Copyright 2010 by the author.
Thanks to everybody who wrote in with encouragement. A long soap-opera is not my forte, so `Swim Coach from Hell' is meant to be short, simple, and easy to read.
Thanks `A..n' for the good ideas. A couple of them are used.
Note: Considering the recent tragic events at Rutgers University, it occurred to me that the final scene in this chapter is in poor taste. But, without meaning to belittle the important issues, I thought "what the fuck. It's a kinky porn story, not socially responsible commentary." I trust readers will be able to separate low-grade fantasy from real-life.
Thoby Andover thobyandover@y7mail.com
SWIM COACH FROM HELL 2
The pale change-room block was lit with the pool floodlights in the very early morning. Very early. Still quite dark. The concrete building under stark, white light looked ominous. What if...? What if...?
Mathew felt a small, hot knot in his belly as he trotted toward the fenced pool. The surface of the water was smooth and looked black and cold, even under the lights. What if...?
The light in the window of the main admin office was on. Shit! That was bad. Surely it couldn't mean...
"GET THE FUCK INTO MUSTER POSITION, BOY!" came the air-renting bawl from the Barewood University swimming facility.
FUCK! Why!? Coach Hardcourte was here again!
"MOVE!!!"
Mathew leapt and sprinted, turning through the wire gate and rounding the corner of the change-rooms, sneakers crunching hard on the cement. Hardcourte was standing in the mustering area with a loud-hailer in one hand and a clipboard in the other. For one instant, Mathew's brain processed the redundancy of Hardcourte's larynx coupled with the battery-powered loudspeaker. It was a question for which he had little time to ponder. The very next instant, he was kicking his shoes away toward the benches, shedding his BU Swim Team jacket, t-shirt, and struggling out of his jeans. Why!? Was Coach MacMillon's battery flat again? Under the head-dazzling, screamed orders of the swim-team boss, Mathew managed to contemplate how unlikely this would be.
Barefoot and with his nipples tightening into hard little stones in the cold, he jumped to the white painted line on the cement, shivering and goosebumping in his Speedo. Hardcourte slapped the clipboard angrily against his track-suit pants.
"First thing, boy," he said with a growl. "I'll never wait for you again. Every morning, at four AM, you'll be lined up and ready! Properly presented. I wait for you – you're off the team. Under twenty champion or not! Understand, fuckbag!?"
"Yes, Sir!" Mathew pipped, his breath condensing in the chilled air.
"Yeah, that's right, faggot-boy. I'm your coach now. Every fucking day. No more slackin', punk!"
Mathew gulped. In the darkness, beyond the pool and the wire fence he saw some movement. What the...? Who was out there? Fucking perverts!
"See! I knew Hardcourte would be here!" Tony said as he crouched in the dark.
"Well we better see something good," said Brendan. "I didn't come out here this early in the morning for nothin'. Hardcourte better punch that fag in the guts. Mathew always beats me in the hundred butterfly."
"Hey. Take it easy," Tony said.
"What're they saying?"
"I can't hear"
"You can usually hear that foghorn a mile off."
"He's laying down some heavy shit, I guess. Poor Mathew looks shit-scared."
"How come Hardcourte's got that toolbox?"
"How the fuck should I know?"
CRASH!!!
Mathew jumped half a foot in the air as the coach angrily slammed the toolbox into the concrete.
"Now, pretty-boy. Time to zip you into shape." Hardcourte kicked the metal box open. "There'll be an extra tenth of a second off your time when we clear up your crap."
The unfriendly buzz of battery clippers sounded.
"Faggot haircuts are for hockey players! My swimmers are clean!"
"Hey! Coach! Please...!" Mathew's hands went instinctively to his precious tresses. He'd spent $125 at the mall – half his bank account – just the other day! It was the coolest haircut in Sociology class! With burgundy streaks!
"SHUT THE FUCK UP, FAG-BOY!!! SPEAK ONLY WHEN YOU'RE SPOKEN TO!!! AND GET YER FUCKIN' HANDS DOWN BY YER FUCKIN' SIDES!!!"
Mathew's hands snapped down. He almost felt a hot little tear squeezing from the corner of his eye as the clippers were thumbed on and off – on and off – clicking and droning. He was suddenly gripped from behind, around the neck, by a big, powerful arm.
"Say goodbye to your princess-curls, pretty-boy! It's zip-pid-dee-doo-dah time! And HOLD FUCKIN' STILL or I'll accidentally cut yer fuckin' ear off!"
Mathew struggled briefly, then just tensed, the huge bicep wrapped around his neck. The harsh buzzing came closer, filling his right ear with the sound of irate bees. The cold metal on his scalp slid with tingling vibrations, slicing in lengthy swathes. He saw great tufts and clumps of beautiful black and burgundy floating softly to the wet cement. Two and a half hours at the fanciest hairdresser at the mall! Wasted!
What a fucking pain in the ass! Ryan Hardcourte thought as he pushed the clippers forward to the faggy, girl-fringe and brought them back to the nape for another pass. Next thing I'll have to wipe the team's asses for them! In my day, a millimetre on the skull at training was enough for the coach to produce a razor-strop!
Then, he turned the clippers in his hand and started to work carefully.
"I said hold still, punk! You want fancy hair!? I'm giving you a standout style!"
With a practiced hand, he carved the Barewood University logo into the boy's scalp. The two Apples of Wisdom right on top and the Banana of Vitality going forward to the hairline.
"What's he doing?" Brendan whispered.
"He's shaving his head, obviously!" said Tony.
"But what's taking so long?"
"I don't know, but Mathew's going to be spewing! He's got about a hundred bucks worth of hair products he can't use now! And he won't be able to show up in Sociology class with a head like that!"
Mathew stood to attention, nearly weeping. His scalp was icy-cold in its newly bared condition. A pair of pliers from the toolbox had been used to snip off his ear-stud. It tinged on the cement where it had fallen.
"Get yer hands behind yer head!" ordered the coach as he dropped the pliers back into the metal toolbox, and Mathew quickly clasped his fingers behind his skull. It was bony and prickly. "We're not finished yet, punk-rag!"
Before Mathew even knew what had happened, Hardcourte had snapped open a pen-knife and sliced completely through the nylon at the side of the swimmer's meagre Speedo. The little brief was whisked away and tossed carelessly to the ground as Mathew's freed penis unfolded forward and swung in the cool air.
"That's not a regulation racer, boy! KEEP YER FUCKIN' HANDS BEHIND YER HEAD!"
Mathew sniffled as he stood naked, baring his armpits to the darkness beyond the wire fence. Who the fuck was out there? Shit! It better not be Tony or any of his other pals! Then Coach Hardcourte surprised him again.
"Ahhh...!" Mathew exclaimed as a big hand suddenly pushed roughly and strongly into his buttocks, holding him.
"That's a nice smooth little ass for holdin', boy. No wider than my hand. Now you'll wanna keep yer little waist still if you value that big cock o' yours! And KEEP YER FUCKIN' HANDS BEHIND YER HEAD! Fr Chrissakes!"
The buzzing clippers were held near his belly and... Oh no!
"No swimmer of mine's gonna strut around with his nasty pubes hangin' outa his racers! We're gonna make you streamlined! Now hold still an' get set!"
"Whoo-weeeee...!" said Brendan breathlessly. "This is gold! Shit! I've gotta get my camera-phone!"
"This is rough!" Tony said, his eyes bulging. "Coach Hardcourte just zipped off Mathew's pubes!"
"Shit!" said Brendan. "I missed it with my camera-phone!"
"No! Wait! Look!" Tony exclaimed. "Mathew's cracked a fat! He's got a boner!"
"May as well clean up here too," Coach Hardcourte said as he ran the clippers casually into Mathew's armpits. "Don't look so fuckin' miserable, boy. I'm gonna whip you into shape for the season championships. Starting at four every fuckin'morning. That's how we're gonna roll from now on. Last time I personally trained a little college-team fag was in the days of razor-strops an' there was no college `bullying policy' either. You're going to shape-up in the traditional way! Now, we're gonna take care o' this!"
With two fingers, Coach Hardcourte flicked Mathew's thick erection to the side, making it wobble and twang like a bass string. Mathew moaned softly. Why was this happening to him? He felt his exposed cock-head brushing at his belly and leaking oily drops of fluid into his navel.
"That's a mighty fine schlong, boy, for a pretty-boy college twink. It's drag in the water, though. There's an old technique for horny fags like you."
Brusquely and without warning, Mathew's arms were grabbed and twisted down behind. A single, mighty fist gripped his wrists, encasing and locking them in the small of his back. He heard a little snap of rubber, and a huge middle-finger in a condom was wiggled in front of his face. Oh Jesus! What...?
He struggled and writhed as the rubber was pushed rudely between his buttocks, parting them and probing with adroit finesse.
"Hold still, fag-boy! That's a tight little ass you got an' it's not easy gettin' in there unless you relax!"
"... Ahhh...! ...Ah...! ... Ah...!" said Mathew as the finger pushed against his closed hole. He tightened, trying to keep it out, but it made an entry and wriggled inwards.
"... Ahh...! ...Ah...!" Mathew's voice was higher now. His open-mouthed trilling carried across the concrete concourse and into the dark. He felt his cock straining and throbbing.
"... Oh God...!"
It found the bulb of his prostate, and his vocal exclamations reached a falsetto, choirboy quaver. The rubber-sheathed finger massaged, and jolts and flashes of lightning sensation shocked his loins.
"... Oh God...! ... Ah...!"
His balls jiggled, jerked, and began to pump. He felt a hot onrush and a racing, surging gush... The first squirt looped into the air high over both their heads, and Mathew shuddered and struggled, his wrists gripped behind him.
"... Oh God I'm coming...!"
"That's the idea fuckbag!"
More jets of white load followed. They flew in clean, thick strings, curling and streaming and splatting on the concrete.
"...Ahhhh...! ... Ah...! ...Ah...!"
"Shit, boy! Your balls were holdin' a whole lotta jism! C'mon. Get it all out!"
Mathew's voice departed from its shrill warble and he let out a long, low groan of misery and disappointment while shots of his glowing spunk were ejected and wasted on the ground. He struggled harder, desperate. He wanted to stroke. He gasped in abject sorrow as his hips swung and jolted involuntarily. The final spurts were chest-high, spouting in a rhythmic fountain and splashing audibly on the ground.
"YOU MESSED ON MY POOL CONCOURSE, FUCK-BOY! NOW LICK IT UP!"
Brendan hooted loudly. "This has got to be candid-camera of the century! Ha!"
"I'm not sure you should have filmed this," Tony said. "It's an invasion of privacy."
"Bullshit!"
"Who's holding the camera? It's all over the place!" said Drew, peering intently at the screen.
"Why didn't you zoom in a bit more?" somebody else asked.
"What do you want? Stanley fucking Kubrick? That's Mathew Crack, the BU champion swimmer – stripped, shaved and milked! And you're questioning the camerawork!"
"Is that the coach making him lick it up!?" asked the bespectacled Phillip Hotheringspoon-Phipps, who was attending university at the age of fourteen because of his genius intelligence. "I saw nothing like this at Harvard."
Wayne Wainwright leant forward over his desk and tilted his head to follow the action. "How did you get this from your phone to the projector?"
"I just emailed it to the Sociology server."
"That means everyone in the faculty has access."
"No wonder Crack hasn't shown up at class."
"Ha! I'm emailing it to my pals at Beachhead Butte Swim-Team! They hate Mathew Crack! He always wins and they think he's a gay twink!"
"Look! He's licking up his spunk! I'm soooo glad somebody got this on camera!"
The excited noise of the thirty-strong Sociology tutorial was fast rising, when Brad Holloway burst urgently into the classroom.
"Quick! Get it off the screen! Mrs. Wilson's coming!"
thobyandover@y7mail.com