The Education of Mrs. Whitfield

Introduction

People will tell you their stories are true. This one is. Really. It happened last fall.

I'm an assistant pro at a golf club here in Massachusetts, west of Boston. I have another job, as well -- management consultant to biotech companies in the Rt. 128/495 belt -- but my real love is golf.

Whose, in their right mind, wouldn't be?

I teach and coach in my spare time -- what little there is of it. Mostly on Saturday mornings and Sunday afternoons, and primarily middle-aged white guys with too much money and not enough skill. But, there it is.

Did I mention I was black? Unusual for a golf pro, even in this day and age. It makes some of them think -- well, who knows what? Maybe, 'How the hell did you get here...?' I get some odd looks, and it can take a bit of time to earn their respect -- usually about one stroke with my 2-iron, or some long puts from the fringe. They tend to listen more attentively to me once they see that.

Sometimes they suggest that I take on their wives or girlfriends for a lesson or two. And I swear that occasionally I catch the hint of a leer when they suggest it, but maybe that's just my imagination kicking in. Anyway, I steer away from that. We've got a woman pro at the club, for one thing; she's better at teaching women than I am. More important, there's just too much temptation wrapped up in the prospect. Too much unsaid. People would talk. I've got a reputation to maintain -- and I figure that takes about 40 percent more effort on my part because of my skin color. People talk enough; I prefer it's not about me.

But... once in a while the planet tilts a little off-axis, and I weaken and make an exception.

Elena was one such exception. She had a remarkable aptitude for learning, full of curiosity and enthusiasm. She was willing to be taught. And if I've learned nothing else in life -- whether it's teaching golf or outlining a marketing strategy for a new pharmaceutical, I've learned that most adults don't learn very easily. Too many pre-conceptions, too many defenses... too eager to show how much they know. The antithesis of kids, who soak up new things like sponges, with joy.

Elena possessed that joy, and with none of the impediments. She wanted to learn, and know, everything, and was willing to invest whatever it took. A remarkable woman, really.

And to think it almost didn't happen.

I'd managed some free time on a Sunday afternoon early last September, to play nine by myself. Just for fun. It was the perfect time. It was the quintessential New England autumn day -- sunny, high 60s, with a slight, cool breeze... the leaves not quite yet turning to red and gold, but you could sense it was coming. And there was no one on the course.

Well, almost no one.

I'd started out with nobody in sight, but, playing fairly quickly, found myself, by the third hole, behind a threesome. Two men and a woman. I didn't pay them much mind. They played along quickly enough themselves, and those moments when they periodically slowed down proved good for me, forcing me to reflect more on course strategy and the upcoming shot.

The older fellow of the two finally stopped at the fourth tee and extended the courtesy of asking me to join them. Perhaps he thought I was rushing them? But I gracefully declined. Then I appropriately slowed my game down a bit more.

While waiting on the tee boxes, or approaching the greens, I had taken brief note of the other two with him. Obviously a couple. He, about 60, tall, gray...she, much younger, maybe in her early 40s...shoulder-length dark brown hair, very fit...a generous bust. Trophy wife, I figured, and turned to other more immediate matters. Anyway, I was too far away to really tell, and wasn't paying that much attention.

I played along, enjoying the warm afternoon...the peace...the chance to play my own game, away from the 'which-club-do-I-use' and 'what-am-I-doing-wrong' questions that punctuate my second job. I played well, too, if anyone cares, and was on track to post a score in the low 30s if I didn't screw it up.

Finally, at the 8^th, a 145-yard par 3, over a brush-filled gulley, I caught up to the three of them at the tee. Perhaps I had begun to play too quickly again. As I came up to the tee box, they were still taking practice swings. The older fellow came over to me.

"You sure you wouldn't like to join us?"

To say no a second time would have been rude.

"Of course," I answered quickly. "With pleasure." My vague plan was to play only a couple more holes, anyway, so if joining them was too painful, I could gracefully walk away after we holed out on the 9^th.

The two men had already hit their tee shots, so I grabbed my pitching wedge, set up rather hurriedly, and swung. It sailed high and straight, arcing toward the center of the green. But I'd been a little too anxious, not relaxed, and it had too much heat on it. It bounced hard at the front of the green, and rolled across it, up the incline on the back side, and came to rest in the thick rough on the hillside, about four feet past the fringe. It would be a tough come-back shot, with a green that sloped back to front to make it even more difficult. Ugh.

"Not bad," said Old Man.

"You hammered it," said Husband, though whether as compliment or conciliation was hard to say. His wife smiled appreciatively, but said nothing. I had the distinct impression that she had watched my whole set-up, shot, and finish, very, very carefully.

We got in our carts and drove 20 yards down the hill to the red markers, for her tee-shot. As she set up, she turned and looked at me and, with a big grin, admonished, "Now, absolutely no laughing!"

"Me -- laugh?" I replied. "Believe me, I've played far too much golf in my life to ever laugh at anyone for anything." I smiled in return.

She smiled again, more broadly. "Okay -- but you have to promise," she added.

Where did that come from? Are we flirting? I took a closer look at her.

Maybe 43 or 44, would be my guess. Shoulder-length brown hair, pulled back and held with a gold barrette. A somewhat angular face -- striking, really, now that I bothered to look -- with high cheekbones, a straight, fine nose, large, bright brown eyes.... Definitely Slavic origins, I thought.

"I promise. I swear." What was I promising and swearing to? Not to laugh?

And I detected the whisper of an accent, though I couldn't place it exactly. Eastern European would have been my first guess. Polish? Czech? Maybe even Georgian. Hard to say. I continued my appraisal as she set up for her swing.

Possibly 5'5" if I were guessing. Shapely, too. Generous breasts under a snug but thin, pink polo shirt -- I could clearly see the outlines of her bra beneath it.

A narrow waist, and long legs, for her height, shown off by a short blue golf skirt -- and legs not just tanned, but with nicely defined muscles. Not muscular, just... in great shape. A woman who took care of herself. I watched more attentively.

She studied the green for a moment, then addressed the ball. Her swing was slow and even, showing a thoughtfulness that indicated some prior coaching.

Unfortunately, she hit it a bit thin, and while it flew straight, it fetched up short of the green, about two feet below the fringe, on an awkward uphill lie. She sighed as she stood for a second studying it, then turned -- not to either hubby, or the older man, but to me.

"Remember, now -- no laughing!" She grinned and blushed.

"A fine shot, just a bit thin. Easy second shot," I replied, supportively. � � � � � � � � � � � � � But as I said it, it took everything I had to tear my gaze away from her firm body. She was posing, like an ad from a golf magazine -- club dangling in hand, sinking sun backlighting her amidst the greens and golds of a perfect September afternoon.

And I couldn't help but notice how fiercely her nipples poked out through the cups of her bra and the thin pink blouse.

I decided, at that moment, to take her under my wing -- to teach her the game, as it were.

Chapter 1

Of course, how, precisely, to make that happen? We were simply playing a casual round of golf and I had been courteously asked to join their group. Within a few holes, this idyllic moment would be past...forgotten by all -- except, perhaps, by her and me. I determined not to let that happen.

"Do you play here often?" I asked the group. God, how lame. Of course, only I knew it was a pick-up line. Maybe she did, too, by the way she continued to look at me.

"Yes," she answered readily. Then her husband jumped in, picking up on the undercurrent. "We have a group we play with regularly, yes," he added -- somewhat stiffly.

Bit of a tight-ass, I thought.

"It's just that I haven't seen you here before," I answered.

"Do you play here often yourself?" he asked.

"I teach here."

Ms. Pink Blouse with Stiff Nipples looked at me studiously. "You teach here?"

Like I said, not many black golf instructors around. But maybe I was being overly sensitive. She sounded quite interested, now that I thought about it.

"I do. Weekends -- and summer evenings when I can get here in time. I have another, full-time gig. Not as much fun as this, though."

Tight-ass looked me over, appraisingly, skeptically... trying to decide what, exactly, to make of me. The struggle to pigeon-hole me played across his face.

Goodness, this would be fun with his wife.

Finally he relaxed a bit. "It does sound like fun," he admitted, a little grudgingly, it seemed. He looked at his wife. "You take lessons with the assistant pro, Kenny, right, honey? How is he?"

"Oh, he's okay," she admitted. "Not very much fun, though. I guess I'm learning something." She looked at me. "He never mentioned you, though," she added, her eyes twinkling.

She looked at hubby, who asked her, "Did he ever mention -- what's your name?"

"Bruce. Bruce Davis."

"Kenny never mentioned Bruce, honey," she said firmly. "I wonder why. He looks like a LOT more fun." She giggled. "Maybe that's why! Kenny would lose all his women students!" She giggled again. Hubby smiled thinly.

I realized by her comments that I wasn't going to have to work hard at this, after all. I looked at her. "So, you take regular lessons? When?"

"Tuesday evenings at 6:00. Usually until it gets too dark to play. We're supposed to push it back to 5:00 now that the days are getting shorter."

"Are you happy with Kenny?" It was against the unwritten rules to ask this, but I had no intention of letting this opportunity slip away.

"Well..." She posed there in the slanting light, the club dangling over her left shoulder, she pursing -- pouting? -- her lips. "He's a bit... It isn't much fun, to be honest. He doesn't seem to have much of a sense of humor."

"It's a golf lesson, honey, not a comedy act," her husband interjected.

I laughed. "Well, it IS supposed to be fun. Otherwise, what's the point?" I paused for a second, careful to phrase this the right way so I didn't make an enemy of the dour Kenneth G. Driscoll, Head Pro. The man who held my part-time teaching career in his hands. "Maybe you just need a bit of a change. I'd be happy to help. Sometimes a contrast among instructors actually makes sense for some students."

Man, was I winging it.

"Maybe," I continued, "depending on your schedule, you could fit in a second evening during the week, for an hour or so. I'm normally here on Wednesdays and Thursdays. If you like, of course."

I held my breath and looked at her. Hubby, too. Then back to her. I swear to God her nipples were even more pronounced than before.

"Do you really need --" her husband started, but before he could finish, she had already confirmed. "That sounds good!" she said. "I could use some more help, don't you think, sweetheart? I mean, you DO always say that you want me to 'up' my game, whatever that means, and that you think I have the talent for it. Right, honey? Honey? "

She was pushing all his buttons, and knew it -- and taking great delight in it. I could feel my cock beginning to harden.

You could tell Grumpy wasn't happy, and that he'd already lost. To say 'no' would have been bad form, and I suspected that she probably got just about everything she asked for from him. These May-December weddings usually played out that way. No one like her was ever going to orbit around his planet as closely again, and he knew it.

"Thursdays are probably good for you, right, Elena?" he asked. Elena. Accent on the first syllable. Pretty.

"Thursdays are great," she answered quickly. "I can rearrange the yoga. It's really, really boring, anyway." She giggled as she looked at me.

I tried to be as neutral in my reply as possible. "Great. Thursdays it is. Say, for six weeks? Five PM, for an hour?" I pretended to do some calculations in my head for a second. "It's the end of the season, so I'll knock my hourly rate down by 25 percent. Say, $75 per lesson? Does that work for you?" They didn't know I would have paid them to teach the course I intended.

She just smiled. The older man just watched, listened, and smiled, and smiled. He had the score.

Grumpy looked like he'd eaten a bug. He even started kicking his toe into the ground like a little kid. Finally he struggled out with, "Yes, I guess that sounds fine," Obviously some deep, deep psychic pain going on there.

"Good, then," I added, unnecessarily. I smiled too, and broadly -- but inside. Only inside. Outside, I was the picture of professionalism. � � � � � � � � � � � � �

But training -- sorry, teaching, Elena would be exquisite. I knew it. She had already begun to figure it out. And hubby, I'm sure, was in no doubt whatsoever. He knew he was incapable of halting the inevitable.

I shot another look at my new protégé. Her smile, beamed directly at me, shone brighter than the early autumn sun.

.

Chapter 2

Elena. EL-ena. Elen-AHH... I found it hard to concentrate in the office that week. Hurry on, Thursday!

Fortunately, the time, as agonizing as it was, allowed me to map out a lesson plan. What a plan it was, too, if I say so myself. If I set this up the right way, I thought, and don't rush things, the lessons would pay enormous dividends.

Thursday afternoon finally crawled into view. I dressed casually, but carefully, in my best gray light wool slacks and a maroon polo shirt chosen specifically because it showed off my physique. I spent a lot of time working out, and I wanted her to notice. The question was, which I turned over deliciously in my mind every day leading up to her lesson was, what would she be wearing? It would give me some indication of where she thought this might be going. Maybe I was going to be reading too much into that -- but, maybe not.

She walked into the pro shop, where I'd ask her to meet me, at 4:45. She did not disappoint. Her smile lit the place up, dazzling not only me, but Tony behind the register, and two geezers trying out pitching wedges. It took all my conscious effort to keep my eyes focused on hers, and not to let them roam up and down her wonderfully fit and tanned body.

She had, within the bounds of golf modesty, dressed to impress. She wore a snug, white Ralph Lauren polo that was just the tiniest bit too tight across her bust -- a fact I'm sure she was more than aware of. And, thank God, she had opted for a skirt. Not shorts, not a 'skort' (yuck), but a genuine, tan cotton skirt at least 4 or 5 inches above her knees, which showed off her slim and muscular legs to great effect. A pair of black Wayfarer sunglasses rested on her head, more adornment than practicality, I guessed.

"Hi. I'm not late, am I?" she said by way of introduction, blushing slightly.

Now it was my turn to blush, considering the thoughts I'd been having -- though it didn't show up so much on my face.

"Not at all... It's good to see you. Your timing is perfect. Are you ready to play some golf?"

It sounded lame even to me.

"I've been looking forward to this all week," she replied quickly, with another smile, which got my heart beating faster. "My husband said he couldn't believe how interested I've become in golf recently."� � � � � � � � � � � � �

I laughed. "That's good... 'cuz willingness is one step away from excellence. Or, something like that. Shall we get started? Are your clubs outside? Golf balls? Do you have a bottle of water? A scorecard? Pencil? Let's get a cart."

I was babbling. Not surprising, considering how hard I had gotten just looking at her. My cock was straining against my white silk bikini briefs.

The feeling was mutual, because it was impossible not to notice her stiffening nipples, obvious through the white polo shirt. I noticed that even Tony, current reported age of 81, was leering.

So, off we went. I grabbed her clubs from the rack outside, strapped them onto the cart next to mine, and pointed us toward to the first tee on the Lakeside course. I'd chosen Lakeside deliberately because it was less frequented and more private. This was, after all, a 'private' lesson. I smiled at my own joke.

"No boring practice on the range?" she asked me with a teasing smile as I pointed the cart toward the course.

"No...I figured you'd probably get more out of a 'playing lesson' -- and have more fun, too."

"Yes, fun..." she replied thoughtfully. "That's what's been missing from this game! I'm glad I found you," she added.

I got even harder. "Me, too."

Big smile.

"What's the lesson today, coach?" she asked with a grin.

"Well, first we're going to see how you swing the clubs...then we'll deconstruct some of the different elements and work on each one -- grip, posture, backswing... Okay?"

"Yes, Sir!"

I was beginning to love this girl.

We pulled up to the 1^st tee. There was no one around, but I knew, despite my planning, that it could have been possible to get a few late-day duffers without any warning. That wouldn't work for my 'lesson plan.' So I suggested to Elena that we start on the fourth tee. I explained that we wouldn't be pushed from behind by other golfers. I told her that it looked over the lake (i.e., "Lakeside"). What I didn't tell her is that you couldn't see it from either the third fairway and green, or from anywhere on the fifth hole. It was perfect.

"We won't get interrupted," I explained. She agreed readily, so we jumped back into the cart and drove for three or four minutes to the 4^th tee box. I knew that there wasn't anyone on the course this afternoon. Just as I'd worked it out. Perfect.

"Grab a club -- any club -- your favorite club," I told her. "I just want to see how you swing it."

She pulled a 7-iron out of her bag and walked up a few short steps to the tee box. I couldn't help but admire the muscles rippling in her calves and the way the short skirt rode up on her firm thighs. She turned to look back at me with a twinkle in her eye. "Just swing away?"

"Yep, just swing away."

I watched her hit 10 or 12 balls without saying anything. Most of them went straight and about 100 yards long. A few went astray, which gave me my opening. "How does that feel?" I finally asked.

"My swing? Okay I guess. It's a little intimidating having you watch me, to be honest, so that's probably not helping. How am I doing?"

"Great... you have a nice swing, but I think there's a few things we could work on to make it better." She had pivoted around to look at me when she spoke, clutching the club over her shoulder, her firm breasts in profile. Her skirt had hitched up a bit, and she made no motion to pull it down. Her shiny brown hair swung back and forth as she looked first at me, then back down the fairway. I walked up the three short steps to where she stood, and across the tee box to face her as she addressed the ball.