The Office of a Not Yet Retired, Secretly Perverted, High School Girls' Volleyball Coach

Grampa Vane, or Coach Vane, or Old Smoke -- however you knew him (nowadays that particular nickname just reminded him of the lifelong cigarette smoke entrapped in them lungs of his), would probably be pulling out his megaphone and barking some overtly ridiculous diatribe straight through it to to kick off the day with a few laughs for good measure, if he wasn't currently sequestered in puzzlement, at his desk, casually dangling a watch out of a small box he'd found sitting on top of it when he'd walked in. Meanwhile, a fan made circles in the corner, fending off the heat, all 2 ounces of it.

The office was empty save for himself.

"Hmm." Adjusting his glasses, the face wrinkled man drew his eyes closer to the box, where a note seemed to be. He picked it up and close-read it. "'1. To be... normal, turn on the watch and then put it on.'" Vane slid his eyes downward, to the next line of text, and narrowed his eyes but one final time. "'2. To... make things normal, say what you want to see by using the word 'normal' in any of its... variations.'"

Pause of silence.

"...What in green baby butt tarnation." Vane looked the watch over. Down. Up. Left, right, a-twist and a-tuggle. "I don't know nothing about that whole... self-help, voodoo, whatever it is they got whippin' there, but this looks like a watch to me. All it needs to do is tell me if it's time for Hawaii Five-O."

For a moment, Vane considered giving this to one of his grandkids. Frankly, it looked a bit too big and clunky to be anything of real worth but he was no expert on wrist fashion. Maybe his children would know better. Still, if it weren't for the fact that it seemed to be given to him as a gift of some sort, he probably woulda tossed it.

Hell, he nearly did.

Instead, he found himself clipping it on, for old time's sake. His old watch did break, after all. This was no doubt some nice gesture from some anonymous what-knew-who.

Who-knew-what?

When-knew-which?

"Coach?"

A rap, accompanied by a honey-dipped voice, suddenly sounded at the door, creaking the thing further open. Vane turned on his chair to see brunette haired Melanie Jenkins standing before him. A sweet girl. Phyiscally in shape as well, even if she sometimes fell short in the team on occasion because of, well -- you know, teens being teens. Talking, goofing around, the works. We've all been there, haven't we?

We've all been young. Coach Vane remembered such days.

Yes, he did.

He was reminded of it every day, with every swift limb, and every toothy grin, and even in moments, quiet and unsuspecting and innocuous moments, with the kind of girl who at one point he used to chase after and ogle with the rest of the boys on the top of their beak-shaped fence as if there was never a tomorrow, like these.

As Melanie stood there, at the doorway, she spotted the older man's eyes tersely wandering up and down her body, and silently, non-presumptuously, she guarded herself a bit. It was just a fraction of a second, but still. Rumors still had their roots.

She and a lot of the others in her grade loved Coach Vane, to be clear. He was a dork, a grump, sometimes senile, and sometimes a hilarious lion. The rhetoric of Coach Vane being a creep to his female subordinates came from old stories, squashed long ago and never taken to legal action. On the basis of an eyewitness account it'd been proven to mostly be hosh-posh as she'd never encountered him doing anything of such ilk around her or her classmates. He wasn't the original selection for volleyball coach, either; typically, the last one had been around for a good 5 years before leaving for another high school. So Vane, being one of the few with proper volleyball teaching experience, once again took over, having done so now for two years, and 'once again' being because the same went for the volleyball coach he followed before the last one. He has always been a 'placeholder coach' that ended up becoming the main face of Fountain High School's volleyball team.

So... yeah. Everyone generally knew Coach Vane was safe to be around. But sometimes, that subconscious crept up on ya. Human nature, right?

In the meantime, on his creaking old chair, Coach Vane felt himself drifting off again. Being around young ladies all day... well. Even in her form fitting black crew T-shirt and shorts, let's just say he was prone to the natural instincts, as much as any, even if he never did act on them. After all, in spite of what anyone would try to tell ya, it was simply human nature.

Those clothes really left you wanting more, though -- especially when it came to some of these girls' stellar, young physiques. In one of his nephews' high schools, the girls' volleyball uniforms had shorts that basically left just the hem between the bottom butt cheek and public eye feasting.

"Uh, Coach?"

Snapping out of his reverie, the man straightened. "Ah, right, Melanie. So, what can I do for ya?"

The girl smiled and removed her hand from behind her as she strode up to the coach and part-time teacher. "That essay, that I was supposed to turn in two days ago? Well, it's done."

"Oh, that's great," clapped Coach Vane, "I'll just take it from your hands there." After slipping it into his fingers, he took a red pen in advance, then looked up at the girl from the bridge of his glasses. "It's gonna have 10 points docced from it though."

With a pout at the ready, Melanie wriggled her hands into praying position. "Please, Coach Vane, can you, like, waive it for me?"

A laugh erupted from the old stickler. "Waive it? Now that's a good one missy." As he came down from his clearly over-enthusiastic giggle, he checked the time on his watch, only to find it wasn't even moving a single bit. He popped on it with his free wrist, then smacked it on the side with his open palm. That seemed to do the trick, as the screen actually emitted a soft, single glow, before fading away.

It still wasn't moving, though. Dognabbit. Would have to give this a closer look, later.

"What's that? You finally got a new watch?"

"Yeah, just... found it sitting here." After writing a -10 on Melanie's paper, he opened a drawer on the opposite side and stuck it in with the rest of the to-be skimmed essays, before closing it with a delicate push of the fingers. With a thought, he looked at Melanie. "You don't happen to know who might have left it here, do you?"

The girl just shrugged, gleaming brown eyes half-disinterestedly oriented on the wrist hugger. "Don't ask me." Clearing of the throat, folding of the arms. "Looks... cool, though, I guess."

"Oh, it looks 'cool'." A chuckle imparted Vane's lips as he leaned back on his chair. "I'm sure for you young'ns these are basically antiques at this point."

"You're right, they are," Melanie laughed at Coach Vane's shock-and-awe reaction, "but that doesn'--oh," with a swipe of her hand, the girl accidentally sent a cup of pencils that had been just by the edge of Vane's desk flying, scattering the utensils all over the floor.

Tink!

Tonk!

Tittle...

A fat pause sat in the air for a spaz.

"Shoot, my bad, coach," Melanie apologized after the silent wave of surprise subsided, hand finally detaching from her mouth. She glanced at him, then back at the mess, and shook her head. "Lemme clean this up real fast."

Coach Vane gestured that she was welcome to and she promptly got down, alternating between kneels and scuttling heels once she was finished with one location.

The moment she began collecting the pencils and pens that lay strewn across the floor, however, this, perhaps unbeknownst to her, was giving Coach Vane a very intriguing view of her tush, as they flexed and contracted before him, and squished against her shoe heel. And even in spite of himself, (or rather in line with everything he truly was), the coach found himself sucking in a breath of air at the girl's slender body but thick, fitly built stature and legs and thighs, and almost instinctively whispering under his breath, "If only thongs were somehow normal bottom-wear in this district's high school volleyball uniform dress code, where all the ass cheek was nice and visible, yet also designed for utmost comfort and optimal sportiness, ohoho, oh..." The fantasy in his mind sent tingles down his spine. (Beatbox, stat!) "Just imagine, having two worlds work together like... like..." The older man suddenly stopped in his mental tracks as he watched what was going on before him, and blinked his eyes double-time to ensure he actually was, instead of was not. "Holy mackerel, what in tarnation is --Melanie!" He instantly cupped his hands over his mouth. Almost as if not doing so would've... who knew, exacerbated something.

This girl, the volleyball team member he'd always known as pretty but relatively modest and with proper wits about her, the same one, seemed to transform right in front of him -- or at least, her attire did, as the fitting shorts she was wearing earlier, which were already titillating to the right eye, began to morph and almost fade simultaneously, riding up her legs, over her inner upper thigh and then -- (gulp) -- ascending ALL THE WAY UP her wonderful, smackable ass before the whole cloth disappeared right into her buttcrack, leaving just the upper 'T' portion hugging her hips. They were black and stretchy-looking, but tight. And was that 'Fountain High Lemurs' etched in the center of it, in their trademark goldenrod?

Coach Vane felt all kinds of things in his body that he hadn't really felt in a long time, or even thought he could feel. Even so, he was able to touch back down to Earth, and shake himself into some semblance of sane thinking.

This girl, Melanie Jenkins, had just went from wearing proper, respectable gym shorts to being practically half-naked right before his own eyes! And somehow she didn't even need to do any of the doing; her clothes did it for her!

How did you stay sane in a situation such as this? How, exactly?

"Coach Vane, you alright?" Melanie asked, causing the white-haired bugger to jump in his chair and scratch his head with an anxious chuckle. She had already swiped up all the pencils on the floor and had set it back inside the cup and the cup onto his desk, now staring at him with casual concern.

"Uhh-heh, yeah. Yes, I'm... doing just swell." His eyes inadvertently had to pull themselves up from the young adult's mesmerizing exposure of eye-candy skin below the non-existent belt (and non-existent pants) that were near impossible to ignore at this angle, considering he was pretty much eye level with her succulent ass, but even so, Melanie didn't much react when he his eyes to meet hers.

No, not true, she's reacting. "What?" she curled a brow, then promptly looked down, RIGHT AT HER PRACTICALLY NAKED BUTT. Abort, immediately! "Is there something wrong with my uniform?" she glanced back up after 3 seconds of scanning said butt for seemingly any infractions.

Huh?

"Huh?" Coach Vane repeated outloud.

Melanie gave him another look.

Vane swallowed. "Er. No. No, your uniform is... looking perfect. Better, in fact. I... really... like that new thing with the... thong. It must help you, er... move. Better. Like... beach. Even though this... is not beach."

In spite of that half-braindead, half-perverted ramble, Melanie, somehow, just responded with an innocent laugh above, as she turned --(oh gawd!)-- and made for the door. Thong, shirt, and all. "That's funny, Coach! Honestly I couldn't imagine how other schools do it, going for that extra coverage. Our sport thongs are ultra comfy and get the job done. When my mom used to go here she even felt the same way." Shrug. "Anyway, see ya out there, Coach!"

"Melanie!" Suddenly, another girl with pure exposed ass whisked by, grabbing her by the arm. "We need you to set up. Oh, hi Coach!"

Coach Vane managed a weak wave, before the two girls waved goodbye and took off into the auditorium, and the man was left to his own, very unusual, once in a lifetime devices.

She really did look at her practically naked butt. Just like that. Said nothing about it. Nothing. Not a peep or cry or tear of humiliation. Yes, even her mother preferred it, she worded.

Even her mother.

"What in green baby butt tarnation?" mumbled the coach, eyes automatically, almost awestruck in their wander, drifting to the most unusual, highly culpable, once in a lifetime antique before him, and narrowed his already thin eyes. "What in green baby butt have you done?"