Date: Sat, 9 Oct 2010 22:21:16 -0700 (PDT)
From: Thoby Andover <thobyandover@y7mail.com>
Subject: Swim Coach from Hell part 2

Copyright 2010 by the author.

Thanks to everybody who wrote in with encouragement.  A long soap-opera is
not my forte, so `Swim Coach from Hell' is meant to be short, simple, and
easy to read.

Thanks `A..n' for the good ideas.  A couple of them are used.

Note: Considering the recent tragic events at Rutgers University, it
occurred to me that the final scene in this chapter is in poor taste.  But,
without meaning to belittle the important issues, I thought "what the fuck.
It's a kinky porn story, not socially responsible commentary."  I trust
readers will be able to separate low-grade fantasy from real-life.

Thoby Andover
thobyandover@y7mail.com


***SWIM COACH FROM HELL 2***


The pale change-room block was lit with the pool floodlights in the very
early morning.  Very early.  Still quite dark.  The concrete building under
stark, white light looked ominous.  What if...?  What if...?

Mathew felt a small, hot knot in his belly as he trotted toward the fenced
pool.  The surface of the water was smooth and looked black and cold, even
under the lights.  What if...?

The light in the window of the main admin office was on.  *Shit!* That was
bad.  Surely it couldn't mean...

"*GET THE FUCK INTO MUSTER POSITION, BOY!*" came the air-renting bawl from
the Barewood University swimming facility.

*FUCK!* Why!?  Coach Hardcourte was here again!

"***MOVE!!!***"

Mathew leapt and sprinted, turning through the wire gate and rounding the
corner of the change-rooms, sneakers crunching hard on the cement.
Hardcourte was standing in the mustering area with a loud-hailer in one
hand and a clipboard in the other.  For one instant, Mathew's brain
processed the redundancy of Hardcourte's larynx coupled with the
battery-powered loudspeaker.  It was a question for which he had little
time to ponder.  The very next instant, he was kicking his shoes away
toward the benches, shedding his BU Swim Team jacket, t-shirt, and
struggling out of his jeans.  Why!?  Was Coach MacMillon's battery flat
again?  Under the head-dazzling, screamed orders of the swim-team boss,
Mathew managed to contemplate how unlikely this would be.

Barefoot and with his nipples tightening into hard little stones in the
cold, he jumped to the white painted line on the cement, shivering and
goosebumping in his Speedo.  Hardcourte slapped the clipboard angrily
against his track-suit pants.

"First thing, boy," he said with a growl.  "I'll never wait for you again.
Every morning, at four AM, you'll be lined up and ready!  Properly
presented.  I wait for you – you're off the team.  Under twenty champion
or not!  Understand, fuckbag!?"

"Yes, Sir!"  Mathew pipped, his breath condensing in the chilled air.

"Yeah, that's right, faggot-boy.  I'm your coach now.  Every fucking day.
No more slackin', punk!"

Mathew gulped.  In the darkness, beyond the pool and the wire fence he saw
some movement.  What the...?  Who was out there?  Fucking perverts!

*

"See!  I *knew* Hardcourte would be here!"  Tony said as he crouched in the
dark.

"Well we better see something good," said Brendan.  "I didn't come out here
this early in the morning for nothin'.  Hardcourte better punch that fag in
the guts.  Mathew always beats me in the hundred butterfly."

"Hey.  Take it easy," Tony said.

"What're they saying?"

"I can't hear"

"You can usually hear that foghorn a mile off."

"He's laying down some heavy shit, I guess.  Poor Mathew looks
shit-scared."

"How come Hardcourte's got that toolbox?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

*

***CRASH!!!***

Mathew jumped half a foot in the air as the coach angrily slammed the
toolbox into the concrete.

"Now, pretty-boy.  Time to zip you into shape."  Hardcourte kicked the
metal box open.  "There'll be an extra tenth of a second off your time when
we clear up your crap."

The unfriendly buzz of battery clippers sounded.

"Faggot haircuts are for hockey players!  My swimmers are clean!"

"Hey!  Coach!  Please...!"  Mathew's hands went instinctively to his
precious tresses.  He'd spent $125 at the mall – half his bank account
– just the other day!  It was the coolest haircut in Sociology class!
With burgundy streaks!

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, FAG-BOY!!!  SPEAK ONLY WHEN YOU'RE SPOKEN TO!!!  AND GET
YER FUCKIN' HANDS DOWN BY YER FUCKIN' SIDES!!!"

Mathew's hands snapped down.  He almost felt a hot little tear squeezing
from the corner of his eye as the clippers were thumbed on and off – on
and off – clicking and droning.  He was suddenly gripped from behind,
around the neck, by a big, powerful arm.

"Say goodbye to your princess-curls, pretty-boy!  It's zip-pid-dee-doo-dah
time!  And HOLD FUCKIN' STILL or I'll accidentally cut yer fuckin' ear
off!"

Mathew struggled briefly, then just tensed, the huge bicep wrapped around
his neck.  The harsh buzzing came closer, filling his right ear with the
sound of irate bees.  The cold metal on his scalp slid with tingling
vibrations, slicing in lengthy swathes.  He saw great tufts and clumps of
beautiful black and burgundy floating softly to the wet cement.  Two and a
half hours at the fanciest hairdresser at the mall!  Wasted!

*

What a fucking pain in the ass!  Ryan Hardcourte thought as he pushed the
clippers forward to the faggy, girl-fringe and brought them back to the
nape for another pass.  Next thing I'll have to wipe the team's asses for
them!  In my day, a millimetre on the skull at training was enough for the
coach to produce a razor-strop!

Then, he turned the clippers in his hand and started to work carefully.

"I said hold still, punk!  You want fancy hair!?  I'm giving you a standout
style!"

With a practiced hand, he carved the Barewood University logo into the
boy's scalp.  The two Apples of Wisdom right on top and the Banana of
Vitality going forward to the hairline.

*

"What's he doing?" Brendan whispered.

"He's shaving his head, obviously!" said Tony.

"But what's taking so long?"

"I don't know, but Mathew's going to be spewing!  He's got about a hundred
bucks worth of hair products he can't use now!  And he won't be able to
show up in Sociology class with a head like that!"

*

Mathew stood to attention, nearly weeping.  His scalp was icy-cold in its
newly bared condition.  A pair of pliers from the toolbox had been used to
snip off his ear-stud.  It *tinged* on the cement where it had fallen.

"Get yer hands behind yer head!" ordered the coach as he dropped the pliers
back into the metal toolbox, and Mathew quickly clasped his fingers behind
his skull.  It was bony and prickly.  "We're not finished yet, punk-rag!"

Before Mathew even knew what had happened, Hardcourte had snapped open a
pen-knife and sliced completely through the nylon at the side of the
swimmer's meagre Speedo.  The little brief was whisked away and tossed
carelessly to the ground as Mathew's freed penis unfolded forward and swung
in the cool air.

"That's not a regulation racer, boy!  KEEP YER FUCKIN' HANDS BEHIND YER
HEAD!"

Mathew sniffled as he stood naked, baring his armpits to the darkness
beyond the wire fence.  Who the fuck was out there?  Shit!  It better not
be Tony or any of his other pals!  Then Coach Hardcourte surprised him
again.

"Ahhh...!" Mathew exclaimed as a big hand suddenly pushed roughly and
strongly into his buttocks, holding him.

"That's a nice smooth little ass for holdin', boy.  No wider than my hand.
Now you'll wanna keep yer little waist still if you value that big cock o'
yours!  And KEEP YER FUCKIN' HANDS BEHIND YER HEAD!  Fr Chrissakes!"

The buzzing clippers were held near his belly and... Oh no!

"No swimmer of mine's gonna strut around with his nasty pubes hangin' outa
his racers!  We're gonna make you streamlined!  Now hold still an' get
set!"

*

"Whoo-weeeee...!" said Brendan breathlessly.  "This is gold!  Shit!  I've
gotta get my camera-phone!"

"This is rough!" Tony said, his eyes bulging.  "Coach Hardcourte just
zipped off Mathew's pubes!"

"Shit!" said Brendan.  "I missed it with my camera-phone!"

"No!  Wait!  Look!" Tony exclaimed.  "Mathew's cracked a fat!  He's got a
boner!"

*

"May as well clean up here too," Coach Hardcourte said as he ran the
clippers casually into Mathew's armpits.  "Don't look so fuckin' miserable,
boy.  I'm gonna whip you into shape for the season championships.  Starting
at four every fuckin'morning.  That's how we're gonna roll from now on.
Last time I personally trained a little college-team fag was in the days of
razor-strops an' there was no college `bullying policy' either.  You're
going to shape-up in the traditional way!  Now, we're gonna take care o'
this!"

With two fingers, Coach Hardcourte flicked Mathew's thick erection to the
side, making it wobble and *twang* like a bass string.  Mathew moaned
softly.  Why was this happening to *him*?  He felt his exposed cock-head
brushing at his belly and leaking oily drops of fluid into his navel.

"That's a mighty fine schlong, boy, for a pretty-boy college twink.  It's
drag in the water, though.  There's an old technique for horny fags like
you."

Brusquely and without warning, Mathew's arms were grabbed and twisted down
behind.  A single, mighty fist gripped his wrists, encasing and locking
them in the small of his back.  He heard a little *snap* of rubber, and a
huge middle-finger in a condom was wiggled in front of his face.  Oh Jesus!
What...?

He struggled and writhed as the rubber was pushed rudely between his
buttocks, parting them and probing with adroit finesse.

"Hold still, fag-boy!  That's a tight little ass you got an' it's not easy
gettin' in there unless you relax!"

"... Ahhh...! ...Ah...! ... Ah...!" said Mathew as the finger pushed
against his closed hole.  He tightened, trying to keep it out, but it made
an entry and wriggled inwards.

"... Ahh...! ...Ah...!"  Mathew's voice was higher now.  His open-mouthed
trilling carried across the concrete concourse and into the dark.  He felt
his cock straining and throbbing.

"... Oh God...!"

It found the bulb of his prostate, and his vocal exclamations reached a
falsetto, choirboy quaver.  The rubber-sheathed finger massaged, and jolts
and flashes of lightning sensation shocked his loins.

"... Oh God...! ... Ah...!"

His balls jiggled, jerked, and began to pump.  He felt a hot onrush and a
racing, surging gush...  The first squirt looped into the air high over
both their heads, and Mathew shuddered and struggled, his wrists gripped
behind him.

"... Oh God I'm coming...!"

"That's the idea fuckbag!"

More jets of white load followed.  They flew in clean, thick strings,
curling and streaming and splatting on the concrete.

"...Ahhhh...! ... Ah...! ...Ah...!"

"Shit, boy!  Your balls were holdin' a whole lotta jism!  C'mon.  Get it
all out!"

Mathew's voice departed from its shrill warble and he let out a long, low
groan of misery and disappointment while shots of his glowing spunk were
ejected and wasted on the ground.  He struggled harder, desperate.  He
wanted to *stroke*.  He gasped in abject sorrow as his hips swung and
jolted involuntarily.  The final spurts were chest-high, spouting in a
rhythmic fountain and splashing audibly on the ground.

"YOU MESSED ON MY POOL CONCOURSE, FUCK-BOY!  NOW LICK IT UP!"

*

Brendan hooted loudly.  "This has got to be candid-camera of the century!
Ha!"

"I'm not sure you should have filmed this," Tony said.  "It's an invasion
of privacy."

"Bullshit!"

"Who's holding the camera?  It's all over the place!" said Drew, peering
intently at the screen.

"Why didn't you zoom in a bit more?" somebody else asked.

"What do you want?  Stanley fucking Kubrick?  That's Mathew Crack, the BU
champion swimmer – stripped, shaved and milked!  And you're questioning
the camerawork!"

"Is that the coach making him lick it up!?" asked the bespectacled Phillip
Hotheringspoon-Phipps, who was attending university at the age of fourteen
because of his genius intelligence.  "I saw nothing like this at Harvard."

Wayne Wainwright leant forward over his desk and tilted his head to follow
the action.  "How did you get this from your phone to the projector?"

"I just emailed it to the Sociology server."

"That means everyone in the faculty has access."

"No wonder Crack hasn't shown up at class."

"Ha!  I'm emailing it to my pals at Beachhead Butte Swim-Team!  They hate
Mathew Crack!  He always wins and they think he's a gay twink!"

"Look!  He's licking up his spunk!  I'm soooo glad somebody got this on
camera!"

The excited noise of the thirty-strong Sociology tutorial was fast rising,
when Brad Holloway burst urgently into the classroom.

"Quick!  Get it off the screen!  Mrs. Wilson's coming!"

thobyandover@y7mail.com