My Golf Partner's Wife

The sun beat down mercilessly on the manicured fairways of Oakridge Country Club, turning the air thick and heavy with the scent of cut grass and distant jasmine. Marcus adjusted his grip on the driver, his dark skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat under the white polo that stretched tight across his broad chest and thick arms. At thirty-eight, the Black businessman kept himself in peak condition—hours in the gym sculpting muscle that no amount of boardroom meetings could soften. His golf pants hugged powerful thighs and did little to conceal the heavy bulge at his crotch, a thick outline that shifted whenever he moved.

David stood a few paces away, fussing with his own clubs, oblivious as always. The white colleague was leaner, softer around the middle from too many client dinners, his pale face already pink from the heat. “Damn humidity,” David muttered, wiping his brow. “Feels like we’re playing in a sauna.”

Marcus barely heard him. His attention had locked onto the figure gliding up the cart path.

Lauren.

David’s wife looked like she’d stepped out of every forbidden fantasy Marcus had ever entertained. Twenty-eight, with a body that belonged on a magazine cover rather than a suburban golf course. The tight white sundress clung to her like a second skin, the thin fabric outlining high, full breasts and a narrow waist before flaring over toned hips. The hem stopped mid-thigh, leaving long, pale legs bare and gleaming under the sun. Her blonde hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands sticking to the damp nape of her neck. She carried a chilled bottle of water, hips swaying with each step in a way that made Marcus’s cock twitch against the confinement of his pants.

“Hope you boys don’t mind company,” she called, voice light and sweet. “I got bored at the pool.”

David grinned, pulling her in for a quick peck. “Babe, you look incredible. You’ll distract half the club.”

Marcus forced a polite nod, but his dark eyes traced every curve. When Lauren’s gaze flicked down—lingering openly on the prominent bulge straining his golf pants—something electric snapped between them. She didn’t look away. Instead, her pink tongue darted out to wet her lower lip, and a faint flush crept up her pale throat. Marcus felt his shaft thicken further under that hungry stare, blood surging hot and insistent. He shifted his stance, the movement only making the outline more obscene.

They teed off. Marcus crushed his drive, the ball exploding off the clubface with a crack that echoed across the fairway. Lauren watched from the cart, legs crossed, the sundress riding higher. Every time he glanced back, her eyes were on him—on the flex of his shoulders, the power in his swing, and always, inevitably, on that heavy package between his legs.

By the seventh hole the heat had become oppressive. David set up for a long par-five, lining up a drive that would take him well down the fairway and out of earshot for a few minutes. “Be right back,” he called, already jogging after his ball once it sailed.

Marcus stayed behind, wiping his club with a towel. Lauren slid out of the cart and walked straight toward him, the white fabric of her dress whispering against her thighs. Up close she smelled like coconut sunscreen and something warmer, more intimate. Sweat beaded in the deep cleavage the sundress displayed so generously.

“That swing of yours,” she said, voice low and husky. “So powerful. You just… dominate the ball.” She stepped closer, near enough that the soft press of her breast brushed against his bare forearm. The contact was deliberate, lingering. Marcus felt the stiff point of her nipple through the thin cotton. His cock jumped hard, thick and aching now, pushing obscenely against his zipper.

He looked down at her, jaw tight. “Careful, Lauren. David’s not that far.”

She smiled, slow and wicked, eyes gleaming with raw want. “I know exactly how far he is.” Her hand came up, fingers trailing lightly along the ridged muscle of his bicep. “I’ve been watching you for months. Every Saturday. The way those pants stretch when you walk. The way you look at me when you think I’m not noticing.” She leaned in until her lips nearly brushed his ear, warm breath ghosting over his skin. “I’ve been fantasizing about you. About what a real Black cock feels like. Thick. Heavy. Stretching me open while I scream into a pillow so my husband doesn’t hear.”

Marcus’s breath left him in a rough exhale. Heat flooded his groin; his shaft was fully hard now, a thick, veined ridge tenting the front of his pants. He could feel precome already slicking the head. Lauren’s eyes dropped to it again and she made a soft, needy sound in her throat.