Bill, my boss, signed me up to play on the company team in an annual charity golf tournament. Nice guy, Bill. I mean, I get to skip work, play golf for free, eat two free meals, drink free beer, and still get paid for the day.
I show up at the course in the morning on the day of the tournament and sign in. Bill is standing by a sponsor tent, already smoking a cigar. When he sees me, he waves me over.
"Hey, Jim. Change of plans," he says. "I had to put Jody in the tournament at the last minute, and I'm playing with a state representative. So you're on Jody's team."
I shrug. "Okay, Bill." I've met Jody before. She's a perfectly nice woman, and she'll play from the women's tees, so if she can hit, it may even give us an advantage.
"She doesn't play very well," Bill continues. So much for an advantage. "But I don't have to tell you to treat her well."
"Of course, Bill," I say.
"Good man," he says, blowing some cigar smoke in my face.
Our team in total ends up with three people, as opposed to the typical foursome; one player is a no-show. The third guy is a young guy named Brad. Brad is 25, not long out of college, and already more successful than I can stomach, so I'm two beers in before we even start the course.
We do the introductions, and make some small talk. Brad's a Republican, so I grab three beers from the first cooler we find. It's going to be a long day.
The first thing I notice about Jody was her face. This is true of both when I first met her, and today when I see her again. Jody's in her late 50's or early 60's, with shoulder-length blonde hair, and probably was a straight-up fox when she was younger. Her face retains a youthful quality. She has crisp blue eyes with very few age lines. Her face is round, as are her cheeks, and she has fairly high cheek bones. She wears gold wire-rimmed glasses with oval frames, which only sets off this round quality. Jody has a killer smile, with thin lips (painted pink today) and perfectly aligned teeth.
What's different about today is that she's dressed to play. In times when I've seen Jody before, she'd be wearing office attire: slacks, blouse, etc. Today is hot, though, nearly 100 degrees fahrenheit, so Jody's wearing a short black skort and a plain white sleeveless shirt. This makes a few things evident to me that never were before. First, Jody's stacked. She can't be more than five and a half feet tall, but that shirt reveals that she's sporting what's probably a D-cup underneath. Second, age has not been as kind to the rest of her as to her face. She has a modest but noticeable spare tire above her wide hips. Her ass sags a bit, and she has cellulite thighs that are showing varicose veins. Her skin is pale, which brings out it's aged, mottled quality.
"It's good to see you again, Jim," Jody says. We're both smoking a cigarette, waiting for the tournament to start.
"You too, Jody. I don't think I've seen you since the Christmas party."
"That's right," she replies. "Look, I'm sorry Bill stuck me with you. I hope you aren't expecting to win anything today."
I just smile. "I'm sure you'll do fine, Jody. I'm just here to have fun."
She smiles too. "Good. Me too." She clinks my beer can with her margarita. "Here's to fun."
Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the near-excessive heat. Maybe I'm just a pervert. The longer we played, the sexier Jody became. I'd watch her stand over the ball, ass out, breasts hanging low, and feel my stomach do a little flip. After the first nine holes, her previously pale skin was bright red, especially on her shoulders. She was glistening with sweat, and I could feel my mouth watering. I'd watch her swing, shifting those wide hips back to front, her ass going taut on her follow-through. Her tits did a little bounce at the end of each swing.
"Shit," she muttered, watching her tee shot on the 10th hole curve and drop into a pond.
"I'm no pro," I tell her from the side of the tee box, "But it looks to me like you're pushing your hips to the front of your stance before you hit the ball."
"Jim," she begins, exasperated, "That kind of advice won't help me. Come show me."
I look at Brad. He's sitting in the cart dicking around on his Blackberry. Of course he is, because that's what he's been doing all day, taking only the occasional break to hit on the female volunteers in the snack carts. So I shrug and head out to the tee box with Jody. "Okay, look," I say, standing behind her. I put my hands on her hips. "Take another swing. I'll hold your hips still." She swings. I feel her hips move, but keep my arms stiff to inhibit their shifting. Speaking of stiff, my arms aren't the only part of me that are. But my body isn't that close to her, and I'm wearing boxer briefs, so it's not showing too much. I take a deep breath and ask, "How did that feel?"
"Strange," she says, shifting her weight and moving her hips a bit. "It's odd to move only a part of my body. I didn't realize my hips moved that much."
"Try it again," I tell her. "You know how to swing, so don't think about that. Focus on your hips." She swings again, and I catch a whiff of her, perfume and sweat. We need to end this lesson quickly. Fortunately, this swing is good. Her hips barely move. "Perfect," I tell her, stepping back. "Hit another ball."
She hits another ball and it's gorgeous: straight and long, landing in the center of the fairway. She turns around to face me, grinning. "That's great!" She kisses me on the cheek. "Thank you, Jim!"
We get back in the carts and proceed. I'm a bit flustered, and probably blushing. I open a beer and promptly finish it. Brad's oblivious.
We work toward finishing out the course. I watch Jody constantly: when she's swinging, when she's sitting in the cart, as she's taking a drink of water. As the afternoon wears on, she's sweating more, making her shirt increasingly transparent. And I'm drinking more, which only helps me focus on Jody, not on my golf game. Douchebag Brad is now riding in a cart by himself, as I agree to drive Jody's cart on the pretense that our shots typically land near each other. I spend too much time staring at her thighs, since her skort rides up while she's sitting.
I imagine myself at her feet, kissing them, and working my way up her legs with my mouth, kissing, nibbling, licking. As I come to her thighs, I linger there, running my hands over her generous hips and ass, sliding my face up just short of her panties, smelling her pussy and sweat commingling.
"Jim!" Jody shrieks, grabbing my knee and startling me out of my daydream. I swerve the cart to avoid hitting a small tree.
"Sorry," I say. "Too much to drink, I guess." Her hand is still on my knee, and my cock is so hard it hurts.
"It's all right," she says. "I was just startled."
We play out the 18th hole, say goodbye to Brad who's decided to leave early, and head into the banquet hall for the dinner and awards ceremony.
Of course, we aren't going to win anything. But we hadn't expected to. At dinner, I sit next to Jody. Bill is working the room, hobnobbing with people he thinks are important, but really are just bloated, middle-aged white guys who won't give him the time of day when they're not drunk. We eat the mediocre catered buffet. Before they start the awards, I stand and tell Jody I'm going to smoke a cigarette. "I'll join you," she says.
It's dusk, and it has gotten noticeably cooler outside. Jody is no longer soaked with sweat, which is probably a good thing for my psychosexual sanity. We sit together on a bench outside the front door, light our cigarettes, and sit for a few minutes quietly. Then Jody looks at me and says, "I noticed the way you were looking at me today."
