Volleyball Girls
Copyright© 2026 by TheDarkKnight
Chapter 1: Getting to know the team
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 1: Getting to know the team - I wasn't athletic enough to play on any teams in high school, but I wanted to participate by being a volunteer equipment manager, maybe for the football or basketball team. When I asked our athletic director, he told me the team that really needed help was the girls' volleyball team. When I seemed reluctant, he said two words that convinced me, "Volleyball shorts."
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft mt/Fa Consensual Heterosexual School Anal Sex First Massage Masturbation Oral Sex Voyeurism Leg Fetish Teacher/Student
I wanted to be on an athletic team in high school, but I couldn’t find a sport I fit into. I was too small for football, even though I did try out for the junior varsity team in the ninth grade. After a couple of practices, the coach kindly took me aside and told me I was going to get killed trying to compete with all the behemoths on the squad. Basketball, forget about it. On a good day, I topped out at 5’ 6”. I’d tried baseball when I was younger, but never seemed to figure out how to get a square hit with a round bat. Soccer was just beginning to be popular in our part of the country, so the Hawks didn’t have a varsity team for that sport. For some reason, we didn’t have a track team either. I decided that if I wanted to be part of any team, it would have to be as an equipment manager, not as an athlete. At least that way, I could be around a team and be useful to my school.
The athletic director at our school, Bill Simmons, knew about my frustration, and when he found out I had some computer skills, he offered me a position in his office as his student assistant. I maintained the spreadsheets he used to track players’ grades, injuries, and other details, monitored his email account, and digitized all the schedules he was responsible for. I did that in my sophomore and junior years, and then, at the beginning of my senior year, Mr. Simmons told me he had found a position for me as an equipment manager, but it wasn’t for football or basketball. Instead, he told me, “Go see Miss Wilson tomorrow. She needs some help.”
“Miss Wilson,” I moaned. She was the girls’ volleyball coach. I didn’t even know she needed a manager. How much equipment could a volleyball team have? I wondered if maybe Mr. Simmons had created that job just to get rid of me. Maybe he had grown tired of hearing me complain all the time.
“I don’t know much about volleyball, sir,” I told him. “I didn’t even know there was equipment involved.” That was a bit of a lie, because I had watched enough games to understand what was going on, but I didn’t want to seem too eager to accept the job. This sounds very sexist now, but when I was in high school, the idea of being kind of a janitor to a bunch of girls wasn’t that appealing.
“Sure there is,” he said. “There’s the net and posts and balls, and... “, he paused, clearly out of things he knew about volleyball. Then he gave me what I call his used-car salesman smile and said, “Got two words for you, Alex, volleyball shorts.”
He had me there. It was almost like he could read my mind. I had gone to a few of the girls’ games with some of my buddies, and it wasn’t because we liked the sport that much. Nope, it was the sight of the players running and jumping and diving in those short, tight uniforms that drew us there. So, yeah, nicely played, Mr. Simmons, you hit me where I was vulnerable.
The next day, after the last period bell, I hustled down to Miss Wilson’s classroom, hoping to catch her before she left. Turns out, I hadn’t needed to hurry; she was waiting for me. Carol Wilson had been one of my favorite teachers during my first two years of high school, which is saying a lot for a History teacher. Maybe being a cute blonde in her 30’s had something to do with that. I think it’s fair to say that I had a bit of a crush on her. She was attractive, not beautiful, but definitely a 6 or 7 on that ridiculous scale that high school kids use. The rumor mill had decided that she might be a lesbian, partly because she was young and attractive, but not married, and she coached a girls’ team. I’d never paid much attention to that crap; it wasn’t like I was going to ask her out on a date anyway. Even though I was still unsure about the job, working with one of my favorite teachers would make the decision easier.
“Hi Alex,” she greeted me, with one of her special grins that I had grown to like after two years of sitting in her classes. “Bill said you might be coming by. Are you interested in helping us out?”
“Um, I guess so, but I have a few questions.”
“Of course. Fire away. This can be like a reverse job interview; you can ask your prospective boss questions. I don’t need to ask you anything; I already know you. You’ve always been one of my favorite students.”
That made me blush a little. I’d never had a teacher tell me that. If I still had any doubts about accepting the job, they vanished at that moment, and the way she was smiling at me made me change my rating of her up to a solid 8.
“So, what exactly does a volleyball team equipment manager do?” was my first question. “What kind of equipment do you have?” My somewhat sex-obsessed 17-year-old mind caused me to blush a little when I realized what I had said, but there it was, and Miss Wilson didn’t seem to mind.
“Not much, Alex. There are the balls, of course, and a pump to keep them properly inflated. There is the net, the poles, and support wires to hold it in place. We share practice space in the gym with other teams, so we have to put up and take down the nets every time we practice or have a home game. We issue each player knee pads and elbow pads, so we have to keep track of them and make sure we have spares on hand. And we have a small first-aid kit that you’ll be responsible for keeping stocked.
“Probably the hardest part is taking care of the uniforms. I used to let the players keep their shirts and shorts, but some of them either didn’t wash them after a game, which is bad, or dried them too long, which made them shrink. It’s hard enough for some of them to get their shorts on when they are new, but after shrinkage, it can be a struggle. I’ve seen you at a few games, so you know how tight they are to begin with. That’s why I’ve made it part of the manager’s job to take care of washing them.”
I had begun imagining some of the players struggling to put on those tight shorts after they had been made even tighter. There was a part of my devious mind that wondered if helping players put them on could possibly become part of the job, but I kept that idea to myself. I think planting the image of girls squeezing into tight shorts might have been a deliberate ploy on Miss Wilson’s part, trying to get me even more interested in the job, but maybe that was just my imagination. “Washing their sweaty clothes? That’s part of the job?”
“Yeah, it would be your responsibility to collect them after the games and wash them. There’s a laundry room behind the gym that all the teams use. I’ll make sure we have some time reserved for you to use, either after the game or the next day. The important thing is that we have clean, odor-free uniforms before each game. And don’t worry, Alex, it’s just their shirts and shorts. I wouldn’t want you to have to deal with their sweaty, stinky underwear.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I told her, “maybe I could even wash them by hand. Oh wait, you’re talking about the uniforms, not the players?”
I thought I might have gone too far with that remark, but Miss Wilson laughed and said, “I’ve always liked your sense of humor, Alex. I was afraid that taking care of the uniforms might be a deal breaker, but I think you can handle it. You would be the first boy to be our manager. Think you can handle a group of athletic, aggressive girls?”
That was almost a dare no self-respecting teenage boy could resist, so I had no choice. “If you think I’m the man for the job, then I’m ready. Put me in, coach.”
A few days later, I was introduced to the team at a pre-season meeting in Miss Wilson’s room. Most of the girls were already there by the time I arrived. I tried to slip into the back without attracting too much attention, but since I was the only boy in the room, everyone soon started looking at me. I knew most of them by name, and three or four I knew well enough to say hello when I saw them. Unfortunately, there was one former girlfriend in the group - Daisy Cartwright.
Daisy and I had dated a few times in my junior year, and just when I thought we had something special going, one of the gorillas from the football team swooped in, and Daisy decided she liked muscle-bound apes better than scrawny nerds like me. The breakup was quick and painful, at least for me, and months later, I was still dealing with it. She looked at me with a strange expression, like she was wondering why I was there. I wasn’t happy that she was there, but it wasn’t bad enough to cause me to quit the job before I even started. I briefly hoped that maybe being around her might rekindle her feelings for me, but then, I’ve been hoping for years that I would suddenly wake up some morning and find myself three inches taller. I figured neither one of those was likely to happen. I was beginning to feel uneasy. Several of the girls were staring at me and whispering to each other. I felt like the new panda in the zoo that everyone had come to see. That’s when Miss Wilson came in and saved me.
She started by doing a roll call, as if it were the first day of school. When she finished, she sat down on the corner of her desk, something I’d never seen her do when she was teaching. I hadn’t noticed until then that she was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, like most of the girls. I’d only seen her in a dress or skirt and blouse before. I liked the look. I had suspected there was a nice body hidden beneath her usual teacher attire, and now I knew I was right. That’s when I started thinking of her as Coach Wilson instead of Miss Wilson.