tagErotic CouplingsDrive for Show, Putt for Dough

Drive for Show, Putt for Dough


"Can you tune it to ESPN2?" the cute blonde asked as she downed the last of her thick frothy pint. "And another Guinness, please."

The sports bar I run in Bend was nearly empty on this Sunday night. The summer tourist season here in Central Oregon was winding down, snowbirds already flying south in their Winnebagos and kids long ago back at school. The mountains had received a dusting or two of snow, but we were locked in the dreaded fall shoulder season, business slowing to a crawl.

Kylie, the aforementioned cute blonde frequented the bar throughout the summer. On occasion, we had struck up friendly bartender-patron banter, mainly centered on making fun of the tourists. Beyond her smoking hot body and too cute smile, I didn't really know much about her. She was in her early twenties, recently graduated from college, but I had no clue what she did for a living. I had a hard time keeping my eyes off her; she had a Scandinavian freshness and a Swedish Bikini Team body.

"What's on the Deuce?" I asked as I switched the satellite, my expectations low. "World's strongest man or the national lumberjack finals?"

"Ha, ha," Kylie chuckled, a slight edge to her voice as she answered. "The LPGA golf tournament from Hawaii is this evening."

"Uh, uh – no way!" I squawked, shaking my head back and forth. "This is a sports bar. No dog shows. No figure skating. No WNBA. And especially no LPGA!!"

"You're such a pig, Tim," Kylie snorted, her pouty lips curled in mock derision, her misty blue eyes rolling in her head. "Those ladies are better athletes than you could ever hope to be!"

"That Brit sportscaster was right when he said chick golfers can't hit the ball cause their sweater meats get in the way. I'm all for women in sports, as long as the sport includes women naked, on their backs, their legs spread, and me directing all the action!" I howled, straining to keep a straight face.

"Correction. A world class fucking pig!" Kylie retorted, shaking her head in disgust. "LPGA players would kick your ass around the links."

"Bullshit!" I coughed, getting heated as I poured another draft for my female antagonist.

I was a decathlete in college, even participating in the NCAA championships my senior year. Now in my mid-thirties, my golf game was an on-again, off-again struggle, but I carried a respectable eight handicap and figured I could hold my own against those golfing lesbians, especially from the men's tees. Being an ex-jock, I can hit the ball a mile, although I admit my short game is horrible.

"You wanna put your money where your big mouth is?" Kylie challenged, a mischievous look sparkling in her eyes.

"Those carpet munchers couldn't sniff my jock!" I bragged, not at all sure what the hell that outburst of bravado even meant, but determined to brow beat Kylie into submission.

"OK big guy," Kylie replied, not backing down. "You and me, tomorrow at Graeagle Golf Club, 8 am, first tee. I won't be sniffing your jock but I sure as hell will be kicking your sorry ass around the course."

I didn't know Kylie actually played golf. I assumed she was just sticking up for female athletes in general - a card-carrying feminist. I had seen her around town in Graeagle gear, that elitist logo plastered on her shirts and visors, but I assumed her old man was bankrolling her wardrobe. I figured her for a country club brat, lounging by the pool or relentlessly teasing her tennis pro. No way her knockout figure was the result of long hours spent beating golf balls on the driving range.

Pretty sure it was just the beer in her talking, I took the high road, "Lucky for you the course is closed on Mondays. Besides, the weather is turning too cold to play golf."

"Chickenshit!" she balked. "I have a Monday pass, courtesy of my brother, the club's caddie master. Wear long johns if you're scared your little stones are gonna shrivel up." Hesitating briefly, she added mockingly, "If you have any balls, that is."

I was slowly losing patience with Kylie. All summer I had secretly dreamed of playing around with the tight bodied little hottie, often fantasizing about her as I lay in bed beating my meat at night. But now she literally wanted to play a round, a round of golf. Absent the opportunity to take her over my knee and teach her a lesson, I could figuratively accomplish the same feat by annihilating her on the course. As an added bonus, I would get four plus hours alone with her, more than enough chance to work my special charms.

"You're on!" I barked. "And bring your pocket book, cause I'm gonna take everything you've got." Never one to let a sleeping dog lie, I added, "You better get plenty of beauty sleep tonight, cause it ain't gonna be a pretty sight on the eighteenth green come tomorrow."

Kylie slammed the remainder of her brew and turning to leave, hissed over her shoulder, "8 am sharp. Better bring your A-game, Timmy boy."

As she sauntered toward the door, I couldn't help staring at her fantastic ass, thinly veiled by her short tennis skirt as it swayed enticingly above her long, athletic legs. Damn, I thought, why couldn't I control my chauvinistic ways? Yea, I'd love to see her smiling face early in the morning, preferably waking up in my big waterbed after a night of sensational sex.

The next morning dawned cool and crisp, overcast but only a slight westerly breeze. I awoke with my usual visit from Mr. Morning Wood, visions of Kylie's sexy ass swinging provocatively in my still dreamy mind. As I lay in bed, slowly stroking my stiff cock, I replayed Kylie's challenge from the night before. So how good a golfer was she? How much money should we play for? What would she be wearing?

I dressed warmly, a thick wool sweater but no cap, more worried about spoiling my well coiffed do than keeping my head warm. On the way to the course, I stopped at a local driving range to hit a small bucket. I knew the course would be closed for maintenance on Monday and we would likely be the only golfers.

As I pulled up the long driveway at Graeagle, the place seemed deserted - no employees, no maintenance workers, and no cars in the parking lot save for Kylie's green Jeep.

Carrying my clubs to the first tee, I spotted Kylie warming up on the practice green. She was dressed with brilliant British Open flair; a pair of loose fitting plaid slacks, a white turtleneck and a red cashmere sweater. She wore a fleece stocking cap and a pair of Oakley sunglasses, the spitting image of a young LPGA tour player. As I watched her roll six footers straight into the middle of the cup, the first pangs of self doubt encroached on my psyche.

"Nice to see you didn't chicken out," Kylie giggled as she approached the first tee, her breath visible in the cool morning air. "Are your little testicles warm enough?"

Ignoring her bait, I asked, "So where is everybody? The club looks like a ghost town." She looked like a pro in her conservative golf gear, unfortunately her killer body was camouflaged under all those layers.

"Graeagle had its big end of the season tournament yesterday," she replied. "As of today, the course is officially closed for the winter so the Club Manager gave everyone, even the maintenance crew the day off. It's just you and me, Timmy."

I was growing weary of the Timmy taunting, but I refused to let it bother me. "So what are the stakes?"

"I thought this was the Battle of the Sexes," she replied, "The victor holding the unprecedented title of superior athlete."

"Nice try!" I sarcastically spat. "How about $20 bucks a whole, automatic double-down presses, and assorted junk; you know birdies, eagles, greenies, sandies, etc?"

"Well, uhhh," Kylie stammered, "I don't really have much money right now. Could we maybe play for something else? Maybe some kinda barter deal?"

"What do you have in mind?" I enquired, disgusted that I wouldn't be padding my wallet, but intrigued by her willingness to trade favors.

"How about for every hole I win, free beer for a night at your bar?" she began. "And if I shoot a lower gross score, LPGA golf on the satellite, 24 and 7?"

Given she didn't have a snowballs chance in hell of beating me, I was more than happy to agree with her terms. "Yea, that will work. But I was really expecting to make a little cash today…"

Kylie cut me off, "Stop your fucking whining. I see that lecherous look in your eyes and I've noticed you drooling over my ass in your bar. Every hole you win, I strip off a piece of clothing. Call it Strip Golf. Trust me, I don't have 18 garments on today. You win and your prize is me playing golf au naturale."

Doing some quick math, with birdies, greenies and all the other assorted side-bets tossed in, I should have her stripped bare by the turn. My mind was spinning thinking about the additional wagers I could invent on the back nine. This was going to be fun.

"You're on," I said, offering my hand to shake. "But you play the same tees as me. And we play all 18 holes. I shoot the lowest gross score and you owe me a nice dinner." I bit my tongue to keep from adding 'and a steamy fuck.'

The first hole is a short dogleg left and I blasted my drive over the corner, leaving only a short pitch to the green. Kylie's swing was impressive. She drove the ball straight down the fairway, hitting the green with her approach before snaking a 20-foot birdie putt past on the left lip, tapping in for par. I hit my pitch to two feet and calmly rolled in my birdie.

"Loser's choice," I joked as we walked off the green. "Just remember, it's two items, one for the hole and one for the birdie."

"No shit, pig fucker," Kylie hissed as she untied her shoes and removed each of her socks before putting her shoes back on. "Sorry, no skin for you yet."

The next hole was a long par 5 and I made another birdie, winning the hole again. Kylie had a rough time, taking a double bogey, although she did pick up a night of free beers, getting up and down from the greenside bunker.

"Two more," I chuckled, ridiculously overconfident in my birdie-birdie start. "So are you gonna take off your panties and put your slacks back on?"

Without a word, Kylie took off her sweater and to my surprise, her turtleneck, exposing her lacy bra covered breasts to the cool morning air, her nipples stiff against the rising breeze. Dropping her sweater and shirt on the green, she picked up her bag and headed to the next hole. This girl had some real spunk.

Arriving on the next tee, I wondered aloud, "So what about your stocking cap and your sunglasses?" sure she had forgotten about those strippable garments in her agony over losing the second consecutive hole.

"Trust me, they will be the last to go," she replied. "Growing up in Sweden, my Daddy always said a warm head was the most important thing in winter. And my glasses are prescription. I don't like wearing contacts on the golf course."

I could handle a little warm head, I chuckled to myself, my stare drawn to her bare belly and lacy bra, goose bumps forming on her exposed skin. Her abs were ripped, probably the result of hours in the gym. Her body still maintained her summer tan and the white lace bra contrasted beautifully with her dark skin, her long blonde, almost white hair reaching midway down her sculpted back.

Her bra was cut low in the front, clearly lower than her summer swimsuit, the pronounced tan line between exposed skin and milky white breast very clear. Her dark nipples were evident through the thin white lace, small in diameter but protruding noticeably in the cool morning air.

"Your up," she barked, announcing that I still held the honor on the tee.

In more ways than one I thought, feeling my dick stir. The third hole was a pretty little par three with a lake in front of the green. Still distracted by Kylie's semi-nudity, I chili-dipped my seven iron straight into the hazard.

Kylie knocked her approach stiff and sank the putt for a birdie.

"Three more nights of free drinks," she announced. "Greenie, birdie, and a skin."

"No shit," I muttered, disgusted with my bogey as I trudged to the next tee.

My game settled into its normal funk, spraying balls left and right. Kylie was a machine. She hit fairways and greens, her putting lights out. Her bare torso was doing more to distract me than to hinder her game. She won several more free beer nights with her amazing short game and closed our overall match to square standing on seven tee.

"You still cold, Timmy?" she mocked, "Bet your balls are feeling a little squeezed about now. A half naked girl is whipping your butt."

"Screw you," I spat, my frustration showing. "It's not that cold out here. Hell, I could beat you in my boxers, barefoot, playing on one leg."

"Forget about the one leg thing," she laughed. "But I'll take you up on the stripping part. It's only fair that if I have to strip, so do you."

I started to argue, but realized it would only sound like whining. Besides at this rate she was going to drink me into bankruptcy with all the free beer. "OK," I reluctantly agreed, "Strip golf it is."

Kylie parred seven to my bogey and off came my sweater. As I studied my watch, anything to take my mind off my progressively worsening golf, Kylie smartly asked, "What time is it Timmy? Quitting time?"

Reaching into my bag and pulling out a can of beer, I responded, "It's Miller time. You are in deep shit now."

A 9:30 am beer - just what the doctor ordered to help my nerves. If I could just win another hole and get those damn plaid pants off Ms. Golf Pro, I felt certain my luck would change.

Unbelievably, she birdied eight, making a sixty-foot bomb and I was down two more items of clothing. Taking Kylie's earlier lead, I stripped off my socks and put my golf shoes back on my bare feet.

I chipped in on nine for a birdie, but Kylie matched me with a fifteen-footer.

"Shit," I exclaimed. "You're a fucking sandbagger!"

"I play a little golf," she smiled, flashing her brilliant white teeth. "Number one on the University golf team my senior year."

Adding up the scorecard, she was two strokes up with nine to play. As I stripped my golf shirt off, paying for Kylie's birdie, I licked my lips in anticipation of her yanking off those horrid plaid pants.

"You work out a little, huh Timmy?" Kylie laughed, giving me a ghost punch to the midsection.

"Yea," I said proudly, the cool breeze causing me to shiver uncontrollably. "Speaking of work and out, let's see you work your little ass out of those golf slacks."

Without a word, Kylie unzipped her pants and dropped them on the fringe. She wore a pair of white lace panties that matched her bra – a pair of those Victoria Secret's briefs, her butt cheeks peeking out from beneath the high-cut frilly underwear. The white lace made a v in front, dipping low to expose her flat tummy, an arrow seemingly pointing to her pot of honey.

Leaving her pants, she picked up her bag and headed to the 10th tee, a sight to see in her bra, panties, golf shoes, stocking cap and sunglasses. She had to be freezing, but she gave no sign of discomfort – a model of professional concentration. My eyes glued to her firm ass, I pinched my hardening member through my trousers, thoughts of golf rapidly giving way to more lustful pursuits.

Kylie's par on ten won the hole and I played number eleven with only one golf shoe.

"You can't play in one shoe," she teased as I bogeyed eleven to lose the other shoe, now four strokes down with only seven to play.

Playing barefoot, I rallied with a par on twelve. But on thirteen, I three-putted from ten feet and Kylie made a twenty foot par putt; down five and quite literally losing my pants.

As I stood in my boxers on the fourteenth tee, watching Kylie bend over to tee her ball, a serious tent was forming in my shorts.

"Are you hiding an illegal fifteenth club down your drawers or are you just happy to see me?" Kylie joked.

All but ready to throw in the towel, I surprised myself with a par on the hole, playing within myself and making a solid ten footer. Kylie had some tree troubles and walked off with a double bogey.

Three strokes down with four holes to play I thought, coming off the green. The big mystery now, would Kylie ignore her own advice and lose a shoe or would she forgo her bra, finally affording me an unobstructed view of those tantalizing breasts.

Astonishingly, Kylie whipped off her lace panties and threw them at me, "Here you go perve, have a nice whiff." She stalked off toward the fifteenth tee, her bare ass daring me to follow.

As she disappeared over a hill, I took her advice, bringing her panties to my nose and inhaling deeply. The sweet smell of her box made my dick stir further.

Catching up on the next tee box, I had to ask, "Not that I'm complaining, but why the panties?"

"Can't let my big 'sweater meats' interfere with my golf swing," she replied, throwing my comment from the night before back at me.

I smoked a drive on fifteen, splitting the fairway and stood back to watch the now bottom-less Kylie hit her shot. As she bent to tee her ball, her butt was fully exposed, her cute little brown eye winking at me. Assuming her address position, her back slightly arched, the perfect heart shape of her rear swayed provocatively not five feet from me. As she waggled her club, the twitch of her ass tempted me further, now completely powerless to tame the pipe hardening in my shorts.

As we walked down the fairway, I tried to concentrate on my game and keep my eyes off her cherry ass. As she set-up for her second shot, I stood facing her, my first unobstructed view of her bare twat. She was a natural blonde, a tuft of fine hair growing between her legs. As she leaned over addressing the ball, I was afforded a stunning view of her cleavage, her breasts forming a perfect valley, just inviting a strapping lad like myself to fuck her tits raw.

Her second shot found the green, the pressure back on me. I hit a respectable approach to about 20 feet, just outside of Kylie. Walking toward the green, I repeatedly adjusted my woody, half trying to hide and half trying to stroke my out of control appendage.

"You wanna go double or nothing on these putts?" Kylie asked, a wicked gleam in her eye.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Birdie obviously wins the hole, but if my math is right you are three strokes down. You make birdie and I miss, I take a double and the match is even. And yes, I still strip."

"I like that," I replied. "But what if you win."

A mischievous lilt to her voice, Kylie continued, "You miss and I make, you strip naked and take care of that ridiculous lump in your shorts."

"I what?" I stammered. "You want me to jack-off? Right here? In front of you?"

"Yea, that thing is distracting enough with your boxers on. I don't think I could play the last three holes staring at your boner in all its glory," she giggled.

I was beginning to like Kylie more and more; she had a definite kinky side. Besides, staring at her bare ass and glistening crotch had me mentally beating off already.

"You're on," I announced as I studied my birdie putt from every conceivable angle. Bending to take my practice stroke, my boner created a bothersome obstacle.

"Can't figure out which shaft to grip?" Kylie ribbed, nonchalantly standing next to her eighteen-foot putt, her near nudity relentlessly teasing my poor cock and making it damn near impossible to concentrate.

Considering the distractions, I made a solid stroke but the ball died on the low side of the hole, lipping out.

"Fuck!" I screamed.

"Hold that thought," Kylie smiled, a look of satisfaction already spreading across her pretty face.

She calmly rolled her putt in the heart, "Show time, cowboy. Let's see what you got."

Suddenly embarrassed, I slowly peeled off my boxers, my prick springing to full attention in the thankfully warming sun.

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