Date: Fri, 29 Mar 2013 14:25:54 -0700 (PDT)
From: Topseed
Subject: 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.