Volleyball Girls
Copyright© 2026 by TheDarkKnight
Chapter 5: Tutoring and Diddling
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 5: Tutoring and Diddling - 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 Mult Consensual Romantic Lesbian Heterosexual School Anal Sex First Massage Masturbation Oral Sex Voyeurism Leg Fetish Teacher/Student
Becky was beginning to fill the void I had felt since my breakup with Daisy. I was looking forward to spending more time with her, even if it was only working on Algebra problems, but first I had to pass the ‘Mama Test’. Even though Mrs. Young trusted me to bring Becky home after practice and games, she apparently wanted to get to know me better before letting me spend more time alone with her precious daughter. No problem; I think most teenage boys have gone through the vetting process at least once.
Becky’s mother invited me to dinner on one of her days off. I dropped Becky off after practice and drove home to shower and change into more presentable clothes. I went with grey slacks and a white shirt. I wanted to make a good impression, but not “I want to marry your daughter” nice, so I wore sneakers instead of my shiny black going-to-church shoes. When I got back to the Young’s home, Becky was waiting for me. When I walked in, Becky looked at me and said, “You clean up good. You should do it more often.”
She was wearing a dress, something I hadn’t seen her in before. That only made me more nervous. If Becky was treating this as an almost formal occasion, maybe Mrs. Young was going to be a harder hurdle to get over than I had feared. Since Becky hadn’t told me much about her mother, I didn’t know what to expect.
“And that’s a very attractive dress, Miss Young,” I told her. “We look like we’re ready to go on a date.”
“Come on in. We’ve got some time. Mama went to the store, but should be back... “ Becky didn’t have time to finish before the front door opened and Mrs. Young came in, carrying a couple of grocery bags. I ran over and helped her bring them in, hoping to earn some brownie points before we had even been introduced.
Becky took it from there, making the introductions and helping me through those first few awkward moments. I found out that Mrs. Young’s first name was Olivia. I didn’t see much physical resemblance between mother and daughter, except in the way they smiled. I figured if Olivia had a fifteen-year-old daughter, she must be in her late thirties or early forties, but she looked younger. She had an enticingly slim body, with curves in just the right places. It was probably the first time in my life that I began to appreciate what the acronym MILF stood for. First Carol, and now Olivia; I was beginning to wonder whether it was just fate bringing me closer to mature women, or if I was just reaching the age when I noticed them.
That night the entree was some amazing salmon. Seafood in our house usually meant frozen, breaded fish sticks, but that evening opened my eyes and taste buds to that delicious pink delight. Maybe even more than the taste, I think what I liked was the delicate, flaky, moist rose texture that reminded me of ... nah, I’m not gonna go there. You know what I was thinking.
It turned out to be a fun evening, more about Becky’s mom thanking me for everything I had done for her daughter instead of an interrogation. After dinner, Olivia had a comfortable adult-to-adult conversation. Becky was wise enough just to sit back and let us get to know each other. Olivia offered to pay me for helping Becky, which I again turned down. “You don’t have to pay me, Mrs. Young. Helping Becky will be my pleasure,” I told her, not intending the double-meaning. Becky caught it and gave me a quick grin and wink.
Becky and I started working together a couple of days later. We didn’t have much time; midterm exams were coming up, and she really needed to raise her grade. The first day, after dropping her off after practice, I went home, grabbed a bite to eat, and found some of my old homework from my days in Algebra I and II and brought it with me. Yeah, I’m that kind of pack rat.
By the time I got back to Becky’s, she had taken a shower and changed. Now she was wearing soccer shorts, with those baggy, loose leg holes, quite a bit different than the tight, revealing pants I was used to seeing her wear. I couldn’t help noticing how inviting those leg holes were.
“We can work here,” she said, motioning at the coffee table in the living room, “but we might be more comfortable in my room. That’s where I usually do my homework anyway.”
“Whatever you want,” I told her. I followed her down the hall and into her bedroom.
Being invited into a girl’s bedroom could never seem totally innocent to a boy my age. Even when Daisy and I had been dating, we had never ended up in her room. She had three siblings who were always around, so we used my bedroom for most of our trysts.
Becky’s room was almost as messy as mine was when I was her age. Not having any sisters, somehow I had assumed that girls might be a little neater than boys. Granted, the way the team left the locker room after a game should have indicated that I was wrong. At least her bed was neatly made. Her blankets and sheets were light blue with dolphins on them, which was a little surprising. Somehow, I had pictured Becky as a pink, fairies-in-the-meadow kind of girl. Some of her clothes were lying on the floor, close to but not in a half-full hamper near an open closet door. I couldn’t help seeing what must have been the panties and bra she had taken off when she showered earlier lying on top of the pile. I quickly averted my eyes; somehow, seeing her most intimate attire like that seemed wrong. She saw where I was looking and quickly picked up the dirty clothes on the floor, tossed them into the hamper, and pushed the whole thing into the closet.
Becky had a desk and matching bookcase against the wall opposite her closet. The desk was big, and even less organized than her dirty laundry, with texts, notebooks, a calculator, pens, and pencils scattered across it. She threw everything but her Algebra text on her bed, then sat down, ready to go to work.
Two beanbag chairs filled up most of the floor on one side of her bed. Being the letch I was, my imagination quickly gave rise to several other things those silly bits of furniture could be used for that might be more entertaining than just sitting, but they didn’t look good for my new role as tutor. I looked around, found a second real chair, rolled it over to the desk and sat next to my student.
When I’d agreed to take on this task, I’d asked Becky to let me see some of her recent homework and tests so I could get an idea of where her weaknesses lay. “Beck,” I told her, “I really don’t think you’re a bad student. It looks like your biggest problem is you’re lazy. You only do some of the problems you’re assigned, and almost none of the word problems. The first step in getting better at Algebra is to do all the homework.”
“I get bored with it,” she sighed. “Besides, I’m probably never gonna use any of that crap after high school. I just want to get good enough grades to graduate, but Mama wants me to make all A’s, or a few B’s. For some reason she thinks a ‘C’ is flunking.”
I’d been ready for that complaint. The whole “I’ll never use this stuff” argument was one I had heard from a lot of my friends. I was one of those weirdos who actually liked doing Algebra problems. My first challenge was to convince Becky that it was worth her time to try harder. I decided to draw a parallel with her favorite sport.
“Look,” I told her, “sometimes you get tired of doing some of the drills we run at practice, right? But you have to admit they do make you a better player, getting you in shape and improving your touch. That’s what doing math problems does. You may never have to solve a quadratic equation after high school, but learning how to do ‘that crap’ is good exercise for your brain.”
“I’d rather do pushups,” she complained.
“It’s hard to do pushups with that squishy thing between your ears,” I teased.
“Are you sayin’ my brain is squishy?”
“If you don’t use it, that might happen.”
“Damn,” she groaned, “I didn’t know you were gonna be so hard-nosed.”
“Sorry, but I’m taking this seriously. We can have fun later, but when I’m helping you study, I’m not your friend, I’m your tutor, and you’re my tutee.”
That made her giggle. “Tutee, that’s a funny word. So, are you gonna tut me? Will it hurt?”
“Never mind,” I told her. “Do the problems you were assigned for homework today. When you finish, we can go over them.”
“I like you better as a coach.”
“This was your idea,” I reminded her.
“Come on, Alex, you know I just meant this as a way for us to hang out together, since Mama won’t let me date yet.”
“Just get busy,” I said.
I grabbed one of the books from the bookshelf over her desk, which turned out to be a Harry Potter book I had read a couple of years earlier. I scrunched down in one of the beanbags and started reading, or at least, pretended to read. Actually, I was watching Becky as she did her homework. She sat with one foot on the seat of her chair, her chin resting on her knee. It looked uncomfortable, but teenagers are flexible.
Her strange position gave me a good view up one leg of her shorts, far enough to let me see that she had either forgotten to put on panties after her shower, or was just trying to get my full attention. If that was her goal, she succeeded. Even from the side-angle view I had, I could see a glimpse of her vulva and the few curly brown hairs around it. Okay, shorts with big leg holes, her leg raised exposing herself, no panties, I got the idea, and I was interested.
Becky squirmed, muttered, and broke at least one pencil lead, but finally she finished. “Ready, Mr. Tutor,” she said, “come tut me.” She giggled every time she said that word.
I quickly scanned her work, then told her, “Not bad. See, you can do this if you try. But you didn’t do the word problems.”
“Ugh, I hate those,” she protested.
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