The New Coach by Sogo

The eleven girls of the college track team milled about nervously in the corner of the gym, dressed in their sports tops and track shorts. Mostly white, two Asian, one Black, one Latina. Their coach had left suddenly over a pay dispute, and they were waiting to meet her replacement.

"I heard it's a guy," said one.

"Really? They couldn't find another woman?"

"I don't care. Just as long as they're good."

They heard someone striding down the hall, and a large muscular man in his forties entered the gym. He had a military buzzcut, and his muscular frame filled out his T-shirt. There was a whistle and stopwatch hanging from his neck and a clipboard in his hand.

"Good afternoon, ladies. I'm Coach Stan Tunn. You can call me Coach Stan. Sorry to hear about your old coach. I hope I can be a good replacement. Let's start with the introductions."

He pointed to the girls one at a time, and made a check on a sheet of paper as each gave her name.

"Good. Now let's go out and run some laps, shall we?"

He timed each one as she ran around the track, making notes on his clipboard each time, then he called them together.

"Your times are good, but they need to be better. Now, I have a different approach to training from most coaches. I call it resistance training. Come with me."

The girls followed him to the equipment room. They were shocked to see a bunch of leather harnesses hanging from a portable garment rack in the corner of the room.

"What the hell?" said Ashlee, a trim six-foot blonde. "You don't seriously expect us to run in these things do you?"

"Yes, I do," said the coach, hands on his hips. "And since you're the one who questions it," he said, stabbing a finger in her direction, "you're going to be the first to try it."

Ashlee glanced around at her teammates, but they all stayed silent, turning away or looking at the floor. Track was their life; a few had even gotten into college on athletic scholarships. It wasn't worth the risk to speak out. Seeing that she was alone, she strode forward defiantly, determined not to lose face.

"Turn around."

Ashlee did an abrupt about-face, her displeasure showing in her movement. The coach draped the leather straps over her shoulders and proceeded to buckle her in-- the waist belt, the shoulder straps, the crotch straps. For a few moments, there was only the sound of metal tinkling and leather sighing across leather, punctuated by a brief, muted exclamation from one of the other girls. The runner's confidence began to waver as she realized he was actually going through with this.

"Okay, your hands."

She unclasped her hands and held them by her sides, waiting, her body tense. The coach took her wrists and strapped them into cuffs attached to the back strap, just above her waist. The runner was completely helpless and vulnerable, which she tried to mask with a stubborn jaw and barely-controlled breathing. Even so, she felt her body get weak. The coach dropped a muscled hand onto her shoulder, which only made her feel fragile.

The others saw their teammate trussed up, the wide black straps crisscrossing her body like a giant web, mashing her sports top and shorts in strategic places, and knew what it looked like, knew the implicit sex-and-power dynamic that inevitably came with the device, but said nothing. Perhaps their old coach would return, or this one would be replaced, and all this nonsense would be discarded.

"Now, Ashlee here is going to run some laps again. And she's going to have to work a little harder if she's going to win some races."

"But--"

He had already grabbed her arm and was leading her out onto the field. The runner felt ridiculous as she made her way to the track. It was at the one end of campus, Thank God, and surrounded by a dozen tiers of seating, so there was little chance of her being seen unless someone was nearby. She positioned herself at the starting line, feeling awkward with her imprisoned arms thrusting her chest-- barely a B cup, but still-- forward and throwing her whole body off-balance.

"GO!"

Ashlee took off, able to move only the lower part of her body, her muscles and lungs fighting her leather cage. Even though her time was several seconds longer than usual-- still decent considering her constricted state-- it seemed to take forever. She walked back to the bleachers, her body still instinctively struggling against its bonds.

"Not bad, though once you get used to the harness, your time should improve considerably."

The blonde waited for the coach to release her, but he just said, "Okay, now it's everybody else's turn."

The girls trudged back to the equipment room, where they reluctantly allowed themselves to be harnessed one by one. Again, the room was dead silent except for the sound of metal and leather. Each face hardened into displeasure or defiance as body and arms were bound snugly. When they were all harnessed, they marched back out onto the field, their faces glum.

The coach had them run laps again, though it was obvious their hearts weren't in it. Coach Stan was not happy.

"Those times were pretty bad, ladies. We're going to keep running laps until they get better. Much better."

Spurred on by this new incentive, they improved significantly. Training ended on a slightly less sullen note.

They herded back into the equipment room, and Coach Stan took off Ashlee's harness. She, in turn, helped another girl, and the freed girls helped the others, hastening the process.

"There's plastic name tags you can clip to the harnesses. Write your name and tag your harnesses, girls"

The coach handed out the tags and pens, and the female athletes did as they were told. They were largely quiet as they went to the locker room to shower and change.

"Coach, we need to talk about your training methods."

Kileen, a short, red-headed, freckle-faced girl with a cute little nose stood in front of the other girls and faced Coach Stan.

"We think your harness thing is stupid and pointless, not to mention humiliating and degrading. We just want to go back to, like, more normal methods of training."

The coach nodded. "Okay. Let's go out and do some laps."

As each girl ran, their trainer stood there with stopwatch and clipboard, timing them. When they were done, he called them all over.

"What I saw today was that most of you had shaved one or two seconds off your best times from before the harnesses. Kileen, with you it was almost four seconds. Do you still have doubts about my training methods now?"

The girls looked around at each other. What could they say now? Skylar, a compact, muscular brunette spoke up, her voice full of remorse.

"We're sorry, coach. I guess we were wrong."

Kileen, her compressed lips thin and bloodless from anger, could barely hold back the tears. As one, they all headed back to the equipment room.

The coach smiled. None of them had caught on to the fact that he had falsified their times.

The next crisis came several days later.

"Um, Coach Stan--?" said Takeesha, the black girl.

"Yes?"

"These harnesses are bunching up our shorts in the crotch and squishing down on our tops. Can't we do something about that?"

The coach looked at the nervous faces before him.

"Yes, you can. Now, instead of wearing sports tops, you can wear sports bras."

There was a chorus of groans and protests. "You can't be serious!"

He held up a hand to silence them. "Now, hold on. A bra conforms more to the breasts, and is better for them. And as for shorts, you can wear spandex shorts, or even thigh slimmers, such as Spanx."

Bekka, a dark-blonde girl who was the shapeliest of the runners, looked at him skeptically. "So, like, you're asking us to wear underwear?"

"You'll still be fully covered. And I've seen how some of you dress when you're out partying. Is there really that much difference?"

None of them had an answer for that. Plus, they knew by now that whatever argument they came up with, he would have a counter-argument. It was best just to give in.

"To make things easier, I've had the local lingerie store order some bras and girdles-- I'm sorry, thigh slimmers-- for you girls. They will be in the school colors, blue and yellow, so we'll look like a team."

The girls gave each other questioning looks. Was this guy getting weirder or what?

They didn’t have any figure-control garments of their own and didn’t want to wear their own bras, so they all waited until they got their undergarments from the lingerie store. They stood around in the locker room, self-consciously looking at themselves and each other. The bras were a deep blue with bright yellow cups, and the girdles were also a deep blue, with a bright yellow triangular front control panel. They wore panties underneath the girdles for protection.

“You’ve. Got. To be. Kidding. Me.”

“We look like some kinda weird super-heroes or something.”

“We just need capes and boots and stuff.”

“You girls ready?” the coach called from the hallway. “Let’s go.”

The girls left the locker room, some holding their arms in front of their chest and crotch, others strutting like they were on the runway of a fashion show.

In the equipment room, they were harnessed up, Ashlee boldly telling the coach they could do it themselves. Only the last girl had to have her wrists cuffed by Coach Stan.

They ran their laps, becoming more and more confident as the coach shouted out encouragement. Their times gradually improved.

Free of their harnesses, the girls spilled into the locker room, their skin glistening with sweat. It was as if their new “uniforms” had given them confidence and speed. They peeled off the sodden undergarments, submerged them in water in the sinks to wash them, and headed for the showers. When they got out, they draped the dripping garments on hangars and hung them from the hooks on the towel rack in the showers. After they got dressed, they retrieved their damp garments and hung them in their lockers.

Coach Stan returned home to his farmhouse out in the country. The first thing he did after parking his car was to visit the stable.

As he entered, he could hear the sound of shuffling feet from one of the stalls. A bridled head of a woman in her mid-thirties appeared at the bars. The only hair on her head was a short mane of tangled greasy locks down the back of her head. Her lips were dry and pale, and a string of drool swung like a pendulum from her chin. Her harnessed body was completely naked, and a long leather rein ran from one of her bit rings to a metal ring on the wall. Her bare, dirty feet were nearly hidden by the layer of hay on the concrete floor.

Stan reached in and petted her head. “It’s too bad you can’t join me in training your track team. I know it was underhanded of me to take your job right out from under you like that, but I felt it was for the best. They’re doing better than expected. In fact, by the end of the semester, they might even be joining you here.”

At this, the woman gave a low, pitiful whine. The thought of all those bright young girls being penned up like animals for one man’s amusement was too painful to contemplate.

“Have you done your exercises today? You need to keep fit to be a role model for others.”

He had equipped her stall with a treadmill, exercise bike, and a wall-mounted monitor that played a DVD filled with aerobics videos. She nodded obediently, knowing he would check the surveillance video.

“I’m sure you’re hungry. Today’s dinner choices were roast beef and vegetable lasagna.” The woman’s stomach grumbled in anticipation, even though she knew he retrieved discarded food from the college cafeteria’s dumpster. It was the only thing she had to look forward to. That and the removal of the plastic bag of her smelly waste from the child’s training potty in the corner of her stall.

Things were fine for the next week or so. They won a few events in their first meet, wearing their normal shorts and sports tops. Then coach dropped another bombshell.

“We need to increase our resistance training,” he said, after all the girls had been harnessed up. “Follow me.”

He took them out to the track. On the track were two harness-racing carts with small robot jockeys in the seats that looked like metal ventriloquist dummies. Off to the side was a horse-training carousel.

“No! No way!” said Kileen. She stomped off.

“We can afford to lose you. You did pretty poorly at the meet last week.”

The redhead stopped. That got to her. She spun around.

“Okay. Fine.”

She went over and stood defiantly in front of one of the carts.

Coach Stan hitched her up to the cart. As the girl stood there, eyes straight ahead, he pulled a bridle out of the cart and dropped it over her head.

She gasped, which only made the bit drop into her mouth even farther. She shook her head, but the coach had already secured some of the straps, so she just gave in. The captive girl tried to act brave as the reins were clipped to her bit rings.

The other ends of the reins were put in the robot jockey’s left hand. His right hand held a riding crop.

“I need another volunteer. Bekka?”

The shapely brunette walked over as if she were heading toward her execution. She stood there motionless as she was hitched up and bridled.

The coach then went over to the carousel. “The rest of you over here.”

Each arm of the carousel had a leather rein at the end, from which dangled a bridle. The expressions on their faces as they took their positions made it clear that the whole set-up was distasteful to them. When they had all been hitched up, he used a remote to set the carousel in motion. The girls were soon jogging around in circles at a brisk pace.

He then returned to the carted ponygirls. “These have been programmed to monitor your pace. If you fall below the required speed, the jockey will use his riding crop to let you know you need to run faster.”

The two girls glanced at each other and gave little whimpering sounds. Running used to be fun; now it was humiliating and degrading.

“GO!”

The two took off down the track. Almost instantly, the jockeys began smacking their butts with the riding crops. The hapless girls gave ragged moans as they struggled to run faster to escape the punishment.

Coach studied them carefully, but not for the reasons most people would expect. Earlier that day, he had entered each girl’s locker and sprayed the crotch and insides of the bra cups of her new training garments with a mixture of anti-depressants and amphetamines. As they trained, these drugs would be absorbed into the girls’ bodies through the most sensitive areas of their anatomy, altering their moods and hopefully making them more receptive to their unorthodox training. If it worked, he owed the chemistry student who cooked up the formula five thousand dollars. It was a steep price, but worth the gamble.

Despite the kinky training methods, the girls found that they soon looked forward to their daily training sessions, almost to the point of being obsessed by them. And their times were getting better, too. Coach Stan was pleased—at least, about their progress. But not about having to fork over five grand.

Unfortunately, another problem arose. News of their training methods had spread around campus, and the stands had begun to be occupied by spectators, most of them male. Once again, the team was becoming self-conscious.

Ashlee was the one to bring it up. “Um, coach? We kinda don’t like a bunch of guys watching us while we train? Isn’t there something you could do about that?”

“I can restrict access to the stadium while you train.” The girls breathed a collective sigh of relief. “In the meantime, there’s one other thing we can do.”

That “one other thing” turned out to be blinders attached to their bridles, wide pieces of leather that clipped to the side straps and forehead strap, restricting their vision to just what was in front of them. The girls accepted this with little protest, along with the explanation that it would help them focus.

The male students, however, did not accept the ban on spectators as easily. They wanted revenge.

A few days later, just as training was about to start, Coach Stan got a phone call that his house was on fire. In a panic (the fire being the least of his worries), he took off.

The girls were left standing there, two of them—Madison and Kileen—attached to the carts, the others hitched up to the carousel, waiting to go.

It was timed perfectly, just as the fraternity planned. As soon as they saw the coach take off in his car, they stampeded through the girls’ locker room and out onto the field.

“Hi, ladies!” announced the frat president, “ready for an extreme workout?”

The eleven members of the track team panicked, squealing and struggling in their restraints. They knew they couldn’t fight back, flee, or call for help. They were trapped.

One of the guys found the remotes. “Let’s re-program the carts.”

“And make it a little more challenging,” said another. He held up two sets of ankles hobbles bought from a sex shop. He and another student held Madison and Kileen’s ankles and cuffed them as the two runners stood there helplessly.

The men retreated, and the one with the remote said, “Okay, go!”

The mechanical jockeys began swatting the runners’ asses as the two shuffled along rapidly in a vain attempt to escape their posterior punishment, angry grunts issuing from their throats.

“Don’t worry. We aren’t going to neglect you girls!” The captive runners squirmed and thrashed about as the frat guys approached them.

“I think their movement is too restricted. What do you think, man?”

“I think so, too.”

On cue, a couple frat guys went behind the girls and started unhooking bras. The tight garments sprang open, cups popping off breasts as the girls kicked and twisted and growled with anger.

“Excellent. Let’s start the training.”

He pressed a button on the remote, and the carousel started up. The bound girls had no choice but to run in circles, their bare breasts swinging free of the undergarments that had bunched up around their collarbones. They screamed and cried, unable to stop.

The men stood there laughing as the girls sprinted around in circles, howling and shrieking as they attempted to keep pace with the rapid rotation of the carousel. Adding to the cacophony, Madison and Kileen bellowed as they rapidly hopped from one foot to the other around the track in a vain attempt to reduce the rhythmic swats to their behinds. Their asses were already burning, and tears flew from their eyes.

One of the frat guys ran out from the equipment room. “Shit! He’s back! Get out of here!”

The men threw the remotes to the ground and fled. The girls screamed as they saw their tormentors leave, knowing that there was no one to stop their insane torture. The stadium echoed with their shrill cries of desperation. Would the coach—or anyone—get there in time to save them?

Fortunately, the coach burst out onto the field a minute later. “Holy shit,” he said, and searched frantically for the remotes.

He found them lying on the ground, and there was another agonizing minute before he was able to reset the controls and gradually slow them to a stop.

The nine women on the carousel stood on shaky legs, their breaths huffing through their bits. Out on the track, Madison and Kileen dropped to their knees, glad that their ordeal was over.

The coach went over and tugged each girl’s bra back down over her tits and re-fastened it before releasing her from the carousel. This took several minutes, and the runners were grateful that he was sensitive to their modesty, despite the fact that it meant that he—however inadvertently—was touching intimate areas of their bodies. When he finished this, he went out and released the two ponygirls from the sulkies, a supporting arm around each of their shoulders as he led them off the track.

He gathered them all together at the entrance to the stadium. He was glad to see that they had already begun to calm down.

“God damn it! I’m really sorry about this, girls. Those guys tricked me, and I’ll see that they pay for it. No more training for today. Let’s go back inside and get you changed.”

They filed into the building silently. In the equipment room, they all lined up and waited for coach to release them. After they showered and dressed, a few of the girls came into his office.

“Thank you, coach. We really appreciate what you did for us out there.”

“No problem. I’m going to file a complaint with the dean, and you might have to give statements. Are any of you girls going to need counseling?”

They glanced around at each other. “No, I don’t think so,” said Ashlee.

The coach was silently pleased. None of seemed to be psychologically damaged from the ordeal. In fact, he had a suspicion that some of them had even enjoyed it. Was it due to the drug spray? He had no idea. Whatever the reason, it had all worked out for the better.

The girls declined to press charges, the frat was banned from campus, and the college hushed the whole thing up. And yet, there was an undercurrent of behavior among the girls that something was not quite right. This all came out about a week later when Ashlee meekly entered his office after practice.

“Ummm, coach?”

“Yes?”

“Well, um, some of us were kinda wondering . . .”

He sat there, silent.

“Well . . . it seems like a lot of us—all of us, actually—kind of liked how we were treated by the frat guys. You know, we kind of—enjoyed it.”

He nodded his understanding. “Well, I’m no psychologist, but I would say that because all of you are very athletic and very in tune with your bodies, that you liked being pushed to your limits. The fact that there were men, and nakedness, and domination involved added a forbidden sexual element to it that made it all the more attractive. It’s really nothing to be ashamed of. It’s just a part of human nature, that’s all. If you’d like, I can push you girls a little harder.” He smiled. “No nudity, though.”

Ashlee relaxed and got up to leave. A warm smile spread across her face. “Thank you, coach.”

When she was gone, Coach Stan heart skipped a beat. Things couldn’t have worked out better if he had planned it.

As promised, he trained them to exhaustion. He also—with their consent—used a riding crop for the carousel training, making sure each girl got several good whacks to goad her along. They eagerly lined up before training in their harnesses and bridles to let him cuff their arms, then again after training, waiting patiently for him to release them. He wasn’t able to see their bare asses, but it didn’t take much imagination to know that they were all cherry red by the time they left.

It wasn’t until a few days later that he got an indication of how well things were going. He was in his office when he heard Ashlee call out from the locker room.

“Coach, we have a surprise for you!”

He went into the locker room to see all the girls standing there with broad smiles on their faces. And manes.

They had all had their heads shaved except for a strip on the top and back. Coach Stan was speechless.

“You like?”

He nodded his approval.

They won many events in their next few track meets. Not an impressive record, but respectable. Still, their loyalty to him was a complete turn-around from their first days of practice.

Their manes became the hot topic of campus, and of other schools, who were impressed with their team spirit. Other coaches wanted to learn his secrets, and “spies” reported back with bizarre tales of pony tack and underwear and whippings.

When spring break arrived, Coach Stan invited them to spend it at his house training. They all readily agreed. He stockpiled sports drinks and food, and spent his nights cleaning the stable and making it ready. Cots and feeding stations were installed. Stall doors got new locks and hinges. Surveillance cameras were put in.

The captive female coach watched all this with a growing sense of dismay, so Coach Stan gifted her with sports bras and long-leg girdles—secretly coated with his drug spray, of course. By the time the team gleefully hauled their luggage out of car trunks and headed for the bare wooden structure, she was feeling more upbeat than she had been since her abduction.

The stable echoed with girls’ chatter as they settled in, choosing their stalls and hanging their tack from hooks on the walls. By the time they changed into their team underwear and were harnessed and bridled, it was late afternoon. He herded them into the corral and let them get accustomed to their new surroundings as they basked in the sunlight. At dinner time, he locked them in their stalls and fed them. Afterwards, he left the bits out of their mouths so they could talk, which they did excitedly until he came back a few hours later and removed their harnesses and bridles so they could sleep. He had them hang their undergarments in an end room to drip-dry, all the more convenient for him to keep spraying them after they had gone to sleep.

The wooded area behind the stable was slightly hilly, with a trail that wound around for half a mile. He had them run this trail until they were ready to drop, giving them repeated swats on their behinds for good measure. He found an old plow, and had them take turns reworking the long-neglected field near his house, the girls grunting with effort as they took turns dragging the blade through the hard, dry soil. He worked them hard every day, going through cases and cases of sports drinks and energy bars. Even so, he found out that some of them still had energy to burn—one night as he was surreptitiously spraying their uniforms, he heard buzzing and moaning coming from several of the stalls. He only wished he could help them relieve their young libidos, but he knew that that would cause unwanted problems.

His smartphone was connected to the surveillance cameras, and he used that to keep an eye on them, especially at night. With the nightvision mode, he could get a good view of their naked, writhing bodies as they pleasured themselves. Some of them even tried to escape their stalls so they could be with each other, but were stymied by the locked stall doors and high walls.

After a few days, he introduced them to the female coach, and told them she would be helping with the training. He equipped a small camera to the top of her bridle and had her run along behind the girls as they ran the trail. Even though she agreed to the arrangement, he made it clear to her that any disobedience and she would be used as an example to the girls.

Spring break ended all too quickly, and the girls packed up and headed back to campus. They were soon competing in, and winning, more events. Unfortunately, their grades suffered. Most of them ended the semester with failing averages. Tears flowed as they realized their futures were in jeopardy. Fortunately, Coach Stan had a solution: They could live at his place for as long as they wanted. The few girls with good grades dropped out to join them as a show of solidarity.

Once again, the stable filled with the excited chatter of young women. They had given their parents and friends bogus stories of running away with boyfriends or joining a religion or going off to find themselves. They were more than happy to be the obedient pony slaves of their new Master.

Still, there was the problem of what to do with them once school started up again in the fall. As luck would have it, word had secretly spread of his training methods. Mysterious men in suits pulled up in sleek, dark vehicles with tinted windows late at night. Videos were watched, offers were made, handshakes were exchanged.

Over the course of late summer, cars pulling horse trailers would arrive. One or two of the girls would be selected each time, then led into a trailer, where they would be strapped in securely. A suitcase of cash would be handed over. The back would be closed and locked, and the trailer would disappear in a cloud of dust, never to be seen again.

The girls were concerned, of course, but they accepted it. They were sad each time a girl or two was taken away, but the hard training soon diverted their minds. By late August, only Kileen was left. Coach Stan had decided to keep the cute little redhead for himself, and he continued to train her, often giving her chocolate or sex as a reward.

Coach Stan was kept on. He was reprimanded for letting so many of his girls fall behind academically, but his good record of wins at track and field meets saved him.

It was the first day of training. Coach Stan took in the eighteen eager new faces of the track team. He had a feeling this would be a good year.

THE END

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04.07.17