Date: Sun, 9 Dec 2012 23:43:56 -0800 (PST)
From: Ty Attlee <tyattlee@yahoo.com.au>
Subject: Coach Steele chapter 1

This story will be for ADULTS ONLY!


***COACH STEELE***

By Ty Attlee
tyattlee@yahoo.com.au

Part 1.

I made the Under 21 boat crew on Saturday.  I've been busting for a year to
make a position in the surf boat, and now I made it.  There's me in the
bow, Bevan Riebelt at 2nd bow, Justin Caruthers at 2nd stroke, and Derek
Phillips at stroke (the names have been changed).  I got the bow because
I'm the lightest.  I've been trying to bulk up for a year to get into one
of the prime surf boat crews.

Unfortunately, our celebration was short lived.  We found out that our
coach would be Bill Steele, and that set Bev, Justin, and Derek
complaining.  Bill Steele coached me to the Under 17 paddle-ski
championship, so I knew what we were in for.  That three months under
Steele was Hell.  Apart from school, all I did was eat, sleep, and train.

Now my body's aching again from the new Hell that started on Saturday, but
here's how it is.  I was secretly a bit glad to have Steele as our coach
because I knew him, but the other thing is, it's a turn on.  He's a huge
mountain of muscle with a voice that rattles windows and sends the younger
kids scattering from the clubhouse.  I like girls and all, but obviously I
hang around Nifty so you know the score.  Shit, Coach Steele's voice sends
*me* trembling, for a few reasons.

Trouble was, Bill Steele was pissed off because he would have trained the
club's prime crew, but he got stuck with us under 21's because they wanted
to give Coach Marshall a go with the main crew, and you don't want to be
training under Bill Steele when he's pissed off!  That's for sure!  Derek
was gut punched for complaining, and it took him about a minute to get his
wind back.  Coach Steele doesn't take shit or suffer whining from his boys.
Already we were in trouble!

We were stripped on the muster stands and hosed down in front of the whole
committee.  Steele just sliced our Speedos off with a penknife, then we
were made to stand at attention while we were lectured, or "pumped" for the
season.  Steele told us the score.  Simple as that.  I don't remember
everything he said, but the important things were; he is "Sir," and he is
obeyed, immediately and without question, and it goes without saying there
is to be no complaints!

We'll train Saturdays, Sundays, Tuesday mornings and Wednesday nights.  The
four of us will be mustered and at attention at *4 fucking AM*!  We'll be
stripped and showing full erect wood.  Coach Steele says "No masturbating
at night," but I reckon I can get the pulls in and show a hard-on in the
morning, no trouble.

I boned up good and hard right then on the muster stand, but if you're in a
boat crew under Bill Steele, I guess there's no time for modesty.  You'd
think the hose-down would have had me soft, but when my cock rises, it's
not going down no matter what I think about.  Despite his cracking, angry
voice in the clubhouse (or maybe because of it), I was excited and wanted
to get the season underway!

This is my first time of writing a story, but the advantage I have is that
nothing's made up!  Trouble is, it's hard to convey the presence of Coach
Steele.  He just has that power of command, and when he delivers an order,
I fucking well obey.  And what he said to us was that his business is
winning races, and therefore his business is turning us into
speed-machines.  He calls the Under 21 crew "younker class" and I don't
think it's altogether a complimentary term.  We're not big enough to pull a
boat fast enough for Steele, apparently, especially me.  I'm a bit narrower
than the others, and Coach Steele said I needed to be horsewhipped until I
bulked up.  My legs are good, though.  "Overdeveloped," said Steele.  My
thighs are sprung like steel, thanks to the training I did last year.

Under 21 or not, we're all buffed studs.  I don't have any fat.  My six
pack is actually an eight pack and my thighs are like thighs from another
planet.  I'm determined to make myself good enough for Bill Steele.  That's
the thing about the hard motherfucker.  He challenges you to do well
because you hate him so much and you want to beat him.  I don't hate him,
but shit, he is one tough cookie!

The four of us were kitted with regulation club caps and "Spank" race
bikinis in club colours.  Someone at the club's done a deal with Spank, so
all competitors wear the tiny racers.  The surfies and other kids make fun
of "Speedo boys," but these Spanks are something else, the smallest
possible cut, and I doubly dipped out because I'm real slim at the waist,
and Dave Vernon found me an *ultra* small pair.  I have a pretty big wang,
and it was slung hard to the left, and I reckon anyone could see the veins
throbbing through the nylon.

The colours of Beachhead Butte SLSC (name changed) are green with yellow
and white stripes (I thought I better make up those colours too, so if they
belong to a real club, it's not ours).  The new Spank race bikinis and caps
were glow-in-the-dark fluorescent and fresh, and I knew that Steele makes
an inspection at every training session, so I needed to get hold of a few
more pairs.  If someone's racer or cap is faded or not up to scratch, the
whole crew trains naked.

"Dress your cocks to the left!" Coach Steele barked.  I already knew that,
but I think Bev and Justin had to re-arrange their meat.  Dave Vernon and
some of the selection committee laughed, but we four were already jumpy
under Coach Steele's authority, and Derek had been gut punched already, so
there was no laughing from us.

To give some idea of how it goes with Coach Steele, you should know how to
stand to attention.  It's chin up, arms locked in at the sides, and fingers
together and straight down.  He'll demand that your gut is sucked in and
your butt is clenched.  Oh shit, this was all just on Saturday, and from
now on I've got a whole season of this discipline!  It's scary but
exciting.

Our first task was to polish the hull, so we hip-hopped outside and swarmed
onto the boat.  It was hot in the sun, and my super tiny bikini coiled up
into my crack like a g-string.  I kept pulling it out with my finger until
Coach Steele saw me do it.

"BOTH HANDS ON YOUR WORK!" he yelled.  "MY CREW DOESN'T HAVE TIME TO
SCRATCH THEIR ARSES!"  People laughed at that, and I had to continue
polishing with that twist of nylon sawing in my crack.

Polishing the boat is par of the course for a crew.  It's tedious, hot
work, and you can guess that Steele will want a top-notch job.  He wants it
to "sparkle-arkle-arkle" for speed in the water.  There's only so much
polishing you can do until the boat is not going to be any faster, but that
doesn't matter to Steele.  So the four of us climbed on top of the upturned
hull and sweated.

Now, I knew what was going to happen next.  Jinky Mills was going to come
around and make jokes with us, and sure enough, it didn't take him long to
find the four buckstuds all kitted out in their new, dinky little
race-briefs, piled onto the boat and sweating and rubbing for all they were
worth (Hey Jinky, if you're reading this, I didn't change your name).

"Hey looky!" Jinky said.  "Bill Steele's boys are working already!" or
something like that.  I definitely remember what he said next.  "Hey
Attlee!  Your Speedo's up your arse!"

It's not a Speedo, it's a Spank, but I didn't see any benefit of informing
Jinky of this fact.  Personally I don't see what the joke is, but the
little surfer sprogs like Jinky don't bother me too much.  I can't let
them, but I still wasn't looking forward to the first time I cracked a
boner in that teensy Spank.

On the first day of training it was inevitable that Coach Steele would hurt
us bad.  That's how it goes in a crew under Steele.  He found a blemish on
the hull and we were sent for a drilling on the track.  The track is the
soft sand up the back of the beach.  There's about five kilometres of it, I
guess, until you reach the Butte.  I'm the bow number so I took the front
of the boat on my left shoulder.  Bevan was on the other side and behind.
Justin behind me and last was Derek.

Carrying the boat like that is work for strong, fit men.  I believe we
Under 21's measured up in some way, and holy hell, it hurt!  Coach Steele –
get this – follows along on the sand in a Suzuki Sierra, the
motherfucker, with the AC on no doubt.  And – get this – there's a
loudspeaker on the roof, so you can't get away from his voice.  And
everybody can hear as he drills you up and down the beach.

There is a special pacing action which has to be followed, and by fuck, the
loudspeaker on the Suzuki makes sure the crew follows it!  All outer legs,
then all inner legs, so Justin and me were pacing together and Bev and
Derek were the opposite.  It keeps balance.

Five kilometres up the beach and five kilometres back with that fucking
boat on my shoulder is not something I want to repeat, but I'm sure I will.
Boat crew is no picnic.  And I couldn't fucking *believe* how *fast* that
mongrel Steele drilled!  It was all HUT HUT HUT! from the loudspeaker and
insane demands and curses.  My muscles absolutely screamed in pain, and my
shoulder and arms!  I wanted to cry.

I can still hear our feet crunching together in the soft sand with that
endlessly repetitious drill, and the sound of the guys heaving choked
breaths, grunting and trying to swear.  And of course the noise of that
loudspeaker with Coach Steele barking away with insults.

The Spank brief wound itself tight into my rear crack, with sand of course,
and it chafed like a motherfucker.  And sure enough, there was Jinky Mills
as we set out, saying my backside is tight as nuts.

It sure was tight that day.  You know you've done a hard run if the muscles
in your butt-cheeks ache.  And OK, I've got a neat, hard little rump (and
you *can* see the muscles in it.  I've checked in the mirror).  But I don't
think I need Jinky Mills paying it compliments.  Girls, maybe, or Bevan.
Or Coach Steele I suppose.

When we reached the end of the beach, we had to put the boat down and rest.
We really *had* to, but we didn't.  Don't stop, loop around to the right,
and head back, Steele told us through the mike in the Suzuki.

"No fucking *way* man!"

I think Justin gasped that, and thanks to Justin, we learned about a thing
called "high port."

What the fuck!?

Raise the boat.  Arms all the way up.  Lock in the elbows and everybody
balance the boat with both hands on the gunnel.

*What the fuck!!!?*

The boat was as high as we could lift it, and as I paused there retching
under its weight with my arms upright, I truly believed that Coach Steele
would not make us *run* like this!  My mind refused to accept it, but it
had to if I really wanted my place in the boat crew.  Now we had to pace
perfectly in time to keep the boat balanced above our heads.  Try it
sometime.  You have to do a little jiggy-dance to stay synchronised with
the other guys, and you have to lift your knees up high to keep everything
straight.  And you need Coach Steele going "HUT!  HUT!  HUT!  HUT!" to keep
the time.  My brain concentrated on one thing only, and that one thing was
each next step.  It was merciless, but you don't join a boat crew for
mercy.

One thing I'll say for Coach Steele is; he knows how to get a crew working
together.  However fast we went, he wanted us faster.  Every single muscle
in my body knows what it's like to be on fire.  I cursed the prime crew for
taking Coach Marshall and leaving us with Steele.  Sweat ran down from my
arms, got in my eyes, and trickled in my opened armpits.  Sand stuck in
every crevice, then more sweat on top.

When the boat was back at the club on the trailer, we collapsed.  We were
coated from absolutely head to toe with sand that stuck to us, and I pulled
the nylon out of my rear crack and tried to get the sand out of there.  So
we lay there sobbing and heaving.

The punishment drill had not been up to Steele's standard, and he told us
we'd start taking care of that after lunch.  We all knew better than to
protest, but we were each thinking "What?  No way!"  We *were* supposed to
be quit of the training session at lunchtime, but we're learning that
training sessions don't just simply end, not until the Coach is satisfied.

There were two whole cooked chickens which the four of us tore apart.
There were three oranges each, and a whole lot of spinach, cabbage, and
celery.  Beachhead Butte SLSC is pretty good like that, even if the
facilities are run down.  While our lunch digested we re-polished the boat,
and what a miserable crew we made.  The sweat and sand and the hoiked-up
race brief itched on me, and another training session after lunch was not
what we were looking forward to!

I haven't gotten to where we mess around under the shower at the end of the
day, but I'll save that and the rest of the afternoon for another chapter.
This writing is hard work!  Please let me know if you like it, as I want to
know if anyone out there will read it.  And feel free to give me some
writing tips, all you writers!  I do want to make a good record of my first
day with Coach Steele.

Ty Attlee
tyattlee@yahoo.com.au