Lubed 02: Attack of the Lubies Pt. 03

Part Three

The Revenge of Cody

Thanks to HeyAll for the edit.

Thomas Edward Scott, former Olympian, current head coach of the Ronald Reagan High School swim team (Reagan's Razors), knifed through the water with the ease of a shark. I still got it. His body parted the water as if it were air.

Coach Scott took great pride in his body. A lot of it . . . too much actually. His former Olympic teammates hated him, among other reasons, for that but he didn't care. Talent and good looks were what mattered and he put great effort into both. His toil brought the fruits of two gold, three silver, and one bronze. Subsequent athletic endorsements paid for his house, yard, and Olympic-sized swimming pool; the best in a neighborhood full of them.

Coach Scott's high standards were ingrained by a staunch Presbyterian upbringing. His powerful elitist beliefs made him a terror to anyone who didn't measure up. T.E. Scott was the best and he demanded the best.

Only one person in Coach Scott's world could do no wrong. One person who came to and surpassed his standards. The one pure and perfect person who truly measured up; his daughter Jill.

Jill was perfect, unlike her mother. If rumors about her bullying came to his ears, so what? The world was tough, cruel, canis canem edit, and he raised his daughter to be the alpha bitch. Let the wimps complain; his daughter was a winner, raised by a winner.

So what if his ex-wife didn't agree? She'd left him for a mid-level tech exec; the kind of geek he despised and preyed upon back in high school. She didn't even want shared custody; accusing him of emotional abuse and turning her daughter into a monster. Coach Scott snorted derisively. His ex didn't understand; Scotts were winners. She wasn't a Scott. She didn't measure up. Ah well, fuck her. She didn't want my money either. A good, clean break. Best divorce ever.

Coach Scott soaked in the shallow end, pondering his summer plans. The year had been good. The swim team won the state championship. Some good prospects were coming into the school this fall.

It seemed strange a man like Tom Scott would take on a relatively altruistic task, like coaching a local swim team. His athletic endorsements made him good coin. His reasons were selfish, however. He had plans. Acts like coaching at school looked good on a political resume, with bonus points for a successful team.

Appearances at social functions, slapping palms with other elites, charity work in front of reporters for publicity, plus more endorsements to build a war chest continued the march. He had it mapped out: city council, mayor, after that, governor or senator, maybe even the big prize.

Splash! Wazzat! It came from the deep end. Coach Scott saw the tell-tale ripples. Some fucker's in my pool?! He could tell. It was getting towards evening but the day was bright, still.

The sun's reflection off the water helped conceal the person under it. Coach Scott, strong Olympic class swimmer and millionaire, wasn't about to let some fuck face, neighbor or not, pollute his precious Olympic size swimming pool. Swimming was reserved for himself, his daughter, or invitees. He wasn't like his wussy neighbors, calling 911 if so much as a stray dog got in their back yards. He was going to kick the fuck head out himself. "Mother fucker!" he cursed and knifed towards the ripples.

When he got to the deep end, he found no one. "Huh? What the fuck?" He tread water, searching, ducking under to look . . . nothing.

"Shit!" he cursed. Must've imagined it.

But wait! Another splash behind him. He turned, nothing. A strange smell hung in the air, faint, perfumy, standing out from the mild chlorine acridness of the pool.

What the fuck is it?! "It smells like . . . 'sniff' . . . like peaches!"

"Fuuuu . . . cking . . . cooool," someone whispered in his ear.

"Fucking shit!" Coach Scott yelled, half panicked, half outraged. He turned and lashed out, no one. Coach Scott, for the first time in his adult life, experienced something other than supreme self-confidence. Annoyance, yes but fear, while not new, was something he'd left in childhood. There was someone in his pool, someone very fast, and that someone was scaring the shit out of Coach Scott.

Coach Scott did not like this feeling. No one put the fear in Thomas Edward Scott, Olympic champion. Time to get out of the pool, Tom . . . and call the police. This is not good.

Coach Scott stroked when he felt it; hands at his waist, tugging at his hundred dollar speedos, custom designed. It happened so fast he barely had time to shout a variation on the word "Fuck!" One second Coach wore designer speedos, the next he was a non-consenting skinny dipper.

His hands went to his bare ass, formerly wearing a suit, as well to grab the little shit who divested him of it. Once again, nothing. How can someone be that fast?

Coach Scott had few problems with nudity. He did like to show his cut body after all, but every display had a time and a place, and this wasn't it.

New anger replaced the brief fear he'd felt. "No good shit-sucking mother fucker!"

Coach splashed about, ducking under the water frequently, scouring for the trunk-stealing prick. Where the fuck is he?!

He knew the intruder was a he. That "fucking cool" whisper sounded male and young . . . and also familiar. Coach couldn't quite place it. Besides, he was too pissed to think.

Coach Scott's temper placed among his many weaknesses, and tended to blind him to the obvious (such as his speedos floating just a few feet away). It was several seconds before he noticed the arms wrapped around his waist . . . and pulling him down.

"Shit!" he cried, with barely enough time to suck in his breath. Fuck! He's trying to drown me!

Coach Scott was a strong man, definitely a powerful swimmer, but his assailant, unaccountably, was stronger.

Underwater, the Coach only discerned the top of his attacker's head; a floating mass of dark, curly hair. His face felt glued to the Coach's abs, so tight was it to his torso. The assailant's arms were like a vise around the Coach's waist. Who the fuck is this shit?

The Coach grasped the assailant's hair, mainly to force his head back. The man's hair was amazingly slick, near frictionless, like grabbing Teflon. What the fuck?! What's in this guy's hair?!

His hands moved to the attacker's shoulders, to pry him off, only to run into the same slick texture on his skin. Fuck! He is like Teflon!

Tom Scott always considered himself tough. Years of athletic competition and macho-fratboy living instilled a toxic bravado within him. Now panic started to seep in.

He was underwater, running out of air, and no matter how hard he pounded, this fucker was dragging him deeper into the pool.

Moreover, in spite his growing panic, the Coach was intensely aware of the nudity of his assailant, and his own.

He was aware of his cock resting against his opponent's chest, bare, throbbing flesh sliding across the other's slick skin. He was aware of the other's arms wrapped around his waist, gripped tightly, with hands placed near his buttocks.

There were differences between seeing naked men, showering with naked men, being close to naked men, and skin to skin contact with naked men. Coach Scott's panic was not just about drowning.

His captor's slick body should have made it easy to slip out of his embrace, if only the Coach could find leverage. The man was too slick; Coach Scott was weakening with each second. His lungs were bursting, black spots crept to the edges of his vision.

"Fuck! I'm going to drown!" he thought.

The Coach prepared to open his mouth, to inhale smothering water instead of life-giving air. His assailant struck just as his lips parted.

It happened so fast, the Coach had no time to react. His drowner let go of his waist and swam upward. Coach Scott had a quick glimpse of a youthful face and, Red eyes?! before arms and legs wrapped him in another tight embrace. A pair of young lips planted themselves on his astonished mouth.

Instead of sucking in chlorine-flavored water, Coach Scott's lungs filled with peach-scented air; his mouth, with peach-flavored saliva.

"Blick! Bargle!" and other nonsense sounds bubbled from Coach Scott's mouth. He pounded anew at this "Fucking faggot freak!" who french kissed him with a fruit-tasting tongue. His opponent's grip was slick and vise-like as ever. The Coach's fists had little effect as before.

The underwater entanglement continued for seconds the Coach could not count through his outrage. Then, to his surprise, the assailant unwrapped from his body and disappeared in a swirl of bubbles, leaving a stunned and outraged Coach floating near the bottom of the pool.

The Coach clawed for the surface, his mind a swirl, boiling with rage, panic, and humiliation. He didn't have time to look for the bastard. His single overriding goal was to get out of the pool. Someone, somehow had gotten the best of him. No one got the best of Tom Scott, ever. This man fucking assaulted him, sexually. The only one who sexually assaulted was Tom, and that was back in college. Tom was going to leave the pool, gather his wits, and then flush out the fucker and kill him, and not figuratively. This freak had to die.

The edge of the pool nearby, would be the easier choice for Coach Scott, had he thought clearly. As it stood, he found himself in the shallow end, half staggering, half crawling up the incline. He felt confused and hot, coughing up water and saliva. Shit! Am I coming down with something?! Another disturbing question surfaced, Why am I hard?

Coach Scott, in his past, had hugged and been hugged by men. They were brotherly sportsmen embraces; non-romantic outside the classic bonds of fraternity, certainly not erotic, nothing to elicit the raging hard-on jutting tuberously betwixt his legs.

It was a good hard-on, he had to admit, of a reasonably well-endowed cock. He'd scored some women in the past, using it (before, during, and after his marriage), but the current circumstances surrounding his rod was something he didn't want to think about. Thinking, in fact, seemed to be a bit difficult at the moment.

The Coach collapsed in the shallows, gasping, and then turned on his back to scan the pool. His cock jutted spear hard from his groin. Coach Scott tried to ignore it. He flooded his brain with images of the ugly to deflate it but nothing worked. Even, ugly women seemed to excite his cock. Fuck! What did that . . . guy . . . do to . . . me?!

The glassy surface of the pool rippled. Peering around his cock, the Coach discerned a form, distorted by the water's surface. It flowed towards him with the sleek fluidity of a dolphin. Son of a . . . bitch! There . . . he is!

The form swam to the incline, stopped, and rose, silently, from the water. The nude form stood waist deep, water dripping from his slender body, skin flushed pink, with a light tan just barely brushed with orange. His head was plastered with dark, curly hair.

Coach Scott lay there in shock. He recognized very well this young man emerging from the water.

"Holy fuck! Cody . . . fucking Hall! You . . . little fucking punk!"

Coach Scott hated Cody Hall. He was a perv, or so said his daughter. It mattered not the evidence was scant, or his daughter might not have been entirely truthful. She said he perved on her, so he was a perv. If she lied, so what? If not a perv, Cody was one of the weak and his daughter was right to grind him down.

The little creep had the nerve to try out for his swim team. Ordinarily, the Coach would dismiss the worm out of hand but school rules state anyone could tryout. He gritted his teeth and let Cody swim.

The kid was actually good, he admitted with considerable grudge; not good enough for his high standards but a little practice and coaching might have led to improvements. The Coach, though, was not about to keep a little, punk, pervert, who'd dared spy on his precious, darling daughter, on his team so he'd drummed Cody out in short order.

So that was last year and, now, this young pervert was striding out of his pool, with a vapid grin on his face, and a huge, nearly impossible erection on his almost hairless groin.

The Coach's thoughts were a tornado, composed of equal parts fear, confusion, anger and, most disturbing for him, lust.

Tom Scott always considered himself straight-on, dyed-in-the-wool, macho jock, heterosexual; a homophobe and extremely proud of it. Any hint of lustful feelings towards men was ruthlessly suppressed. Any indication of "faggotry" in others drew his wrath.

Coach Scott could bully with the best of them. He certainly didn't stop when he grew up. If the initiation rituals of his fraternity and swim team could be defined as gay orgies, from an outsider's perspective, Tom dismissed them as necessary rites of passage; nothing gay about them, and only done twice. He'd asserted his manhood on dozens of women before and since (with more than a few, Consent? What's that?), so he definitely couldn't be lumped with them.

So now, here was a young man, nude and shiny-wet, striding out of his pool. The sight stirred a response, far different from the locker room or the shower. Coach Scott's cock, an impressive piece, stood up and seemed to strain towards its opposite. The erect development shocked and horrified him. Earlier cases of wood would see him suppress it under macho banter, jokes, and other jock talk. This moment put the Coach in a state, shocking to his former colleagues had they been present: complete and utter speechlessness.

He tried to get up, to crawl away. Cody strode toward him, purposely, with a calm, lustful menace. The look on his face was something Tom Scott received often. This young man was horny for him. It didn't last often with males, usually because the Coach wiped them off with brutal insults and/or fists. Women were a different matter, at least those not put off by his macho braggadocio.

If Coach Scott thought clearly, he could have turned around, gotten up, and scrambled into his house where he kept his gun. Instead he crawled backwards, slowly, with weakened limbs and dulled mind, watching semi-mesmerized as Cody drew closer.

Tom Scott never gave much thought, other than contempt, to Cody's appearance, during their brief experience months ago. At the time, he thought the kid was a little too thin. He could have acquired something close to a swimmer's build, given more work, but Scott didn't give Cody the time.

The Cody walking out of the pool looked different, not by far from earlier, but a subtle difference Coach Scott never before noticed.

The body Scott earlier dismissed as thin now displayed a lithesome streamlining, near sensual in aesthetic. The muscles were toned. The boy looked more like a dancer than a swimmer.

His skin shone with moisture initially, Coach thought, from the pool but the water sloughed off, as if from an oiled surface. Cody's skin also was flushed a slight pink, with just a touch of tannish orange. Son of a . . . bitch! The . . . little fuck looks like . . . a . . . peach!

The slow, patient stride the extremely horny Cody displayed stood in contrast to his remarkable speed in the water. The young geek prowled closer and then got on his knees. He stalked like a cat, muttering growls and "Fucking cools." The closer he crept, the greater Coach's lust.

Fuck! . . . I'm . . . hard! What's hap . . . pen . . . ing! . . . Have to . . . get . . . to the . . . phone! . . . Call police!

His limbs refused to obey, and his slowing mind was accompanied by a building lust for this wet, oiled, grinning young man, prowling like a jaguar towards his cock.

My cock! . . . What the . . . fuck's . . . happened . . . to my . . . cock?!

Coach Scott's cock, thick, big, and red-veined, resembled a lacquer red-topped mushroom, straining toward the young man's mouth. The Coach's fading mind managed one last burst of machismo-fueled outrage, "Get away . . . from . . . me you . . . little fuck!"

"Fuuuucking . . . coooollll!" the grinning young lubie growled, and took the Coach's flesh into his mouth.

A shudder quaked through the Coach's body; for the first time since his fraternity initiation, a young man sucked his pride and joy. The red tint in his eyes darkened. His last rational action was to try to rise, for the final time, and remove this, "Lit . . . tle . . . fuck," from his cock, and punish him for his presumption.

Unfortunately, the sensation of Cody's silky tongue slithering around his throbbing rod, and the touch of the young man's soft lips against his skin, sapped the Coach's strength. He came instead, flooding Cody's mouth with peach-flavored cream, which the lubified teen gulped with lust-driven fervor. Whither the orgasm went Thomas Edward Scott's humanity (or what passed for it, given his pre-lubed character).

Thoroughly slicked, oiled, and lubed, with red hued eyes, the former coach growled a primal, "Liiiit . . . tuuuul . . . fuck!" and grabbed Cody's head, driving him further down his shaft. The young lubie wrapped his arms around the Coach's legs and sucked away.

The late afternoon sun deepened towards sunset as its rays beat down upon the two men; muscles tensed and rippled along their oiled bodies. Their skin gleamed tan-tinged pink chrome.

The early evening air filled with soft sounds: the warm summer breeze, the gentle lap of the pool water, the soft, fleshy slurps of Cody's mouth and tongue, and Coach Scott's low grunts and "Liiiit . . . tuuuullll . . . fucks!"

The Coach ran his hands through the young man's wet, curly hair, and counter thrust his hips to Cody's bobbing head. He came constantly and Cody gulped him down.

The men stopped after a convulsive mutual orgasm. Cody took Coach's cock out of his mouth and looked at the older man with a grin. The two stared at each other, fiery red eyes gazing with a virus-fueled lust that would burn forever.

Cody crawled forward between the Coach's legs, licking and kissing the peach-flavored oil and sweat as he went.

First the Coach's quivering groin, with a few nips and licks of his pubic hair, lightly sprinkled around his cock (Coach Scott, ever the swimmer, kept his body hair at a minimum). Then the Coach's hard, flat belly, washboard abs tense and tight, rising up and down with each gasp. Next, the Coach's barrel chest, his flat, round nipples worked softly between Cody's teeth, the young man's soft lips, flush against his skin, his silky tongue licking the tiny bumps of his areola.

Finally the young man came to the Coach's face. Tom Scott, for all his bullying, was handsome in a classic fratboy style. Little trace of the bully remained on his face, just the fierce look of a man consumed by lust.

Coach came and spurted cum as Cody kissed his way up his body. They lay face to face, skin to skin, cum, sweat, and oil layered between them.

"Fuuuuuc . . . kiiiinnng . . . cooooollll," whispered one.

"Liiiiit . . . tuuuullll . . . fuck!" gasped the other.

They kissed, mingling cum and spit, flavored in peach, and slid their tongues together. Coach Scott tangled his legs around Cody's, placed his hands on the young man's tight ass, and plunged his fingers between the crack. The men's swollen cocks throbbed against each other. Their red plum balls swam in peach syrup. Cum spurted from both and formed a pool under the two lovers.