Date: Sun, 16 Dec 2012 12:15:38 -0800 (PST)
From: Ty Attlee <tyattlee@yahoo.com.au>
Subject: COACH STEELE Chapter 2

This story is for ADULTS ONLY!

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***COACH STEELE***
Chapter 2

by Ty Attlee
tyattlee@yahoo.com.au


Coach Steele likes precision, so exhausted as we were after Saturday
morning's drill, he had more for us in the afternoon.  But this time we
didn't carry the boat.  A lot easier, huh?  Maybe, but I think I said that
Steele knows how to get a crew working together, and an essential part of
his method is referred to as the "duck run."  We were arranged in our
formation for the run.  Front left, Sean.  Front right, me.  Rear left
Justin.  And rear right, Derek.

Then we ran at attention with our arms locked down and our fingers
straight.  We all saw the prime boat crew training like this last season,
and we laughed at the prancing ponies as they lifted their knees.  Now, I
was doing it, and I wasn't laughing.  But at least we started off on the
hard sand near the water.  The air's cooler there too.

Coach Steele howled through the speaker on the Suzuki about how our knees
weren't lifting high enough.  When he wasn't howling about that, he was
howling about us keeping in step.  He wanted our feet slapping on the wet
sand in perfect unison.  Four feet slapping down as one – LEFT!  Four
feet slapping down as one – RIGHT!  I don't know if he could hear our
footslaps from the Suzuki, but he sure seemed like he could.  If somebody
landed the teensiest bit out from the crew's step, we fucking heard about
it from the loudspeaker.  It took us three whole runs to the Butte and back
to get anywhere close to satisfying Steele with our timing.

"GET THOSE LEGS WORKING TOGETHER YOU WORTHLESS PUNKS!  YOU LOOK LIKE A
GAGGLE OF GEESE!!!"

When we were something like being together in our stride, we had to start
lifting our knees higher.  He just kept yelling through that speaker until
I was crunching my knees into my chest, almost.  Then we had to go faster.

I couldn't figure out *how* the fuck we could go any faster when we were
duck-running like that, raising our knees so high, but we're very fit, and
a boat crew has to work naturally as a well-oiled team.  And in actual
fact, we Under 21s will duck march faster and better than the prime crew
did last year, because we're lighter and faster.  Not that it makes any
difference in a boat race, of course, but there you go.  I have really good
legs and I was right hand lead in the formation, so I had the guys moving
at pretty close to sprint speed, and I'm sure they were cursing me
silently.

Sprint speed with your arms straight down and your knees lifting is not fun
though, not after three trips to the butte.  And Steele never let us stop.
"Rest" is not in his vocabulary.  The Suzuki came real close up alongside
us and the speaker barked at us to keep our eyes to the front.  Coach
Steele is most insistent on a military posture.

He stayed with us, making damn sure we didn't relax any part of our duck
run drill.  And I'll say this.  Looking back on Saturday afternoon, there
is a nice little feeling of togetherness with the other guys.  I guess
that's part of Coach Steele's secret to success.

Beachhead Butte SLSC is the hardest club on this part of the coast, and
Bill Steele is the hardest coach.  Everyone knows it.  His crews beat
Sunshine City fairly regularly and they're a much bigger club.  You'd call
Beachhead Butte an isolated town and the locals are used to seeing the
lifeguards training on the beach.  However, the deal with Spank racewear
has made us the butt (pun not intended) of the surfies' jokes.  They'll
call out "look at their dicks!" as we drill past on the beach, and we're
all too breathless to come back with a reply.

There's the older guys too.  You know the ones.  They hang out and check
out the hard muscled boys in their race briefs.  So anyway, there's this
one older guy who we know as "Simon" or "Letch."  He doesn't come to swim,
but he's almost always there.  He *loves* to check us out, and I'm entirely
conscious of my teeny weeny racer bikini snapped into my butt crack like a
thong.  The other guys' racers crawl up theirs too, but not as tight and as
quick as mine.  I guess I have such a small waist that I can take the
smallest size, but anyway, the "Letch" came down close to our track on the
wet, and it was pretty hard to miss his leering face as we drilled past.
That's when I really felt my cock bouncing in the front packet and I could
feel his eyes on my backside after we'd passed, cheeks bared by the twisted
nylon gathered hard in the crack.

"Look how pretty they are in their bright green and yellow!" some cheeky
bastard said.  The pervs always make sure we hear them, and I know I've
seen camera lenses poking out from the scrub up on the dunes.

Fuck it was hard to drill on the sand all day Saturday in the hot sun while
the surf beckoned!  By the end of the day the sun was just closing down and
we were *way* too tired to consider anything else but collapsing.  For five
minutes, we lay about heaving and sobbing.  We couldn't even get to a tap
to get some water.  It felt like such a long time since that morning when
we learned we'd be training under Coach Steele.  We almost had to carry
each other to the shower.

Beachhead Butte SLSC is pretty rough.  The shower is an open, cold nozzle
on the outside of the clubhouse, tucked around the back under a tree.  Now
*that's* where you'll find the pervs lurking around!  We jumbled together
under the spout, trying to get water into our mouths.  Outside or not, we
had to get those bikinis off.  The sand is just too scratchy and fresh
water is the only relief from a long, hot day of hard training with a
curled up string of sandy nylon in your crack.

And what do you know?  We all had boners!  I guess the efforts of the day
weren't enough to keep them down!  Mine was a steel meat crank, and there
was no way I was fitting it back into those Spanks!  I started tickling
Sean and he started wrestling me.  He managed to get his hand right up my
butt crack and fingered my hole.  That was it for me.  I started crying out
in a funny voice.  I couldn't help it.  Then I started fighting back.

Justin and Derek were laughing and getting up to their own thing.  We were
all too far gone, too worn out and too horny to care who was looking.  In
the past I've showered under that nozzle in double quick time, only too
aware of the eyes in the bushes, but this time my meat pole was leading me.
I jacked Sean in the ass like a dog humping up against your leg while I
folded him over in a wrestling lock.  I didn't even enter him properly
because I came real quick.  I just rubbed in his ass!  It's one of the
things about being in a boat crew, but the training has got to be offset
with some fun, and if fighting for a buttfuck isn't fun, then I don't know
what is.  Sean yowled, for sure, but he knows the score.  I've always
admired him since we were competing in the Under 16 beach events, and
finally I got to get a piece of him.  He has an unclassically cute face,
with a big mouth, a crooked front tooth, and squeezed up piggy eyes.

On Saturday I ran home doubly happy – that Coach Steele was in charge of
me – and that Sean had taken my cock, and the fact that I had to fight
hard for both.  I can't tell you how happy I was on Saturday night, knowing
I'd had Sean's cute little ass.  We're both bow numbers in the boat and so
it seems only natural that we get physical together.

Then came Sunday.  4:00am at the Surf Club is not a happy time to be up and
about.  I set my alarm for 3:45.  It takes me ten minutes to run from the
house to the club, so I lay there for another five minutes, then I figured
I could lay in bed for another two minutes and really sprint hard for the
Surf Club.  Now I was late, and I had time for nothing except snapping on
my Club Spank brief and my race-cap and charging out the door.  It was
cold, but that didn't matter since I really had to run hard.

The others were there, and we mustered on the stands outside the club.
Hooray!  We made it just in time!  The headlights of Coach Steele's car
were in the car-park right on 4:00.  While we stood to attention, he opened
the clubhouse and turned on the outside floodlight.  He was wearing a
tight-fitting tracksuit, and his huge frame of muscle was obvious.  Under
the light, I could see his eyes, and I knew he was not pleased.  I know
that look from when he coached me for the ski.

"I thought I told you fuckwits to muster with your hard-ons for inspection!
I need to know you faggots are keeping your spunk in your balls.  No
masturbation!"

I think I got those words right.  In actual fact, I'm sure I did, because
when he spoke them there was a horrible feeling in my belly as I realised
he was right.  He *had* told us to muster naked, and he wanted to see our
boners!  I suppose he wants to know his big buck rowers are retaining their
powers of vitality, or something like that.  Whatever the theory, we'd
fucked up.  The boner was no problem though.  It was already there, popping
and lurching in my bikini.

"SHUCK YOUR FUCKING SWIMMERS OFF, YOU FAGGOTS!!!"  He actually made us
flinch, and by golly, we shucked off real quick!  At least my actual
hard-on wouldn't disappoint.  It landed in my belly with a thump, and I
could feel it nosing in my tummy, and everyone knows a boner in the morning
is more than easy.

The question was whether, or how we would be punished.

"If I find any of you wankers without a hard-on at inspection, I'll stick a
lock on your limp cock so you won't be able to get it up again!  You show
up at training with all your energy and ready-go juice!"

It's pretty hard to forget the phrase "ready-go juice" – or the idea of
having a lock stuck on your cock!

He sent us for a swim around the Beachhead Butte Buoy.  One of the little
habits you find with tough coaches is that in the cold of the morning –
which is actually night time – you'll be in the water.  In the heat of
the day, you'll be drilling in the sand.  At 4 in the morning, the water
was black and cold.  The break at Beachhead Butte is big and difficult,
thanks to the Butte, and that's why it has to be such a tough club and why
Sunshine City is so much more popular for beachgoers.

Just as we started to get our dinky little togs on again, Coach Steele
thundered.

"MOVE, YOU FAGGOTS!!!"

All right, we were to swim naked.  We left our togs lying on the muster
stands and sprinted down the beach to the surf, and I can tell you that we
were each thinking – no, hoping – that we would be able to get those
race briefs back again before any crowds turned up at the beach.

When I was training with Steele for the Under 17s, he never made me go
naked, but now when I'm with the big boys, it's an occupational hazard.  It
happened a few times to the prime crew last year under Steele, and so now
we can expect it too.  The idea is not to fuck up, I guess.

One day last year, the prime crew drilled all day on the track butt-naked,
on a hot day, with a good crowd on the beach.  As the word went out that
day around Beachhead, the crowd got bigger too.

So we hit the surf with our dicks flapping.  The buoy is about 4 or 500m
out I think.  A hard swim, especially with a big swell.  The first splash
in the morning of a training day is a great way to wake up.  It really
makes the skin tingle, and my nipples went hard enough to hurt.  We knew to
stay together in the dark out there, so off we went.  I thought about
grabbing Sean's leg or something and drawing him into a wrestle, but that
would have been a shit idea.  I knew, of course, that we were going to need
all our stamina to get round that buoy and back to the beach.

***

*to be continued*

tyattlee@yahoo.com.au