This is a series of stories that are a sort of sequel to two text-adventure games. Each installment is a complete story on its own, but for a full understanding, the reader may want to start with Chapter 1.
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"Gretchen? Hi," I said on the phone to my current impossible sales prospect and general Great White Whale of our sales department. If our number one salesman, as well as our owner herself for that matter, could not get any business from this women, how was I expected to do so? Still, it was my assignment to try.
I had no plan. I just needed to get to know her better so I could maybe find an angle. If I could find an angle, then I'd try for a plan.
"Listen, I appreciate your meeting with me before. I think I have some good answers to the questions we identified. And while you gave me some great knowledge about your industry, those insights have left me with more questions. If you can find time to go over all this with me, I was wondering if I could offer to make it a dinner meeting, that way I'm not disrupting your work day."
On the other end of the phone, Gretchen laughed. "Sure. But what you mean is, a dinner meeting will give you a couple of hours where I am trapped with you and your pitch, as well as give you some expenses to show you are actually attempting this difficult sales job!"
"Guilty as charged, I'm afraid," I agreed honestly. "I was serious about what I said, but... guilty as charged."
"How about Monday?" she replied.
I still had no plan, but I now had until Monday to convince myself that I had one. In the meantime, the next morning was Friday, and that meant my golf lesson time. I was looking forward to this, since it was time for my second nine hole round on the course with my teaching pro Charlie, the enchantingly athletic assistant pro at Winding Hills Country Club, where I was being forced to take lessons by my boss. Charlie was both a good instructor, and pretty enough to induce me into working harder than I had to, in order to try to impress her with my efforts. My results would have impressed no one. So far she seemed happy to have me keep coming back for each subsequent lesson, though I don't know if that was because she thought I was a promising and dedicated pupil, or because she thought I was cute like a clumsy puppy.
I did not like the look of the clouds I saw in the sky as I took the interminable drive up to the north side of town to Winding Hills. I'd be pissed if I missed my scheduled round and had to spend the morning on the range again. I wasn't really admitting it to myself yet, but I was starting to like the game of golf.
When I arrived, Charlie already had our bags on a cart and was ready to go. "The weather looks dicey for later this morning," she said, telling me what I already knew. "Let's get going so we get back before the rain gets here. Try not to shank your tee shots into peoples' yards today. If you spend too much time being chased by dogs while retrieving your balls, we will never get all the way around before the rain!"
I was just glad she hadn't punched out pre-emptively. I had secretly worked hard that month at a public driving range, and its associated putting green. My quiet inner goal was to get around the Par 36 back nine in under 55 strokes this time. For this at least, I had a plan.
My plan immediately ran into trouble on the first hole, when I made triple bogey because of a flubbed chip shot. My short game was supposed to be my strength! I made up the difference on the second hole, scoring only a single bogey by virtue of a remarkable putt (if I do say so myself). Actually Charlie said it was remarkable too. In a way. "Pure dumb luck" and "remarkable" are synonyms, right?
Meanwhile, in her typical effortless athletic grace, my mesmerizing instructor birdied the first hole, and parred the second.
The third hole was a water par three. I was so excited to clear the water and land on the actual green off the tee that I blew my first putt way past the hole and settled for a bogey. I was still ahead of my plan.
The fairly easy fourth was uneventful. I managed a single bogey. At least I had some extra time to stare at Charlie as she found herself thinking about how to manage a fairly difficult putt her approach shot had left her with. She was wearing all white that day, with fairly tight slacks and one of her tight Nike mandarin collared tops that hugged her spare but delicious torso like it was tailored to it. Watching her squat to ponder her putts was always a nice break.
We were in the middle of the fifth hole, almost the farthest point on the course from the clubhouse, when the heavens open up, way ahead of schedule. We ran franticly for the cart (which had no roof) and Charlie began to drive like mad in the opposite direction from the clubhouse.
"Isn't it closer to go back the way we came?" I shouted, barely able to see in the sudden driving rain.
"There is an on-course weather shelter right up ahead," she shouted back, yanking the wheel of the cart to avoid a large branch which must have just been washed out of a tree in front of us. The shelter appeared out of the driving rain and we leapt from the cart and ran underneath the open roof structure. I wiped water from my eyes and looked around. It was sparse under here, with nothing but a single picnic table and no other occupants. I turned and looked at Charlie... and froze.
White is not your best choice in clothing when getting caught out in a rain storm wetter than the bottom of the sea. Especially not in thin, moisture-wicking polyester fabric. Both her trousers and especially her top plastered themselves to her body like paint. Thin paint. I suddenly had a very intimate knowledge of the style and design of Charlie's bra and underwear. Her panties were fairly conservatively cut but covered in a lacy pattern. And her bra was apparently as translucent when wet as her shirt. I was treated to a fabulous view of her large, dark, oblong nipples through both garments as they clung to the pert handfuls that were her breasts. This was going to get awkward.
