Ideal Suburbia

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.

There is some spiffy voyeurism at the end, but most of this story is plot advancement that will pay off down the road.

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I was settling in nicely to my new house and job in the southern midwest. I was still looking for a few more home goods, but I had enough stuff in my house to feel like it was furnished. Things at my job were going well, with my original big account back in the San Francisco office still happy and producing good revenue. My first significant new account here in the city where our corporate headquarters were located (which I had landed with a creative interpretation of Team Sales) was becoming rapidly profitable. I had met some attractive and sexually willing women. I was starting to get to know my co-workers.

I even found a regular barber. Actually, she was primarily a hair stylist. I had just wandered into her shop one late afternoon because I saw the barber pole outside and was feeling a bit shaggy over my collar. Turns out Yvonne was a licensed barber as well as an aesthetician. She had a small clientele of older men who all seemed to make their appointments early on Monday or Tuesday, when they sat around talking to each other and Yvonne about hockey for some damn reason. That time was out for me because of work, and more importantly because I had no damn interest whatsoever in talking hockey. I ended up coming in every Thursday toward the end of the day to get a trim. I got the side eye from the all-female regulars at first, but within two or three weeks, I found they started treating me either as if I wasn't there, or indeed, was one of the girls. It took me a while to realize that they had evaluated me, found me quiet, well-groomed, very well-dressed, polite, and not giving a damn about sports and decided that meant that I was gay!

I didn't disabuse them of the notion. No one among them was attractive enough to my eye to concern me regarding any opportunities, and besides, women who think there are no heterosexual men about can be as raunchy as guys ever are, just in entertainingly different ways. I would always relax and enjoy the gossip as it flew. I suspected it might be useful at some point. People around this area sure knew a hell of a lot about a hell of a lot of other people's business.

My boss Cathy had discovered that I did not play golf, and had decided for me that it was time I learned. She also decided that I was quite excited about this....

Yeah.

She set me up with guest privileges at her country club, which was way the hell out on the north side of town. She also informed me that she expected to see me in golf attire on casual Fridays, and to leave those Friday mornings free on my schedule so that I could be up at Winding Hills, learning to play the game and lose to customers convincingly. My first lesson day came, and I got up stupidly early to beat the rush hour traffic up toward the club. That meant that I had plenty of time when I got there for a scone at one of the several Starbucks nearby. As I chewed on the dry pastry, I reflected that the local bakery in my neck of the woods was so much better... in so many ways.

I was back in my car and pulling up the long drive to the huge white-pillared clubhouse in plenty of time. It looked like 90% of the other golf club clubhouses across the country. My degree is in leisure management and I remembered that my professor in customer-facing architecture had gone on at great length one day in class about why country club clubhouses all look mostly the same. I had mentally filed that information under "there is a good reason for this, don't fuck with it", discarded the details as to why, and went back to staring at the usually bare midriff of my hot classmate who always sat near me.

I entered through the big, impressive entry and identified myself to the receptionist inside. A flicker of recognition came to her with my name and she reached in to a file drawer and pulled out a club marketing folder. "Here you are! Ms. Ecklesford ask me to put this together for you. It has all the information you need about your guest privileges, and well as forms and info for when you decide you'd like to join on your own behalf," she said presumptively. "The big keys to remember are that you have unlimited driving range access, member pricing on buckets of balls, and charge privileges at the halfway house and the Nineteenth Hole, but not in the main dining room or lounge. Most importantly, you may have one tee-time a month, on weekdays only if you are by yourself, as well as unlimited access to the course when with a member or one of our professional staff."

"Ms. E says she made you a lesson appointment? Well, I won't keep you any longer then. You'll love whomever you work with. All our pros are great."

I followed her instructions to find my way through the warren inside the club to the pro shop in the back. I went to the counter and told the guy behind it that I was there for a lesson. "With Charlie, right?" he said, picking up the phone and pressing an intercom button. "Charlie? You're nine o'clock is here." He put the phone back on the cradle and asked, "I hear you are a first-timer? Don't worry, we will have you joining the Church of Golf in no time!"

As I waited, I looked out the large windows to the course behind the clubhouse. It was very restful looking, with wide sweeping expanses of immaculate grass, and large homes lining the edges, mostly obscured by trees and shrubs. A bright, soprano voice came from behind me, "Hi! I'm Charlie. Pleased to meet you."

I turned to meet Charlie and observed immediately that Cathy had put some thought into making sure I learned to like golf. Charlie was young, probably right out of college, with cornflower blue eyes and long straw-blonde hair that was pulled back by a visor bearing the club logo and bound in a pony tail. She wore a blue, mandarin-collared, athletic cut golf shirt by Nike, also sporting the obligatory club logo. The shirt fit her sleek torso admirably, accentuating lean, powerful shoulders, and stretching just right over the small pert handfuls of her breasts. It was tucked into the high waist of her pink capri golf slacks, cut to add a little curve to her slender hips and athletic legs. No part of her body looked particularly muscular, but her figure just screamed natural athlete. I smiled brightly and shook her hand firmly, saying how much I was looking forward to learning golf, which at least at that moment was actually true.

We spent a while picking out two loaner clubs for me to get started with, a "pitching wedge" and a "five iron", whatever those were. One was longer than the other, but I couldn't tell the difference otherwise, to be honest. I could tell that my idea of golf attire, casual slacks and shirt, disappointed her. I'd need to up that part of my wardrobe.

Now that I was equipped, and made to feel underdressed, we set out to walk over to the driving range, a long expanse of grass near the clubhouse. Apparently, this was where I would do most, if not all, of my learning, at least to begin with. As we ambled over, we got to know each other, and she was older than I had thought--the same age as me, in fact. She had been a nationally-ranked player in college, but had not seen a path to making a living for herself on the LPGA Tour, and had decided not to try it, opting for this gig at a wealthy country club instead.

The first lesson went well. She told me I was better at keeping my head down than most golfers starting out, and I've since learned that that matters a lot. On my part, I managed to hit enough balls properly (a grand total of three the whole hour) to make the rest of my attempts not feel like such a bag of failure.

And watching Charlie demonstrate proper form was the highlight. I asked a lot of questions that necessitated repeat demonstrations. Whether I was standing behind her with a view of her tight little ass, or in front of her, checking out her lovely face, she was joy to watch swing the club. The energy as she wound up her swings, then uncoiled in lightning smoothness to crack the ball was an aesthetic pleasure. And the back of my male brain reflected that this natural an athlete would be superb at any physical activity, not just golf.

That is the way my brain works. Sue me.

The next few weeks, I progressed rapidly. I'm a fair natural athlete myself, and my puppy dog desire to do well to impress Charlie helped keep me focused. I even snuck out a few evenings to a different range and hit a ton of balls. Soon I began chafing at just standing in one place, hitting ball after ball. Where was the good walk that Mark Twain said golf was supposed to spoil?

When the pro shop manager finally got his hooks into me, the clubs he sold me, with bag, were more than half a house payment. I did like them though, and showed them to Charlie when she came in for our lesson. "Well, I guess you are a real golfer now," she observed, looking over my clubs. "Tell you what, how's your putting?" she asked, running her fingers over the ridiculous new putter I'd allowed myself to be sold. Damn thing cost a mint and was apparently not a putter, but a "putting system" that had everything but a LIDAR targeting array. I asserted that I knew how to putt, thanks. In fact, I declared, I was pretty good. Charlie raised an eyebrow at that, but said, "Tell you what, since you have these clubs now, lets play nine today in place of your lesson. You can get a feel for how the game actually goes." I enthusiastically agreed, we threw our bags in an electric cart, and Charlie drove us out to the first tee.

What followed would have been hilarious, had it not been happening to me. After the first few holes, where I endangered the nearby houses with the shanks I hit with my new driver, I dropped back to teeing off with a four iron, the longest club I had any real ability to hit with. Once I got off the tees, I did pretty well, embarrassing myself with the short and medium irons on just less than half my swings. But the greens were the worst. Charlie had presciently expected me to suck at putting, and she could not resist teasing me. "I thought you had putted a lot?" she taunted.

"Yeah, well I'm used to bouncing the ball off the side boards or timing the blades of the windmill," I snapped back. "See any bumpers or clown's mouths out here?" I added as yet another putt sailed 20 feet past the hole. Making attractive women laugh is one of my favorite things, so at least I had that going for me.

The other thing I had going for me was getting to watch Charlie play. That day she was wearing a shortish skirt, tight at the top, and a white golf shirt with an open collar that wasn't deep enough to show any cleavage... unless she leaned over. Spoiler alert, golf involves a lot of leaning over.

Honestly, were she dressed in everyday clothes and sitting in a coffee shop or something, I'd have hardly spared Charlie more than a simple, appreciative glance. But when she moved purposefully over and around the ball, her athletic grace transformed her slender, only modestly curvy body into a work of art that had me thinking about her often throughout the week.

My scorecard had too many digits on it when we finished up, and I was frustrated. "Don't worry," said Charlie, slapping my shoulder. "A few more weeks on the range, we will also mix in some putting green work, and then in a month, we'll try another 9 holes."

When I got in to the office after that, I ran into Cathy in the lobby. She asked how my lesson went, and I said brightly that I played my first nine holes that morning. Unfortunately, she demanded to see my score card, and her peals of laughter chased me all the way back to my office. I slipped out early that day, to avoid any further discussion of my golfing performance.

When I pulled into the cul de sac, I realized that the white van in the next driveway over said Glistening Waters Pool Service on it! My next door neighbor was having her pool cleaned. I pulled into my garage too fast and ran through the house, fascinated to see if the pool cleaning process I had observed a while ago was the norm.

In my backyard, a large oak tree grows next to the high privacy fence enclosing my, like all the other, backyards in my development. I had recently hammered two wooden steps into the tree for just such an occasion as this, should I want to climb it on short notice. I slipped quietly up into the canopy, finding to my relief that the pool boy Danny was still working, wading around in the pool in his red bathing suit and no shirt to obscure the view of his richly tanned and muscular torso. I also found, to my great pleasure, that my neighbor Linda had again found it necessary to sunbathe stark naked while Danny was working. I had observed her lying out alone on a few occasions since the first time I watched her and Danny. When alone, she usually wore one of several bikinis that all flattered her incredible body, or perhaps more accurately were flattered BY that body. Once, I had seen her tanning with no top on. It was also the only time she didn't have her usually present brace of laptop computers with her.

But the only two times now that I had been afforded a view of her neatly trimmed pubic hair was when her pool was being cleaned.

When Danny finished, the two of them went through essentially the same ritual as before: She wrote out a check, then set it aside and talked about tips while staring at his swollen swimsuit. Today, she stood and fondled him through that suit for a long while, as he caressed and groped her incredibly well done breasts. I reflected that his technique in this could use some work, but Linda evidently enjoyed his efforts. At last, she pulled his shorts off him, and pushed him down to lie on the chaise. At first, she knelt beside it as she began to blow him, but quickly declared that her knees didn't like the concrete. Her solution was to climb onto the chaise and straddle his face before bending to slurp noisily once more on his prodigious cock. The damn thing really was impressive. It might not be quite as long as mine, but it probably was even thicker.

At any rate, Danny knew how to take implicit orders, and began to feast on her pussy. They went at each other for a good while, riveting my attention. He was going to come first, but she pulled him from her mouth before he did, jacking away with her hand while still enjoying his efforts between her legs. She closed her eyes and mouth just before he came, spraying jazz all over her face, and she smiled. She didn't even bother to wipe her face, just grooving eagerly to his oral attentions. Cum slowly began to drip off her face and her breathing became shallow before shudders began to run through her toned, tanned body, and she threw back her head and quietly screamed in pleasure.

When she finally caught her breath, she shooed Danny on his way. She stood there naked, watching him go. Once he left, she idly licked a bit of his cum off her lovely face, before diving into the pool to rinse herself off completely. She rose back out of the pool, water cascading off her every delicious curve. She turned and picked up a rainbow-colored thong bikini bottom and slipped it onto her hips, leaving her fabulous round ass essentially completely exposed. Then she grabbed the minuscule matching top and donned it as well, settling her perfectly engineered breasts within. Then she stepped inside, and returned with her two laptops and other devices. She sat down, and in minutes had everything open and was absorbed in her work.

Jesus, what was this guy's schedule, and how could I figure it out?