Rhonda Manages the Greens Eeper

Until college my entire knowledge of the male was girl talk around the summer campfire and what my older sister asserted was the absolute truth about men. Hopefully, my circle of college friends didn't think of me as a 'Fast Girl'. Considering the time and the campus environment, if I was a bit slutty then my gal pals were also enjoying their new freedom.

A friend of the family, Bill, returned from the Air Force a trim, manly alternative to the previous bible college boys. Our reunion after five years was a revelation. Guileless Bill didn't stand a chance. I all but assaulted him on our next date. Gentle and enthusiastic, he knew little more than the common locker-room wisdom.

Three years and two babies later, it was clear that my good-looking husband had attracted a few lady friends. Quietly, we agreed that play could be recreational for both of us. There was spouse swapping at a few "key" parties. I had one or two 'quickie' assignations. Fun, but not deeply rewarding.

As a legacy from his father, Bill had a free, 'Single' membership and a board seat at the Double Eagle country club. Intimidated by Big Bill's reputation as a founder, my Bill seldom visited.

I was introduced to golf early as my mothers caddy. Later I played with my college golf team. My new family and the the cost meant my recent game was limited to a few outings on a public course and the occasion guest visit to the Double Eagle.

The spring of our seventh year together, everything changed.

An accomplished independent engineer, Bill had landed a lucrative Middle East contract. Staying the six weeks was the only practical answer. At dinner before leaving, he popped a surprise.

"To keep you and the kids busy this summer, we now have a full 'Family' membership at the Double Eagle Country Club.

I was surprised but pleased. Tangentially I mentioned the cost and benefits.

Bill, a former military pilot response was direct and a bit brusque," Move your mare Ginger from the farm to the club stables. The kids will have the pool and tennis. Since you need something to manage, I have resigned Dad's seat on the board in favor of you. The next meeting is Monday. With luck you will be elected."

He smiled over the dessert. "Now, you get to rub up against that young golf pro. Go have your fun, just be safe."

My husband was close, but not quite...

After six weeks in the Middle East, Bill was flying home. Making a connection in New York, he was arriving home the next night. One more day and, at last, the chance to serve my long-neglected needs.

Carlos the club groundskeeper was the image of a dark Latin male. In another era Hollywood would have tagged him a "Latin Lover." Taller than his Cuban peers, he was well tanned with raven-black hair and smoldering eyes. The country club's Ladies' Day always found more than one foursome asking the sand traps be groomed or reporting a phantom sprinkler. During the Ladies' Tournament, he drove the beer cart and was well tipped for his refreshing services.

In the summer, he wore sleeveless cotton shirts that displayed his large biceps. Often, the thin shirt was plastered to his broad back by sweat. His work jeans were shrunken one or two sizes too small. The faded denim perfectly contoured his thick thighs, tight buns, and what was broadly gossiped as an ample package. Aware of his Cuban accent he seldom spoke.

To the men of the club, he was 'Silent Carl'.

The ladies had dubbed him, 'Big Carlos'.

The most memorable early encounter with Carlos was an accident. Walking to the golf cart sheds, I noticed the door of the groundskeeper hut was closed and a "out to lunch" sign at odd times. The poolside barracudas had a running joke, "If Carlos is out to luncheon, somebody is getting a munchin'." His legend included superhero oral skills.

Married and having known a few play friends, the male of the species was no stranger to me. It was more a pleasant surprise than a shock, when I rounded the hut. A few yards away was Carlos with his equipment in hand, 'watering the azaleas'. Seeing him first, I quieted my step to take in the scene.

Here was one ruggedly handsome, well-equipped male. That legendary member was darker than his visible skin. An impressive hand spread in length with girth equally intimidating.

A twig snapped under my foot. He heard me and looked around. Quickly, he finished his business, shook the magnificent lizard three times before stuffing it home. A bit flushed, I made a hasty retreat.

Six weeks of Bill's absence crawled past. None of my rare play buddies had appeared. I was too reserved to go hunting. Golf was a poor substitute for the badly needed tumble.

This day my old golf cart, another legacy of Big Bill, would not start. All the other carts were taken and I would miss a scarce tee time. So off in a huff to find Carlos and get this damned thing started. Arriving at his hut, the door was open and he was inside.

Through the open door, "Yes, Mrs. T, how may I help?"

"My cart won't start, and I will miss my tee time."

Carlos replied, "I cannot fix your cart now but will call the pro shop and see if we can add you to another group."

I stepped into the hut, where he quickly made the call. In twenty-five minutes, I would connect with three familiar ladies. What was I to do with twenty-five minutes?

The hut offered only a battered stool and the workbench. Not trusting the stool, I brushed off and sat on the edge of the workbench. My golf skirt did not hide much. Tanned and trim for the summer's play, I invited Carlos to me with my eyes. He placed his hands on my waist to help me from the bench, but I directed his work-strong hands upward to where his eyes had rested.

Since a budding adolescent, these 40DDs and had been a source of mixed feelings. The 'girls' arrived early and amply. My sisters were jealous and my mother concerned.

Carlo's mouth approaches, but my rule was "No Kissing". That was reserved for Bill. It did not take long before he was tasting my neck and teasing the stiffening nips. No novice, he smoothly found what so many men miss and began caressing my button.

It seemed only a few minutes, but realized I was going to miss my alternate tee time. Pulling my clothes back in place, I grabbed my bag, and started for the number one. As I was leaving, Carlos offered, "I am here until five."

It was the fastest nine holes I had ever played. Every bump on the cart path was a reminder of what awaited. The ladies were more than curious about my pace, arriving at the shed at four-thirty.

By five o'clock I was sitting on the workbench again, my skirt around one ankle. Carlos proving his reputation. After my first round of orgasms with his clever tongue, his jeans opened and I rediscovered his dark, glistening staff.

Harder than a putter, prettier than a new wood driver. It was dark, larger than I had thought and already wet as were my lady parts. Placing my feet on the edge of the workbench I leaned back in anticipation. Slowly, he offered that pink head gently, as I accommodated the first four inches.

Quietly, in his thick accent, "I will not hurt you." as he glided the rest up to what felt like my navel. I had delivered big babies and never expected to grateful for another stretching. Firmly and gently thrusting, he found my erect clit with a strong finger. A few minutes of exertion by both of us, and I felt him tense and shudder.

For the first time in months, I squirted just as his repeated spasms filled me with his seed. It was historic. We both panted, both were wet and spent. A sweet, brief kiss on the cheek and hug acknowledged we needed to recover before someone called at the hut.

Stolen, forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.

Oh my gosh, what is the time? Checking my phone. A voice mail from Bill!

"Hi honey, I managed an earlier flight. You must be in a meeting since you did not answer my call. I'll just take an Uber. See you at home... we have some catching up to do."

An all-male construction site in the Middle East for six weeks. He would come home randy as a goat.

Too late for a meeting at the airport. I stuffed a handkerchief in my dripping vajay, sorted my clothes. Grabbing my clubs, I rushed to the car. What to do? If I leave now and hurry, maybe I can get home first, clean up and all will be fine. Actually, more than fine. Now I have a new toy.

I arrived at our upper-middle-class house. The kids would not be home until dinner. No text from Bill. Leaving the clubs in the car, I hurried in the back door.

There was Bill... stark naked.

"We have some catching up to do." Taking my hands, guiding me on to the cold granite kitchen counter, he buried his face in my already wet crotch.

My dripping muff, panties soaked in another man's seed. He knows, I am finished.

Bill continued his usual gleeful cunnilingus.

How long before he notices? Maybe in his passion he would not realize.

Bill looked up, his chin glistening with the result of efforts not an hour past.

"You have been a very naughty girl. But, you did bring home a fantasy, a fresh cream-pie."

He had an erection unlike any in years. A 'blue-steel throbber', my dorm roommate once described. Not the size of what had just pleased me but definitely most adequate.

With Carlos providing the lube, Bill slipped his hands under both knees and began stroking with enthusiasm not seen since our honeymoon night. For the second time that day I squirted, on Bill, the kitchen counter and the floor. It was seismic.

That was two years ago. Carlos was a hesitant and infrequent partner. The other ladies had reason to suspect. Bill was delighted when I brought home the occasional cream-pie.

But that was then. What to do with these three smooth-and-gentle jazz musicians that my "life style counselor," Sara, had introduced from the country club band?

Let's allow the professionals to lead this tune.

THE END