Behind the Bushes Bliss

It was the summer I’d just hit 22, and my family’s never been short on cash or class. We’ve always chased the high life – fancy cars, designer clothes, the works. So when my dad got obsessed with golf, I decided to give it a whirl, mostly to stay active, even though I thought it was a game for retirees at first.
The first time I joined my dad at the golf club’s driving range, I spotted girls my age, all from the same upscale crowd, and some were drop-dead gorgeous. The country club wasn’t just about golf, either – it had tennis courts, a swanky pool, horseback riding, squash, a gym, and a buzzing social scene with events that made weekends a blast.

My dad hooked me up with a shiny set of golf clubs, and I gradually collected the rest of the gear – gloves, shoes, the whole nine yards. The sport was growing on me. One sunny Saturday, I headed to the club with him. Weekends were my time to smack some balls, play a few holes, or maybe hit the tennis courts or go for a ride with a preppy girl I’d met around the club.

We were at the practice bays when a woman pulled up in a sleek Audi. She looked about 47, with auburn hair tied in a loose ponytail, a curvy figure that turned heads, and a tight white golf skirt that hugged her hips like a second skin. Her fitted polo shirt barely contained her full breasts. She slid on a visor, grabbed her clubs, and set up in the bay next to ours.

I was surprised when she gave my dad a friendly nod. Turns out, they’d chatted plenty of times at the club during weekend rounds. No big deal – regulars get to know each other. My dad introduced her as Vanessa, 48 years old. She suggested they play a few holes, but my dad had a meeting and couldn’t make it.

“Would it be okay if my son joins you instead?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she said, her green eyes locking onto mine with a smile that sent a jolt through me.
We grabbed our bags, hit the clubhouse to snag our tickets, and started working through the 18 holes. Vanessa was easy to talk to, warm and curious. I loosened up, rambling about my love for indie rock, sci-fi flicks, and the novels I was reading. The conversation flowed naturally, each hole making it more comfortable.

Feeling bold, I asked about her life – kids, marriage, that sort of thing. She had a daughter, 24, studying architecture in Germany. Vanessa was divorced, living alone, and originally from Chicago, though her mom’s side was Italian, which explained her olive skin and effortless charm.

As we played, I couldn’t stop stealing glances at her – the way her skirt swayed with each step, how her toned legs flexed when she swung, the curve of her waist under that snug polo. Her visor framed her face perfectly, and those sunglasses gave her a mysterious edge. On the 11th hole, her ball sliced into a wooded patch, so we trekked off to find it. It was mid-August, and the course was nearly deserted – most members were off at beach resorts or European getaways. After 12 minutes of poking around, we spotted the ball wedged against a pine tree’s roots.

“Gonna be a tough shot to the green from here, don’t you think?” I said, smirking.

“No doubt,” Vanessa replied, her voice carrying a playful lilt.

It was a lousy shot, honestly – proof I wasn’t destined to be the next golf pro. But I was here for the vibe, not the leaderboard. Then Vanessa crouched to inspect the ball, her skirt riding up just enough to reveal the smooth curve of her thigh. My pulse spiked, and I acted on instinct. I stepped closer, my hand brushing her lower back before settling on her hip, giving it a gentle squeeze. She stood, startled, her eyes wide behind her sunglasses. Before she could speak, I leaned in and kissed her, my lips pressing firmly against hers.

She froze for a split second, then melted into it, her mouth opening to mine. Our tongues collided, urgent and hungry, tasting the faint mint of her lip gloss. Her hands gripped my shoulders, pulling me closer as the kiss deepened, a low moan escaping her throat.

We stumbled behind a cluster of thick shrubs, shielded from the fairway. Her fingers fumbled with my shirt buttons, popping them open to expose my chest. She trailed her nails lightly down my abs, sending shivers through me, then tugged my belt loose. Her lips grazed my collarbone, then she nipped at my neck, her breath hot against my skin. Kneeling, she hooked her fingers into my waistband, pulling my khakis and boxers down in one smooth motion.

My cock sprang free, already throbbing at its full 7 inches. “Well, hello there, handsome,” she purred, her voice dripping with mischief as she shot me a wicked grin.

Her hand wrapped around my shaft, stroking slowly, her thumb circling the tip where a bead of precum had formed. She leaned in, her tongue flicking out to tease the head, sending a shockwave up my spine. Then she took me into her mouth, her lips sliding down inch by inch, warm and wet. She bobbed slowly at first, her tongue swirling along the underside, then picked up the pace, sucking with a rhythm that had my knees trembling. One hand cupped my balls, massaging gently, while the other gripped my thigh for balance. The wet sounds of her mouth working me filled the air, mingling with my ragged breaths. I hadn’t been blown like this in years – older women know exactly what they’re doing.