Chapter 5
"Frank, I want to learn to play golf," Carol said to the back of the newspaper across the table from her. As usual, her total view of Frank at breakfast consisted of his fingers holding the paper.
"That's nice, dear," Frank murmured in response. , Carol cursed softly under her breath. "I said, I want to learn how to play golf."
"I heard you. You said you want to learn to play golf."
"So, say something," Carol urged.
"Like what? Okay, you can learn to play golf," Frank said, still buried in the paper.
"Will you teach me?"
"Huh?"
"I said, will you teach me?" she repeated.
"Me? Why me?"
"Why not you?" Carol prodded.
Frank reshaped the paper after turning a page. "I really don't think I have the time to teach you."
"Oh." Carol sighed. "I guess you're right." Her plot to regain his interest crashed down around her ears in ruins.
"Why don't you sign up at the country club for lessons?" Frank suggested.
"Think they'll take me?" Carol asked dully.
"Uh-huh, I think so. They just hired a new pro. I imagine his schedule is wide-open right now."
"What about equipment? Won't I need clubs and stuff?"
Frank turned another page. "Nope. They'll rent you everything you need until you get started. That way you can buy what suits you best."
"Oh, okay," Carol agreed, not really caring.
"Gotta run, Honey," Frank said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek.
After he left, Carol sat sipping her coffee, her mind wandering. The children had left early on a bicycling expedition up into the hills, leaving her alone to enjoy the peace and quiet of the morning. Unfortunately, the peace and quiet was becoming oppressive to Carol.
"Good morning," Marje hailed over the fence.
"C'mon over, Marje," Carol invited.
Marje managed to win her battle with the back door and poured herself some coffee. "You know, it's nice you don't mind my drinking your coffee," Marje said as she settled into the chair vacated by Frank.
"Why's that?"
Marje sipped the steaming liquid. "Because I have never learned to make a decent cup of coffee. The few times I tried, Paul threatened to use it either to preserve some of his archeological relics, or to remove corrosion from them; I forget which." Marje surveyed Carol critically. "Do I detect just a hint of discouragement?"
"Yeah." Carol sighed. "I struck out again. I tried to get Frank to teach me how to play golf."
"So what happened?"
Carol made a face. "He said he didn't have the time, and told me I should sign up for lessons at the country club."
"So what's wrong with that?" Marje asked.
"I don't really want to learn how to play golf. I was just hoping I'd get to spend some time with Frank that way," Carol said.
Marje twisted her face into a comical expression, indicating deep thought. "Well, why not take lessons? After you've learned how, then maybe Frank will play with you. At least play golf with you, that is."
"It seems like so much work."
"What's work? Besides, you might even find out you like golf. And it does offer some chance of getting back together with Frank. You do want to get back together with him, don't you?"
"Of course I do," Carol retorted. "What makes you think I don't?"
Marje grinned wickedly. "I saw that young stud leaving your house again yesterday. From the smile on his face and his exhausted walk, I'd say you did it again."
"Boy, did we ever!" Carol admitted.
"At least this time you don't seem to be coming apart at the seams because of it," Marje observed.
Carol played with her teaspoon. "No, I guess not."
"What's he like in bed?" Marje asked, excited. "Oh, Marje, honestly."
"No, really, what's he like? He looks like a fantastic stud."
Carol found herself smiling at Marje's enthusiasm. "He is."
"So don't just sit there. Talk already," Marje said impatiently.
Dutifully, Carol told of her wild pounding by Mike the afternoon before, leaving out no details. As she talked, she found her excitement surging upward again, making her squirm restlessly in her chair. Across from her, Marje's mouth was hanging half-open, her eyes sparkling with interest. By the time Carol had reached the description of how she undressed Mike, she could feel a demanding itch deep in her cunt. She paused for breath.
"Don't stop now," Marje urged. "What happened?"
Gulping, Carol went on with her story, the itch in her cunt increasing as she did so. Marje was slumped back in her chair now, her hands busy under the table. Carol tried to deny to herself what her neighbor was doing, but failed. As the itch in her own crotch grew to irresistible proportions, Carol let one of her hands steal down to scratch it. The first touch of her fingers through her flimsy, filmy panties made her gasp with pleasure.
"Just keep talking," Marje gasped, her mouth hanging open with excitement.
As she kept talking, Carol felt the crotch of her panties growing damp from her excited juices. As she described the first pounding fuck Mike had given her, she began to squeeze her excited tissues through the cloth. Finding this unsatisfactory, Carol slipped her hand under the waistband of her panties. Her fingers sought and found the slit of her cunt and began to milk and mash the juicy tissues. The button of her clitoris was demanding special attention of its own, and she trapped it between her thumb and forefinger, twisting and rolling the juicy little bud. Her voice was squeaking and jerking as she told her story.
Across from her, Carol could see Marje collapsing into a quivering mass as a series of climaxes engulfed her. Carol noted with some strangely observant comer of her mind that the tall, cylindrical pepper mill was missing from the table. Marje's right arm was moving and jerking rhythmically. Carol had an insane urge to look under the table and see just what was going on, but her own passion-weakened muscles wouldn't let her. Instead, she went on with her story.
As her self-induced climaxes built in intensity with every stroke of her hand, Carol found it harder and harder to talk. Her voice choking up, the struggle to squeeze out the words merely increased her excitement, making her climaxes even better. Finally, just as she reached the end of her tale, talking became too much for her, and her voice rose in a howl of pleasure. Arching her back, Carol slid out of her chair, jerking with passion. She slipped under the table, sending her chair crashing backward as she did so. As she lay there, her muscles quivering and jerking from her orgasm, Carol saw that Marje had indeed taken the pepper mill. Her red-haired snatch formed a perfect nest for the big black rod, and Marje was happily pistoning the big cylinder deeply into her oozing cunt.
For a long time, Carol lay on the, floor, struggling to regain her breath, her fingers buried in her juicy cunt. Eventually Marje withdrew the pepper mill from her cunt and helped Carol up.
"Wow, that was a hell of a story!" Marje exclaimed.
Carol was still panting and could only nod.
"So with a stud like that on the hook, who needs a husband?"
Carol shook her head weakly. "Oh, Marje. You know I still love Frank. He used to be a great lover. And besides, there are the children."
"True," Marje admitted, "there are the children." The redhead thought for a moment. "So anyway, what's wrong with learning to play golf?"
Carol shrugged wearily. "I don't really want to play golf."
"But if you learn to play golf," Marje observed, "then maybe you can manage to get invited along to play with Frank."
"Oh, Marje, he's a good golfer. He wouldn't want to play with me when I've just learned."
Marje shrugged. "Maybe not. But on the other hand, he might need a woman along to help his sales pitch sometime. Why not be available?"
Carol thought this over. Golf did seem to provide the one possibility of getting close to Frank again. And, if nothing else, it would fill some of the achingly empty hours. In the past few days Carol had realized just how dull and unrewarding her life was becoming, now that the children were more independent. "You know, maybe you're right," Carol admitted.
"Of course I am," Marje enthused. "And besides, I hear they've got a new golf pro at the club that is a living doll."
"Oh, Marje. Sometimes I think you have only one thing on your mind."
"I do, I do," Marje said enthusiastically. "And if my husband didn't keep me so busy, I'd take on the whole town."
"Marje, how many men have you had?"
The redhead shrugged. "I don't know. Never counted. Never more than four at one time, though."
"Do you have any now?" Carol pried.
Marje smiled. "Of course I do. But I'm not going to tell you how many or who."
"I didn't think you would," Carol admitted. "I just wanted to know if you practice what you preach. What about your husband; is he faithful?"
"Powerful Paul, the Pussy Pounder? Are you kidding? He's discreet, but I know he has at least one lover on the string," Marje admitted.
"Doesn't that bother you?"
Marje shrugged. "It did before I got on the bandwagon. Now I'm kind of pleased that others find him as good as I do. Why?"
"I was just wondering how I'd feel if Frank were unfaithful," Carol said. "Oh, well. If I'm going to sign up for golf lessons, I'd better get organized."
"No exercises today?" Marje asked.
"Golf will have to do."
"Okay, see you later," Marje said, letting herself out the back door.
Before she went upstairs to dress, Carol loaded the dishwasher and turned it on. The pepper mill coated with Marje's juices caught her eye. Making a face, Carol washed it before she left the kitchen.
An hour later she was in the Pro Shop at the country club, gazing in wonder at the incredible variety of clubs, golf bags, shoes and other accessories.
"Yes, Ma'am, may I help you?"
Startled, Carol turned abruptly, and found herself looking into a pair of alarmingly direct gray eyes. "Y... yes, I think so," she stammered, beginning to notice more of the man she was facing. His face was unlined, smooth, and beautifully tanned. His tight shirt hugged a well-developed chest and torso and his biceps bulged even in relaxation. The sum total was a picture of compact power.
Carol firmed up her voice. "I'd like to sign up for golf lessons."
The young man smiled, showing a row of even teeth. "Right this way," he said, leading Carol over to the counter. As he turned, Carol noted the easy grace of his moves. His pants were tight, hugging slender, muscular hips. He reminded her of Mike, and she colored at the thought.
"How much do you know about golf?" the man asked.
Carol dragged her mind back to the subject at hand. "Absolutely nothing," she acknowledged.
"I see. Oh, I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself. I'm the new assistant pro, George Maclntyre. Why don't you just call me George?"
Carol took his hand and felt a jolt of electricity from his firm, no-nonsense grip. "I'm Carol Anderson."
"The only thing we have to offer is private lessons, Mrs. Anderson. I assume that's what you wanted," George went on.
"Oh, yes. Private lessons," Carol said, trying to regain her equilibrium. George had an unsettling effect on her.
"Is there any particular time you'd prefer? My schedule is wide-open right now."
"Oh, you'd be my teacher?" Carol found the thought upsetting and exciting at the same time.
"Yes, Ma'am. How about early in the morning?"
George suggested. "That way the course isn't too hot or too crowded."
"All right," Carol agreed, trying to slow her pulse.
"Fine. Now, what day of the week would you like?"
"Oh, are the classes only once a week?" Carol asked.
George chuckled. "Yes, Ma'am. You're kind of eager to learn."
"Well, yes, I am," Carol replied. "How long do you think it will take?"
George shrugged, studying her carefully. His direct gaze up and down her body made Carol uncomfortable, as if she were naked in front of him. She fought the urge to cover her breasts and crotch with her hands. "I imagine you'll be able to hack your way around the course after about four lessons," George said. "You look fairly athletic."
"A month," Carol computed. Her heart sank.
"I suppose we could make an exception in your case, Mrs. Anderson," George said. "How would twice a week suit you?"
Carol felt a surge of relief. It would halve the time required. "Could you? That would be wonderful."
"Fine." George smiled, his teeth flashing. "Why don't we make it Tuesdays and Thursdays?"
"That would be fine."
"All right, I'll put you on my schedule for an eight o'clock starting time on Tuesdays and Thursdays," George said, writing in the large schedule book on the counter. He finished and straightened up. "I assume you don't have any clubs or golf shoes of your own."
"No, I don't. My husband said I could rent what I needed at first," Carol said, trying to calm herself.
"Certainly." George checked his watch. "Look, I'm free for the next couple of hours. Why don't we get you measured for what you need? Then we can start your lessons today."
"Oh, well, I don't know," Carol stammered, unsure of herself.
"The sooner you start, the sooner you'll learn," George observed practically. "Unless, of course, you have another commitment today."
"No, no, I don't. Let's start today."
Gauging her height with his eyes, George again made Carol uncomfortable with his directness. He selected a set of clubs and handed her one with a roundish wooden head. "Now, let's see how these fit you." Letting her hold the club, he studied her for a moment, correcting her stance slightly. "Those are fine," he decided. "Now, let's get you some shoes."
The thought of the strong young man playing with her feet upset Carol slightly. "I have sneakers at home," she said.
George chuckled, a warm, masculine sound in the empty shop. "They're fine for tennis, Mrs. Anderson, but for golf you have to have golf shoes. Right this way."
Chastened, Carol followed him to the corner of the shop, where shoeboxes were piled high. Following his directions, she sat down and let him remove one of her shoes. The touch of his hands on her foot seemed to bum. She regretted not having worn stockings or socks.
"You'll want some athletic socks," George said, after measuring her foot. He selected a pair from a box and pulled one on her, his fingers brushing her calf. "I'm going to give you new clubs and shoes. If you decide to buy them the rental you pay will be applied to the purchase price."
"Thank you," Carol acknowledged, fighting to control her feelings.
George pulled a box down from a high shelf. "You have a nice, small foot," he observed as he slipped the shoe on.
"Thank you," Carol said again, striving to keep her voice steady as the young man fastened her shoe.
"Now, walk around a little and see how it feels," George instructed.
Awkwardly, Carol stepped around the shop, the strange shoe feeling peculiar. She was relieved to find that it fit perfectly. She wasn't sure what might happen if George continued to fondle her feet. "They're fine," she told him.
"Wonderful. Why don't you slip on the other one while I tend to some things? Then we can go out on the practice tee for your first lesson. Just put your shoes in the shoebox and I'll keep them behind the counter. Later, you'll want to rent a locker for your things."
Relieved at being left alone, Carol changed her other shoe and tried to calm herself down at the same time. George was handsome, and he knew it, she decided. Oddly, this did not make him obnoxious or conceited, but exciting and appealing. He exuded a masculine, animal sexiness mixed with a aura of power that seemed to set the air around him shimmering. The thought of being close to him sent a wash of heat over Carol.
Fumbling, she packed up her shoes and took the box to the counter. George took the box from her and set it out of sight.
"Let's go, shall we?" He picked up the heavy bag of clubs as if it were weightless, his muscles bulging as he did so. He seemed to sense Carol's nervousness and carried on a reassuring line of chatter as he led the way to the tee.
Selecting a club from the bag, he let the canvas and leather container drop to the grass. "We'll start with this one. This is a wood, or a driver," he began. "A set of clubs consists of three of these, numbered one, two and three. Then there are the irons and the putter, plus one for the sand traps."
"Sounds complicated," Carol said nervously.
George grinned his white grin. "Don't worry; you'll catch on quickly. All I'm going to do today is how you how to hold and swing the club. See how my hands are?"
Carol studied the grip on the club. His fingers were laced together in an unbelievable tangle. She laughed nervously. "It looks painful."
George smiled. "It isn't. Here, I'll show you." He proceeded to demonstrate the interlocking of his hands step by step. "Now, you try it," he said, handing her the club.
Awkwardly, Carol tried to interlace her fingers the same way he had.
"No, no," George said gently. "This way."
The touch of his fingers against hers sent a shock into Carol. Through buzzing ears she managed to listen to his directions as she let him guide her fingers on the handle of the club. After she got the feel of it, he told her to try to do it herself. Awkwardly, she again tangled her fingers.
"Let me show you again," he said, guiding her fingers around the shaft. After getting them properly interlocked, his hands seemed to linger on hers. He suddenly looked at her, and Carol felt as if his direct gray eyes were drilling into her skull, seeking out her innermost thoughts.
"Got it now?" he asked, breaking the mood.
"I .. . I think so," Carol stuttered. She let go of the club and again tried to grip it correctly. Despite her confusion, she managed to approximate what he wanted.
"That's almost right," he said, touching her hands again, slightly changing the arrangement of her fingers. That same shock jolted Carol again when he touched her. He let go and Carol tried to slow her breathing.
"Now, your stance," George directed, bending down and taking a club from the bag. "Feet apart, about like so, weight evenly distributed. Bend just a little at the waist."
Carol eyed his stance, then tried to duplicate it, feeling incredibly awkward as she did so.
"Very good," George said approvingly, "only don't spread your legs quite so much."
His statement about spread legs mentally staggered her. Through ringing ears she dimly heard him guiding her as she rearranged her feet. Carol was painfully aware of the long, shapely expanse of tanned leg that showed below the hem of her short, casual skirt. She stared at the club she was holding.
"Now, the two most important things about your swing," George went on, "are to keep your head down, eyes on the ball, and to keep your left arm straight. Like this."
Wrenching her eyes up from her club head, Carol watched him as he slowly and easily swung his club in a graceful arc. His entire body moved in one fluid, graceful motion as he repeated the swing. Insanely, Carol found herself watching his crotch instead of his head and arms as he swung the club. She managed finally to tear her eyes from the bulge at his fly and study the two points he had emphasized.
"Now, you try it," George instructed.
Feeling clumsy and graceless, Carol resumed her stance. Awkwardly, fighting to keep her head down and her left arm straight, Carol brought the club back over her head, then down and around. It missed the grass by inches, instead of clipping it neatly as George's had.
"Not bad," George told her. "Try it again, slowly."
Still feeling awkward, Carol swung the club again. This time the head thumped the ground, tearing up a small patch of sod.
"Here, let me help," George said, pressing the sod back in place with his toe. He moved to stand behind her. When his arms went around her and took her wrists, Carol froze, feeling as if she were touching a live wire.
Gently, George shook her wrists. "Loosen up; you're terribly tense," he said softly. His breath puffed warmly in her ear, and Carol felt her knees weaken.
"S . . . sorry," Carol managed to stutter out, her senses swimming. She tried to tell herself she was not becoming a sex maniac.
"Now, it's a smooth, easy, even motion, like this. Just keep your head down and your left arm straight," George directed. His hands pulled on her wrists, and Carol let him swing her arms up and back, striving to keep her head down, her left arm straight, and her mind on the lesson. The warm pressure of George's body against her back made this almost impossible. She knew that with his head over her shoulder George could see down her blouse, clear to her waist. As her arms swung upward, she thought she could feel the hot bulge of his cock against her buttocks. As they reached the top of her swing and started downward, Carol knew she could. His breath on her neck was a blowtorch setting her afire.
After the follow-through, George hugged her even more tightly. "Let's try it again," he said, his voice husky and suggestive.
This time he tucked himself so closely to Carol that all thoughts of golf were driven from her mind. His strong hands gripped her wrists firmly, and his muscular, tanned forearms, sprinkled with golden-blonde hairs, brushed hers, sending goosebumps up her arms. His chest pressed against her back and she could feel the flow of his muscles as he moved. His cock was definitely hard, probing into the crevice between her buttocks. As they finished the swing, he pressed still closer to her, his muscles tensing and trapping her tightly against his body. He felt boiling hot to Carol as they held the finish of the swing a few seconds longer than was necessary.
Carol pulled free gently, lowering the club. She was aflame with desire, her jaw muscles almost locking with excitement. "I think I could use more private instruction," she grated out, her eyes burning into the gray eyes of the golf pro.
"Right this way," he said, taking the club from her and slipping it, handle first, into the bag. Gathering up the bag, he gently propelled her toward the Pro Shop. Trying to appear casual, they hastened to the shop. Slamming the door behind them George twisted the lock and turned the window sign to "Closed", then pulled down the shade.
As he turned away from the door, Carol threw herself into his arms, her lips seeking his, her hands clutching at his muscular back through his tight, thin shirt. Her lips opened and her tongue speared into his mouth. The power of her lunge drove him back against the door with a clatter. Responding to her passion, he swept her off her feet, mashing her against his chest. His tongue tangled and dueled with hers, driving hers back into her mouth. Carol tried to melt down in his arms, pressing every inch of her body tightly against him.
Lifting her as if she were as light as a feather, he sat her on the display case. He reached up under her skirt for her panties and tugged them down as she raised her hips. With her skirt pushed up around her waist, the glass of the case was like ice on her buttocks. As his powerful hands captured her breasts through her blouse, Carol reached for his cock. Tearing his fly open, the freed his prick from its prison, stripping the foreskin back with her fingers to expose the sensitive pink head. The buttons of her blouse yielded quickly to his impatient fingers and he shoved the garment down her arms. As she shrugged out of it he was already reaching for the catch on her bra and loosening it. Her breasts leaped outward toward his grasping hands. Throwing the bra away, Carol grabbed for his cock and milked it. His first excited juices were glistening over its head and she smeared them around with her fingers.
For long, tantalizing minutes they played with each other. Finally he lifted her from the counter and lowered her to the floor. Carol's skirt was still up around her waist. She spread her legs, the spikes of her golf shoes scraping the floor. The floor was hard and cold against her bare buttocks and back. George lowered his muscular body down on her, smashing her flat against the icy floor. His cock found her cunt and he began to piston it into her. Carol dug the spikes of her golf shoes into the floor, raising her hips to accept his hot, demanding drives into her cunt. She came quickly with a tearing orgasm that stripped the breath from her lungs. George drove deeper, his strong ringers gripping and squeezing her buttocks. As he slammed into her, skinning her bare back along on the floor, one finger pried between the cheeks of her ass. The first touch at her anus sent a new blast of fire through Carol. As he rammed his cock into her harder and harder, he pried the tight ring of muscle open, driving his finger into her rectum, sending her rocketing to another, higher climax.
The sound of their flesh smacking together echoed back from the gleaming golf clubs racked on the walls. A wild kick from one of Carol's legs sent a box of golf balls flying, the white spheres ricocheting wildly around the room. A bag of clubs went over with a crash and George began to come, geysering gobs of semen into Carol, triggering still another orgasm for her, their mingled juices pouring out from around his cock until they splashed on the shiny floor.
Carol gradually returned to the reality of the hard floor bruising her shoulder blades and buttocks as George's weight bore down on her. "Off, please," she managed to grunt, pushing at him gently.
A little awkwardly, he arose from her, his cock dripping with cum. Reaching down he helped her to her feet and she collapsed against him, exhausted. As he pulled up his pants, Carol retrieved her clothes. Not looking at him, she dressed quickly.
Looking outside without raising the shade, George made sure the way was clear. As he showed her out, he asked her, "Eight o'clock Thursday then, Mrs. Anderson?"
She turned and looked at him, a slight smile on her lips. "Eight o'clock Thursday, George. And thanks for the lesson."
He grinned, his white teeth flashing in the sun. "My pleasure, Mrs. Anderson." He closed the door softly as she turned away.