and not bi or gay.

Well by the end of the week I was pretty pissed. I guess I had expected too much from Coach; I thought he'd be a man about it and offer himself up. So after practice Friday I waited outside his office as he talked on the phone to his wife (she was going to be out of town for the weekend; yes, he'd remember to put out the garbage; no, he wouldn't go drinking with his poker buddies that she disapproved of; yes, he'd be sure the dog was fed). When he hung up, I knocked and, when invited in, went into his office from the locker room (one door led to the locker room, the other into the building's main hallway; it was a big suite of coaching offices) to talk to him.

Coach looked up and smiled to see me, something he never used to do before. Once I would have given my left nut to have him smile like that at seeing me, that handsome mug lit up by my presence, but now I fantasized about seeing that beautiful face contorted in pain and humiliation, or pleasure that seemed painful or humiliating to endure, or humiliating pain that was pleasurable to endure. Yeah, I was kind of confused about all that, but over the years I have discovered that I think most people are.

"What can I do for you, Nick?" he asked, in that baritone drawl that made Sam Elliot sound like a pussy.

"Coach," I said, very respectfully, almost apologetically - if Coach's smile was unusual for me, my meekness must have seemed equally strange to him. "You know... about our bet..."

Coach laughed. "Yeah, Nick, that was pretty funny. Did you really think I was going to force you to be shaved? You sure swam like you were afraid I was going to take away all of your 'manly' chest hair!" And he laughed some more. The way he said "all of your 'manly' chest hair" made it sound like my presumption of manhood was the funniest part of the joke.

I was taken aback. Not only did Coach portray our bet as a big laugh-riot, but he was also acting like it was all some grand coaching plan of his to get me to swim up to my potential, as if I were swimming out of fear of losing instead of for a reward. Well, I wasn't buying.

"Well, yeah, Coach, I did think you were serious about getting me to shave. Just to humiliate my punk ass and assert your authority if nothing else. But I didn't swim like I did out of fear."

Coach's laughter stopped and his smile turned either grim or perplexed; it was hard to tell what he was thinking. "Well then what did motivate you?" he asked, as if he hadn't ever considered an alternative.

"Well Coach, I swam like that because I thought it would be fun to shave YOU." By which I implied, "I thought it would be fun to humiliate YOU and assert MY authority." But what I added was more conciliatory: "You know, kind of a joke for team morale and all. You know, you'd do it as a team thing."

Coach laughed again, dismissively but a little nervously it seemed. "Oh come off it Depillo. I'm a full grown married man - I'm not going to be shaved and surely not by another man and absolutely not by a boy." That did it. A "boy"? I was twenty years old and had just won a bet and he was reneging on it. Who was acting like a boy here?

But I contained my anger in hopes of getting my way if I were reasonable and well-behaved, as people all my life had mistakenly tried to get me to believe.

"Coach, a bet is a bet, and I would have honored if I lost." Translation: I would have been a man about it, so you stop acting like the "boy", boy.

"Depillo, it wasn't a bet, it was a joke. Besides, you didn't have much to lose - you're a boy; I'm a full grown man. You're a swimmer and people expect you to be shaved. I on the other hand would have to explain why I'm suddenly as hairless as a little boy to my workout buddies, my Reserve unit, and hell my wife would kick me out of the house for being a queer if I suddenly showed up all smooth and girly, like some faggot bodybuilder. Look, jokes are all well and good, but let's get over this nonsense and concentrate on the Championships."

I was stunned. Coach either thought it was all a big joke or he was pussying out and pretending it had all been a joke; I was inclined to the latter view, because I was convinced he had been determined to get me shaved either for the conventional bullshit "hydrodynamic" reason or to put me in my place in front of the team. But what could I say?

I looked him in the eye but I couldn't read his poker face, so I looked down at my feet and mumbled and chuckled. "Yeah, Coach, sorry I guess. I thought it was a real bet and you were trying to pussy out of it. Ha ha. Okay, yeah, Championships." Coach chuckled too as I turned and shuffled out of his office.

Well I acted good natured, even apologetic about it, but I was pissed. I was also outright contemptuous of Coach for the first time ever. He WAS pussying out, even if he covered up the fact well. Even if he actually believed his own bullshit. As I trudged along the street to my apartment I decided what I was going to do about it.

Replaying the events of the past hour in my head, I recalled that Coach's wife was going to be out of town this weekend but that Coach had sworn he was going to be a good boy. Hmmm, I thought. I bet.

I'd seen Coach's wife, whom he'd married when they were in their early twenties, although they'd never had kids so it wasn't a shotgun thing. She was supposedly as hot as Coach himself once but she'd let herself go whereas he, obviously, had not. She now seemed to be the proverbial ball and chain, with the shape of the ball and the temperamental drag of the chain. During the time I'd been at _____ U, I'd also heard of numerous affairs Coach had supposedly had. And one of them was with the Athletic Director's young secretary, Laura Meadows, who was herself married to the football team's assistant offensive coordinator, an earnest but homely young Mormon buck.

I'd seen Coach around Mrs. Meadows, and I had to say the rumors seemed true. Coach's usual cool seemed to go out the window when she was around; he was all smiles and courtesy around her, and he always adjusted his crotch and stared at her behind when she left a room. I decided I needed to snoop a little.

Now when I say I was a punk I mean it; I used to vandalize and thieve with the worst of them. So breaking into Coach's office during the weekend was no big deal. After all, I'd lifted a set of keys from the janitor months earlier. Breaking into Coach's locked file cabinet took only a tiny bit more doing, but when I did, I found paydirt hidden under a set of hanging folders: a manila envelope full of racy love letters from the lovely Laura, including a nude photo of her with a love note on the back "To Sam" and a few unfinished letters he'd started to her that were along the same lines.

Mrs. Meadows was even so generous as to forgive Sam for some of his other affairs during which he'd "cheated on her", naming three of his partners (one of which he also mentioned by name in a letter he'd started to her, but who, he said vehemently, meant nothing to him). She also explained how their - and probably all of Coach's - dalliances were conducted: in this very office after "Sunday afternoon practices" - practices that were news to me but apparently a weekly event in the mind of Mrs. Harrison. Mrs. Meadows revealed that she even had her own key. Perfect.

Well, I had all Friday night and Saturday to prepare for Coach's next Sunday evening rendezvous. First I used Coach's own copy machine to make several copies of the letters, which I hid in my locker and in my trunk back in my room. By the time I was done, I thought I could imitate Mrs. Meadows' cheesy pillowtalky way of writing. Then back in my room I scanned one of the letters into Photoshop and traced out a message from words in Mrs. Meadows's letters, asking him to suit up for "our" favorite role playing sex game:

Dearest Sam,

Brad is out of town meeting on a fundraiser. I know Janet is out of town too. Want to meet at the usual place after "Sunday practice"? I'll be waiting for you in your favorite outfit - my college cheerleader uniform. You wear your work clothes. Don't forget the whistle!

Love and Lust,

Laura

I traced the handwriting in ballpoint pen using translucent stationery, then I rubbed the note on one of the perfumed letters to pick up the scent, then put it in an envelope on which I'd traced Coach's name in her handwriting. I slipped the note inside his paper Sunday morning, after I'd spent Saturday rounding up the supplies I would need for a tryst Coach would never forget.

Come Sunday evening I was more nervous than I'd ever been before a meet. I arrived at Coach's office around 5 that afternoon, just in case. Our Sunday practices were supposedly at 4 pm, so I assumed this would be early enough that I would be there before Coach. Sure enough, around 6:15, I heard the key in his lock and watched as Coach, dressed just as "Laura" had directed, in his coaching outfit, stepped into his office all smiles - only to see his face crumble in shock when he saw me seated in his desk chair with my feet up on his desk.

"Hey Coach, you philandering sleazebag! Great to see you," I said.

"N-Nick???" Coach stammered.

"Yep, in the flesssh," I slurred, to emphasize the word. "Laura sends her regrets, but it turns out she was mistaken. Brad isn't out of town after all."

Coach turned red and stomped over to me and hovered angrily over me. "What the hell is this, Depillo?"

"Well, Coach, to be honest, when you were talking about your wife the other day during our discussion on why you were pussying out on our bet, I realized how important your marriage was to you, so I thought I'd put an end to all those rumors about what a cheating slut you are. So I poked around for proof of your manly fidelity and upstanding goodliness when I found these."

I tossed the love letters on his desk. Well, obvious photocopies of the love letters, so he would know better than to try anything stupid, like scoop them up and then beat the shit out of me.

Coach didn't pick them up. He could tell just by glancing at them that I had him by the balls.

He just glared at me. "What do you want?" he bellowed angrily. Man he had a sexy voice, and when he got mad, he was hotter than ever.

"Now, Coach, calm down. It's not me you're angry with. You have no one to blame but yourself. If you'd been man enough to pay up on our bet, or eunuch enough not to cheat on your wife, you wouldn't be in this position."

"What do you want, Depillo?" he asked more quietly, but just as angrily and firmly. Mmmm and as sexily.

"Well Coach, what do you think? I intend to collect on my bet." I opened his drawer and pulled out Coach's own shaving implements one by one: a bowl of shaving soap and horsehair brush; a safety razor; a straight razor; and a waterproof mustache/beard trimmer. Coach must have had a mustache at some point in the not too distant past; I was going to have to remember to ask for a photo of that, 'cause it made me hot just thinking about it.

"Depillo, you little bastard..." Coach started, but I cut him short by standing up and walking over to him.

"Now there you go again, Coach," I said. "Boy. Little Bastard. I've got two inches and probably 15 pounds on you, Coach," I said, doing my best to look down into his eyes. "And I'm no boy. I would have been man enough to pay up on our bet, and I'm man enough to make sure you pay up, too." I lifted the whistle off of his neck. He grabbed my wrist, but I stared him down and he released it. I put it over my own neck.

"You like watching us jump when you blow this thing, don't you big man?" I asked, walking around him, savoring his taut, hairy body. "Well, now I'm the man with the whistle, and if you want to keep your marriage intact and your career on track, you're my boy for the evening. When I blow this whistle, you better hop to and do EXACTLY what I say. Do you understand?"

Coach sneered at me but shook his head in assent. Not good enough for me, however.

"Do you understand, boy?" I repeated.

"Yes," Coach said in a deep quiet voice.

"Yes, what, boy?"

Coach sighed. "Yes... sir."

"That's better," I said smiling, then blew the whistle 8 inches from his face.

"Into the locker room, boy!" I bellowed.

Coach hesitated for a second, then, sneering angrily at me, turned and walked into the locker room. I picked up the shaving gear and followed him, barking behind him, "And when I give an order, you let me know you heard by saying 'Yes, sir' boy."

"Ye-Yes sir," Coach mumbled in his gravelly drawl, his face turning red.

Outside the coach's office in the locker room was a corner where several large full-length mirrors had been placed together so that guys could comb their hair without having to crowd each other too much. The mirrors on each side of the right angle were at least 8 feet wide by 7 feet high. I ordered Coach to stand in the middle of this mirrored angle, where I had placed several large towels on the floor.

I blew the whistle again. "Strip down to your undershorts, boy" I commanded.

Coach slowly pulled his shirt over his head. I watched in the mirror. I had never had the pleasure of studying Coach's torso up close at my leisure; I had always had to steal glances. Now I could watch from several angles as his gold-pelted pecs and laser-etched abs were slowly revealed to me.

He started to undo his shorts but I blew the whistle and ordered him to remove his shoes and socks next. He did so, balancing perfectly on one foot each time he took off a shoe and sock.

When he was done I again blew the whistle and commanded him to remove his shorts. He unbuttoned his coach's shorts, undid the zipper, and stepped out of them. Under his shorts, no doubt as part of his little seduction game with Mrs. Meadows, he was wearing only a red jockstrap with a yellow ("gold") waistband - our school colors; it was straight from the school's athletic department storage closets. The jockstrap was strained by the large package it held, so that Coach's ample pubic bush burst out from all sides and his hairy muscular buns were exposed in the back. Since his cock and balls were still covered, I stared at his beautiful butt muscles. The same blond hair on his forearms covered his buns, growing thicker as it entered his asscrack and thicker again where his rounded buns met his muscular thigh muscles.

I wandered around taking in the full glory of Coach's near-naked body. After I'd paced around him twice, Coach couldn't contain himself any longer. "Get it over with, Depillo!" he barked in his deep sexy baritone.

I blew the whistle in his face. "Do NOT try to give me an order again, boy!" I barked back. "Do you understand, BOY?"

Coach scowled, but crossed his arms against his chest defensively, lowered his head, and spoke in a manly but meek voice, "Yes sir."

"That's more like it," I said. I stood in front of him now and blew the whistle in his face again. "Put you arms at you sides, boy. You will keep your arms at your sides at all times until I tell you otherwise, or suffer additional consequences. You will keep your feet as they are, firmly planted. You are to lower your eyes only when I speak to you or give you an order, but at all other times you are to watch in the mirror as I remove your body hair and, as far as I'm concerned, the last evidence of your manhood. Do you understand boy?"

Looking down he muttered, "Yes sir."

"Then lower your arms to your side you stupid boy!" I barked.

Coach almost jumped but realizing his error put his arms at his side.

"That's better. Now remember: you don't move them for anything unless I order you to. Understood boy?"

"Yes sir," Coach mumbled.

"Good. Now face the mirror... and face the music. And remember that all of this could have been avoided if you'd just been a man about our bet. Boy."

"Yes, sir," was the response. He was almost demure now, and no longer hesitated saying 'yes sir'. This was getting really good.

I stripped to the waist, leaving my track suit bottoms on; I didn't want to get shaving soap on my shirt and, besides, I wanted to taunt Coach with the sight of my nascent hairy torso even as he was forcibly stripped of his own.

I then took the opportunity to run my fingers through his abundant straw-colored chest hair, alternately stroking, pulling, twisting and releasing it. I felt the rock-solid slabs of pec muscle underneath, and teased his quarter-sized nipples by tugging at the aureole of hair around each one.

"Chest hair is the ultimate macho symbol, you know Coach? I mean, even some guys with really thick beards and hair everywhere else aren't able to grow it. And it can grow in all weird too - spotty or just a couple of hairs. It's what separates men from boys, and women. Every other kind of body hair, you find it on teenage boys and chicks. Not chest hair - that's only for men. Now yours, I have to admit, is just about perfect - it covers your tits and your abs, it's a great color and it's really thick but also kind of soft. Yours makes you look like the ultimate physical specimen, especially since you have like 0 percent body fat to go along with it - but let's face it, some chicks and boys are as ripped as you so that doesn't mean as much as body hair, does it? Problem is, you've proven that you're not a man - you're a pathetic little boy who doesn't keep his word. So this is going to come off. Now!"

I then lifted the beard/mustache trimmer and ran it across the middle of Coach's pecs, from right to left, down the valley of his sternum and up the hilly, forested, rock-hard mound of his left pec. Only a line of blond and golden-brown stubble remained in the trimmer's devastating wake. Coach groaned and looked down at his feet in humililiation.

I blew the whistle in his face and he looked back up in shock.

"I said watch in the mirror, boy! Face up to your emasculation! And be glad it's just your man-hair that's getting cut off - and not your man-parts."

Coach grimly muttered his assent and stared ahead at the line of deforestation on his chest. I could see he was utterly devastated by the loss of his man-hair.

I raised the beard trimmer and removed another row of chest hair above the initial one. Then another, and another. Clumps of thick, long, but soft blond and brown hair fell around our feet. Coach's chest was leaving behind more hair than my head normally did when I got a haircut. He was hairier than I thought, probably because his hair was in all the right places - not on his back (just a little on his shoulder blades) and he was too young for nose and ear hair.

I worked my way up to his collarbone, gently trimming the long, fine, straight blond hair that flowed up over his collarbone and contrasted with the dark, heavy stubble on his neck, then worked back down to the bottom of his pecs, where the hair was thicker and darker. I lifted the round slabs of chest muscle by grabbing the nipples and pulling up, gently running the electric trimmer right up to the edge of the nipple, twisting it gently and letting the vibration of the trimmer tease it into erection.

When I was done, I stood back and admired my handiwork, watching Coach as he did the same. He looked angry, frustrated, and completely humiliated. Well, I thought, he better get used to it, since I had just started. I then took the trimmer to the lower part of his torso, tugging the skin when necessary to allow me to trim the long wiry hairs that flowed inside his deep-cut abs. I was in awe of these chiseled muscles; Coach really was a perfect specimen. In his thirties and he was more ripped than anyone I knew my own age, and I was an athlete who hung with athletes. I worked my way down over his navel, carefully circling the deep hole with the trimmer, then worked my way down his lower abs to my stopping point at the waistband of his jock.

I again stepped back and stood behind Coach. I reached around in front of him and ran my hands along his stubbly chest and abs. "Ahhh coming along nicely. All that macho hair is gone now. Now we just need to remove this stubble and your chest will be as smooth as a woman's, boy."

Coach grunted like a castrated bull but said nothing so I didn't feel the need to chastise or punish him. I took the shaving soap and brush, ran some water in it from a nearby sink, whipped up a lather with the brush, then slopped the foamy soap on Coach's stubbly pecs and abs. I took the disposable razor and proceeded to shave each pec from the collarbone down, again taking the opportunity to pull and twist each large nipple as I shaved the stubby remainder of the halo of hairs that had once adorned it.

I then turned to his abdomen, and proceeded to shave carefully over his sharply angled abs, stopping once again at his jockstrap. I then wet a towel and wiped the last of the shaving cream off his denuded torso.

"Now, then, boy, that's much more appropriate for you, don't you think?" I asked, again standing behind him and watching his reaction in the mirror. Coach didn't respond, so I blew the whistle and demanded: "I said, don't you think that's more appropriate for a boy like you, Coach?"

"Y-yes sir," Coach stammered, visibly upset. His face was red with barely contained rage, and he was clenching and unclenching his fists menacingly.

That was okay, I thought to myself; I'd risk the danger of retaliation for the pleasure of getting to dominate and humiliate a stud like Coach. Nevertheless I thought I better cool it a bit in the humiliation department for the next few minutes.

"Okay, the other body part where some men never get much hair is the forearms. Even mine aren't especially hairy yet, and I think we've established I'm pretty hairy or getting there. So we gotta get rid of this," I said lifting Coach's right arm and tugging at the hair that ran from the back of his hands up to the middle of his rounded bicep. I ordered Coach to hold his arms out in front of him, palms down, and ran the beard trimmer over his forearms, then lathered them up and removed the last bit of stubble from them. I ordered him to drop his arms back to his sides.

"Excellent, Coach. We've taken care of any indicator that you might be an especially masculine male. Now... the next-to-last place after the chest and hairy forearms where men develop body hair is their beards, at least as far are real beards and not peach fuzz are concerned. And you have your usual five o'clock shadow working overtime. I can't believe you didn't shave before your little tryst with 'Laura'", I said, mocking him as much as possible.

"She likes it," Coach grumbled.

"Ahhh," I sneered. "I bet she did," I said, subtly hinting that that relationship was probably over now. "I bet she liked your chest hair too. Oh well, that's all in the past now."

Coach said nothing, just stared ahead at his now-barren chest, still beautifully muscled but now so much less masculine. Even boys could have muscles like Coach's. But they couldn't have chest-hair.

"Well," I said, "time to shave that handsome mug," I said, referring for the first time to Coach's good looks. I wanted him to start to worry that I was a little too appreciative of his looks, but he probably had reached the correct conclusion on that score much earlier in this ordeal.

I lathered up his cheeks, upper lip, chin, neck, then gently, lovingly ran the safety razor, with a new blade, over his angular, high-boned cheeks. I followed by shaving his upper lip, commenting as I did on the mustache trimmer.

"So you must have had a mustache not too long ago?" I asked. "Yes, sir," Coach admitted. "Well you'll have to grow that back again some time. I bet it was sexy as hell." Coach didn't say anything but from the way he looked at me I could tell he shaved it off because it made him look like a refugee from the Village People, and he was concerned that I was so appreciative of that kind of look. I chuckled to myself.

I ran the razor carefully over his deeply cleft, square jaw, then held that macho jaw and lifted it as I shaved Coach's neck. He seemed to hold his breath as I ran the blade over his jugular, as if I were a potential murderer or something. Again, a cause for internal chuckling. His adam's apple was so large and angular that it proved difficult to shave around, but I did with infinite gentleness. I didn't leave a single nick anywhere on that gorgeous face. Damn, Coach could have been a movie star on looks alone. Who needs talent when you're that hot?

When done, I again wiped his face off with a hot, warm towel. "There," I said, running my fingers over his sharp, handsome features while staring into his blazing blue eyes, "smooth as a boy's cheek. Oh yeah - it is a boy's cheek now."

Coach snorted angrily but said nothing.

"Okay, next up - your butt and then your legs. Unlike chest or arm hair or even a full or heavy beard, most guys get a good amount of hair on their legs but only some get much of it on their butts as well," I said, continuing my connoisseur's monologue on male body hair, "So the butt's the next most macho place for us to attack."

This time I decided to forego the trimmer and just used the razor. Even though Coach's butt was covered abundantly in hair, some of it quite long, it was not as thick as his chest or even his forearms and figured I could handle it with just a razor. Again I inserted a new blade, just to be sure.

As I lathered up Coach's tight firm round ass muscles, I squeezed and massaged them. Coach clenched them tight as if rejecting my suggestive massage. While smirking to myself inwardly, I took the opportunity to spank him while commanding him to loosen up.

Whack! I smacked his right buttcheek and shouted "Loosen up, boy, or you're gonna get cut."

Coach turned around angrily and raised his fist, but I just calmly tut-tutted and told him to think of his marriage, and his job, and his girlfriend. "Just imagine your wife or your boss or your mistress is spanking you and I'm sure you'll feel a little better about it. You deserve it, after all. Now turn around, boy. You deserve a few more swats for that little show of aggression." Coach glared at me, but turned around obediently, at which point I really let loose on his ass. I was stunned. I didn't expect him to give in to such an outrageous command. I really was breaking him as I had long dreamed of doing! Well, hell, I thought, here goes, and I lit into him.

After about five swats to his firm buttcheeks, I could feel his bubble butt go limp. I then proceeded to spread his asscheeks, working the soothing shaving cream along his asscrack. He didn't tighten up again, so I proceeded to run a soapy finger around the rim of his asshole. That did it! He tightened up so quickly and forcefully I felt my hand and especially index finger were going to be crushed. With my left hand I again swatted his asscheeks hard, commanding him to relax. "Goddamn it, boy, it's not my fault you have hair up your asshole. Now relax or something a lot bigger is gonna get rammed up your tender little bunghole!" Coach relented and again relaxed.

I extracted my hand and grabbed the razor and began scraping the hair from the firm flesh globes in the triangular area framed by his jock's waistband and leg straps. I again spread his buttmuscles and carefully shaved the inside of his asscrack, gently running the razor around the rim of his tight little asshole. I put one finger at the entrance to his bunghole as I spread his asscheeks apart, using the opportunity of the enlarged entrance to move my finger up the hole about half an inch without his noticing, or at any rate, reacting. When I was done with one side, I repeated on the other. When I was done with both, I let his cheeks close on my hand, with my index finger now rooted up his virgin manhole. I could feel him tense, but he didn't clench his butt muscles on me. I pushed my finger up a little, worked it around in a teasing circle, and then withdrew it. When I looked up Coach was staring straight ahead intensely, trying to pretend I hadn't just violated him so that maybe it wouldn't happen again, sweat pouring down his handsome rugged face.

I again stepped back and admired my work, then commanded Coach to turn around with his butt facing the mirrors so that he too could look over his shoulder and admire his newly denuded, and slightly despoiled, ass. As he was looking at his shorn asscheeks with a look of humiliation bordering on despair, I slapped his bare butt so hard he almost jumped, then ran my hand over the now-smooth cheeks. "Smooth as a little boy's butt! Well, in a way I guess it IS a little boy's butt now." I then spread his asscheeks and showed him the shaved entrance to his manpussy. "You'll be able to stay a lot cleaner now coach. I know how little boys like you are with your lack of hygiene." In fact coach was so clean he could have douched, but I felt like humiliating him with all the 'little boy' talk I could dream up.

Blowing the whistle, I ordered Coach to again turn around and face the mirror head on. "Okay, your legs... as hairy as a teenager's. I thought guys tended to have less hair on their legs as they got older? You seem to have not got the message... or maybe you really are closer to being a little boy than I was led to believe. Doesn't matter - we'll shave your legs so smooth it's like you were a 12 year old... girl."

I then spread the shaving cream over his muscle-etched thighs and down his muscular calves to his feet and even the first knuckle of his toes, but this time used my hands to spread the cream so that I could take the opportunity to massage his inner thighs. I rubbed the cream right up to the edge of his jock, where his pubes spread out onto his thighs. This gave me a good reason to roughly grab at his package to "move it out of the way" on either side. His genitals felt as large as they looked; there was no semi-erect cock to "pad" his package, and still it looked like he had a pair of socks stuffed in his jock. I couldn't wait to do the final unveiling. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I carefully shaved from the crotch to his thigh on either side, then shaved the thighs front and back, lifting up the leg straps of his jock to make sure I got every last light and dark blond hair. Then I worked my way down his gorgeous calf muscles, and finally to his feet and toes. "Now that I've shaved your legs Miss Harrison, would you like me to paint your toenails?" I asked Coach teasingly.

Coach was not amused. "Don't push it, Depillo," he snarled, but I just laughed.

"Okay, well we're making great progress MR. Harrison," I said in a mocking tone. "Next up - your pits. Pretty much the first place boys get their man hair, after the pubes of course. So raise those arms like you're surrendering to me, boy!"

With a mixture of anger and shame burning on his handsome face, Coach slowly raised his arms and I could tell that this was much more of an ordeal for him than he had been letting on. His underarms were soaked with sweat. He'd just bathed so the odor was mostly of shower soap and deodorant, but a little inescapable man-scent, maybe of fear, also was mixed in.

I slapped the shaving cream on with the brush, tickling his underarms and trying to get Coach to laugh, which would have been even more humiliating, but he had steeled himself for the ticklish brush. I continued to joke about Coach's emasculation and suggested a brand of female razor he could use for his underarms in future. When done I had him continue to hold his arms up in a gesture of submission while I inspected my work, then ordered him to put them down and behind his back. Pretending to inspect my work I slapped a pair of handcuffs on him before he knew what I was doing.

"What the hell are you doing, Depillo? We're done here. I've lived up to the bet."

"Well, Coach, that's the thing... I knew you might feel that way, but it's not actually true."

"We agreed that you could shave me like one of the team if I lost the bet. You've done that. Hell, I didn't even say anything when you were shaving my ass, and swimmers don't even shave there."

"No, coach, we agreed to a total body shave - which if I wanted to push it could include your fine head of hair and your eyebrows, but messing with that handsome face of yours would be like vandalizing Michelangelo's David, who you're starting to resemble in the smooth boyish department, you know. So I'll just settle with calling it quits with your pubes."

Coach looked shocked and angrier than ever now. "No fucking way," he roared. "I can explain the rest to my wife, say it's a team spirit thing I did with the other guys on the team, but the idea of me shaving my crotch or, worse, letting some other guy? She'll think I'm queer or something."

He realized a little late that he'd just kind of insulted me, so he shut up.

"And I wonder what she'll say when she finds out about Laura Meadows and your other manly breeder conquests... You might prefer for her to think you're 'queer'. Anyway, it doesn't matter, because I was smart enough to cuff you. So let's get on with it."

I started to peel down the jock strap when Coach, in desperation, said "Wait, Depillo! You like to bet, let's make another bet. You think you're a big man, right?"

I smiled condescendingly at Coach and replied, "Well, I think I've kind of proven I am today."

Coach smiled back in such a sinister way that it kind of creeped me out. "Well then, let's bet on it. I bet that I'm STILL more of a man than you, even though you've shaved off my man hair and you're trying to make me into a little boy. If my dick is bigger than yours, then you don't get to shave my pubes..."

I listened, intrigued. This was interesting.

"...and also I get to... fuck you up the ass."

Whoa! That came out of nowhere. Coach was looking for some serious revenge.

"And..." he added, "if you want any lubrication, you're gonna have to suck my dick because that's all the lube you'll get."

Coach had me - or so he thought - and he really wanted to punish me for unmanning him. He also was pretty confident that I was gay or bi, or he wouldn't have made fucking another man part of the deal. As if the deal didn't reveal his own bisexuality to me! But knowing Coach and his talent for bullshit, he probably thought under these conditions, it was perfectly straight behavior. At any rate, whereas before I had assumed I would stop at shaving him, now I really wanted to see if I could take this as far as I could and fuck him.

I did have to give it serious thought - for about 10 seconds. I figured he wouldn't make this bet if he wasn't sure I would lose, and I knew Coach had seen my bulge even if he'd maybe never seen me in the shower, but I was willing to take the chance because my counter-demand would be too awesome an opportunity for me not to take a risk for.

I surprised Coach when I said "Okay." He almost started laughing. But then I added, "Provided I not only get to finish shaving you, since let's face it, that was part of the ORIGINAL bet, but I get to fuck YOU up the ass and YOU have to suck ME if you want any lube."

That wiped the smirk off Coach's face - again, for about 10 seconds. His shit-eating grin returned. "You got a bet."

"Great, Coach... we'd shake on it but you're still kind of, well, tied up."

"What? Depillo, let me go, how do you think I'm gonna..."

I ignored him as I ripped his jock down and let if fall to his feet. I have to admit, I was speechless I was so impressed. Coach's cock and balls flopped out of the jock as if it had barely been able to contain them. Coach's dick was a good seven inches flaccid, as thick around as a cucumber, and, best of all, uncut (he had been born overseas when his dad was in the army - too bad so few of us had his good luck). You could see the head under his foreskin, however, and it was perfectly proportioned to the rest of his dick, large and beautifully shaped. Coach's cock was as perfect as the rest of him and disconcertingly large. I had to wonder if he was going to out-man me in the cock department after all. Since I was an anal virgin (on the receiving end), this did cause me to sweat a little.

But I'd seen big dicks before - after all, I own one! What really blew me away were Coach's balls. I had never seen anything like them. Guys describe their balls as eggs all the time, but really even the biggest of us are the size of walnuts. Coach's balls really were the size of eggs, and I mean hen's eggs, not sparrow's, and they hung down halfway to his knees. No wonder his jock looked almost comical.

I also realized now why he was so determined to keep his pubes. His bush was so lush and thick that there was no doubt it belonged to a real man. Take away everything else and his pubes still vouched for his studliness. Lesser cocks would be lost in it.

"...get myself hard?"

I realized Coach had been talking and was waiting for a response. I emerged from the trance Coach's magnificent jewels had put me in. "Uhh, what Coach?"

He smirked and then snarled, "I said: if you don't undo these cuffs, how am I going to get myself hard? Unless I'm already bigger soft than you are erect, which come to think of it is probably the case."

I chuckled at this. If we were betting on balls, Coach would own my ass, no contest. But dick was another matter. My 'boy' was going to have to do some growing up to beat me there.

"Oh, that's no problem, Coach, I'll help you out." And I reached over and grabbed Coach's dick in my hand.

"Hell, no!" Coach fumed but I only tightened my grip and twisted his cock in what I assume was a painful manner. He yelped, a mixture of pain and fear - fear of having his cock in the grip of someone who was threatening his manhood.

"Uhh, yeah Coach. I'm not releasing you. And you know, I'm not releasing your cock either."

"Goddamn it Depillo you fucking f-" but he didn't finish his sentence, possibly realizing that insulting a guy who could rip off your dick wassn't such a great idea. Or maybe because Coach's own straight-arrow self-image didn't jibe with a guy who had just made a bet that included a thoroughly homo ass fucking for the loser.

"Yes, Coach?"

Coach glared at me and then lowered his eyes and grumbled "You win, Depillo. But at least lube it up a little, will you?"

"Sure, Coach," I happily agreed, then drooled a big mouth full of spit onto Coach's swelling sausage. "Ahhh Depillo, Jesus that's gross..." Coach started to complain, but I cut him short by twisting his dick painfully and threatening to go with no lube at all. And I called him a whining little boy to remind him of his reduced status. Besides - he was uncut. Don't need much lube with a foreskin cradling your pecker.

Well, I gave his cock a world-class handjob - any straight guy who just shut his eyes and thought about his girlfriend could have come in two minutes. But Coach didn't do that. Instead he stared at me - at my face, at my muscular chest and arms, at my crotch. Coach was telling me with his stare that when he fucked me, he was going to be fucking ME. I reached out and started massaging his right tit muscle and then nipple with my left hand. Inside of a few minutes Coach leaked a little precum, then started moaning, then got hard and erect at about a 45 degree angle, then grew harder still until his dick literally felt like a steel pipe. His cock head popped out of its little hood and it was the most beautiful knob I'd ever seen. His whole cock was gorgeous. Not to mention huge.

Suddenly I was not as... cocky as I had been. This thing was pretty damn big. Coach might win after all.

"Tape measure... uhhh... Morgan's top right drawer...ohhh goddamn" Coach muttered. Coach Morgan was a football coach, steroid abuser, and muscle freak. Coach was telling me that Morgan's dirty baby-oil greased tape measure was available for settling our bet.

I retrieved the tape measure and placed the zero end at the base of Coach's dick. "No cheating now, Depillo," snarled Coach, but I told him that I was not the one who reneged on bets. Moreover, his dick was long enough and his stomach flat enough that he too could see the results, just so long as I placed the one end fairly at the base, as I had done. His thick pubes got in the way but we both agreed I had set the tape correctly. I then slowly drew it out to the full length of his shaft.

"Nice, Coach. Nine and three-quarter inches. You almost made the big ten inch club."

"It IS ten inches. Measure it again!"

I massaged Coach's dick and tits again, just so he felt confident he was all he could be in the penile department, then measured again. And a third time.

"Nope, Coach, we're still at nine and three quarters. I think you've been overrating yourself all these years."

"Harumpph, yeah, well let's see you beat that, punk."

I raised an eyebrow in warning but didn't punish Coach for his remark. He cast his eyes down, as if fearing retribution. His balls would be a fun and easy target but I didn't need him going limp with pain on me right now.

"Coach, we're not done yet. I haven't measured your thickness yet - unless you want me to blow off the total size and just go with length?"

Actually, I shouldn't have said anything, because Coach was pretty damn thick. But I wanted this to be about the true bigger man, and if I ended up losing my asshole virginity to Coach, well he was the best man I could possibly enlist for the job. Losing to a stud like him was no dishonor. But the idea did strike me as potentially painful. Very very painful.

I ran the tape measure around his cock one inch from the base - the fairest place to measure in my opinion. Now not all guys are uniformly cylindrical - most aren't - but Coach and I both had very symmetrical cocks (except I was cut and my head was long and pointy) so using a simple geometric calculation would work for us.

"Nice Coach - six and a half inches! That's thicker than most guys are long." I couldn't help complimenting the stud; he really had a beautiful tool.

Coach sneered at me triumphantly. "Okay, your turn hotshot. Let's see who the real boy is now, okay?"

"Sure thing, Coach," I agreed with a phony confidence that belied my uncertainty. It had been a while since I'd measured myself and I wasn't sure I was remembering right - or that I hadn't cheated on myself when I did.

I turned my back on Coach out of range of the mirrors and dropped my warmup bottoms, then slowly peeled off my speedo that I was wearing underneath. I wanted him to get a good look at my sweet ass - hoping that I was taunting him with something he would never get. Hoping that I wasn't just making him horny for something he soon just might get after all!

But the look on Coach's face when I turned around was priceless. (I was hard without any kind of stimulation of course; I'd been hard from the minute I ran my fingers through Coach's wonderful chest hair and I'd been straining against my tight speedo ever since.) Even without measuring we could both see that I was longer than him. He had totally underestimated me once again - and this time his ass was literally on the line. If he thought he'd risked his manhood before, this was a whole other level of humiliation. But. What I wasn't sure about - and I wasn't even sure Coach considered it important, but I did - was whether I was thick enough to beat him overall. I didn't think so - I looked a lot thinner than him.

With Coach watching carefully, I put the zero end of the tape at the base of my cock exactly as I had done with Coach's, then stretched out the tape slowly to the tip.

"Eleven and one half inches, Coach."

"Measure it again."

Chuckling to myself, I did just that. And again.

"Sorry, Coach, I just can't change the fact to suit your sense of diminished manliness. It's eleven point five inches exactly. I'm just more of a man than you - admit it."

"Not so fast, Depillo. Your dick looks mighty skinny compared to mine. You need to see how thick it is."

I was hoping Coach wouldn't be so easily tricked, or fail to appreciate how thickness is at least as important as length in determining size. After all, I'd rather take a slender long dick than a thick monster like Coach's.

So I ran the tape around my dick one inch up from the base and was surprised to find that it was six inches around! Coach didn't believe it of course so I re-measured - twice. Six inches it was.

"So I guess you think I look skinny only because I'm so much longer than you, boy."

Coach was quiet now; all his macho bravado had quickly deserted him.

"So..." he mumbled, "6 and half inches around times around 10 long.... is 65, so a little less than 65 for me, so let's say 64.... And 6 times 11 and a half is... 69 for you. You're five... uh, I guess... inches... bigger than me! Shit..."

Coach looked down. His massive cock was deflating as quickly as his outsize cockiness.

I didn't bother to correct him, but Coach's math skills seemed to begin and end with calculating meet points and swim times. In fact if you did a simple geometric calculation based on the formula for cylinders, I came out only a fraction of a cubic inch larger than him. For all practical purposes we were exactly the same size, with a hair's difference between us. And since all hairs were going to me - Coach was soon to have no hair in that region at all - that was only fitting. Seriously, I was like a tenth of a cubic inch larger, provided you looked at our cocks as perfect cylinders. Actually Coach may even have been bigger, since he was more symmetrical than me, and his head was fuller. But I looked bigger because I was significantly longer.

"That's right, BOY," I said, rubbing it in, "and don't you forget it. Now, I think you have some man hair that you aren't worthy of that needs shaving."

I lathered up Coach's abundant crotch hair and prepped him for a shave. Coach pleaded with me to go ahead and let him keep his pubes but I ignored him and pulled out the straight razor in response. Coach looked shocked.

I ran the dull backside of the razor down Coach's bush in imitation of the shave he was about to receive. "Now Coach," I warned, "you better be real still while I do this. I might just slip and cut off this" - I jerked the back of the blade down to the base of Coach's now considerably diminished cock, and chuckled to myself at the look of horror on his face - "or these!" I added, grabbing his big nuts in a chokehold and running the blade's dull backside against the chicken-neck of outstretched ballsac skin. Coach gulped and remained very still.

In retrospect I should had trimmed Coach with the electric trimmer first but the super-sharp straight blade did its job. I had to be extremely careful however, and so it took a lot longer than I had wanted it to. By the time I was done, Coach's once enormous manhood was now a limp little sausage, and if not for his huge balls he might have been mistaken for a boy. An extremely well-endowed boy. At a very great distance. Still, I had definitely stripped him of his manhood as thoroughly as could be done outside of outright castration.

I finished wiping all the shaving cream off of Coach and stood by him as we both considered his feminized - or at least emasculated - body in the mirrors. "There you go - finally looking like the little boy that you are. Now repeat after me: I am Nick's Boy."

Coach looked shamefully at his shaved body in the mirror and defiantly shook his head no. "Fuck you, Depillo. The bet is paid off. Now let me go."

I gave his oversized balls a slap and watched smirking as he sank, groaning, to his knees, then put my foot on the back of his neck and ground his handsome face into the locker room floor.

"You seem to be forgetting two things. One, I'm in control here; you're in a pair of handcuffs. Two, there were TWO bets and you lost both. Now I'm going to take payment on the second one."

Coach just groaned and whimpered something about me forgiving the second bet.

"Oh no, I don't think so, pussyboy. You're the one who wanted to bet on what a big man you are, and you lost. So I'm going to teach you to take it like a man, boy, and maybe you won't be so cocky next time, since you don't really have a big enough cock for it."

I grabbed him by the hair and yanked him to his feet, then took the whistle from my neck and put the cord around his big, low-hanging balls and pulled the tie on it snug like a noose. I jerked his balls around for my amusement.

"Okay, now follow me, pussyboy." I turned my back on Coach, and, tugging my makeshift testicle leash behind me, proceeded toward the benches in an aisle of lockers nearest to the showers. These benches were typical locker room equipment - long, thick urethane-sealed pine benches facing lockers, supported by the same metal posts that also rose 6 and a half feet high and held racks for hanging jackets and slacks. The long benches were separated by about six to eight inches of open space.

Pulling up on the whistle as far as I could without ripping Coach's balls off, Coach sweating and groaning, I bent over and blew the whistle and barked: "On your knees before your Master, boy!" I released the whistle and let it pendulate between Coach's legs. He did as I commanded without a word.

"Okay, pussyboy, suck!" I said, slapping the handsome stud's chiseled cheekbones with my Coach-conquering cock. I ran the head over his lips. He made a lame attempt to resist which I found infinitely more of a turn on than if he'd accepted willingly, so I grabbed him by the jaw with both hands and forced his mouth open, then jabbed the first few inches of my dick into the formerly straight stud's "unwilling" mouth. He tried to spit it out.

"Okay, bitchboy, you obviously need to be taught a lesson!" I reached down and grabbed the whistle-leash and yanked Coach to his feet, straining and groaning.

I reached out with both hands and grabbed a handful of thick pec-muscle in two angry claw-grips, then twisted the sexy and now hairless muscle until Coach was screaming in agony. Then I grabbed his nipples, pulled each one out about an inch from his body, and twisted like I was uncapping a beer bottle. (Believe me, those reflex actions were well rehearsed.) The involuntary tearing up of Coach's eyes told me that I was causing him the pain I had hoped to, although his stare remained stoic and his lips set in grim determination. A quick claw to his balls however, broke his manly resolve as he crumbled to the floor in howling agony.

Again I reached down and grabbed Coach by the hair, but this time just pulled him up to his knees and positioned his lips in front of my throbbing cock. Precum leaked from it like drool from a rabid dog. I smeared Coach's lips with it then ordered Coach to open up and take my pecker down his throat.

"Please, Nick," Coach begged me, staring up at me with those beautiful blue eyes, a look of helpless desperation on his handsome face, calling me by my first name instead of my last, as if acknowledging his diminished status - one "boy" to another. (He seemed to forget I was now the "adult" master here.) "Don't make me do this. I'm not a faggot."

"That's right, Coach, you're not A faggot - you're MY faggot." Coach could go on being - or believing himself to be - a straight top with the rest of the world, but for me he was going to be a submissive "faggot" bottom. "Now you're going to learn what all your female partners experience when you put your little boy dick in them. THEY can handle it - in fact, it seems like some of them may even enjoy it somehow - so surely a big boy like you can handle what mere girls can. And if you can't... well maybe we need to start rethinking whether you're even fit to be called a boy, boy."

Coach looked horrified as I moved my big dick up to his lips but he opened them and I gently moved my cockhead into his mouth. I was going to proceed slowly but each time I inserted my dick a little farther Coach seemed to handle it without a problem. Before long half my dick was in his mouth. Either Coach had done this before or thought about it, and I came to the conclusion that the latter was the case. It seems that Coach's straight sadistic nature had been expressed both privately and publicly for a long time, but lurking underneath was a repressed masochistic bisexual flip side that had been dying to find an outlet. It had - in me - and I was going to exploit it to the fullest.

I grabbed the gorgeous stud's gold streaked straw colored hair with both hands and rammed my cock down his throat. Coach grunted and made a muffled semi-gagging noise and his adam's apple raced up and down as if he had a small fist in his throat jacking me off, but he took my full length. I mashed my pubes into his mouth, to remind him again who now had man hair and who didn't. I withdrew my cock completely and Coach coughed and wheezed a little, but he was ready when I rammed my dick down his throat again - but this time I didn't withdraw, and instead face-fucked him furiously. And what a face to fuck. To this day I can get hard just imagining the look on that rugged, masculine, but oh-so-pretty mug as my dick made it into the world's handsomest pussy.

It took all my willpower not to come -- the first time I came in him I wanted it to be up Coach's ass - so I had to withdraw before that became unavoidable. "Okay, that's all you get in the lube department, boy. Hope you did a good job." Pulling Coach by the hair, I raised him up to his feet and then pushed Coach's face down on the far bench so that his knees were pushed up against the bench and his smooth-shaved ass was up in the air.

Coach tried to resist but I grabbed the leash and pulled upward, so that his cock and balls were pulled up between his legs, and tugged hard as a warning. I slapped him on the butt and told him to calm down with my free hand, then rubbed my dick up and down his smooth ass crack.

"Oh god Nick please don't do this! Please, I'm begging you! I'll suck your cock until you come! I'll lick your body clean with my tongue! Anything... just don't... rape me."

"Anything, Coach? Let's hear about what a man I am and what a little boy you are."

"You're right. You're a man, much more of a man than I am well of course you are because I'm just a little boy. A little boy with no hair on my chest or arms or dick. A little hairless boy with a little dick and little balls."

"Hmmm, not good enough. And you know why? Because you're begging like a girl. Sorry, Coach - this was your idea, remember?"

"Please Nick - I'm begging you. I've never had anything bigger than a doctor's index finger up there - you'll tear me apart."

"Awww, Coach... you're an anal virgin. Well I am too, and I was willing to risk getting fucked up the ass by you. So suck it up, cocksucker! Oh wait - you already did that. Time for something new from you bitch."

Well, I talked sadistically, but I didn't want this to be so painful for Coach that he was traumatized by it. For one thing, I suspected that deep down, like a lot of "straight" guys - especially those who broadcast their machismo and display sadistic tendencies toward other men - I suspected that Coach was at least a little bi-curious. For another, I like a well oiled hole for drilling - I cared about my own pleasure and I also cared about Coach's pain. After all, it would be far more humiliating to Coach and far more of a triumph to me if I made Coach enjoy being a bitch at least a little instead of merely fucking him like one.

While Coach groaned and begged for mercy, I took some oil I'd found with Morgan's stuff and spread it around Coach's tiny asshole with my index finger, working it around slowly. With my other hand I greased up Coach's big dick, working my finger inside his foreskin to lubricate the head. Then as I slid my right index finger about 1/2 inch up Coach's tight chute, I slowly worked his cockhead around in his foreskin. As I felt his cock start to swell, I worked my finger a little farther into his asshole, withdrawing teasingly and reinserting it as I slowly pumped up and down on Coach's thickening shaft. When I worked my way far enough in to reach Coach's prostate, I found his cock to be fully engorged, and Coach was moaning deliriously. I withdrew my finger until only the tip of it remained in Coach's butthole, but he thrust his ass backward as if looking for it. I responded by inserting two fingers and working his ass a little bit more aggressively as I worked his foreskin up and down with more force. I worked my fingers in and out of his tight bunghole, massaging his prostate until he moaned and then denying him the pleasure by withdrawing.

When Coach started moaning like he was going to cum and I could feel precum dribbling out of his swollen massive cockhead, I withdrew my fingers completely and released his cock at the same time. He continued to rock his hips back and forth, as if his cock and ass were both searching for stimulation desperately. I bent over and started massaging his nipples instead, bit his ear gently, and said "Ten minutes ago you were begging me not to fuck your ass. Now I bet you want to beg me to fuck it! Don't you, bitch?"

Coach swallowed hard and groaned. "Please, Nick, let me come. I'm dying for it. Don't make me beg for it."

I just laughed in his ear. "You better beg for it, and quick - before I lose interest. Beg me to fuck your ass, pussybitch. Beg for my big manly dick up your virgin boypussy."

Coach didn't respond immediately so I quickly teased his cockhead until my finger was slick with his precum. I spread the precum on his lips, enjoying his half-hearted attempts to resist, then commanded him to suck it off my finger. He refused so I told him I wouldn't get him off until he did. He groaned something about his balls being about to explode and then sucked voraciously on my finger.

"Very good, bitch," I complimented him, then released his nipples, stood up straight, and teased the rim of his asshole with my cockhead. "Here's your reward!" I plunged the head into his tight asshole.

For a taste of heaven, it was a little unpleasant at first. Coach's ass was so tight it actually hurt, and Coach howled in pain and lost his erection. I withdrew, lubed my cock better, and then slowly inserted the head again. This time I bent over Coach and with one hand stroked his meaty dick and with the other teased his left nipple. He seemed to loosen up a bit and I worked my cock in farther. Before long I was pumping my cock six inches into his ass, adding a tiny fraction of an inch each time. Coach was howling again - but this time with as much pleasure as pain. I was afraid he was gonna come before I got farther than halfway up his ass. So I stopped, withdrew (to groans of disapproval from Coach), and tied his cock and balls up with his whistle cord to prevent him from coming until I let him.

I returned to doggy-fucking Coach and this time went about an eighth of an inch farther with each thrust. Coach's ecstatic groans told me that his ass was stretched enough to handle my massive pecker. Finally with about 10 inches inside him I pulled back until I was almost out of him and then slammed my cock into him to the hilt, even as I continued jerking off Coach and twisting his nipple. He moaned, he groaned, he howled with pleasure. Sweat and tears were pouring down his face as he pleaded with me to stop and then in the next breath begged me to fuck him until he came.

I stopped, withdrew, and jerked him around until he was facing me. I pushed him onto his butt straddling the benches, then pushed him onto his back, his bound hands resting in the slot between the benches and his ass up in the air. I then straddled the benches myself and with my huge engorged pecker batted his balls up and away from where they covered Coach's tender asshole.

"Finish it, Depillo. I'm begging you."

"Well beg a little smarter, bitch."

"Fuck me like a woman, master. I'm your bitch. You've taken away my manhood and now I'm just a hungry bitch. Fuck me, sir. You're the man - and I'm just a hungry pussy with an overgrown clit."

"That's right, I took big tough Coach Harrison and I turned him into Coach Bitch. That's some good begging pussyboy. Here's your reward."

I pulled his huge balls up and out of the way of his asshole and, one hand resting on his right pec and massaging his nipple, the other working his cock up and down, I slid my huge boner into his now-receptive man-twat. I worked in slowly until I was sure he was enjoying it, then started slamming harder and harder, working his shaft until I thought I was going to pull it off, and twisting and yanking on alternate nipples.

After about 5 minutes of unadulterated ecstasy with the most handsome, most masculine man I'd ever known underneath me and forced to degrade himself for my pleasure, I felt I couldn't contain myself any longer. I was about to withdraw and cool down a minute when I felt Coach also on the verge of coming, his body tensing and spasming and his speech an almost indecipherable string of moans, groans, curse words, and pleas to fuck his bitch ass harder.

I complied, fucking him as hard as I could and jerking his huge cock faster and faster. I released the whistle cord from around his balls just as I felt his body seize and his cock started spraying spumes of cum two feet in the air, landing on his cheeks, lips, neck, and torso. At the same time I too started coming for what seemed like a half hour as I pumped Coach's ass full of my man juice.

But when I was done, sweaty and exhausted, Coach was still coming! I had just kept pumping his cock because it was still hard but now I started pumping his plump balls as well. Those huge nuts held a seemingly endless supply of jism. Coach was moaning and howling like a madman. I inserted two fingers up his asshole and started teasing his prostate (at the same time, I left a little suppository surprise for him). Finally after an eternity of cum-pumping him, a sweaty Coach exhaled in exhaustion and his huge dick went limp.

I withdrew my fingers from his ass and scooped a huge blob of cum from the valley between his chiseled pecs, then put it at his mouth. "You made a mess of yourself, boy. Eat it!" Coach's nose turned up and he turned away, but I grabbed his chin and forced his mouth open by squeezing his jaw, then dumped the cum into his unwilling mouth. Ridiculously, he resisted, as if I were going to be denied, as if he still had some straight or even male dignity left. He tried to spit it out but I clamped his jaw shut and, grabbing his balls threateningly, ordered him to swallow. When I saw his large adam's apple bob up and down I knew he'd done as I commanded. I scooped up successive piles of cum and forced him to eat them until the larger concentrations had been cleaned up off his body.

"Now lick my fingers clean, bitch!" I commanded when he had finished swallowing the last handful of cum. I had conquered yet another vestige of his straight manhood and he licked and sucked my fingers like a hungry whore.

By now Coach was starting to act dazed and drugged. Because he was in fact drugged. I had slipped a rohipnol suppository up his ass while stimulating his prostate as he came and the drug was starting to have an effect. Retrieving his - MY - whistle I blew it and ordered Coach up on his feet. He struggled and I had to help him up. I released his wrists from the cuffs and, in his confused and fractured psychic state he got some macho bug up his ass and he tried to swing at me, but he was so weakened and confused by the drug he not only missed but I caught his arm and effortlessly twisted it behind his back and shoved him toward the shower.

"It'll be easy to clean all that cum off your body, boy, since you have no body hair like a real man," I said, taunting the ravished - ravaged - former macho straight man. I pushed his dizzy form into the showers and started soaping him down. To my stunned surprise he got hard again! This guy really was a stud - here he was in his 30s and he got hard like a 15 year old. So while I was cleaning him off I worked over his cock and nipples and then, when I was cleaning out his cum-clogged ass chute, he came again - not in firehose streams as before, but a few little teaspoons of jism. Despite my conquest of him, I found myself getting jealous of Coach's mammoth balls. The guy could probably fuck all night.

By the time he came again, Coach was so dizzy he had to sit down so I set him down on the shower floor and turned off the water. I placed the shaving implements beside him, dried him off, and covered him in towels to keep warm and then split.

The next morning right before 6 a.m. practice I found Coach still asleep on the shower floor but the noise I made coming in was causing him to stir. I heard him groaning, no doubt stiff from lying on the hard floor all night. I unlocked the locker room door but left the chain loosely hanging on the pushbar so that the slightest motion would signal me when someone was entering the door.

I kicked Coach in the ass a few times and he stirred, groggily opened his eyes, and, seeing me, started cursing me while trying to struggle to his feet. Just then I heard the chain drop. I hurriedly turned on the shower, grabbed the towels, and said "The team's here for morning workout, Coach. See you in a minute." Then I split and crept behind the lockers, worked my way down the last row of lockers before the door, where I could slip in behind all the other guys there for morning swim practice.

Suddenly a hoot went up, followed by cheers and howls of laughter and, finally, clapping and whistling. "Looks like somebody lost a bet!" said Eddie Dibbs. As I worked my way to the front of the pack, there stood a groggy, stupidly grinning Coach in the entryway to the shower. He was nodding in response to Eddie. Everyone turned, looking for me. I knew I had to speak up and save Coach's rep and dignity. "Coach, you are the man! Shaving yourself to settle our bet - Jeez I thought you said it was a joke. Man, I feel bad."

Coach had recovered from the drug enough to realize that I was attempting to help him salvage his rep (after putting said rep in danger). "That's okay, Nick. When I realized you had taken it all seriously, I felt bad, so I thought I'd make it up to you. Besides, it'll be good for morale - you guys shave, I shave, we're all in this together."

Coach gave me a look that said "Say no more" so I returned it with an imperceptible nod. He then proceeded to put on his shorts and conduct a grueling practice, fucking me over in our workout almost as badly as I'd fucked over his asshole. But unlike him, I took it all without whining or begging. After practice, I went in to see him in his office alone.

"Nick, I'm begging you," Coach said, pleading unmanfully again when I had taken my seat and stared at him with a phony stare of amused contempt for a full 30 seconds, "please don't speak a word about... our encounter... to anyone. Our bet - our bets - are settled. So I'll appreciate it if you never say anything about last night. Ever." Then he forced his lips into a timid shadow of his confident, macho smile and I got an instant hardon realizing how thoroughly this stud had become my bitch.

"Sure thing, Coach. But I have a few requests - no, make that commands - of my own."

Coach was visibly taken aback at the word "commands" - he realized then and there that my domination of him was not over but was in fact just starting - but he said nothing, only nodded in acquiescence.

"First, from now on before every practice you will strip to the waist and coach us shirtless, wearing just your gym shorts and tennis shoes, at all practices. Even in winter the indoor pool area is like a sauna, so you'll be fine. And if you get a little cold and your titties get hard, well that will be a nice little treat for some of us. But I want to see, day by day, as your man-hair grows back. Because, Second, as soon as I determine that you're a man again, you are going to meet me here once more on a Sunday afternoon and I'm going to fuck your handsome face and anal pussy again. I've made a punk bitch out of boy Sam; now I want to see what it's like to own Sam the hairy muscle man."

Coach gulped and struggled with this so I decided to "put his mind at ease": "Don't worry, Coach," I said as if talking to a timid boy, "I only plan to fuck you once a month or so. It's so much hotter if I let you continue your life as a promiscuous, aggressive, straight male. Anyone can dominate a pussyboy like you are now; I want to ride you into the ground when you're a man again."

This didn't seem to make Coach feel all that much better, but it was the best he was gonna get.

"And third," I summed up, "at some point in the future I'm gonna order you to grow that mustache again. Maybe a beard. I wanna see how that looks on you. Full of my cum and butt sweat."

Coach just groaned. He was still coming to grips with the way his sexual identity had been recast so dramatically by me over the last 24 hours.

"See you tomorrow, Coach, 6 a.m. I can't wait to see whether your chest has a five o'clock shadow by then! Have fun explaining your smooth new bod to your wife - and Coach Meadows's wife too!" I laughed and strolled out of Coach's office. In the mirror I saw him put his head in his hands.

Despite my tough talk and poor treatment of him, Coach and I actually ended up becoming something of a team. I dominated our conference in my events until I graduated, and he became the winningest swim coach in our school's history - a title he still owns. Coach continued as a ladies man, although he divorced his wife and went through a series of hot love interests while meeting me occasionally to submit to my mastery of him. He did as instructed and grew his body hair back, and sexually dominating him as a hairy stud was even hotter.

But every year since that first fateful Sunday meeting between us, Coach has submitted himself to me for a full body shave. He's a hairy, muscular straight manly stud all year, but once a year he becomes my shaved submissive queer slave. I come back to town for our meetings, which still take place in the gym shower.

This year I'm thinking of introducing a new wrinkle. All these years I've been an anal virgin but this year, on the tenth anniversary of our first encounter, I'm thinking about letting Coach shave me and of submitting to him. Then again, I just have to think about his hot hairy body and his handsome face as he grovels at my feet and I think... maybe not.