Three Over Par Read online

  After the Pro’s outburst I want to be a good student. Before our lessons turned into sex-fests, my game had improved dramatically under his tutelage but we both let it deteriorate, and my bad habits reasserted themselves. Even on Sundays, during competition, I let this side of my game fall down and my handicap suffered for it.

  “That’s more like it,” he says as I adopt my stance, taking care to align my feet, hips and shoulders with the line I sighted. “Now keep that weight balanced.” He shakes his head and uses the club he carries to point at my hips. “You’re too upright. When you’re all tight like that, your swing will be the same. Try to keep it relaxed.”

  He watches carefully as I settle and prepare to take my backswing.

  “Remember, nice and slow, and watch that chicken elbow of yours.”

  I obey, my eyes hard on the ball, concentrating on all the things he taught me before, when golf used to be the only thing that mattered.

  I strike the ball, not perfectly, but well. It sails on exactly the line I pictured and takes two short hops before settling in grass a half-wedge from the green.

  “That’s good, but watch those hands. They’re coming a bit loose at the top of your swing.” He walks by my side back to the cart. “Always remember your setup. It’s one of the most important aspects of your game.”

  When we’re settled back in the cart, I smile and lean into him and peck him affectionately on the cheek. “Thanks, Robbie.”

  He grins as though I’ve made his day.

  The Pro’s confession has had an effect on us both. Over the next two holes we take the game seriously, and I’m surprised at how much I enjoy the lesson. Mostly, I’m confused at how clean it makes me feel when I’ve never considered what we do to be dirty. I’m not religious or constrained by a strong puritanical outlook on life. My work with the elderly has taught me that the good die exactly the same as the bad. The Pro and I are merely consenting adults having sex. The morality of it was never at issue because there never seemed to be anything immoral about it.

  Yet as I play my shots and absorb the Pro’s instruction, I soar on the breeze, as free and weightless as a summer cloud. This is a taste of liberation, of the world on the other side of my maze. A life without the burden of this strange, tripartite relationship.

  The Pro seems content, too, as if he’s regained a touch of pride. I can hear it in his voice, the confidence he has in his tuition. He’s grooving himself back to professionalism the way a good golfer grooves their swing. At last, we’re where we both belong. And I’m now certain that, no matter what happens with Daniel, the decision I’ve made about the Pro is the right one.

  For almost thirty minutes he doesn’t touch me. Instead, he uses the end of the club to point or demonstrates himself what he’d like me to do. I am merely his attentive student, he the dedicated professional. And for a brief time, both of us are better for it.

  Change arrives on the seventh. I’m meticulous with my pre-shot routine, sighting my landing zone down my club, lining up the ball toward my left foot, my arms loose, the driver’s grip in line with my left hip. We’ve been so hard at work I’ve shed my vest and tugged down the zippered neck opening of my long-sleeved cotton polo. As I bend, my starfish necklace drops out and dangles against my chin.

  The Pro waits until I hit before approaching and eyeing my pendant. “Dan gave you that, didn’t he?”

  I nod while tucking the necklace away, afraid the Pro might try to touch it. A jealous sheen glazes his eyes, as if he wishes he’d given it to me instead of Daniel.

  “You’re nuts about him, aren’t you? I mean, it’s not just the sex, is it? It’s more.”

  I can’t see any point denying it. “Yes.”

  He blinks as though dust has caught in his eyes and sighs. “He’s lucky.”

  “Robbie, you know there’s never been—”

  “You don’t have to say it, babe. I’ve known from the start it was just sex for you. The way you acted after that time at the pub told me that. That’s why I’ve never asked for anything else.”

  I bow my head. I hate hurting people. “I’m sorry.”

  He ruffles my hair affectionately, the way you would a child. “Don’t be. The sex has been fucking awesome.”

  I laugh, from relief more than anything, and rub up against him, hoping to cheer him up with a bout of teasing. “And it’s not over yet.”

  “Nah.” He tweaks my right nipple, shooting a jet of heat straight to my groin. “Not yet.”

  I scan the course to check we’re alone and rub my palm over his groin. His cock rouses and stretches like a waking animal until it’s rigid and animate, twitching against my touch. His hand curves around my breast, thumb rubbing my taut nipple. Already his eyes are glazed. Already my cunt is moist.

  “Fuck you’re sexy, babe.”

  His words are bittersweet. I’m “babe” instead of “Luce,” and we’re no longer teacher and student, golf professional and keen amateur. Instead, we’re once more lovers. Though, for a stinging moment, I wish we weren’t.

  He leans forward to suck at my neck and breathe hot air into my ear. “Me and Dan, babe, both fucking you. Big cocks fucking those tight wet holes of yours. Dan kissing you. Me tweaking your breasts.” His breath is like steam and makes me squirm like an overexcited puppy. His hands slide to my hips and pull them toward him until we’re grinding groin to groin. “You want that, babe?”

  I moan my answer, too turned on to say a word as simple as yes.

  He lays a soft kiss on my cheek, surprising me. “Then let’s go.”

  We slip into the cart and head toward my ball. The Pro drives with one hand on the wheel, the other burrowing under my bunched skirt, languidly fingering my juice-sleeked opening. A smile curls his mouth, and his blue-grey eyes gleam with lust.

  He brakes near my ball, removes his hand from my groin and twists in the seat to face me. Sunlight sparkles on his lubricated fingers. He raises them to his mouth and, with lowered eyelids, slowly sucks each finger clean. It’s the most erotic thing he’s ever done and sends my already overexcited cunt into spasms.

  “I want to lick you.”

  I swallow, imagining the caress of his mouth and tongue, and shake my head. “We can’t. Not in the middle of the fairway.”

  He cocks his head at my clubs. “Then hit your ball.”

  “I can’t.” I hold up my hands. They tremble as though I’m freezing.

  “You want to come?”

  I nod. I’m desperate but I’m also desperate for Daniel. “But I can wait until the eighth.”

  He leans across and puts his mouth over my breast and breathes hot air through the fabric. A shudder rakes my spine and I arch against him. His teeth close over my nipple and he catches it lightly before raising his head. A damp patch circles the nub, cooling rapidly in the winter air.

  “You sure?”

  “God, you’re a tease, Robbie.”

  “You love it.”

  I do. Even when I’ve become angry and frustrated, the Pro has always understood the power of the tease. How anticipation can heighten sexual delight. And after his revelations, I’m disposed to play this game. Even if it means I won’t see Daniel for a few more minutes.

  I grin at him. “Strangely enough, I do. Though sometimes it makes me want to brain you with my three wood.”

  Laughing, he tweaks my nipple and drops his hand to my lap. My skirt is still rucked around my thighs, my winter legs protruding pale and parted from the fabric, ready for him. He watches me as he snakes his hand toward my cunt, his mouth parting in anticipation of my reaction.

  His touch is gentle, a whisper against my flesh. He strokes with three fingers, one after the other, as though he’s playing an arpeggio. I part my legs further, wanting him to prise apart my folds and caress the sensitive inner recesses of my sex. An indulgent smile trips across his face.

  My lids droop. I want to close my eyes and lose myself in the delicacy of his touch but we’re still parked in the middl
e of the seventh fairway and I need to retain some circumspection. His middle finger delves between my crease, gliding on my oily exudates, on the slippery, hairless skin of my sex. It slips back and forth, adventuring deeper, dipping into my hot, liquefying tunnel before drawing out and up to my swollen throbbing clit and rendering circumspection impossible.

  “You like that, babe?”

  In response, I meet his gaze and pant. I don’t have words for this exquisite pleasure.

  “Yeah, you love it.” He probes further, sinking his forefinger into my cunt up to the knuckle, and crooks it to rub the upper side of my passage while his thumb presses the outside of my lips, teasing my clit through its malleable covering of flesh.

  One finger becomes two. He increases the tempo of his strokes, observing me with that half-smile, his trousers bulging with his hard-on. I reach to stroke it but he shakes his head.

  “Play with your nipples.”

  “I’ll come.”

  “Thought that was the point, babe.”

  I moan and cross my arms so my left hand is on my right breast and my right hand on my left and my forearms supporting both. My nipples are hard, like small stream-washed pebbles. I pinch them between my thumb and forefinger and roll the nubs. A firebolt of lust jags through my muscles and explodes in my groin. Gasping, I jerk against the Pro’s hand before settling back against the cart’s seat and panting.

  “Robbie.”

  “Yeah, babe. Come on my hand. Like you did that first day. All wet, hot and begging for it.”

  As he speaks, his fingers fuck me, coasting on my wet interior. His thumb rubs firmly against my clit, compressing the nerves and shooting pyrotechnics through my groin. My orgasm is building. A series of tingles flourish in my toes and shimmer up my legs. Goosebumps erupt over my shoulders and scatter down my back. My cunt convulses, tightening on his fingers, forcing him to push harder and harder.

  The Pro whispers his encouragement. “Come on, babe. That’s it. Squeeze those nipples. Let me feel that hot pussy of yours gush.”

  “Oh God, Robbie.”

  I roll my nipples hard, sending more shooting stars to my cunt. His thumb works my clit, his fingers pumping. The tingles are everywhere, in my bones, in my head, vibrating me from the inside out.

  “I’m going to fuck your arse so hard, babe.” He leans closer to pant in my ear. “And you know what Dan’ll be doing, don’t you? Fucking that tight, hot pussy of yours.”

  I erupt, jamming my hips forward and forcing his fingers deep as I come in giant, ecstatic spasms with my head thrown back and my eyes closed, borne to sexual heights on the vision of the Pro and Daniel inside me.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Come on me.”

  Shudders rack my body, and I continue to thrust against his hand until they slowly fade. As the last spasm passes, I release my nipples and cup my breasts, my chest heaving as I haul in air. The Pro’s hand is still on me, but he’s moved his thumb and now his palm is pressed against my mons, his fingers resting. I turn my head to the Pro and smile my thanks.

  He returns my grin and slips his hand from my groin and holds it up for inspection. His fingers and palm are soaked. The Pro shakes his head in amusement. “You get so fucking wet, babe.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m not complaining.” He shifts in the seat and uses his dry hand to readjust himself. A wet patch marks his trousers. “But my cock’s about to burst.” He looks at his hand again before slipping out of the cart to wipe it on my golf towel.

  My feet are braced against the cart dash, my skirt bunched around my thighs. My legs still tremble as though I’m recovering from a terrible fright. I’m hot but cooling rapidly as cold air swirls between my open thighs. I drop my feet and adjust my G-string before shucking the skirt back into place.

  The Pro moves to my side of the cart and leans his arms against the roof, looking at me. “You all right?”

  I cast my gaze at his bulging groin and swallow. Already I’m thinking about Daniel.

  The Pro follows my gaze. “You want some?”

  “I’ve already had some.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, so you have.” He steps away. “Come on. Let’s see if you can’t hit the ball.”

  “Why can’t we go to the eighth now?”

  He chucks me under the chin, his eyes lit with mischief. “Because you need time to recover.”

  “Trust me, Robbie. I’m recovered.”

  “Maybe I just like to tease?” He grabs a club from my bag and steps away to take a few practice swings. He frowns in disgust and hands it to me. For months, he’s been trying to sell me a new set but I’ve resisted. My budget can’t stretch that far, though now I sincerely wish it could. “Come on. The sooner you hit the ball, the sooner you get to the eighth and loverboy Dan.”

  Knowing I won’t win this game, I sigh, accept the club and step out to inspect my ball. It sits in the centre of a flat whorl of capeweed. I grimace and stand back to align myself with the target. It’s difficult to concentrate. My muscles are still quivering from the delight they experienced, and my legs are jellied. From behind, the Pro starts to laugh.

  “What?” I ask, spinning around and pointing the club at him.

  He nods at my skirt. “Nice wet patch.”

  Stupidly, I try to look over my shoulder but can’t see anything. Irritated, I dump the club and twist my torso while taking a hunk of skirt in my hand. The fabric is dark where I’ve leaked juice. I drop it and groan.

  The Pro pats my shoulder in sympathy. “It’ll dry by the time we get back, and if it isn’t, you can always pretend you sat in something wet.” He gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before withdrawing his hand. “There’s no one around today anyway, Luce.”

  He’s right but that still doesn’t ease my embarrassment. Someone could easily turn up. I was stupid not to make sure the skirt was tucked behind my backside. Most times I remember, but it seems the Pro’s confession has disturbed my usual caution.

  “Come, on. Dan’s waiting.”

  “I hope so.”

  “He’ll be there. He can’t keep away any more than you can.”

  I wish I possessed the same faith. I haven’t seen Daniel since he cornered me in Hakea Lodge.

  In the optimistic caverns of my heart, I nurture the hope that my absence will be enough to make him realise how much he wants me. But in its dark, pessimistic chambers, where my demons dwell, there lurks the fear that maybe he discovered that he doesn’t.

  I sigh and pick up my club. The afterglow of my orgasm is fading, overtaken by my anxiety about Daniel. If he doesn’t show, I don’t know what I’ll do. Apology or not, after his treatment the last time I tried to approach him at work, I’m not sure I possess the strength to try that tactic again.

  The memory of his angry dismissal hobbles my resolve and fills me with terror of what I may lose. And despite everything, his other words have not left me.

  You’re wasting your time.

  As I sight my line, they swirl in my head, reigniting all my doubts. No matter what he feels, in his life, I’ll never amount to anything more than a fuck.

  “Are you going to hit that ball, babe, or stare at it all day?”

  I toss the Pro a look. “I was thinking.”

  He rolls his eyes and rubs at his groin. “Well stop, cos I swear to God my balls are about to burst.”

  “You’re the one who likes to tease, Robbie.”

  “Tease, not torture.” He grins to mellow his words. “Now shut up and get on with it.”

  Just to annoy him, I perform my routine again, smiling as he shakes his head in exasperation. I concentrate hard, using the game to push aside my troubled thoughts. The ball sails beautifully, and I suck in my breath when it continues on line to the pin. As it begins its descent, a gust of wind catches it and angles it toward the right-hand bunker. It lands with a splat of sand.

  “Bugger!”

  “Yeah, bad luck. It was a good shot.”

  I shrug and throw my club bac
k into the bag. It isn’t the first time I’ve landed in that bunker, and I doubt it’ll be the last. It’s a difficult shot though. A lack of finance has caused the club to skimp on sand, and more than half the course’s traps are earmarked for filling in, the bunker in which my ball finished being one of them. It’ll be like playing out of concrete.

  “Lucky,” the Pro says with a whistle when we wheel alongside. My ball has managed to perch in a rare patch of piled-up sand. Plugged but playable.

  “Better to be lucky than good.”

  He laughs and tickles my backside as I slide from the cart. “You’re not good, babe. You’re bad with a capital B.”

  As I retrieve my sand wedge, I wink at him. “And about to get badder.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  I perch at the edge of my bunker and inspect the lie. The ball is implanted in the sand and looks like the yolk of a poached alien egg.

  The Pro returns to teaching mode. “Okay, Luce, you know what to do. You want to explode the ball out. So keep the clubface square and chop down into the sand. Nice upright swing. Ball in the centre of your stance. Weight more on your front leg. You’ve plenty of green to work with, so don’t worry about overshooting.”

  I follow his instruction, focussing on the tips he’s given. It’s not a shot I encounter often and I’m grateful for the reminders. The ball blasts out low and without spin, scooting to the far side of the green and almost dropping off onto the apron. It’s not a perfect shot but, given the lie, the result is better than I’d hoped. The Pro claps and congratulates me. I smile my thanks and hunt for the rake to tidy the only decent sand in the bunker.

  Though I two putt and walk from the green with a bogey five, today it doesn’t bother me. There’s more in my life at stake than my score and, as we drive to the eighth tee, my anxiety about Daniel returns in force, wriggling in my stomach like a restless bed of worms.

  At the tee I glance at the Pro. There’s something wistful about his expression, as if he’s remembering better days, better times.