The swim coach

 Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

“I am giving you ten minutes to swim three lengths of the pool, Clark. You are bone idle and well out of condition.” It was the school Physical Ed. teacher speaking. He had been on my case all day. I wasn’t the worst of the swim team but I was the only one he picked on. There was a reason.

“If you don’t complete on time, I’m taking you back to my office and you’re going over my knee for a damn good spanking.” He blew his whistle and I dived into the pool.

The idea of hunky Mr Rodgers spanking my bottom did not encourage me to work hard. On the contrary it turned my thoughts onto his beautiful body. He was maybe thirty-years-old. I was eighteen, a sixth-former at Brocklehurst High. Young and open to new experiences. Mr Rodgers was definitely one of those. The first time I saw him I had furtively gazed at his muscular legs and firm, meaty arse. I had never given a damn about swimming, but from that day on I was a changed boy.

Of course, ten minutes came and went and I was still some distance from my target. Mr Rodgers blew his whistle again.

“OK, don’t say you weren’t warned. Out you get.” Mr Rodgers spoke calmly, but I was certain he was as excited as me. I swam slowly to the pool steps and pulled myself out. I stood dripping wet. My towel was in the changing room some distance away. Puddles of water formed at my feet.

Mr Rodgers stood twenty metres away, his legs parted. I admired the bulge in the front of his trousers, silently regretting that he like me wasn’t wearing tight-fitting swimming trunks.

“Follow me,” Mr Rodgers looked over his shoulder towards where I was standing and slowly moved away from the poolside. I waited, mouth gaping, eyes transfixed on the two mounds inside his trousers as he sashayed towards his office. I shuddered. Partly with sexual excitement, but mainly because I was trying to shake some of the surplus water from my body, rather like a dog would do after emerging from a river.

The office was small and sparsely furnished. There was a desk, two small straight-backed chairs and a locker. I knew from wonderful experience that the locker contained Mr Rodgers’s day clothes. But that wasn’t what interested me. Along with his jacket and shirt he kept a small wooden spanking paddle. It wasn’t much bigger than a paperback book with a handle attached. It was maybe three or four millimetres thick. The last time he summoned me to the office he had me “assume the position” – that is bent over hands clutching shins. The bum juts out at a perfect angle to receive swats from the paddle. Woweeee! He damn near took my arse off. I shot my load before he finished.

Mr Rodgers led the way into the room. This time he didn’t go to the locker. Instead, without speaking a word, he took hold of one of the chairs and put it in the middle of the room. I stood transfixed. I shivered, although the room was airless and quite hot. He had said he would take me over his knee and that was what he intended to do. Now, blood coursed through my veins. My cock was on the move. My fingers trembled. I clasped my hands behind my back, head bowed: the classic “naughty little boy” pose.

Mr Rodgers stood by the chair, but did not sit.

“Clark come to me.”

I obeyed and stood before my hunky dominant master. I am rather small and the top of my head hardly reached his chin. I could smell the sweetness of his breath. He must have eaten mints or fresheners.

He sat on the chair and spread his legs, his cock bulged beneath the folds of his jeans. His t-shirt rode up a little exposing his flat hairless stomach. Muscles in his arms rippled.

“Bend over my knee.”

Oh, those wondrous words. Submit yourself to me, you are mine. Mine to do with as I wish.

Trembling, I moved towards Mr Rodgers and carefully placed the palms of my hands on his right leg and then slowly I reached forward, lowering my body until I lay flat. I fit well across Mr Rodgers’s knee and in no time I manoeuvred myself so that my groin rested at an angle against his leg and my bum was raised perfectly. I stretched my arms ahead of me so that the tips of my fingers hovered above the dull grey floor tiles. My body was still wet and I could feel my damp trunks clinging to my pert bum.

Mr Rodgers smoothed my cotton trunks as best he could so that no creases were visible. I must have made a terrific sight for him.

My naked flesh pressed against Mr Rodgers’s muscular thighs, his denim jeans itched a little. Once before Mr Rodgers had worn shorts and the touch of my flesh against his flesh had been electrifying. He smelt of chlorine from the pool.

Mr Rodgers wrapped his arms around my body and took hold of my waist. It was hardly a grip. His intention was to steady me should I wriggle about too much and prevent me toppling to the floor. I felt his strong fingers softly caress my bum. He made gentle circular motions. His breathing deepened. So did mine. I shut my eyes tight. I was at his mercy. My todger swelled out to a painful extent, but I had no time to notice this before a rapid succession of spanks pounded into my bottom.

Holding me firmly with his left arm Mr Rodgers spanked unmercifully. His strength was immense. My bum hotted up immediately. With an experienced master even a hand spanking can be excruciatingly painful. I gulped in air, then sucked on my bottom lip. I closed my eyes. Mr Rodgers whacked on. Very soon the pain became less acute, succeeded by a constant throbbing.

I was very aware that I still had my swimming trunks on. Would Mr Rodgers decide my misbehaviour had been so calculated that I deserved a spanking on the bare? If so, usually a spanker could easily grip the elasticated waist of a boy’s trunks or pants and tug them down clear of the buttocks. That manoeuvre would be impossible. My cock was so hard (and if I might be boastful for a moment, so large) that Mr Rodgers would never be able to get the waistband of the trunks over it.

I struggled against Mr Rodgers’s constant pounding of my bum. I wriggled and writhed, my cock humping Mr Rodgers’s thigh. I was in a frenzy, almost delirious. None of the drugs I was experimenting with gave me so much pleasure.

At last Mr Rodgers stopped his pounding. I lay across his knees breathless. Contemptuously, he pushed me away and I fell to the floor. As I rose before Mr Rodgers the front of my trunks appeared to conceal a tentpole. My prick convulsed.

Mr Rodgers stared, licked his licks and broke into a broad grin. I hopped from one leg to the other while simultaneously rubbing the seat of my trunks: the typical spanking dance. Mr Rodgers continued to stare, flushing scarlet, at my raging cock for some moments.

Then, he rose from the chair. Only then was it clear to me that Mr Rodgers was as excited as me. He said nothing. Instead, he whipped down his jeans and stepped out of them. His shorts quickly followed. I gasped at the sight of his weapon, a deep-blue, thick vein ran the length of the missile, the tip glistened.

He leaned forward and with both hands he grabbed my ears and pulled my face forward.

 

Picture credit: straightladspankeddotcom

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