This is a series of stories that are a sort of sequel to two text-adventure games. Each installment is a complete story on its own, but for a full understanding, the reader may want to start with Chapter 1.
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It was a Friday afternoon at the office. My paperwork was all done (for once), and I was killing a little time in the lobby before heading home for the weekend. I was talking to a co-worker named Wendy, who worked in HR. She was pleasant enough to look at, but it had been clear from the start that there was no chemistry between us. This was just as well, considering our company's no shit, serious as a heart attack prohibition on anything between co-workers.
As we stood, chatting about the total cock-up in Production that week, a cock-up that had us both glad we were not responsible, the owner Cathy came out of the executive wing where her office was located. She saw us both and moved to swing by and say hello. I always paid close attention when Cathy was around, partly because she held my professional future in her hands, partly because she had a forceful, driven personality that made her such a successful entrepreneur at such a young age, and partly because she had an absolutely banging figure and always dressed nominally professionally, but with an undeniably sexy undertone. And she told great dirty jokes sometimes.
Today she had already changed out of her suit before leaving work, and was sporting a trim pink golf skirt that showcased her long, enchanting legs extravagantly, and a black Lacoste golf shirt with all the buttons open. She spun a long club with a fat head in her fingers. "I've got time for nine holes this evening!" she said brightly. "After a week of metaphorically busting Production's balls, I want to go hit some for real." She handed her club to me for some reason. "I just got my new driver in the mail today. What do you think?"
"Uh, it's big?" I said uncertainly. "Is it some kind of special club?"
"Wait, you don't golf?" both Wendy and Cathy asked at the same time, both incredulously.
"Never learned," I shrugged
Cathy snatched her prized new bashy thing back from me as if I was gong to hurt it. "How can you possibly expect to make it long term in sales if you don't play golf, and well enough to convincingly lose to clients at that?" she demanded. I demurred that I was doing alright so far. "You cannot take everybody to strip clubs," Cathy snarked. Wendy's eyes went wide and Cathy laughed at her, "Don't ask!"
"In all seriousness, I want you to learn to golf," Cathy said, suddenly wearing her mentor face. "I'm a member at Winding Hills which is where I'm heading. I'm going to set you up with guest privileges there. And set up some lessons for you too. Probably with Charlie. You'll like Charlie."
"Winding Hills?" asked Wendy. "That's way out on the north side. No wonder you only have time for nine holes! Why did you join that club?"
"In case you haven't noticed," Cathy grumped, "there is no country club anywhere on this side of town. It's a Need." Since Winding Hills apparently was way the hell and gone away, she needed to get moving. Wendy and I trailed out toward the parking lot in her wake.
I drove grumpily down the highway toward my home. As far as I was concerned, golf was nothing but a giant time-suck. And now I had to take up this giant time-suck, and do it with the added joy of a 45 minute drive each way.
I had no real plans for the evening, other than sitting by my pool and binging the first three or four episodes of the new Netflix series with all the blood and boobs. I decided to stop on the way at Nikki's (Au)Naturel Bakery/Cafe, the best little food place I had found in the town center near my house. I'd get one of their awesome eclairs to soften the blow of the whole golf thing and pick up one of the pre-made, finish-at-home dinners that they sold.
When I parked and jumped out of my car, I saw that there was a Help Wanted sign in the window. I had observed in the past that the only problem the place had was employee turnover, but this was the first time I'd seen a sign asking for applicants. The bell rang as I entered the door. It was mostly a breakfast and lunch joint, and I got there just before the posted closing time. The place was devoid of customers. Devoid of staff, too. There were none of the usual confused or irritated looking kids behind the counter.
A deeply alto voice came from the back. "I'll be right out," whoever she was hollered, her friendly tone underlaid with a tinge of irritation. The swinging door to the kitchen banged open and my eyes about fell out of my head.
The woman who swept out, brushing flour from her hands, wore a chef's hat, heavy green kitchen crocs, and a chocolate and flour covered white bib apron of about knee length that had "Nikki" embroidered on it. And not a damned stitch beyond that.
She was middling tall, a few inches short of my height, with a voluptuous figure. Chef's tend to either be fat or gym rats, and Nikki here tended definitely toward the latter. Her hips were rounded but not at all lumpy, and her waist was strong, but just thin enough to provide an enticing contrast with those hips. Her bare shoulders were broad and smooth. They and her arms were sleek, moderately toned, and spattered with as much chocolate, flour and other baking ingredients as her apron.
Her magnificent, bounteous breasts brought new meaning to the phrase 'barely contained' when it came to the bib of the apron. They swelled up above the top the apron, forming eye-catching cleavage, cleavage that had to compete with the ample side-boob to either side. Despite their size, they were clearly unusually firm as they pressed the apron well away from her body.
When Nikki turned to grab a pad of paper, I was treated to additional shocking sights. The apron wrapped barely half-way around her hips, leaving her hard, muscular ass completely exposed (and underwear-free). She turned back to me and my mind whirled, taking all this vision in.
"I said, is this your first time coming in?" her deep voice cut into my consciousness.
