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As usual I was almost late. I only lived five minutes from the golf club and so I always convinced myself I could leave it until the last minute before jumping into the car.
This was a Saturday mixed foursomes invitational competition which was something I didn’t often get involved in. In fact, some of my Sunday morning golfing cronies would have been horrified that I had got roped in to play with women.
The Ladies Captain had called me earlier in the week to see if I would stand in and partner one Susan Armstrong, whose husband wouldn’t be able to make it. The short, almost tubby, Ladies Captain was what you might call ‘a substantial woman’ — Jean was probably about 60 and no glamour puss but she had a great sense of humour and I got on well with her.
“You’ll like Susan,” she said to me on the phone when I said I didn’t know her at all, “She’s got our perverted sense of humour. And she plays better golf than most of the women round here.”
At 42 years old and playing off a respectable nine handicap, that sounded reasonably optimistic for me because mixed foursomes can be depressing stuff if you get lumbered with two geriatric spinsters. Sometimes the only spin-off is that you get to play from parts of the course you never knew existed before. (For non-golfers this means that your partner, with whom you hit alternate shots, more often than not hits her ball into the most unbelievable places. Please, no accusations of chauvinism; it’s just true, that’s all)
Susan Armstrong did not look to me like she would hit the ball anywhere but straight down the middle. She was on the driving range with our opponents when I panted up and made the usual apologies. Mrs Armstrong was stroking three-woods into the clear blue Suffolk sky with a lithe ease that suggested she had been playing good golf for more than a few years and that she was in excellent physical condition.
She was tanned and I put her about early forties and around five feet eight. She was a looker with a gorgeous figure and knew it. Blonde hair done up in a pony tail which stuck out through the back of her golf cap; a white buttoned shirt swelled by eye-catching breasts and a flared short dark blue skirt. White leather golf shoes with those cute little socks with the bobbles completed the uniform.
She extended a cool hand to me and fixed me with green eyes:
“Good morning, Peter, I’m so glad Jean persuaded you to come to our rescue. I’ll need all the help I can get to beat these two,” she said, introducing me to the remaining members of our foursome, a retired car dealer and his wife who I knew vaguely from the clubhouse. The wife had a reputation for overdoing the gin and tonics, as I recalled, but she was a mean hand with a putter.
We set off for the first tee and it occurred to me that, if nothing else, I was going to enjoy just looking at Susan Armstrong’s sunburnt, smooth and oiled legs. It was mid May now in England and Spring had exploded on the East Anglian countryside. There was a soft, mild breeze blowing in from Holland across the North Sea and twice already I had caught exquisitely voyeuristic flashes of what looked like minimal white panties as the wind caught my partner’s skirt.
What made this even more pleasant is that fewer and fewer women are wearing skirts to play golf in England. This depressing turn of events had been the subject of serious discussion in the clubhouse only the previous weekend. Slacks had become the order of the day with a transition to shorts when, or if, the English summer arrived.
It was pointed out that this disease may have been imported from the United States where skirts on female golfers appeared to have all but disappeared. For many years we had thrilled to the sight of the top lady players on the womens’ European Tour flashing panties almost on the scale of the pro tennis tour. The gorgeous new stars of the golf course who had emerged from Sweden and Denmark were striking skirt-clad examples and many a male television cameraman became highly skilled in ‘accidentally’ catching a tantalising shot of a bulging pubic mound as these female players squatted to line up putts. Even the best looking women on the US Tour, however, always seemed to stride the fairways in heavy-duty, highly functional and totally unsexy shorts or slacks. Many, of course, were victims of America’s obesity crisis – you don’t have to be thin as a rake to play good golf – so they didn’t relish the precision focus of the television camera on their abundant thighs in any case.
Of course, voyeuristic photographers and cameramen on the European Tour were undoubtedly what put the cat among the pigeons. Disgusting men just overdid it as usual and the miffed ladies revolted by donning the apparently armour-plated shorts of their US counterparts. But, thank Heaven, the wheel has come full circle again. The new breed of bosomy bombshells now gracing the US LPGA tour know the publicity value of a sneaky photo of their knickers so ladies’ golf is becoming ‘sexed up’ again as this new generation wriggle into ever shorter skirts. afyon escort The rising TV ratings for female golf coverage tell the tale.
“Jean tells me your husband has deserted you this weekend,” I said to open our on-course conversation. We were sitting on a bench by the first tee where the group in front were still waiting for the course to clear before even they could drive off. With the course loaded it was going to be a very slow day but the weather was warming up nicely.
“Oh, Alex,” she responded, “He’s got some seminar in London this weekend, or that’s the story, anyway.”
“Oh, what does he do,” I asked, thinking the tone of her reply was marginally interesting.
“Hmmm, mostly just what he likes, but professionally he’s a senior partner in a chartered accountancy practice,” said Susan. “Anyway, I’m happy to have a change of scenery and a change of conversation,” she continued, patting my hand while she adjusted the tilt of her cap.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” I ventured, “You’ve certainly got much nicer legs than my regular Sunday partners,” as I pointedly looked at the sweep of her shapely and sexy right thigh, much revealed by the way she was now sitting on the bench to the left of me. “Have you been in the sun somewhere recently?”
She laughed, to my relief. “Not bad for a bird my age, don’t you think.” Then, to my mild amazement, she pulled her skirt up almost so I could see those panties again and looked at me quizzically, seeking approval, as if she needed any. I glanced around anxiously, this was the golf club, after all, but no-one was looking our way.
Susan smoothed her skirt down almost as quickly as she had shown me those mouth-watering legs.
“We have a villa in the Algarve where we go in the Spring each year,” she explained, “We got back a couple of weeks ago but most of this tan has come in the last fortnight in the garden at the cottage we have near to the 15th fairway at Eastwell.”
Eastwell was a lovely links course about 25 miles up the coast in the next county. The houses which surrounded it were expensive. The Norfolk country cottage and the house in Portugal suggested that things were going alright for Alex at the accountancy practice.
“I’m going up there tonight and I’ll probably play there tomorrow,” Susan crossed her legs again and uncovered once more that expanse of golden thigh. She looked over to the tee where the group in front were finally teeing up.
“God, we’ll be here all day,” she said, stretching her arms with a yawn to clasp her hands behind her head. The third button on her shirt eased out of it’s buttonhole and I could see almost the entire profile of her left breast.
“Oops,” said the gorgeous Susan, “I’m coming apart.” She reached quickly to fasten the button and I said:
“Leave it, it’ll make the walk more enjoyable.” I said bluntly.
She cocked her head to one side, looked me up and down, and smiled. “Men”, was all she said, but she did nothing about the button. There was a game on here, and it wasn’t just going to be golf. My cock twitched in my slacks and I quite blatantly adjusted my underpants through the Chinos to make myself more comfortable.
“You should have worn shorts on a lovely day like this,” she said. Now she had turned towards me, her elbow propped on the seat back supporting her head. The shirt gaped open and I could see the little decorative pink bow in the centre of her bra; a tiny trickle of sweat ran down her luscious cleavage.
“I’m glad you’re not wearing any,” I replied
“I certainly am and you couldn’t tell that from where you’re sitting anyway,” she said indignantly.
“I meant shorts, silly. But since you brought up the subject, there’s just no way in this world I could play eighteen holes with you in a short skirt and no panties. Something would get in the way of my swing.”
I couldn’t believe I was having this kind of conversation with a woman I had only met fifteen minutes earlier.
“Well, I better keep them on, then, because we need to beat this pair and qualify for the next round, don’t you think. Although they’re rather brief and thin for the golf course, actually,” responded Susan, now openly flirting outrageously with me. The sexual electricity between us was palpable.
“Well, given the choice…… ” I started, but we were interrupted by our opponents calling us to come up to the tee box.
Mrs Gin and Tonic and I hit respectable tee shots and our partners got us both on the green at the short par four first hole. We halved in fours.
The second hole has an elevated tee box and about eight railway sleeper steps are cut into the side to access both the men’s’ and the ladies’ tees. When Susan ascended with her driver the car dealer and I fell silent. Hard-faced Mrs Gin and Tonic was ahead of her so was unaware of the blatant exhibitionism which was being undertaken. Near the top step Susan had bent to tie her shoelace – or at least pretended to tie her shoelace. Whether she was concerned or not about what aydın escort he could see I don’t know but the show was, I hoped, being staged for my specific benefit.
Not only did the wind neatly flip her skirt up onto her bottom but the miniscule white panties were squeezed between her firm, and tanned, buttocks. I was so close I could see the panties were damp and a few stray hairs peeked out. She was not a natural blonde. Mr Car Dealer looked at me with raised eyebrows, then winked lasciviously. My hardening cock was going to become an embarrassment if this went on.
When she bent to tee up her ball she was deliberately facing towards me and this time I could see the bulge of her pussy as she placed one knee on the ground with her legs slightly apart. The lips of her quim and her small brown thatch were clearly defined through the thin nylon thong. My throat was dry.
“Oh, the ground’s really hard,” she cried, as she made an undue fuss of struggling to push the tee peg into the grass. Her delectable breasts jiggled obscenely in the white bra in clear view through the three-button shirt opening.
Mrs G & T was apparently unaware of what was going on. Her husband was more involved, however, and I suspected that it would be as well to have him as a co-conspirator, albeit on a spectator basis only, if things were going to develop as I hoped they might.
“Do you think we should tell her about the buttons,” I said innocently to him. “Hell, no,” said the old car dealer, “Have you had a look at my wife. Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.”
We played the second, third and fourth, without further incident and by the fifth Susan and I had gone two up; as a playing partnership we had clicked.
Mrs G & T very soberly ran in a huge 20 foot putt to get one back at the sixth and we came to the par-three seventh, the tee box perched on the cliff edge where gulls wheeled and screeched round our ears and the white horses rode in from the sandbars a mile off the coast. England’s North Sea coast has always offered million-dollar golf for quite modest membership fees and today was one of those stunning days which underlined that fact.
Susan was in her element. Again play had backed up and we had a lengthy wait before the green became clear. This time the lynx sat on the tee box seat beside me with one leg propped up on the seat. She chatted animatedly as if entirely unaware of the distress she was causing me but I knew she was relishing every second. In the short navy blue skirt she played the role of sexy schoolgirl, her swollen mound plainly visible through the flimsy panties as she rocked her knee open and closed. My hand rested on the bench less than a foot from her sex and the temptation to pull her panties to one side and reveal the pouting hairy love hole was almost more than I could bear.
Again our partners could not see what she was doing and this was clearly a part of the excitement for her. If I was being used simply to gratify an exhibitionistic streak in her then, I thought gallantly, I would just have to live with it. My male ego was trying to convince me, most probably falsely, that it went far deeper than that. Time would tell because there was certainly a limit how far she could go on the golf course unless she wasn’t planning on playing here again.
“I can’t believe we’re still one up considering all the distractions I’ve had,” I remarked nonchalantly, “Just as well you’re hitting the ball so nicely.”
“Yes, you do seem to be more and more uncomfortable,” she teased. She brought the other leg up onto the bench and faced me directly, a slight flush colouring her face which was free of any make-up barring some highlighting of those green eyes. The skirt fell back round her waist and there again were the little tufts of hair sprouting from each side of her damp knickers. Again through the gaping shirt I could see the voluptuous cleavage down to the little bow in her bra.
“I hope my perfume’s not giving you any kind of an allergy,” continued the line of bullshit.
I decided to take a more basic tack.
“The only thing I’m allergic to is the sight of your gorgeous tits bulging out of that shirt and the outline of your sticky pussy in those see-through panties. I could cure the allergy right now by shoving my fat cock right up your dripping fanny.”
I could almost see her heart rate increasing and her face flushed even more.
“So you like the perfume,” she replied, albeit in a slightly shaky voice this time.
At the turn we were back to two up and we stopped at the halfway house for some refreshment. The temperature had climbed and it had become exceptionally warm for May. The temperature inside my underpants was even higher as I had now endured several painful erections one after another with little prospect of relieving the pressure.
Our little self-service rest house had tea and coffee urns and soft drink and chocolate bar vending machines. We took iced water from the fridge and, as I looked for some coins in my golf bag to ağrı escort buy a Coke, our partners headed off for the 10th tee. Susan stayed with me in the refreshment hut, leaning against the wall.
“Jesus, it’s hot out there,” she said. She was drinking from the cold water bottle and with the other hand opened button number four. The almost transparent half cup brassiere pushed her glistening breasts up and out – she looked thoroughly wanton.
“Is that a front loader,” I asked, my reasonably expert eye having spotted the centre clasp under the little pink bow. I pushed the coins into the vending machine and two chilled cans rumbled down into the delivery box.
When I had pulled them out and turned round Susan had undone the clasp. She was trickling cold water down her chest. “Ahh, that’s lovely,” she said.
With a freezing can of Coke in each hand I instantly pushed the cups of her bra aside and slid an icy can over each nipple. Her nipples were as perfectly formed as the rest of her and they shot to attention as I stroked the intensely cold drink cans back and for. I pressed into her, my erection pushing brutally at her pubic mound.
With her hand she examined the size and stiffness of my cock through my slacks. It was so hard I imagined it might be bleeding. I gripped a cold, firm rubbery nipple in my teeth and worried it like a terrier. Susan groaned.
“You could pretend to faint because of the heat,” I suggested, “And then we’d have to concede the match. I would have to take you home. Then I could fuck you up the bumhole as well, which is about the only bit of you I haven’t seen yet.”
“Bugger that,” she shouted, “We’re two up. Come on, we’ve a competition to win.” And she was pushing past me and out the door, hooking up the bra, downing the rest of her water and speeding to reach the 10th tee to avoid arousing undue suspicion. I, the wretched and foolish man, stumbled along behind her, golf bag trailing from my wrist, a can of Coca-Cola in each hand and a hard-on which a cat couldn’t scratch.
The course wends out into the countryside away from the seaside on the inward nine. The fairways here are tree-lined and, as the wind dropped, it became ever warmer. I reflected that neither me or the car dealer were going to see Susan’s skirt blow up at the back again if it was going to stay sultry like this. I would have to hope for alternative voyeuristic pleasures.
At the 15th, where by now we were three holes up, Mrs Gin and Tonic carved her tee shot way into the woods on the right whilst Susan hit a long solid shot down the left side which just ran off into the rough. We went to look for it and left the other pair searching for their ball a long way off on the opposite side of the wide fairway.
Susan announced: “I’m bursting for a pee,” and retreated into a nearby thicket. I checked out our partners but they were still rooting around in the distant trees. Besides, we were again in a traffic jam, with the group in front still to putt out on the green ahead of us.
“I’ll have to join you,” I said but Susan made no protest and I really did need to empty my bladder. In the bushes I found her squatting with her back to me, the flimsy wisp of panties round her golf shoes and the blue skirt rucked up round her waist. I could almost see the little pucker of her anus and, below that, a golden stream dribbling into the grass. She was holding onto the lower branch of a silver birch sapling for support.
I dropped to my knees behind her, released my swelling prick from my trousers, and, holding it hard between the globes of her sensational buttocks, commenced to pee directly into her own stream of urine.
“You really are a dirty bastard,” said Susan, but her only other response was to place her hand between her legs to let the combined flow of piss run through her fingers.
“I’d like to be a whole lot dirtier,” I grunted as I slid my bulging, dripping cock up and down the crack of her arse.
“Look, we better go and find some balls. Yours will have to wait. And, for God’s sake, look what you’ve done now. You’ve piddled all over my panties. They’re soaking. You’re a filthy pig.”
With that, she stepped out of the nylon thong and walked out of the bushes. I knew where our ball was and pulled a seven iron out of my bag for the approach shot. Susan came up to my golf bag, unzipped one of the pockets, and stuffed her sopping panties inside.
“If you think I’m wearing, or even carrying those smelly things, then forget it,” she chided. Given what had just taken place, I concluded that I was getting off rather lightly.
I hit a cracker of a shot into the 15th green; it bit hard just left of the flag and left Susan with about a ten foot putt for birdie and a win and the chance to close out the match with three holes still left. I felt it might be useful to help her size up the putt so I went to the opposite side of the cup to look at her line.
She squatted behind her ball, open legged, hands shading her eyes from the sun, and smirked at me. Her trimmed pussy gaped; the lips were puffy and swollen and I felt anxious that Mr Car Dealer and Mrs Gin and Tonic would probably smell her even if they couldn’t see what I was seeing. She was oozing sexuality; the shirt was open again at four buttons and the sweat ran down the swell of her honey-coloured tits.
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