Sasha

This story starts out very slowly so don’t expect any sex until the second installment. Sorry. If you’re looking for a quick wank, try another story instead.

Sasha

*****

It is amazing how decisions made in a split second affect our lives, bringing money, ruin, power, fame, and sometimes love. If you're like me, you never really reflect on the motives for your actions until something you do brings good fortune beyond thought; something like the story I am about to tell you now.

This is the story of how I met Sasha.

At the time this story takes place, roughly five years ago, I was employed at an upscale country club near Atlanta, Georgia called Phaetheon, which was surrounded by million dollar mansions and claimed all kinds of celebrities as members. It was a gorgeous upscale course, obvious by the Über-rich residents, and I enjoyed my job, even if I was only a lowly caddie working part-time hours.

It was a humid Saturday and I'd had the whole week off. Just lying around all day watching TV had gotten too boring to stomach another day full of it. For some reason I just felt like golfing that day, and working at a golf course has its perks. Through much bribery and cajoling, I managed to convince my friends in the Pro-shop to get me good tee time that evening, about five o'clock.

I'd played the first six holes pretty well (one over par), and, before continuing with my round, stopped at a bathroom on the course to piss. It didn't take long to finish up, zip myself up, and wash up, but before I could reach for the doorknob, it suddenly opened, smashing into my kneecap.

"FUCK!" I yelled, grabbing at my leg in pain and falling to the ground.

"Oh shit, oh shit they're right behind me what am I gonna do it wasn't my fault I was just driving goddamn Jimmy . . . " the speaker trailed off when she noticed she wasn't exactly alone.

While she had been babbling I had managed to get off the ground and take a good look at my accidental attacker.

She was about eighteen years old and incredibly beautiful, with elfin shaped facial features; her brown eyes were slightly uplifted and were a delightful contrast to a wide and sensual mouth. Her face, even if it was hidden by too much makeup, looked priceless to me.

I really don't know how long I stared. What interrupted my reverie was the sound of a petite foot being stomped and a angelic voice yelling, "Are you gonna fucking help or not?"

"All right, calm down and tell me who's after you?"

She took a deep breath. "The cops. Jimmy, he . . . he broke into some guys house and left me when the police showed up. They're looking for a girl looking just like me, and I sure as shit don't know anyone in this neighborhood."

Here is the decision I talked about in the first paragraph. What to do? Most people would have walked right out of that bathroom, leaving the police to catch that girl and never caring or thinking twice about how they could have changed it all.

Not me.

Why am I so different? Why, do you ask, would I risk being an accessory to whatever horrible crime was committed by this vixen and her 'Jimmy'?

Simple. I wasn't thinking with my brain, which normally kept me out of such situations by throwing reason in my face until I had to see reality. This time, I was thinking with my rapidly swelling, purple Man-meat pole, and didn't really care what reason was screaming at me.

"Put this on," I said, taking off my monogrammed golf shirt and handing it to her, flexing my chest muscles at every opportunity.

"Why?"

"Look, you want to go to jail or not?" I stated flatly. "It's all the same to me girlie. Your choice."

We locked eyes for a minute, and she nodded when she realized I was seriously ready to walk if she didn't obey me.

"Turn around then," she whispered, "I don't have a bra on."

I nodded and turned to face the other direction, not mentioning the fact that she was vaguely visible in the smeared vanity mirror I was now directly facing.

Satisfied that her modesty was now protected, the petite criminal pulled her shapeless Tommy Hilfiger shirt over her head, tossing it on the floor.

Holy shit!

Her breasts weren’t big by any definition of the word, not even B cups, but their teardrop shape and small, erect nipples fit that athletic frame perfectly. And the stomach? Damn. I’m a sucker for a taut stomach, and hers, with a well-defined six-pack, took the cake.

At this point I was still involved because it seemed the right thing to do, helping out a damsel in distress and all that, but a tinge of lust began to develop in my mind, along with vivid images of me sucking and licking those little kisses this little girl called breasts.

"Okay, what now?"

She'd finished with my shirt, and I shook off my tiny daydream reluctantly.

"Give me one minute," I said as I opened up the door slightly, and, after making sure nobody was around, slipped out.

I make sure to keep an extra change of clothes in my golf bag, which is a wise thing if you are at all familiar with the fast-shifting weather conditions in Georgia. Like most people, I deplore wet clothes, especially in humid temperatures; full body mildewing is never fun.

Quickly grabbing a shirt, belt, spare pair of golf shoes, and a few little ‘extras’, I hauled ass inside, hoping to be seen by as few people as possible. As soon as I shut the door, a barrage of questions greeted my return.

“Did anyone see you? Are they here yet? What took you so long? What you got? What do you have planned?” she shot each question out at me, with barely a pause between them.

I decided I’d better put a stop to this Columbo bullshit with a quickness.

"Shut up and put these on," I said as I threw her a belt, my old pair of Aididas golf shoes, and a spare Ping glove. “For the love of god tuck that shirt in! You need to look like you belong out here.”

She began to open her mouth, presumably to protest, but I cut her off with a glare, saying sternly, “And another thing, wash off that damn makeup, it makes you look like a hooker.”

Plenty of grumbles, but no real complaints as we finished getting dressed. I thought she kept glancing over at my chiseled muscles, and I know I snuck a peek or two at her body, but if we met eyes, we each looked away quickly, like guilty children. As horny as she made me, her beauty made me nervous as all hell. I wondered what kind of trouble she was in, and how severe it must be to make her rely on a total stranger for help. But no matter what, I was in it for the long haul. She was just too beautiful to waste in some jail cell.

Before we left, I threw her old clothes in a space I knew was between the roof and ceiling of the bathroom, to be disposed of later. We quickly left the bathroom, jumped into my waiting golf cart, and made our way to the next hole.

We had barely made it onto the tee box before a patrol car pulled up to the curb and two uniformed officers got out. I cautioned her to keep calm, and, while the cops made their way toward us, showed her how to properly hold a club-grip, hoping she looked enough like a golfer.

“Can I help you, officers?” I said, when they were within comfortable earshot. “Something wrong?”

They looked more like stereotypes than actual people. The first one had the build of an anemic Barney Fife, bony and deathly pale, all the while shaking with what I assume was either nervous energy or advanced Parkinson’s Disease; his partner was a great heap of guts masquerading as a man, and looked to be a real Type A bastard. You know, the type of cop that will harass you over every little detail, all the while throwing his clout in your face like he’s Eliot Ness. Suddenly a way to throw these bastards for a loop came to me. But would they be stupid enough to fall for it?

They introduced themselves as Officers Laurel and Hardinski, of the Atlanta Metropolitan Police, and explained that they were looking for a girl who was a suspect in a recent burglary.

The fat one, whom I'd secretly nicknamed Hardy, looked quickly from me to the girl on the tee, and asked, eyes crinkled suspiciously, if she was my girlfriend.

"Naw, she's work," I replied.

"Work?" he said, suspicion level increasing a few more notches. “What kind of work?”

In a bizarre act of synchronization the three of us looked up at the tee box, where the object of his questions was busy putting a golf ball on a tee while bending at the waist. Her petite, heart-shaped ass was glaring us right in the face, causing the two lawmen’s eyes to bulge uncomfortably.

I let a frown cover my face and sighed heavily. "Yeah. My boss wants me to turn her into a scratch golfer as soon as possible. I've had to spend every waking moment staring at that body in every position imaginable, with it wearing next to nothing, molding her nubile, supple figure into the proper forms . . ." I trailed off as I noticed a wistful longing in their eyes.

You could almost feel the sexual frustration vibrating off of those two goobers as they stared at Fresh Poon that was completely out of their league. Hardy, who obviously wore the pants in the relationship, shook his head until that dreamy looked faded, and then resumed the interrogation.

"You work here?" he grumbled, obviously trying to pretend that he'd been anything but in charge.

“Yes Officer. I work at the Pro-shop as a cart caddie.”

“Full time?”

“No sir, I go to school in the morning, so I can only work nights.”

The entire time we’d been talking, my “work” had been trying in vain to hit a ball off a tee. Her face was scrunched up in total concentration; her tongue mashed between front teeth and eyes slit with the effort. After fifteen consecutive misses, she finally hit a worm-burner that rolled up to the beginning of the fairway.

“Nice form honey,” I called up blithely, barely managing to dodge the club she threw in answer.

“Feisty little filly, isn’t she?” Laurel mumbled, the first time he’d even opened his mouth. His partner glared at him evilly, evidently thinking he was undermining his authority.

I nodded as I slid my Taylor Made driver out of its head cover and walked up to the tee box. I teed up a fresh Slazenger ball and made a few practice swings before letting my real swing go, the over-sized club head flowing into the golf ball smoothly, hitting the sweet spot solidly with a loud metallic ‘tink!’ One of my better drives that day, it sailed out far beyond the 150 marker, almost to the end of the fairway.

"Nice drive!" said the fat cop, with his skinny partner nodding in agreement. "Couldn't have done it better myself."

Right. All four of us knew that if it came down to it I would beat them like Grandpa used to beat the family mule, even if they played from the 150 marker on every hole. But it would have been rude to say that, so I nodded politely, picked my tee up off the ground, and left the tee box, heading back to the golf cart.

“Is there anything else you need, Officer? I’d kinda like to get back to my round if you don’t mind.”

“No, I think we have what we need. You and your lady friend enjoy the evening, and don’t worry, we’ll find who we’re looking for.”

With that, they both turned on their heels and slowly walked back to their waiting car. We watched the cops get back into the squad car and slowly pull away from the curb, waiting until I felt it was safe to continue. I motioned to the golf cart and we both got in.

“So what’s your name, anyway?” I asked as I pulled away from the tees and headed towards our golf balls.

"Look, could you just let me out here?"

"Whoa there! I just put my ass on the line for you, girlie, the least you could do is tell me your name. And besides, you can't leave."

"Why the hell not?" she said darkly, squinting her eyes harshly so they glinted with a dangerous light. "You gonna stop me?"

"If I need too, yes. Those cops may come back later, and if they do, they need to find you here, too."

She realized the rationale of my arguments, but didn’t like what they added up to nonetheless.

"You're stuck with me for a while, at least till dark. Let's try to get along, okay?" I held her gaze until she finally nodded. "Good. I'm going to ask again, what's your name?"

"Sasha. Berke.” Both sounded like they’d been ripped out of her using flaming meat hooks.

“Nice to meet you Sasha Berke, my name is Jon Coker.” I held out my hand for her to shake. When she didn’t take it, I sighed and shook my head. “Look, I’m just trying to do the right thing here. You want to hate me, fine, hate me. But since we have to be together, wouldn’t you rather at least TRY to have a good time? What do you say?” I held out my hand again.

After a moment, she nodded and took my hand. And so began the best golf game of my life.