Cozy Country Club

CHAPTER ONE He had it easy. A great job. Sit all day by the pool and absorb a great tan, swim whenever he wanted, keep his eyes on the people lounging around or swimming in the olympic-sized pool. That was the best part, watching the people-in particular the females. It was almost impossible not to keep his eyes on the luscious, reclining bodies in their next-to-nothing swimsuits. And the majority were women: that's who came to country clubs during the weekdays while their husbands sat in some hectic office. Terra-Mar Country Club was one of the most exclusive and expensive country clubs on the whole San Francisco peninsula and he was lucky enough to land the lifeguard job. What a break, what a way to spend summer vacation from San Jose State University, where he was in his second year. When he wandered into the heavily-gated grounds of Terra-Mar three weeks ago, his pulse was pounding. He never thought he'd get the job. There must have been forty other guys there with applications. But the woman in charge of hiring, some social bigwig named Mrs. Grace Cunningham, liked it when he said, "I need the money to pay for the treatments on the skin cancer I'll get from the sun." For some crazy reason she thought that was funny as all hell. Next thing he knew they called and he was it. Weekday lifeguard, hundred and a quarter a week, pool privileges and his own private locker. He had an inkling of Grace Cunningham's secondary motive three days later when she showed up at the pool. This time she was in her swimsuit, if it should be called that. It was a string-tie job, with abbreviated patches of red cotton to cover the last frontier before absolute nudity. Alan was impressed. She had to be around thirty-eight but it didn't show. Her body was as tight and solid as any of the high-school girls constantly at the pool. Her mature, full-blown breasts filled the skimpy bikini top to the brim and bulged to each side with even more delicate meatiness. She had a flat, firm stomach and deeply cut waist above the husky, ripe thrust of wide, woman's hips. The graceful curve of her ass, only half-covered by the bottoms, slid abruptly down to long, smooth legs. Grace's well-groomed head of short, jet-black hair was in a perky, "younger" style which complimented the full lips and large, wandering eyes of her face. "Have everything under control?" she asked with her sultry, intriguing voice. "Yes, ma'am," Alan replied. "Good." Her hand touched his knee for an instant. Just enough to drive his metabolism into high gear, but not long enough for him to be positive about her motive. "I'm depending on you not to let me down." She went to a chaise longue and stretched her enchanting body out where he couldn't help but stare. No, I won't let you down, he said to himself as he shifted weight to allow the semi-erection in his swimsuit some relief from the stretching confinement. Then the bomb dropped in his crotch and blasted a half hard-on into the state of fully realized hard c**k. Teresa Cunningham stepped from the clubhouse to the poolside and looked around for her mommy. Alan's hands clenched tightly to the armrests of his high chair to keep himself from plummeting to her gorgeous feet. It was all there. Everything Mom had, she passed on to dear daughter. At eighteen Teresa possessed the bodily proportions and heavenly face that only the artsy cartoonists who have their creations on the back of male magazine fold-outs can imagine. Her bikini was identical to Mom's, only white. White just like the whiteness of her untanned areas. She looked nude and hairless, like a grown-up baby, as the white flesh went beyond the cotton to the suntan line made by a larger swimsuit. The effect was more arousing than nudity; it was somehow obscene, just too much exposure for a mere man to take without having coronary problems. Teresa's giant breasts sat high and solid on her erect, poised frame. Alan could see the youthful uplift of the t**s, which went against all laws of physics. The pulpy lumps of her n*****s showed like shadows through the white fabric. And down below where the vee of material covered her crotch was a more distinguishable shadow, a shadow caused by the small patch of jet-black hair sitting in there. When she walked everything moved. The rounded buns of her ass hefted and dropped with each step, her breasts shuddered with solid self-support. She lay down next to her mother. Alan saw the daughter had long hair, jet-black too, but it hung down past her shoulders to the small of her back. Other than that, they were the same model: one young and firm, one mature and ripe. It was more than any man would dare dream of handling. But Mrs. Cunningham never went beyond an occasional pat on the shoulder or wink to show she was pleased with his performance on the job. She showed no interest in seeing his performance off the job. So Alan decided to let the mother have her way and concentrated on Teresa. She was a coy chick. Smart, well-schooled and pursued by half a dozen guys. Rich guys with Jaguars, tennis rackets, big smiles and styled haircuts. Alan's green Volkswagen didn't stand a chance: his tennis was more of an embarrassment than a game; his hair a collection of wisps, streaks and split ends. But he did have a smile. He used it and she smiled back. Then he used his nicest, friendliest personality, which seemed to get him nowhere. So he switched to the commoner-than-thou routine he reserved for emergency cases. His desire for the girl was quickly becoming a five-alarm emergency. The humbleness did it. He was pretty sure it would. Rich girls can't stand it when someone agrees that they're the greatest thing on earth. They get enough of that crap from parents to guarantee they'll hate it. And she did. "Why do you act like I'm such a big shot and you're a nobody?" she bluntly asked Alan. Alan grinned inside and looked hurt outside. "I'm sorry. I didn't think it showed." "Well, it does. Why do you act that way?" The vehemence of her questioning let Alan know he was under her skin, right where he wanted to be. "I don't know ... I guess it's because you have everything I want. Money, social status, beauty and charm." His words pounded in like solid-gold nails. She loved it but refused to admit it. "That's not true!" When she stamped her foot to enforce her protest, the tops of her mounded breasts jiggled like Christmas Jello molds. Alan held tight to his armrests and tried his smile. "I'm sorry, Teresa, but it is true. Look at it objectively. You're from a wealthy family that enjoys a respected social position in the community." "That's no reason to feel inferior!" she argued. "And you are very beautiful and extremely charming." "Oh, I am not ... " Her foot failed to stamp down on this protest. "There's no reason for you to be interested in someone like me. I'm from common stock, second-generation immigrants. And when I see someone as cultured and intelligent as you I automatically know you're above my class." She reacted with shock to the word "class." It was a dirty word, as bad as the word f**k in the 1950's. It was the one word to carry all the accusations of repression, bigotry, intolerance and snobbery that an eighteen-year-old girl looked forward to changing. When he saw the pink flush in her smooth cheeks Alan knew his veiled challenge was being taken. He had pressed the right button, tricked the Jaguars and taken a giant step into the attention of Teresa Cunningham. Now it was a matter of making her do all she could to rid him of this misconception-all she could. It started off slow, with frequent poolside talks and a noticeable lack of interest in tennis. Soon Teresa was coming to the country club for one reason alone, to see Alan and indulge herself in "adult" conversation. And Alan took his steps slowly to guarantee she never suspected his ultimate, insomnia-causing motive. After a week her boldness started to press through. Alan noticed that the casual positions she assumed while talking displayed more and more of her anatomy, in as appealing a way as possible. And it was impossible not to present it appealingly! Her interest in social righteousness was waning, a new drive was compelling her. Why hadn't he asked her out? She dropped every conceivable hint: expressed her boredom with the other guys at the country club, said how she usually had nothing to do at night, latched onto everything he showed interest in with the vehemence of "things in common." Alan finally couldn't hold back and asked if she'd consider going to a movie with him. His request was practically an apology for not being able to afford something more lavish. She hit him with an instantaneous "Yes!" Next came the dreaded meeting of the parents. He already knew Mrs. Cunningham and honestly wasn't looking forward to her reaction to his courting Teresa. He inhaled a deep breath to quell his nerves while pulling into the long Hillsborough driveway that curved up to the palatial, pillared-front entrance of the mansion. Mr. Cunningham answered the door, introduced himself, shook Alan's hand and smiled. Alan relaxed; the grey-templed man was okay, he appeared to be used to a kaleidoscope of young male callers after his daughter. But Grace Cunningham was a different story. She greeted Alan with visible coolness, a curt smile and a frigid "Hello, Alan." As soon as Teresa appeared, her beautiful body dressed in pure white slacks and a soft yellow tank top, Alan dragged her off. It was the first time he ever saw her dressed. What her bulging breasts and swerving rump did to the clothing was sinful. The delicious curves of her anatomy refused to be confined, obscured, or dimmed by something as foolish as clothing. Alan took her to a drive-in and by the beginning of the second feature had her in the back seat with her arms tightly wrapped around his shoulders. Their tongues danced to the introductory music and titles of the film they never saw. Teresa's generous, giving mouth made frantic sucks on the deep stabs of Alan's scooping tongue. His hands went to the breasts and pressed into the pliant masses of heaving softness. Teresa arched, jammed her hot t**s fully into his plying fingers and groaned with ecstatic happiness before suddenly collapsing away and defending the honor of her flesh. "Alan, please ..." she meekly scolded. "I knew it," he said. "Knew what?" "That you didn't mean the things you said, that I'm really not good enough for a girl like you." He turned his back in a pout and waited. She couldn't allow it. "No, Alan, it's not that ... it's just that I ... I ... " Her sudden silence was unexpected. Alan turned and asked, "What?" She was crying, glistening tears rolled from her large blue eyes to drip down her cheeks as she admitted her reason for stopping him. "I'm a virgin." Alan felt like a Chinese gong had just been clobbered by a Sumo wrestler in his head. Impossible! Eighteen, stacked to the limits of nature, beautiful, popular-and a virgin? He coughed away the tightness in his throat before stammering, "Really? You're a virgin?" With an embarrassed nod of her head she readmitted the condition. "I'm sorry," she meekly whispered. "Sorry? There's nothing to be sorry about. We can overcome it," said Alan as his arms went protectively around the poor invalid. "I'm afraid," she whispered in his ear. Alan's guts were about to explode with excitement. He couldn't believe it, what a treat, an honor, a rarity! His hands tenderly lifted her tear-streaked face up to his and he kissed softly, caressingly until all the wet was gone. Then he sat back with her comfortably cradled in his arms. A thought ran through his mind. "Not here," he said. "Not in the back seat of an old Volkswagen ... not even in the back seat of a brand-new Rolls Royce, dammit!"