Happy Holes Ch. 01: Stroke of Genius

Welcome to Happy Holes -- the world's first freeuse golf course comedy.

This is where it begins. Jules Ferris is one bad month away from financial collapse, armed only with a sun visor she refuses to wear, a club she doesn't know how to save, and a tolerance for heat that's quickly deserting her.

Thank you for being here at the beginning. Let's swing.

JULES

No Bra. No Plan. No God.

Jules Ferris had exactly four things going for her: a decent ass, a grandfather's will, a sun visor she refused to wear, and a total inability to quit things that weren't working.

The rest was heatstroke and credit card debt.

It was 9:42 a. m., and already hot enough in her office to start hallucinating minor gods. A fan the size of a dinner plate spun in the corner with the energy of a dying cow. It moved the air just enough to remind her she was sweating. Again.

Her white polo clung low and damp, stretched tight across her chest like it was trying to hang on for dear life. She hadn't worn a bra in three months -- not out of protest, just because she kept forgetting. Or maybe it was protest. Hard to tell the difference lately.

She tugged the hem away from her stomach, then winced at the peeling, suctioned squelch that followed.

Her khaki shorts were committing slow, humid treason. They rode up when she stood, bunched when she sat, and currently clung to the underside of her thighs like barnacles. Her legs -- tan from habit, not effort -- were propped on the desk, toes flexing in ancient sneakers as she stared at her monitor and tried to will her bank balance into taking a more positive attitude.

She looked like a woman who used to care what people thought of her body and had finally run out of time.

On the desk: an iced coffee she kept forgetting to drink. A highlighter without a lid. A stack of mail that could be used to build a shame fort. One envelope had the audacity to be pink.

She flipped it over and wrote "DO NOT OPEN -- FUTURE ME PROBLEM" in Sharpie.

This wasn't what she'd pictured when Granddad left her the club.

Sure, he'd always said she'd get it. But she thought he meant emotionally -- like "you're the only one who gives a shit" -- not "here's a 38-acre logistical nightmare with a mysterious hole in the water budget and a staff who think weed whackers are weapons."

The club had bones. You could say that much. The hills rolled. The fairways mostly grew. The trees made that leafy hush when the wind came in from the east. But everything was just a little... off. The signage was faded. The putting green had alopecia. The budget was mostly prayer and printer toner theft.

Jules leaned back in her chair.

Then she saw movement through the window.

Jules watched as Pip leaned over something. She was moving rhythmically. Maybe she was fixing the mower? Just beside the fairway?

Pip had been here since before Jules even knew what a greenskeeper did. Hired by Granddad as some kind of teenage tax write-off, Pip had started with trash runs and hose duty and never really stopped. Now kept the grass short, the bunkers sandy and the greens as green as she could. She was chaos in a tank top. A tanned, freckled, stoner-savant who could fix a mower blindfolded and still find time to flirt with the mailman.

She was the only one on payroll who still seemed to believe in the place. Or maybe just didn't care enough to doubt it. Either way, she showed up.

And in a weird, fucked-up way, that mattered.

What the hell was she doing? No... she's not--

The man behind her shifted. Stepped in. Thrust.

Jules blinked.

Wait.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Pip arched.

Greg -- cargo shorts, polo halfway untucked, the fertilizer salesman with the stamina of a garden hose -- gave a little buck of the hips.

Pip slapped him on the ass.

Jules blinked again, slow. She looked down at her desk, then back out the window like maybe she'd hallucinated the whole thing.

Nope.

Jules squinted. Pip was definitely still being railed.

And now -- goddammit -- she was talking. Something animated. Flirty. With hand gestures.

The man behind her gave one last shudder. Stepped back. Adjusted his belt.

Pip licked her thumb. Smoothed it down her jawline. Turned. Smiled.

Jules shook her head.

"Goddammit, Pip."

KASEY

Banned, Broke, Still Better Than You.

Kasey had been sitting in the driver's seat for twenty-three minutes, air off, visor on, hands still wrapped around the steering wheel like she was waiting for the starter pistol.

Her car was parked neatly in the shade of a jacaranda, though that didn't stop the heat from making everything inside smell like vinyl and punishment. The door was cracked open, barely. Enough to hear the soft buzz of lawn mowers from the neighboring sports fields and the whine of her pride bleeding out.

She hadn't cried. Not really. Just one of those dry-eye, full-body grief responses where everything hurt except your face.

Her body sat like it had been built in a lab for golf. White polo crisp and tucked, hugging a stomach you could bounce a tee off. Her breasts, perfect and inconvenient, had always made coaches adjust their form notes. The skort stopped just high enough to reveal thighs carved by lunges and sun, and calves so defined they looked contracted even at rest. Everything about her posture was correct -- shoulders set, chin angled, not a single muscle out of line. Her blonde ponytail was pulled so tight it might have been part of the visor. She was the pin-up girl for every man that thought he couldn't love a woman more than his clubs.

Her phone sat face-up in her lap, casting job listing after job listing into her eyeballs like punishment. "Hospitality Assistant -- Must Love Kids." "Sports Retail -- Fast-Paced Environment!" "Administrative Support -- Reception Experience Preferred."

She scrolled like it was a dare. Like maybe if she just saw the words "Professional Golfer Wanted" appear magically on screen, it would all feel like a test she'd passed by refusing to break.

But it wasn't a test.

And she hadn't passed.

She'd been cut. Suspended. Blacklisted. Whatever word they wanted to use. The test was dirty, the results were public, and no one wanted her name on their leaderboard. No one except Kori Black, who got exactly what she wanted without ever having to break a sweat. Kasey wouldn't say it aloud, but she could taste it--the sabotage, the setup, the smug fucking timing.

She should've been prepping for Clearwater. Right now. Right this minute. Working the swing arc, drilling bunker saves, meditating through tee-shot visualization. She'd been close. So close she could feel the texture of the grass on the 18th. And still--still--it hadn't mattered.

People thought the trophies meant money. That one oversized novelty check and a few brand deals made you set. They didn't know the math. The flights, the coaches, the hotels. The nutritionists. The sports psychs. The cryo tanks. The fucking soft tissue regeneration specialists. You had to treat your body like a lab project just to break even.

All so Maxim could slap you at #23 in their Top 50 Bangable Babes of Ladies Golf.

She'd thrown the issue in the trash the second she saw it. Called her agent and screamed for twenty minutes. Then cried in a stairwell, knees pulled to her chest, because some part of her had been proud. Some part of her had wanted to be seen. Even like that.

And now? She wasn't even bangable. She was a scandal. A cautionary tale. The girl who pissed away her prime on some chemical fuck-up and a rival with better connections.

The phone pinged.

"Golf Pro Wanted -- Flexible Hours... and More."

The listing was vague. No club name. No details. Just a contact number, a one-sentence description, and a general vibe that made her feel like she was being catfished by Craigslist.

Flexible hours.

And more.

She stared at it. Long enough for the screen to dim.

Her thumb hovered.

This was beneath her. All of it. Every listing, every whisper, everyone who had climbed aboard the bandwagon but now wouldn't take her call.

But this one wasn't a no.

She could feel the last pieces of her certainty cracking.

She took one breath. Two.

Then tapped the screen.

"Fuck it."

PIP

Bent Over a Mower. Thinking About Infrastructure.

Pip was bent over a mower when Greg the Fertilizer Salesman found a rhythm that made her toes curl in her half-on sock.

She was every goddamn fantasy anyone had ever had about a girl on a golf course -- sun-kissed, big-titted, and bent over machinery. Her hair was a dark ginger, pulled into a messy high ponytail that whipped against her back like it wanted to cheer her on. Her skin was caramelized from long days under the sun, scattered with freckles like someone had blown cinnamon across her shoulders.

Her body didn't just take him -- it moved with him, welcomed him, played with him. Her tits bounced with each thrust, heavy and high, curved like they'd been sculpted to distract men from their grip. Her waist cinched tight beneath the tank top, and her hips flared like sin. Her ass, bare and flushed, rippled with every slap of Greg's thighs. The backs of her knees flexed like they'd never known rest.

She wasn't embarrassed. She wasn't even thinking about it.

She was having a good time.

Not in that performative, look-how-naughty-I-am way -- but in that grounded, primal, I-like-being-fucked-because-I'm-a-fucking-pleasure-engine kind of way.

Her mouth hung open in a half-moan, half-laugh. Every now and then she clenched around him just to feel him shudder.

And yeah, she was filthy. But she made filthy feel like falling in love in the wrong town -- too loud, too fast, too obvious, but somehow exactly right. There was sweetness in her dirt. Wonder in her sweat. She looked like she'd been made to be outdoors, naked, and never sorry.

And she wasn't.

Not for a second.

"Goddamn, Pip," Greg groaned behind her, one hand braced on her lower back, the other gripping her hip like he might run off if he didn't.

"Focus on your thrust tempo, Greg," she said, breathless and grinning. "You're losing rhythm on the uphill."

Greg made a noise halfway between a grunt and a laugh. His polo was untucked, cargo shorts undone, balls swinging like a pendulum with every slap.

Pip arched her back. Giggled when the mower shifted an inch.

"Easy," she called out. "You strip this gear, I'm charging you retail."

Two elderly members walked by on the adjacent path, pulling their clubs behind them like old dogs. Ted and Roy. Pip saw them and lit up.

"Morning, boys!" she yelled, waving mid-thrust.

They looked over. Nodded. Said nothing.

Then looked at each other, shrugged, and kept walking like it was just another day in paradise. Not even in the top five of weird things they'd seen Pip doing.

Greg groaned again, louder. "You're seriously not gonna stop?"

"Why would I?" she asked, tossing a look over her shoulder. "You're doing great. Just--right there, yeah, that angle's got promise."

He grabbed her harder. One hand slid from her hip up to her ribs, then cupped the underside of her tit like he was anchoring himself there. The other hand gripped her ponytail, yanking her back just enough to make her gasp. He picked up speed. Every thrust landed with a clap, tits swinging like twin metronomes set to chaos mode. She braced with one hand and reached between her legs with the other, fingers finding her clit like she'd been born knowing the route.

She rubbed in tight, circling pressure, every flick syncing with Greg's thrusts. When his hand skimmed down and slapped her ass -- hard, then gentler, like he wanted to memorize the shape of it -- she moaned, a sharp breathy fuck-me note that cut through the buzzing air.

"Don't stop," she growled, voice hot and wet. "Don't you fucking stop now, Greg."

Greg whined. She clenched around him again, just to tease. The mower rocked with the rhythm. Her orgasm crept in with a steady build -- legs tightening, stomach fluttering, breath caught halfway to a laugh.

And then she came.

Hard.

Body clenching, muscles shaking, a full-body twitch of pleasure that shuddered up her spine and out through her open mouth.

"Ohhhh, fuck yes."

She let it ride. Rode it herself. Until the twitch faded to an afterglow that felt like applause inside her ribcage.

The slap of skin on skin kept going -- now softened, more desperate. Greg was close. And Pip was glowing.

Greg looked out over the course, still panting, still vaguely dazed. The fairways were patchy, the signage faded, and the bunker rake was stuck in a bush. But the hills rolled, the sky was spotless, and for a moment even he saw it -- the bones of something beautiful.

"You know," he said, almost seriously, "this place could actually be pretty great if someone fixed it up."

Then Greg said it:

"Wouldn't it be great if you could get 18 holes and a screw all in the same place?"

Pip froze.

Not like--stopped. Just paused. Eyes wide, blinking once, twice, like someone hit the light switch inside her head.

Greg kept thrusting.

Pip stared at the course. He was right, not about the first part, well, also about the first part but the second...

"Oh my god," she whispered.

Greg pulled out with a stagger, barely holding his balance. "Wait, what?"

She turned just in time to catch the first rope of it -- across her cheekbone, under one eye, warm and final. Greg finished with a breathy, wheezing moan like he was clocking out of a shift.

Pip wiped her cheek with the heel of her hand. Smear of cum, sweat, grass, and glory. She sucked a bit off her thumb, squinted at Greg like he might've just solved string theory with his dick. Then looked back at the course.

Then she grinned.

Big.

Wild.

Like she'd just had a religious experience through her whole damn body and the sky opened up to tell her what came next. Her heart was still pounding, but now it was from revelation, not rhythm. The air smelled like grass, cum, and destiny.

Her whole body buzzed -- not from the sex, not just from the sex -- but from the idea that had taken root and bloomed all at once.

She turned to Greg.

"I know how we can save the club."

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