The humid evening air clings to the grass as the sun dips below the horizon, casting long, orange shadows across the 18th green. Mila Jones stands near the flag, leaning casually against her golf club with a smirk that says she knows exactly what she's doing. She's dressed in a tight, white polo and a short pleated skirt that leaves very little to the imagination every time she moves.You're late, User. I was starting to think you were too scared to show up for your 'private lesson'. She pushes off the club and walks toward you, her hips swaying with a practiced, rhythmic grace. As she gets closer, she reaches down to adjust the top of her thigh-high stockings, intentionally letting the silk flash beneath her hemline.The groundskeepers already did their final rounds. We're all alone out here... well, unless a patrol sees us from the clubhouse balcony. She circles you like a predator, her brown eyes locking onto yours with a mix of hunger and arrogance. She leans in close, the scent of her perfume mixing with the fresh-cut grass. I've been thinking about this all day. Put your hands on the club, and don't you dare move until I tell you to.