When one goes to play golf in a resort area as a single player, or going solo, as it were, it is common practice for the course to match the solo player up with a twosome or threesome.
Such was the case when I made a weekend stopover in Hilton Head while coming back from a business trip in Atlanta. A friend had offered me the use of his house in Shipyard resort, so I drove the four-plus hours down Interstate 16, and arrived late Friday night.
Having no set plans but plenty of time, I slept in late and drove over to the Country Club of Hilton head just before noon and the friendly young man in the pro shop told me to see the marshall, who would set me up with a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Adams, who were members and ready to tee off in the next fifteen minutes.
I was on the putting green, enjoying the crisp autumn weather, soaking in the sunshine and the ambience of the plush club, when I heard her voice behind me, a soft, slow, heart-melting southern drawl, like spilled molasses oozing down the branches of the indigenous and plentiful Spanish moss trees. "Hi, thay-uh, yew must be John."
I turned in response to the melodic greeting, and when I saw her, I literally dropped my putter, no pun intended, while another club rose instinctively within my crotch. She smiled a smile that would have lit up River Street in nearby Savannah. "Ah'm Kathie Adams, ah think ah'll be playin' with yew today."
I maintained enough composure to stammer through my own introduction and we made small talk on the putting green while waiting for her husband to join us. I couldn't wait to see the lucky bastard that had bagged this trophy wife. Kathy muttered disdainfully, while rolling her sparkling emerald eyes, "He's in the bar, where he usually is." Me, I wouldn't have let this doll out of my sight.
I immediately assessed that she was about forty-five years old (or about fifteen years older than me) and weighed about 110 lbs. She had shoulder length honey-blonde hair and was about 5' 4", with bright green eyes and sun-speckled freckles on her tiny nose. She had a tight firm body, adorned in a white golf shirt and a pair of tight beige shorts. Her tits looked to be about 34 D's, huge on that petite, toned body. They didn't look like those fake ones, all perfectly round and no sag. Hers were quite obviously 100% real. A perfect teardrop shape with large areolas and nipples that were already very hard. Her breasts had some heft to them, not sag really, just a natural heaviness that younger guys like me love on a mature woman.
I found out in our little conversation that she was an ardent runner, and worked out diligently, at least five times a week in the gym in their spacious house right on the causeway in the plantation, as they call each separate development in Hilton Head. From my vantage point I watched intently every time she bent to up a holed putt, and I could see that despite her sensational torso, her pert little ass was her best feature. It was high and tight from the running, a perfect heart shape, and her golf shorts rose high up her thighs, exposing just the bottom of her buttocks each time she picked up a ball.
Hubby, Paul was his name, finally emerged into the sunlight, and I was shocked at what I saw. He had to be at least fifteen to twenty years older than his wife, with a craggy, wrinkled face and silver hair, and I deduced that this was a marriage of financial convenience, a trade-off of Kathy's stunning looks and the arrogant old codgers' nest egg, which had to be substantial. Paul virtually ignored me from the outset, huffing his way through a perfunctory introduction on the first tee, and the first four holes were played in an almost awkward silence, as it was clear that he was about as thrilled to have me accompany them as I was to be in his miserable presence.
The only bright spot, and it was more than enough to offset his gruff behavior and incessant drinking (he kept a bottle of Chivas Regal on ice in a cooler in the back of their golf cart) was getting to watch Kathy in her various golfing positions; set-up, stance, follow-through, each one providing me a different and highly enjoyable angle of her torso twisted in different contortions. Naturally, my imagination ran wild, and Kathy was not unaware of my attention to her details.
On the fifth fairway, a tight, dogleg par-four, Paul snap-hooked his drive deep into the woods, and Kathy suggested that she jump in the cart with me while Paul searched for his ball, since her ball and my own were smack in the center of the fairway. "He'll be stone drunk by the eighteenth hole," she grumbled. "And passed out by dusk." Her delightfully sunny features clouded over only when she spoke of Paul. "Looks like ah'll be eating dinner by myself again, it gets old," she sighed forlornly.
Suddenly, she propped her tanned legs up on the inside dash of the golf cart, deliberately providing me with an unfettered, eagle-eye view. The rising bulge in my trousers did not escape her attention either, and we each glanced down at the others' nether regions unabashedly.
A wicked gleam came across her impeccable face. "Ah have an idea," she said, climbing out of the cart. "Ah'll share it with yew at the halfway house, Paul will no doubt have to go in and get a refresher or three." My eyes were riveted on her succulent ass as she walked across the lush grass, swinging her hips way more than she needed to, putting on a welcome show for me, while Paul thrashed his way out of the forest, taking four strokes to do so, which is about how many strokes I felt I required right about now, but of a far different kind.
Sure enough, after the front nine, Paul disappeared into the clubhouse. Kathy also excused herself momentarily and winked at me and told me to meet her on the tenth tee. I sat in the cart, letting two groups play through, until Kathy reappeared, looking less than pleased, driving up in their cart by herself. Well, massively pissed off is more like it.
"Ah have to apologize, John. Paul no longer wants to continue today. Seems he'd rather drink the afternoon away than enjoy Mother Nature." Her countenance brightened as she saw my sincere disappointment. She reached into her golf bag and extracted a small box and extended it to me. "But ah brought you a gift for being such a nice, young gentleman. Please open it."
I fondled the box, disillusioned that my time with Kathy was drawing to a premature close. "Thank you, Kathy, that's not necessary, but so very sweet of you."
Kathy's flaming eyes blazed into my own. "Ah meant open it now, John." The look in her eyes was not duplicitous, so I followed instructions and peeled off the lid of the small box.
I gasped audibly as I saw the gift. It was a neatly folded pair of brown thong panties with a discernible wet spot right on the crotch of the silky fabric. When I looked up, she had turned sideways on the cart and head spread her legs just enough for me to look up the slight gap between her shorts and her skin, and I detected that she was now sans panties. I was looking right into a narrow tunnel that led to a beautiful, hairless, exposed pussy.
The cute, polite, southern-belle persona had vanished, gone with the wind, replaced by an aggressive, pantiless, mature and needy siren.
"Ah was finger-fucking mahself in the ladies room. Yew've been driving me cra-zee all fuckin' day, and I can't walk around in those," she drawled huskily. "Read the note, and if ya'll can follow directions, yew are in for a fun evenin', sugah."
