Three Over Par Page 9

  We met in the shadows. After regarding me with an expression I can only describe as raw longing, he cupped my face and brought his mouth down on mine in a passionate and pleasantly beery kiss that had us both moaning with desire. Soon, hands were grappling with clothing. Genitals were teased and readied. The Pro whispered my name as he hoisted my leg and thrust inside.

  We came together in a frantic coupling against the back wall of the pub between the bottle dump and a stack of empty silver kegs, with the clang and chatter of the pub kitchen washing over us.

  And all the time, the Pro kept his mouth on mine.

  It was the only time we’d fucked outside the golf course, but as I lay in bed that night thinking of what I’d done, I promised it would be the last. Our golf course sex was a fantasy, a fulfilment of lust. It was uncomplicated and fun, and made more exciting by risk. We both understood what it was and neither of us asked for, nor expected, more.

  The sex we’d had outside the pub was dangerous, stupid and left my chest hollow. I didn’t like what it said about me, about the void I carried in my soul. The only person I wanted to fuck in the real world was the person I loved. And I didn’t love the Pro and nor did he love me. We fucked but we weren’t lovers, and from that point on I vowed to restrict our couplings to the golf course, no matter what the temptation.

  Although after today even they will be no more.

  The Pro rubs a hand lightly across my right breast. The nipple is hard and protrudes through my shirt and fine woollen vest. “You want to come, babe?”

  It’s a stupid question. He knows I want to, but the Pro has always been enamoured with the tease of his voice, the way his words make my skin flush hot.

  He takes his my hand and places it over his groin. His cock is hard and feels lovely under my palm.

  “You want me to fuck you?” His eyes turn bright as he asks, as if this is what he wants. “Fuck you up the arse again?”

  I shake my head and remove my hand. “Lick me.”

  “Yeah, you like that, don’t you, babe? You like that the most.”

  Not the most. I enjoy other things just as much, but I don’t tell the Pro that. I don’t like the idea of him knowing everything. Some things I want to keep to myself, things I can nurture, protect, ready to give to Daniel when the time comes.

  The Pro uses my club to lift the hem of my skirt and slide it up my thigh. The cold head grazes against my skin, while cool air snakes around my legs, making me shudder.

  I don’t think of how exposed we are, standing here on the raised tee of the third with the sky open and grey above us and sparsely leaved eucalypts providing scant protection. My mind is too focussed on other things—the Pro’s thumb and forefinger tweaking my nipple through the fabric of my shirt and bra, the touch of the clubhead against my underwear. My ragged breaths as the Pro’s eyes darken.

  The club drops and with it my skirt. “Come here,” he says, and leads me back to the cart.

  He pushes me against the front windscreen and crouches between my knees. He’s discarded the club, although it lies close, and I wonder if he’s going to fuck me with it as he licks me. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  He shucks my skirt up and kisses my inner thigh, creeping slowly higher with each light nip. I tremble, from cold, from excitement, from watching the top of his head as he places his mouth against my cunt and breathes burning air onto my skin.

  A finger traces the line of his kisses and tickles the gusset of my G-string. My breath stops, suspended, waiting for the slide of his digit between my quivering lips, for the slow finger-fuck to begin, for his tongue against my clit.

  He hovers, tormenting me. He wants to hear me beg. I oblige because I can’t stand the wait. “Robbie.”

  The fabric slides to one side. Hot air caresses my cunt, cold air my arse. I touch his soft hair, tangle my fingers in it, pull a little.

  “Robbie, please.”

  His finger slips inside me at the same time as his tongue snakes between my lips and probes at my clit. I let out a moan that comes from somewhere in my stomach and grip at his hair. His tongue traces circles around my clit and slithers up and down the engorged bundle. He curls his finger and rubs at the sensitive flesh behind my pubic area. I close my eyes and concentrate on everything he does, on his finger, on his lips, on his mouth.

  His tongue flattens, a broad band of hot, moist muscle that fills every crevice and slides over the mounds and folds of my cunt, leaving fiery nerve endings in its wake. His top lip rubs against my clit, his lower against my hole. I love it when he does this. It’s as though I’m being devoured by a huge maw and, at any moment, my entire being will disappear inside it in a ball of blazing ecstasy.

  It rarely lasts. He knows my appetites too well. More than a few seconds of that paradisiacal tonguing and I’ll be coming over his mouth in great rippling gushes, forcing myself against him until he can’t breathe. He doesn’t mind and sometimes he even lets me, but his usual operation is to draw the pleasure out. It’s the power freak in him.

  His tongue curls again and he points it into the sensitive flesh just below my clit, rubbing while he purses his lips and sucks at the swollen nub. The air fills with the sound of our indulgence. The slurping of a child with a lollipop, the moans of a woman close to orgasm.

  I want to come, but I want to prolong this pleasure. And, if I’m honest, I like seeing the Pro on his knees, his face buried in my cunt, beholden to me. It serves him right for the torture he puts me through when he toys with my arousal, withholding from me the release I crave.

  The Pro understands my body perfectly. He knows when the quivering starts, when my juices flow like sap, when my hands lock on his head and my groin thrusts harder against his face. The finger-fucks accelerate, the whip of his tongue over my clit speeds up, the press of his lips becomes harder.

  “Robbie.”

  The centre of his tongue presses against the throbbing nub of my clit, the sides spreading across my furrows, the tip massaging my pulsing, winking entrance. I grip his head, moving it up and down, using him like a tool to drive my orgasm home.

  “Oh, God!”

  He doesn’t stop. He can’t, and neither can I. The Vesuvian throb of orgasm spills over me in an eruption of pure ecstasy.

  He laps it all, maintaining the momentum until the shudders cease and my hands relax.

  The Pro’s mouth is streaked and glistening with my fluids when he finally pulls away. The knees of his trousers are damp from the grass, and his blond hair sticks up in spikes where I pulled it. My skirt once more brushes my shins, but my underwear is again crooked. I reach under to straighten it.

  “That was quick.” He stands, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

  I smile at him, willing to give him something back for his pains. “It’s your skill, Robbie. You ought to know that by now.”

  He returns my smile, looking smug as he always does when he makes me come, and I feel a twinge of tenderness for him. The Pro might act like he’s full of himself, but he owns as much self-doubt as everyone else.

  “Lucy, babe, don’t lie. You just have to think about sex and you come.”

  I pick up my club, walk to the back of the cart and use a towel to wipe the grip. I’m not interested in this conversation. The Pro thinks I’m some sort of nymphomaniac, but I’m not. I’m simply trying not to die like Mrs. Debenham.

  But most of all, I’m living for Daniel.

  And the irrepressible hope he lives for me too.

  Chapter Seven

  I miss my birdie putt, but neither of us is surprised. My hands always shake after I’ve come, and it usually takes at least another hole for them to settle down. Depending on our moods, I’ll either suck the Pro off or masturbate him. On rare occasions, the Pro takes care of himself while I look on. For some reason, I like that. I like watching his face as he comes, as if hidden in his expression there’s some human secret waiting to be found. I’ve yet to discover one, but that doesn’t stop me looking.


  The fourth is a long par five with a dogleg kinking the fairway. It’s a difficult hole. From the tee, the ball tends to fly into the prevailing wind, which can cause it to drift to the right when it needs to stay left. The breeze is strong today, and while my strike starts off toward the left hand side of the fairway, it soon swings in the air, landing hard right and taking a bad bounce off a mound and shooting into a stand of swaying gum trees.

  The Pro grins his approval. “Good thinking.”

  We hop onto the cart and motor our way toward the ball. I reach for the bottle of water lying in the basket behind the seat and take a good few mouthfuls. For what is to proceed, I will need a wet mouth.

  He pulls up and we both disembark to search for my ball. It’s unnecessary. My ball is in clear sight, resting against the butt of a tree. I stare at it for a moment, assessing the lie, and decide I’ll punch the ball out through the trees and back onto the fairway using a low-lofted club. Turning back to retrieve an iron, I find the Pro standing behind me with his cock out. Though I knew what to expect, I’m forced to suppress a sigh. It’s only fair that I return the favour done to me.

  “You wanna taste a bit of this, babe?”

  I smile and coyly lick my lips, putting on an act for him. “You know I do.”

  I push him against a tree and kneel in front of his groin, eager for this to be over quickly, for us to move on to our secret place. The place that will reveal if Daniel still wants me. Immediately, the Pro’s hands go to my head, pushing me toward his cock. I don’t know why he does this. He knows I’ll suck him off, but each time it’s the same. I wonder if someone refused him once, that they saw his cock or smelled it and backed hurriedly away.

  That wouldn’t happen with me. Even on the hottest days he never smells of anything other than soap. It’s a masculine scented brand, with musky overtones and a fragrance I will forever associate with him. And I like his cock. It’s not huge and therefore easy to get my mouth around, so I don’t feel like I’m going to choke when he forgets I’m a person and not a blow-up doll and pushes it down my throat.

  I run my tongue around the tip and tease him by digging lightly into the eye. He moans and presses his fingers into my scalp. I smile and suck the knob, ranging my tongue over it like a child with an ice cream, then slowly, when I can feel his impatience building, I take him fully into my mouth. The Pro rewards me with a hoarse gasp. My cunt twitches in response to his enjoyment.

  I always think the biggest aphrodisiac is another person’s sexual arousal. That’s why pornography exists, because we like seeing other people succumb to desire. The way they lose themselves in sensation, as if they’ve been transported to another plane. We’re jealous and want to follow, and so our bodies, whether we want them to or not, respond in kind.

  My head bobs as I move my mouth up and down his shaft. I concentrate on swirling my tongue, trying to overwhelm him with sensation. He presses even harder on my head, using his hands to guide me, dictating the speed at which I suck him.

  “Yeah, babe. Like that. Suck it, Luce. Suck it hard.”

  He’s close. It never takes long for the Pro to come. Not the first time. The second is different. His orgasms are delayed in Daniel’s presence, and sometimes I wonder if it’s because some sort of competition exists between them. A male-only race of let’s-see-who-can-last-the-longest.

  I know there isn’t. Not on Daniel’s part, at least. Daniel lasts however long he thinks I want him to. We’re in tune like that, and I’m constantly amazed by how often we come in unison. Like we’re a couple already formed, singing to the same rapturous hymn.

  Except we’re not a couple, and perhaps I’m once more reading too much into our relationship. Perhaps he’s simply a skilled lover, a man who utilises his talents for the pleasure of us both. The thought leaves me aching. For him, for myself. For my stricken heart.

  The Pro’s breath comes throaty and hard, bringing me back to the task at hand. I cup his balls and gently massage them with my palm. He pistons his cock into my mouth, muttering his nonsense. It’s hard to breathe but I know he’ll come any second. I grip his shaft and pump it, helping him along. My tongue presses hard against the thick vein on the underside of his cock and rubs from side to side. I take him further into my throat, my entire mouth milking him, then withdraw until the flanged head of his cock rests against my lips. Quickly, I descend again, drawing him deeper before pulling back to repeat the process. Two more rapid extractions, and his cock quivers as come rises from his balls and shoots along his shaft.

  “Oh, fuck.”

  He spurts into the back of my throat and I swallow it. My hand and tongue maintain their caresses, though the urgency has passed. Gradually the spasms wane. The indescribable euphoria of orgasm is over.

  He shudders and sags against the tree, absently caressing my hair as he bathes in his satisfaction. I let his penis flop from my lips and discreetly wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I stare up at him and smile at the dopey expression on his face.

  He smiles back. “Fuck you’re good, Lucy. You give the best head.”

  I stand, my knees aching a little, and poke him in the belly, making fun. “You’re just easily pleased.”

  He winks. “Yeah, but you’re still good.” He pushes off the tree and tucks his flaccid cock back in his pants and pulls his trousers up.

  We stare at my ball for a moment.

  “Four iron,” he says. “You need to keep it low.”

  “Hand.” I pick the ball up and toss it back onto the fairway. “I want to see Daniel.”

  I turn away and begin to walk back to the cart. He snakes a hand up the back of my skirt and slides it over my mound. “You want to come again, don’t you, babe? Fuck, you’re wet. Your knickers are dripping.”

  “Watching you come turns me on.”

  “Every fucking thing turns you on, Lucy.”

  I play the ball with the four iron I’d carried into the trees. On a long par five like the fourth, a fairway wood would have provided more distance, but now I’m in too much of a hurry to reach Daniel to care.

  I’m also too flustered to concentrate on my swing and I mis-hit, sending the ball scuttling down the fairway barely an inch off the ground. It pulls up seventy metres away.

  The Pro laughs and grips my shoulder. “Eye on the ball. That’s the game.”

  I say nothing. I’m typically even-tempered on the golf course, but sometimes the Pro makes me want to stab my club handle into his stomach and laugh as he writhes in pain on the grass.

  It’s only rising nerves making me this way. Though I tried to be around last Thursday when Daniel arrived to pick up his grandmother, an emergency took me to the other end of the home so I didn’t even have the solace of a glimpse of his solid silhouette to sustain me these long, frustrating days. And I’m afraid, so afraid that this will be the day he chooses to forsake me.

  For comfort, I press my fingers against my shirt, drawing solace from my starfish necklace.

  I glance at the sky. Rain has been forecast, and the firmament is overloaded with sickly clouds. The breeze has dropped to a portentous hush. I’ve lived in Harrington long enough now to know that once the heavens break, the inclement weather will remain until a wind rises to blow it east. And the winter cycle will begin again.

  I ram my four iron back into the bag and slide into the cart. On the fourth, after two shots, I’m usually only a short iron from the green and looking at a birdie or at least a par, but my distraction has cost me dearly. I will be lucky to escape the hole with a bogey.

  The Pro grins and pats my leg.

  “Only three holes to go, babe.”

  “It’s going to rain,” I say, although I know this will make no difference. The Pro is in one of his moods and wants to take his time. Given this will be our last lesson, I’m content to let him have his way.

  He cocks his head and squints at the sky as the cart rolls slowly toward my ball. “Not far off, either.”

  He returns to stari
ng at the fairway with his arms crossed over the steering wheel and his chin resting on the backs of his hands. His usually sunny countenance is suddenly as gloomy as the sky. Even his winter-sea eyes seem storm-cast, and I wonder if he’s somehow read in my face or actions the decision I’ve made about us.

  “I hate it here, you know, Luce.”

  I stare at him in astonishment. “I didn’t know.”

  “No. It’s not something I brag about.” He lets out a breath. “I’m a good teaching pro, but how many come to me for lessons? Hardly any. Just a few old ladies whose swings are so grooved they can’t change, and a solitary junior who already thinks he’s too good to take lessons from someone like me. I don’t even teach you anymore and you’re good enough to be a single figure player.” He rubs a hand over his face, made bleak with disillusionment. “I haven’t sold a set of clubs in two months. The club’s leaking members like a sieve. And as for this fucking weather!”

  I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. I haven’t realised how little my adoptive town holds for him. All he’s said is true. The golf club’s membership has been in steady decline for over five years. It’s lucky to have a resident pro. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugs and brakes the cart, stormy eyes clearing, suddenly his old sunny self once more, albeit with a strained edge. “It’s okay. I’ve had some pretty wild sex to make up for it.”

  “That’s something, I suppose.”

  “Yeah. It’s been something, all right.” He eyes my ball, assessing the lie. “You’ll need your recovery wood.”

  I step out of the cart and check the lie, then focus on the green. My bad play has left me with over two hundred metres to go, and my ball is nestled in a patch of long ryegrass. I sigh and tug my recovery wood from my bag and take my stance. As I ease the club back, the Pro tells me to stop.

  “Let’s go through your pre-shot routine again.” He slips from the cart, pulls an iron from my bag and moves to settle in front.

  I step away to stand directly behind the ball and raise my club to take sight down its shaft, my focus on the centre-left side of the fairway. The angle will give me a good lead onto the green, which is protected on the right by a deep bunker.