It was a rain by the bucket full winter and concrete tracks for the golf carts were few so the Beaconsfield Golf Club course committee finally banned the use of carts; they were ploughing up the water-sodden course.
Older male members cheerfully stayed in the clubhouse playing cards while the younger males hired carry-bags and swung their clubs on to their backs. They played their round while telling or listening to yarns and doubled up the bets on holes as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
But for women who didn't like playing cards and especially those appalled at having a chest strap of a carry-bag keeping their floppy tits under tight restraint believed there had to be another way. This led to the local radio station broadcasting a call for caddies.
Mick Armstrong's mother sent her 19-year-old university freshman to Beaconsfield to caddy for one of those unfortunate women. Mick was loitering around home on temporary suspension for leading a panty raid on one of the female dorms.
Loitering again, this time at the golf club, Mick finally heard his name being called: "Michael Armstrong, report to the Number One tee to caddie for Mrs Carson."
Mick carried the bag for the moaning old tart who ended the 18 holes deliriously happy that she shot two under her handicap, completing the round with a gross 137. It certainly was a gross round for Mick; he had to watch the big ass cheeks of Mrs Carson quivering as the club came down to smack the ball a feeble fifty yards or less.
But it was worth it; Mrs Carson doubled Mick's fee, giving him sixty bucks. Thirty bucks doesn't sound much for four to five hours work which is why not many responded to the appeal for caddies. But at least Mick knew he was out from under his mother's broom and all he had to do was to tote the bag and hand out the club as instructed. Oh and find and clean the ball. Next day he was called to the first tee to caddie for Mrs Duckworth.
Mick's eyes stuck out like frog's hips. The woman with the awful name was a babe – probably a babe with triple star rating. Unfortunately, most of what counted was covered by baggy rainwear.
Mrs Duckworth was charming to her three playing companions who had relatives as caddies while she remained cold and indifferent to Mick. Mick played off a handicap of two so knew what it was about; he attempted to butter up Mrs Duckworth, hoping the flattery would result in a fat tip.
"Lovely smooth swing."
"Great shoulder turn."
"Exquisite timing."
At the fourth, a left-hand dog-leg around a marsh, but at present due to incessant rain it was a lake, Mick saw Mrs Duckworth wink at her fellow golfers. Something was up.
"Michael, you're mouthing off as if you are a golfer. I'd like to see you tee off here. There's not much fairway between the lake and the encroaching trees. This is the Number 1 stroke hole for women. Would you like to strut your stuff?"
"No thank you Mrs Duckworth. If the starter learned I was hitting balls he'd ban me from caddying."
"Oh he won't find out that you picked up a club and played a shot, will he girls?"
"No Angela," chorused her fellow players and the other caddies looked expectant.
Angela – the name meant Angel didn't it? God, what a smile. This babe was diamond class.
"Here, take my driver Michael or do you want to play safe with a five wood?"
"No Mrs Duckworth. If you don't mind may I pick a club from another bag?"
"Of course not – do any of you girls mind?"
"No," they chorused, grinning.
Michael went to the bag of the tallest of the women. Her driver was almost regular length for a man and quite stiff.
"I'm a softie, Michael," Angela said. "Use the ladies' tee."
"No, if I do you'll say I had an advantage when I played the shot."
"Okay, suit yourself and be arrogant," Angela said sharply.
Michael ignored that. He stripped off his rainwear and had two or three swings to loosen up.
"What a lovely smooth swing."
"Catch the ass," someone whispered.
"And the shoulders," someone else whispered. "I can't believe he's only nineteen."
Michael set up to play down the fairway and then repositioned to face the pin across the lake.
"The cost of losing that new ball in the lake will come off your fee, Michael."
"What's wrong with you Angela – ah, Peter's been away three weeks, hasn't he?"
Everyone giggled and Mick thought he heard the bell-tone of Angela's laugh. He struck the ball beautifully and watched the flight in admiration, knowing it would clear the lake.
"Oh God, he's going to make the green," someone called excitedly but the ball plugged in three club lengths short of the green.
Applause broke out.
"That's 260 yards from the men's tee Michael," Angela said arriving at his side. "The air is very heavy at this time of year so even most of the good men golfers don't take that route in winter. It was a heroic demonstration of your expertise."
He turned and looked into dark green eyes shinning in admiration. "Thank you Angela."
"Mrs Duckworth to you," she said, giggling rather than reprimanding him. "You've made me excited Michael."
"Mick to you."
She giggled and went back to join the group, Mick following. Ana took the club from him and said she always knew it would be a great club in the hands of a good player.
Everyone finished playing two or three shots over their handicaps of sixteen, twenty and two on twenty-two. Mrs Duckworth paid Michael, tripling his free and then said, "Come on girls, each of you pay Michael something for that fantastic shot. Each of the three gave Michael a twenty.
He'd walked a mile and was almost to the bus stop when a twin cab farm utility vehicle drew up alongside him and he heard Angela's voice say, "Jump in; I'm not having my caddie perish in this god-damn weather."
He smiled at Angela in near panic: she was taking him to a deserted spot to fuck him. His mind was in a blur. But a couple of minutes later they passed the Old Quarry, the logical place to turn in.
"My bus stop was back there."
"I'm taking you home where you'll shower, change into some of my husband's clothes and have a hot drink and hot pizza."
"But this is unnecessary – I'll be fine."
"Then it's for my benefit."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll have you all to myself, someone to talk to."
Oh God, she definitely was going to fuck him, Mick thought, squirming in his seat. What if he wasn't good enough in technique for her? Presumably she was very experienced.
To Mick's surprise it was a ranch-house styled home rather than a palatial 'look at us' residence. It looked rather drab outside but inside it was colourful and seemed to match his hostess's personality – very modern with expensive looking furniture and great paintings.
Mick expected Angela to come to the shower and drop to her knees as the girls did when his university foursome stayed in motels for the occasional weekend. He heard the door open and frantically stroked his half-ready cock into full erection.
There was a soft sound of something hitting the bathroom floor. "Your clothes," she called and he heard the door shut and waited. But the shower door wasn't pulled open. He looked out; she wasn't there. Oh yeah - why would she throw in the clothes and then follow them in? He looked at his dick, wondering what to do with it. A cold shower fixed that.
Mick went to the kitchen, surprised her husband's casual clothes fitted him so well. His mouth fell when he saw she was fully dressed rather than nude under a gown. The quite voluptuous body was certainly triple A rated in his book. He was surprised at her tits – big and still very shapely in the bra, not like the big pancakes of many college girls. Perhaps she spent heaps on bras to ensure she showed great shape.
Mick turned crimson when he realized she was asking why he was looking so intently at her breasts.
"Sorry," muttered Mick, lowering his eyes.
"It's okay – young men are entitled to their fantasies."
Fantasies? Then she didn't want to try him for length? Mick decided to forget the sex and regard her as a very nice woman who simply wanted company.
They chatted; she turned on some music and asked him if he wanted a beer or a glass of wine. He chose wine and she joined him. Their glasses clinked and he could smell her perfume. Her green eyes were intense and blonde curls snuck on to the sides of her face; she was adorable but too old for him.
"How old are you?" he heard himself ask and tried to hide his embarrassment.
"Just thirty, and that's the truth. Do you always ask women their age?"
"No."
"The skill of participating in conversation requires more effort than a single word response," Angela said, sounding a little irritated.
"Okay. Then how's this for a shocker? I had thoughts of you wanting you way with me because your husband is away and you're lonely and feeling sexually neglected. I assumed you'd be thinking if I could bang away a magnificent drive like that then I might bang you magnificently. The trouble is I feel out of my depth and probably would die of embarrassment if it turned out I was incapable of performing well because with sex and in everything else you are probably such an experienced and accomplished woman."
Angela rested her chin in her palms and stared at Rick, not saying anything for a full twenty seconds. He watched her mouth opened and couldn't believe what he'd heard. All she said, with feeling, was, "Wow!"
Understandably, Mick was unsure whether to feel exhilarated or to sulk as a failure; more likely something in between.
"I think you better go. I'll fetch your clothes from the dryer."
Every person experiences one or more occasion in life when they know they're in the grip of a defining moment. Although only nineteen, Mick was knowledgeable and mature enough to be aware that it was up to him to walk away or do or say something impressive in the hope of being asked to stay.
Angela returned with his clothes. So he acted decisively. He stripped off in front of her and put on his own clothes, hotly aware she hadn't turned away.
"Off you go," she said. "The rain has stopped. Go to the end of this road and you'll be able to flag down a cab."
"I'd like you to reconsider," he said, losing confidence.
"Reconsider what?"
"Sending me away."
"Why?"
