Chapter 1

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Slow, School, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - He was a longtime caddie with a fresh college degree and no job prospects. She was a newly minted pro golfer: big, strong, talented and rich. She was going to try to earn her tour card on the women's satellite tour. She needed an RV driver, a caddie and an all-purpose factotum. Maybe they could invade the Futures Tour as a team.



OK, so I was a college senior, about to graduate, and I was still caddying at the local country club. Not a very high-falutin' job for someone only millimeters away from an honors A.B. degree, about to confront the infamous Job Market.

But, hey, caddying -- at least at Brookdale Country Club, is a reasonably high-paying job. The flat rate for a round maybe isn't anything to write home about, but folks at Brookdale are not members of that club only because it's got the two best golf courses in North Carolina that are not named "Pinehurst."

No, they're members because they've got the extremely large amounts of excess cash necessary to become members. And so, most of them (not all, God knows, but most of them) tip the caddies awfully generously.

I'm well-known around Brookdale. I'm a local boy. Well, I sorta am. My folks live in Raleigh, about 40 miles from here. But I've been a caddie, at Brookdale, ever since high school. This is my eighth year working there, weekends. And, since becoming a college student and living closer, I've been there several afternoons most weeks, as well. Brookdale provides employment almost the whole year 'round in our mild North Carolina climate.

By now, I pretty much know my way around the place. The caddie master, Rob Kendricks (unlike many people who hold his position at other clubs), is a square-shooter who doesn't cheat the caddies and who has friendly, professional relations with all the young men and women who work for him. Rob takes no bribes, plays no favorites, fucks nobody over.

I get asked for, by name, to caddie for a whole lot of the members, men and women alike, and I go -- willingly and cheerfully -- with any member who asks, no matter how poor a reputation that member may have for being a lousy player, or a lousy tipper, or even both. I figure it's all part of Life's Rich Pageant.

The caddie's share of the flat rate for 18 holes isn't that much, but it's the rate I figure I've agreed to take, in order to work at the club. If the person who hires me decides to stiff me at the end of the round, or if he/she gives me an insultingly small tip, I just doff my cap, give him or her a big smile, and wait until next time.

I'm not a golfer myself -- at least, not a serious one. I learned the game from my dad on a nine-hole public course in Raleigh that is a genuine slum compared to Brookdale. The grass in the first cut on Brookdale's fairways is far superior to the putting greens at my "home" course.

But I learned the game and, despite not being a particularly good player, I learned to love golf, too.

If needed, and asked for, I can provide, after eight years caddying, some pretty damned good advice about club selection, course peculiarities, and any other arcane issue that might arise in the course of somebody's trying to break 90 on Brookdale's troublesome Course Two.

There's a little old lady -- Laura Hoop -- who still plays occasionally with three other women. Mrs. Hoop always asks for me by name. I know Rob Kendricks hesitates to repeatedly tag me with rounds with her, because he knows Mrs. Hoop is a terrible tipper, and that her play is so slow it's likely to be the only round I can get in for the entire day -- even on a weekend.

But Rob is only human. He also knows that, unlike a lot of the other caddies, I won't give him a lot of grief for having assigned me to old Mrs. Hoop. So if I'm available when she shows up, she gets yours truly -- Smiling Young Will Everett -- just as she (always) asks.

Several times, though, the other women in her threesome have had mercy on me and have slipped me $10 or even $20 bills after their round -- covert extra compensation for the single dollar that Mrs. Hoop apparently still thinks is perfectly adequate -- just as it had been, back in 1957, when she played her first round at Brookdale.

"How much did she give you?" Rob always asks when the round is, finally, completed and I'm back at the caddie shack.

"A dollar," I always answer -- truthfully enough. Mrs. Hoop really did give me only a dollar. If the other women, between them, have slipped me twenty, or even more, well, that's not what Rob asked me about. Let him feel guilty. Let him admire me for my even temperament.


Well, Mrs. Hoop may be an out-of-date tipper, but she knew a good caddie when she saw one, and it turned out that once again, word-of-mouth was going to work in my favor.

It was a Sunday morning -- very early. The dew was still heavy on the Number Two course, and most of the regulars wouldn't be around for at least two more hours.

I was one of only three caddies waiting around, that early, for work.

"Will! 'Got one for you." It was the caddie master, Rob Kendricks.

"Hey," Buster Franklin, another waiting caddie, protested. "I'm next up!"

"So you are," Rob agreed, "but this player wants Will. She asked for him by name." In Rob's operation, member preferences, if they could be accommodated, outranked seniority and any other factor in determining assignments.

"Who is it?" I asked, figuring it would be one of my regulars.

"It's Tess Henderson," Rob said. "She just may be the best woman golfer you've ever seen!"

"I think I've heard of her," I said, "but I don't know her. How'd she hear about me?"

"'Ton 'a Tits Tess' Henderson is Laura Hoop's granddaughter," Rob said. "Tess told me that her grandmother said you were the best caddie there was."

"'Ton 'a Tits?' What kind of nickname is that? It's not like you, Rob, to speak so disparagingly of a member!"

"It's not disparagement, College Boy," Rob said, smiling. "It's the girl's regular nickname. Just about everybody calls her that. Not to her face, maybe, but I suspect she's well-aware of the name. When you see her, you'll see why."

"Who's with her?" Buster Franklin wanted to know. "Doesn't her partner need a caddie?"

"No partner," Rob said. "Tess is on the varsity golf team at UVA. She's going to play a practice round -- maybe two. That's why she's starting so early."

I hustled out the the first tee and found Tess Henderson standing just off the tee, alone, taking practice swings with a three wood.

"Will Everett," I said. "I'm your caddie."

"Good to meet you, Will," she said, smiling and holding out her hand for me to shake.

I worked hard at looking her in the eye. She was as tall as my 5' 10" -- or very nearly, and she was big. I don't mean fat. Tess was by no means fat.

But, Jesus God! She was big. She no doubt outweighed me -- I'm a slight 155-pounder. She had big arms and big legs and it was clear that they didn't call her "Ton 'a tits" in the way that big guys are sometimes jokingly called "Tiny."

Tess' tits weren't tiny. They weren't medium-sized either. My thoughts immediately strayed to that professional golf commentator from a few years back -- what was his name? The British guy? The one who speculated about female golfers' problems with swinging their clubs despite being large-breasted.

He had been drummed out of the announcer corps for his sexism. But, still. One did have to wonder what Tess did with those enormous boobs, when she was driving the ball.

I guessed I would find out, soon enough.

"I understand you're on the varsity at UVA," I said, by way of opening a dialogue with Tess Henderson.

"Yes. But I'm about to graduate. We've already played our last tournament."

"Rob -- the caddie master -- said you wanted to have a practice round. Are you going to keep playing competitively?"

"I hope to qualify for the LPGA tour," she said.

"Wow. Well, let's go for it."

Tess teed it up and drove the Par Four first hole straight and true. It was an impressive shot -- I'd only seen maybe a half-dozen male players at the club ever hit their opening drive farther.

"Nice," I said, picking up her bag.

We walked down the fairway together, and Tess was gregarious. "My grandmother -- Laura Hoop -- says you're the best caddie at the club."

"Well, she's a discerning woman."

"She says she always asks for you when she plays."

"Yes."

"She's a terrible tipper!" Tess said.

"Yes, she is. But she's a sweet old girl, and I enjoy her company."

"You must be Low Man, around here, to draw someone like her."

"No. I'm pretty senior. Been working here, part-time, for eight years."

"So how is it that you get the little old lady rounds?"

"She asks for me, and I comply."

"Must cut into your income some."

"Well, it's not like I've got a wife and kids to support."

"Bachelor, eh?"

"Well. It doesn't really count as bachelorhood, does it? If you're still kind of a kid yourself, still trying to get your degree?"

"You're a college student, too?"

"Yep. Like you, I'm graduating next month. Chapel Hill, right here in Nawth Cah-lina."

We'd reached Tess' ball on the fairway and she boosted it easily onto the elevated first green with a nine-iron.

"Nice," I said again.

"I like the way you compliment my shots," she said. "When you say 'nice, ' I don't get that extra tone."

"Extra tone?"

"You know -- that little upsweep of the voice that conveys 'nice shot! -- for a girl.'"

"Now why would I -- a mere caddie -- a caddie, incidentally, who shoots in the middle 90s as a player -- why would I be condescending to a woman with your game?"

"For some guys, just lacking a penis is enough to give them a license to condescend."

"You must take considerable pleasure in whipping up on them, in competition."

"Well, I don't get that many opportunities, really, to play against guys, but yes, I do enjoy putting such people in their place -- and I can do it from the back tees, too!"

Tess had a 16-footer for her birdie and it came to rest inches from the hole. She tapped in the gimmie for her par.

"You'd have holed that if the grass wasn't still wet," I said.

"Maybe. Or maybe I'd have run it four feet past."

"I doubt it."


Hitting from the middle tees, Tess shot a one-over-par 73 on Course Two that morning. It wasn't yet anywhere near lunch time when we finished the round.

"You up for another nine holes before lunch?" she asked me.

"Sure. Are you going to finish the round, after?"

"Probably. I'm hitting well, and when I'm hitting well, I never get tired. How about you? That's a heavy bag."

"I'm good. I'm enjoying it."

"Great. 'C'mon. There are people waiting now, but I think we can start another round without too much delay."

"Want to try Course One?" I asked her.

"Isn't this one more difficult," she said.

"It is -- but there's less traffic on One. If we slip over to the tenth hole on Course One this early, you'll likely be able to get ahead of the first group of the day and play right through to the 18th. Then you could finish the front nine after lunch."

"Good idea. Let's do it."

"I know the shortest way to get there without getting beaned by an errant golf ball," I said.

My shortcut took us through a nicely wooded area that emerged on the 11th hole of Course One. Then we had to walk back to the tenth tee from there. "I've played this course -- these courses -- dozens of times," Tess said, but I never knew about that little shortcut."

"It's the kind of thing that caddies know," I said. "Anything your caddie knows, you don't have to know."

Tess whipped through Course One's back nine in two strokes under par.

"You're a helluva golfer," I said admiringly, as we stowed her clubs in an outdoor locker area below the clubhouse.

"And you're as good a caddie as Grandma said," Tess told me. "And everything else Grandma told about you was true, too."

"Like what?" I asked.

"She said you were cute, and sexy."

"Old Mrs. Hoop told you I was 'sexy?'" I said, incredulous.

"Well. Maybe she just said you were cute. I made up the sexy part."

"I'm very flattered," I told her.

"Let's get some lunch."

"I -- I can't go into the club dining room with you."

"Oh, I know about the all-powerful rules," Tess said. "Let's go in my car, get some lunch down the road at that Applebees. It's not far. What do you say?"

"OK. Sure."

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Romantic / Heterosexual / Slow / School /