Captain Zim
Copyright© 2025 by Gina Marie Wylie
Chapter 10
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 10 - David Zimmerman is your average high school junior, a bookish sort with average everything — except athletic ability. He can't throw or hit, swims like a turtle and has wimpy muscles. He was chosen last for every sport in elementary school — when he was chosen at all. His life changed when he kicked a field goal squarely between the uprights, then it changed again the next time he was in a ball game
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft Consensual Fiction
So when the choosing started, Phil picked first, selecting someone I didn’t recognize, and I pointed to Kristie; everyone laughed. Phil picked again, I looked around, saw a girl who’d been good at digging out spikes, pointed to her.
Behind me, Kristie giggled. “Paula Scott, my heart of hearts! You know how to pick ‘em, Zim!”
Then Phil was thinking about his pick, and I was looking around, thinking myself. I saw a guy about CC’s age, who had played in the second game yesterday. He always charged the ball, always. I whispered my suggestion to Kristie, who shook her head.
Kristie hissed. “Oh, Lennie! Like you have to fight him for your spot as well as his!” She pointed to another girl. “Pick Elena.”
Except Phil picked Elena, and I looked again. There was a quiet girl, standing to one side. “You,” I told her, she blinked, astonished, I thought.
“Excuse me!” Kristie said, “Who the fuck is that?”
“I have no idea,” I said back to her. “Yesterday, that was me, standing there, alone.”
I saw Kristie’s eyes blaze, and I laughed, something I would never have dreamed of doing, even yesterday. “Kristie, you got me picked captain. Next time, you want to pick the team, pick yourself first. Otherwise...” My voice trailed off.
She looked at me, then laughed. “You look like a mouse, Zim. You are flabby, soft. You fall off a surfboard in foot-high surf.”
Someone a few feet away, a guy Sean’s age, laughed. “Did the pier, all the way out. Right to the end, then turned around and ran it back. Like you’ve done that, haven’t you, Kristie?”
She glared at him, and when it was my turn, I picked the guy who’d spoken. He bowed to me. “Todd Winterhaven, thanks, Capt’n Zim!”
And so it went; I listened to Kristie about two-thirds of the time, the rest of the time I went with my instincts.
I put the girl who so reminded me of me, to my left in the back row.
I was prepared for one serve and exit; except that Phil had his people back. I remembered yesterday, and did as I had the first serve. And like the day before, the ball plopped into the sand, untouched.
Kristie was directly in front of me; she laughed out loud. “Oh, like that was a surprise, Phil!”
I served again; the girl there had been exhorted to move up; I hit it just behind her. She spun, hit at the ball. Just like CC the day before, the ball moved like a bullet, the wrong way. Only this time it took Phil full in the chest, causing him to blink, then splutter.
The girl murmured apologies, but Phil was staring at me. Like I’d done that on purpose? I shook my head. That was on the far side of inconceivable.
I got the ball back, served it this time diagonally, still close to the net. The guy there hit it up, into the net.
But, the problem was, there was this guy about my father’s age, who spent a lot of time oogling the girls in bikinis, who simply yelled, “Net!”
Kristie blew up. “The hell it was a net ball! He hit it into the net!” She gestured angrily at the defender who’d dug it out.
I took a step forward, put my hand on Kristie’s shoulder. What, a few minutes ago I’d been flattered, a little turned on to have a girl asking me to play, wanting me to be captain; now I was going to dump on her? I swallowed and did it anyway. “Kristie,” I told her, “It was a net ball. I saw it, the umpire saw it. Chill, girl!”
She glared at me, turned and glared at everyone else.
I stared at the guy I’d just hit it to. At the last second, I let my eyes go straight back, diagonally across the net from me, in the last row ... and served it right to Phil in the middle.
Phil was caught off balance, but hit it up anyway. A girl behind him set it, and another girl spiked it into our back row. Kristie, furious, backed up, nearly in my face, hit it up, way up, reminding me of Phil’s spike I’d hit up yesterday. Except this one went almost straight up, came almost straight down.
The girl next to me jumped; I swear to God, when she hit the ball, her feet were at my eye level. The spike was like a meteor, a bullet that slammed into the sand a foot inside their back line, then rolled on down the beach. A long way down the beach.
Three.
To my surprise, the girl next to me spoke to Kristie, her voice mild. “You should let the back line field the long ones.” Kristie turned and glared, but the mild expression obviously put her off.
The ball came back to me, and I heard the girl next to me mutter softly, “Right behind their big guy. About two feet. He can’t defend those.”
I looked at the girl in the right front, who’d already lost two points. Phil growled something about it was a bluff. I served it, just like I’d done before, but behind him. Again, Phil misjudged it; this time he fouled his own back line player, neither of them got to the ball, both ended up in the sand.
Four.
I gulped. Next to me, the girl laughed, very, very softly. “Go with your gut.”
I soft served it again, soft into the middle of the front rank; this time, Phil came over the girl at the net, knocking her down. She pushed him off, slammed a futile fist into his stomach, and stalked off.
“I suspect a little history there,” the girl’s voice was velvet soft. “Good call.”
Five, though.
I took a deep breath. Two dozen players were staring at me; perhaps thirty spectators. I’m going to blow it, I thought. I just know it. I hit the ball a bit harder than I intended, but diagonally opposite, as I’d faked before.
I saw Phil shift, heard someone on the other side say loudly, “Fuck off, Cunningham!” Someone hit it up, someone else hit it our way; back and forth three times, before it went to Kristie, who slammed it high into the air.
To my surprise, it was the guy I’d picked, Todd, that spiked it across the net on the down trip. It was in the middle line, and they were slow reacting.
Six.
“Now this,” the soft whisper from next to me, “is interesting. Me?” I heard a soft laugh, “About now, I’d mess up, don’t often get six.”
Someone a few feet away laughed. “Yesterday, Capt’n Zim got eight, five and four, plus three singletons. In two games.”
The girl looked at me, just as I served it.
This time I knew I’d screwed up. It was long, out of bounds. Except Phil was there, hitting it up anyway. They hit a soft one back to the girl to my left, who sent another meteor their way. I thought Phil hit hard! She was awesome! And again, the spike split the defenders, the ball ending up rolling down the beach.
Seven.
I got the ball back, and unlike every other time I’d had the serve, I didn’t take my time, just whapped it, to the center back.
And caught everyone flat-footed. Someone got a hand on it, but it went diagonally, into the water.
Eight.
I got the ball back, wet. Next to me, the girl murmured. “English, Zim. English.”
I contemplated for a second just what she had to mean. English, that was spin on the cue ball in pool. You aimed high, low, left, or right. Caused some interesting effects. I’d seen the same thing in ping-pong, too.
I realized as I started to serve, that you couldn’t do it with a closed fist. I opened my hand, but just settled for that. The ball went to their left corner again, and the guy there hit it up, someone else set it better. Phil lunged for it and went sprawling. One of his own team had tripped him. I was so busy watching that, I barely had time to see the ball come back on our side of the net.
Todd got it up, another girl set it, Kristie put it back, right where Phil would have been, had Phil been where he was supposed to be, had he been vertical instead of horizontal.
Nine.
The crowd was quiet, soft murmurs. I took the ball, imagined hitting it with English; I couldn’t get it right in my mind. I soft served, not wanting to take any more time, and even as I did, I realized I’d hit it to Phil.
Who, like the Mighty Casey, took a mighty swing. Casey at least had three shots at the ball; in volleyball, you get just one. Phil and Casey could have told similar stories though, about missed opportunities.
Ten.
I stood rigid, waiting for the ball to come back.
From up front, Todd laughed. “Capt’n Zim! Please, like ten points! At least let them hit it back a few more times. The rest of us are ready for cookies and milk; a little nap!”
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