A speeding golf cart skidded harshly on the pebbled path. It stopped in front of the field house.
Wade Dean, the golf course’s general manager, banged his way through the door of the field house.
“What’s the problem now?”
He put his hands on the roof of the cart and push his forehead against his hands.
“Bottleneck, Hole 5,” answered the young golf operations attendant. “Getting frustrating for the guys at Hole 3.”
“Yeah,” Wade grunted, “those are the guys who actually want to play.” Wade shook his head, frustrated.
“What do we do?” the young man asked.
“She’s a club member.”
Wade spread his arms wide, as if the comment was obvious. “We can’t just kick her off the course. It’s going to upset a lot of members.”
He glared at the thin-faced twenty-year-old who held the steering wheel, waiting for directions from his superior.
“Can we get her to let the others play through?” Wade asked.
“No one wants to—at least the guys right behind her. Behind them, though, it’s a different story. And those members—”
“The members are pissed as fucking hell.” Wade wagged his head side to side. He sarcastically mimicked the complaints he had heard for weeks. “‘I’m gonna cancel my membership!’ ‘You can’t manage a course decently!’ ‘This place has gone straight to Hell!’”
The complaints had flooded in since Debbie Dearing became a member of the community’s country club six months ago.
Wade thwapped his palm once on the fiberglass top of the golf cart. “You, offer free drinks at the club house to the complainers. Me, I’ll head to 5 to discuss the situation with Debbie.”
The golf cart sped away, and Wade jumped onto his six-wheel gator. He drove quickly along back tracks on the course and through small enclaves of brush and tall, sappy pines. Wade parked the gator at the edge of the tee box on Hole 5.
A group of about ten players rested on their drivers, relaxed in the swampy heat and smiling in the blinding sun.
They stood content, because, squared in the tee box was Wade’s problem: Debbie Dearing.
She shifted her hips and torso as she stared down at the tiny Titleist set atop the tee. The men, even Wade, stared quietly at her long legs and narrowed shoulders. Notably, her breasts were squeezed between her stiff arms.
No one spoke. No one moved. A lone robin whistled high in a pine.
Debbie inhaled, drew back her driver and, with a strong grunt, she cracked the ball far down the fairway.
The men clapped gently for her.
“A clear drive.”
“Good job!”
She touched the visor of her golf cap to acknowledge her viewers. She bent over to pull the tee out of the ground. The men silenced again. The short skirt rose up high, showing more of her narrow thighs.
A heavy-set man in white, spiked shoes and plaid pants walked into the tee box. He jammed his tee into the ground.
Debbie stood at the rear of her golf cart to wait for the others to drive.
Wade walked toward Debbie.
“Ms. Dearing,” he said, shuffling quickly across the box, “a great drive. Impressive.”
She shoved the driver club into her golf bag. It clacked against the irons and woods.
She smiled at Wade’s compliment. “Thank you.”
“Ms. Dearing,” Wade continued, “we’re having a backup on the course at this hole.”
After a quick swig from a water bottle, she turned to Wade.
“Again?” She rolled her eyes but emoted a pleased demeanor.
“Yes, again, for some reason …” Wade let his response die. “At Hole 6, can you let a few play through? It’ll make my day go better.”
“This is a long hole,” she said, as she plopped into the driver seat of the golf cart. “You know my handicap.”
Wade kept his eye from the deep cleavage of a sleeveless polyester polo with the zipper pulled low.
He kept his eyes away from her jutting nipples.
“No, not really, I don’t know your handicap. I just know it won’t take too long.” Wade lifted his hand and wiped his forehead with his forearm. “I have some complainers who are stuck, waiting, as far back as Hole 3.”
They paused as another club member wiggled his hips, settling in for his swing. A whoosh and a thwack and the ball hooked right into the rough. The man tossed his cap onto the manicured grass and cursed. He yanked the broken tee from the ground.
“He may be the one causing the delay. Not me,” Debbie said. She tugged a golf glove off each finger.
Wade smiled politely. “It’s not hooks or slices. It’s, well, a—”
“A lovely woman among deadhead men?” She lowered her sunglasses on her narrow nose to look falsely surprised at Wade.
“If you want to put it that way.”
“I can play faster, but these men, they have question after question about my swing. They want me to show them. They want advice—female golfing tidbits—that they can pass along to their wives. Don’t ask me why. I guess women don’t golf as much as men.”
Wade raised his shoulders. “If you can … um … not provide your insights to the guys until the players waiting at Hole 3 now pass by? It would be appreciated by the entire club and me.”
Debbie set one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the back of the driver’s seat. She grinned. “The whole club, eh?”
“And me.”
Wade tried to remain professional—eyes focused on hers—as he was the one who assuages players’ complaints before they hit the superintendent in the club house. However, Debbie’s large breasts cramped so perfectly in her purple polyester, dragged his eyes from hers.
Wade didn’t respond aloud though, because a spindly man reared back and then swung forward. Following a crack, the ball sailed, in front of a whistle, out of sight somewhere down the fairway.
Wade returned to Debbie. “Anything you can do.”
“Want me to ride your gator back to 3 and ask for patience?” She touched her right foot against the brake pedal, while her left foot reset wider on the gravel cart path.
Wade dropped his arms. He dragged his eyes across the manicured hills and greenways to avoid assessing how far apart she had spread her legs—whether done innocently or otherwise.
He directed his gaze back to her eyes, squinting, as if trying to block the sun from blinding him, although something else drew his eyes.
“I can pass along the reason for the delay, as long as you continue to play forward.”
“If I’m there, they may be more apt to accept your reason for the delay.” Debbie stood. The cart’s shocks squeaked. “Where’s the gator?”
She noticed it across the tee box.
“Boys.” She waved to the pack of men. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Wade, here, says we’re playing too slowly for some other golfers. I want to tell them why it’s taking so long. Someone take me to the putting green for two strokes, okay?”
The men agreed to her leaving with mumbles, urging her to come back quickly.
“You know I will,” she said, batting her ungloved hand in banter.
Wade started the gator. “Hang on.”
He jolted ahead. Debbie grabbed both the side bar and front bar on the dashboard to keep her seat.
“So what are these guys asking you? Advice-wise, I mean,” Wade asked loudly over the grumbling motor.
“Boobs, Wade, boobs,” she said.
Wade jerked the gator out of the path of a pine.
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, you heard me. Tits,” she said loudly. “Their wives have titties, and it’s tough to swing with a pair hanging, blocking the way of a smooth backswing. They would like to play with their wives—they say at least—but with some excellent advice from one with a decent set, they may have a partner on the course.”
Wade yanked the steering wheel again to avoid a wide shrub.
“I tell them that the key is all in the set up! Try to get the left arm over the left and tuck the right arm. Even if I set my boobs perfectly, on the downswing, all things go whacky. One tit swings forward under my left arm and the other gets caught between my arms. It’s as if my tits want to fly like the ball.”
“Must be a bitch,” Wade said.
“Oh! And I stand a little farther away from the ball. The only way to play.”
Before merging onto a paved golf cart path, Wade glanced right and left. Doing so, his eyes skimmed across Debbie’s deep cleavage and chest packed into a sports top. He could not help moving his vision to her lap. Her pleated skirt hardly covered her thighs.
He exhaled, ballooning his cheeks.
“That’s how I feel,” Debbie said. She mimicked Wade, puffing her own cheeks.
A few moments later, Wade stopped the gator at Hole 3.
Debbie turned toward Wade, lowered the zipper on her blouse slightly.
“Sorry, Wade, but it makes angry men happy.”
Debbie walked up to the gray-haired men amassed at the tee box. Some had been standing motionless, arms crossed. Others sat, peeved, on golf carts. One man batted the head of his driver on the soft green grass. That was until Debbie began her girly gait toward them.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” she called, waving her hands overhead. “I apologize for the wait. We had some trouble on Hole 5. You know, some golfers think too highly of their game. First, hitting into the rough, digging into the sandtraps. Don’t get me started on how bad of putters these guys are.”
The men’s tension and frustration eased at seeing Debbie and then hearing from her.
“Guys, Wade tells me he will send a few of his assistants to take your orders for drinks—on the house. Wade and I will do our parts to get the afternoon moving up ahead. Okay?”
“A second round on the house, eh?” One guy raised his plastic cup. “A kid brought us drinks already.”
“Yeah, the ice is melting in this heat. I need a refresh without the ice.” The guy drank what remained in his glass.
Yet the men gave brighter thank-yous and immediately began calling out their next drink orders to Wade.
Wade waved his hands to block the flood of orders.
“We’ll get your orders in a few minutes. I need to take Ms. Dearing back to her game.”
Debbie spritely bounded off the tee box down to the gator.
Wade revved the engine.
“Thanks for giving them free drinks. That costs me, you know.”
Frustrated, he twisted the steering wheel to the left. Debbie bumped into his shoulder in the sharp turn.
Holding onto the bars, Debbie calmed Wade. “You’ll be just fine. You worry too much. Always blowing things out of proportion.” She patted his knee before grabbing the bar again.
“I’ve got a course to run smoothly. And this isn’t some public course. Our members expect a lot—more than what is possible on a good day. Errors and divots and brown grass and slow teams, like yours—it all gets back to my boss.”
“The service industry is tough, Wade.” She gripped his knee this time.
“You trying to show me your girly charm too? You cost me about $200 in drinks, you know.” He shook his head.
“More exaggeration.” She batted his shoulder. “They’re happy. No complaints.”
“Give them an hour and they’ll be complaining again. Old golfers are always complainers. Even a hole-in-one wouldn’t make them happy. They would say they deserve it for all they time and money spent on the course. And the young guys are learning from the geezers to be jerks. It never ends.”
Wade yanked the steering wheel to avoid another pine tree.
“With this attitude, I can’t save your day.” Debbie stared ahead with eyebrows raised.
Wade slowed the gator to a stop. He leaned his forearm across the steering wheel. “Yes, there is something you can do.”
“Oh, what is that, Wade?” She said his name sultrily.
“Getting off Hole 5 and speeding up to Hole 9. That’ll make my day.”
“Humph.” She crossed her arms. Then she put her right hand on the front bar. “Are you always this pissy?”
“Only when there’s a bottleneck. Otherwise I’m fine.”
“Other than holes-in-one all the way to 9, would anything change your mood? Boobs?” She leaned forward and squeezed her chest slightly.
Wade pressed the gas petal. Debbie gripped the bars for safety.
“Not even boobs?” she called over the grumbling engine. “I thought boobs would save the world?”
He drove ahead not looking at her, face tight and angry. “A great pair doesn’t work on the golf course when players are mad and waiting in the heat. Sorry to break it to you.”
“I don’t believe you. I can speed up the game to 9 in no time.”
“How’s that?”
The gator hit a fallen branch in the ground among the brush. Wade clacked his teeth and Debbie’s head bounced.
They returned to Debbie’s group, which had moved to the putting green.
“Hey, everyone.” She waved as she walked onto the short, fine turf, “the guys behind us are happy drinking. It’s Wade who’s upset.”
Wade grouched from the seat of his idling gator. “I am not. Don’t say that!”
She stepped to her ball at the edge of the green. She angled herself and aligned her putter toward the hole. Doing so, she said, “I am so disappointed that I upset Wade.”
A soft knock and she putted the ball across the green, and it disappeared into the hole.
The gator’s engine revved. Debbie looked back. “Wade, wait!”
When he raised his head, she trotted to him.
“I owe you.” She placed her hands on the passenger seat of the gator.
She pushed forward her chest. “Can I make you happy—give you a good day?”
He gruffed again, rolling his eyes.
She lowered the zipper on her polo shirt.
“What are you doing now?”
“A little ‘peekaboo gift.’”
She tugged her left breast and then her right out of her shirt, so her reddened nipples came into view. Her breasts showed how cramped they had been in her shirt and under a sports bra during the afternoon’s play.
Witnessing them nonetheless, Wade’s frustration evaporated. A smile cracked his façade, and he began to laugh and shake his head.
“I knew that would help.” She tucked away her tits. “And it’s worth the cost of the drinks?”
Wade exhaled. “Yes, yes, worth every penny.”
“Good. Drive me to Hole 6, and we’ll play on.”
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