Tom, the new assistant pro, thought he was so hot. He thought he was so cool. Well, he was hot, and he was cool, but that didn’t mean Foxy wasn’t going to teach him a lesson.

“Up for a match?” she asked.

“You play golf?” Tom sneered. “I’m scratch. So how many strokes you need me to give you?”

“Heck,” Foxy said, “I ought to be giving you strokes.”

“You want to play me even?” the pro scoffed, leering at Foxy. “What shall we play for?”

“You beat me and you can fuck me,” Foxy replied.

“Now that’s a wager I can go for,” said Tom.

Fifteen minutes later they met on the first tee. Foxy hit a good drive, 200 yards down the middle. The pro slugged his ball a hundred yards past hers.

“Good one,” Foxy said. She knocked her approach onto the green, twenty feet from the flagstick. But the pro wedged his ball inside of six feet. “Not bad,” Foxy admitted. Her birdie putt lipped out. Tom knocked his into the cup for a one hole lead.

“Like taking candy from a baby,” said Tom with a grin. He had the honor on the second hole, a par three of 169 yards, and he lofted an eight iron onto the back of the green, but with plenty of bite, and it rolled down to within two feet of the cup. “Rats, I could have used another hole in one,” he chortled. “You about ready to give up?”

Foxy waggled her four iron, struck it solidly, but the ball came up just short of the putting surface, leaving a 30 foot uphill putt.

“I think I’m going to have to line this one up,” she told the pro. “Mind if I plumb bob it?”

“Knock yourself out,” said the pro as he marked his ball. When he looked up he saw that Foxy had pushed the bodice of her shirt below her breasts.

“Helps me understand the slopes,” Foxy informed the pro. “Looks pretty much straight in.” Leaving her breasts bared, she hiked her skirt. “See, once my pussy slit bisects the hole, I can’t miss knocking it stiff.”

Sure enough, Foxy’s putt ran fast and true, dropping into the cup for a birdie two.

The stunned and stiffened pro nearly whiffed his two-footer.

“All square,” Foxy announced, and having regained the honor, she launched a nice drive on the long par five.

The pro took sixteen extra waggles before his drive, and sliced the ball into the lagoon to the right. His second ball followed the first into the drink. His third dribbled off the tee. By the time he got to the green he was lying nine. Foxy two-putted for a par and the lead.

After the turn she was seven up, and the pro was out of balls.

“I guess I’m done,” he admitted.

Foxy grinned. On the dogleg tenth hole she hooked her drive deep into the woods. She grinned again. “Wanna help me find my ball?”

Some twenty minutes later, skin aglow, Foxy chipped out from the forest.

“Anytime you want another lesson...” she called back into the woods, before lofting a perfect nine iron onto the green.