tagNonConsent/ReluctanceUp and Down In Two

Up and Down In Two


Okay, so it was a bit adolescent. But we'd been dancing around each other for months. I don't know why. So when she overheard me talking and said, with that twinkle in her eyes, that she could help with my bunker play -- and we hopped in the cart, with her driving, and prattling away, and reached the very secluded 14th green at around 10 pm...the last thing I expected was to be holding a glass in one hand and her skirt in the other while she slipped barefoot into the bunker to address a ball she'd tossed there. God, she had great legs. Really toned. And I just make out a hint of an equally impressive rump. If not for the jacket and blouse...

"Within a club length in two," she grinned at me suddenly, catching me staring.

"Nobody gets within a club length in two from there."


"What did you have in mind?"

"Your shoes and socks – oh, and slacks as a bonus, if I actually get up and down in two. And you keep the skirt if I'm not within the club length. Don't muss it up, by the way. I might want to go back to the party later..."


Somebody had to break the logjam, girls. This was a guy who made me wet every time he was in the room. And I knew he wanted me too. So, twice divorced, with a teenage daughter, I thought 'go for it for chrissake!' -- the party at the club was the usual crowd doing the usual things: it wasn't going anywhere in particular -- 'so make a game of it, what have you got to lose?'. It was time to bring this thing to a head, so to speak. And the carts were all there, and the clubs, and he slipped in beside me...

As for the skirt, well, you know how it is -- best feature and all -- and it really was a bit tight to address the ball properly.

And I must admit I hit it well...very well...in fact, oooh, that was so close. Certainly close enough. So I was very nonchalent, if you know what I mean, collecting the putter from the bag and saying, "Well, go on. I'll just knock this in." Which I did, from about a foot, all the while hoping he wasn't going to welch. I mean, guys, right, you never know when you're going change the rules to suit themselves.

He seemed to hesitate, until I took the skirt and wineglass, one from each of his hands, sipped the wine and put down the glass to slip my skirt back on. Then, well, I hadn't had a decent one in a long long time – an orgasm, that is – or so it seemed, and I almost came watching him 'pay up'. Expecially when he was bent to collect his slacks and toss them in the cart.

Then it was a treat to watch his face, when I tossed the ball back into the trap, and said, "Go on, your turn. Any two other garments if you're not within the club length after a putt."


"Your own stuff back...or equivalent"

He took a sip of the wine, handed back the glass and took the club.

"It's all about confidence," I said, as he was digging in. My own toes were curled once more, remembering how erotic the fine sand had been against my bare feet.

"Or incentive," he muttered, smiling.

My toes pressed a little deeper into the grass. "Just remember to swing right through the ball."

He did that all right. In fact, it was quickly apparent he'd have to hit the flagstick. Which he did. But not enough of it. After the ricochet off the flagstick , it was all downhill, literally, to about 18 feet distance -- leaving one of the most difficult putts on the entire course. I didn't say a word, didn't dare risk it, didn't want to give him any excuse to pull out -- but I can tell you, girls, my juices were flowing.

His ball rolled down a swail and came to rest 5 feet away. Being male, he wasn't best pleased...he certainly didn't waste any time getting out of the jacket and shirt. And the bulge?...now THAT was promising. I didn't waste any time either, despite the catch in my throat, "Those, for that," emphasizing the point about the briefs for the remaining 5 or so foot putt, with the correct little nods of my head.

I thought he had it. Tough as it was...with the sloping side lie, I thought it was in. Right up until it lipped out.

Girls, he was gorgeous. Thick, with that lovely little curve -- and I know we say size doesn't matter, but we don't have to say anything at all when the tip curves up past his navel. He was Gorgeous, standing there with his shorts dangling from one hand. So why didn't I take him right there? Why did I take out the second ball from my pocket and roll it into his feet?

Because I could! Because I was in complete charge and loving it -- and he was hardly going to go off the boil without me noticing. Because I'd indulged in a little CFNM back in college, just one weekend, with some frat boys...

When the silence had stretched as long as I dared let it, I sipped the wine and said, "I promised to help with your short game and putting as well. You said it yourself -- it's all about incentive. Have you never heard of forfeits...?"


Okay, so it was a bit adolescent. (I may have mentioned that earlier. But)... Forfeits?! Still...

It's not easy to line up a putt under those conditions, guys. Naked, with a hardon -- your every move and wobble clearly a delight to the attractive woman looking on. Forfeits? What sort of forfeits? Even at 40-ish, that thought was, well, exciting -- and yes, guys, there was a little niggle at the back of my mind about whether it was better to make the putt or...forfeits?

"What sort of forfeits?" I was down, trying to line it up..

"That's for me to know."

That was helpful. There'd been an edge to her chuckle that went right through my hardon -- you guys know what I mean...and a second similar chuckle came from her direction when it sort of bobbed and quivered a bit of it's own accord. My first real girlfriend had insisted on CFNM from time to time, said she'd read in a magazine that no naked man could lie to a woman. I'd already put myself in that position here. Did I really want to risk a predicament...? I decided on a slightly higher line. Forfeits? Pushed it a bit higher than intended. It never stood a chance.

She took the putter from my hands and let it drop, then used her free hand to push my hands up atop my head.Taking her time, she looked me over, went around behind...eventually came out front again, sipped her wine again...then went back behind me. There was something in her smile. But even so the slap was unexpected. Sharp. Stinging. I almost came! And it seemed to echo forever across the deserted course...


I had him, girls! A fantasy come true. I kept pinching myself -- expecting to wake up. Soaking wet, of course. Because I was soaking wet! He was going to let me do whatever I wanted to do -- indulge myself, take my time...and if I could do it tonight, I could do it any night, any time -- and in the end, of course, I was going to fuck his lights out! I hadn't realized until that moment just how delicious it was to be in complete control -- how much I'd given up, when I thought I was putting childish things behind me, after college.

I wanted to touch his hardon SO badly. But I didn't dare. The tip was, you know, glistening already. And I had plans for that lovely trembling curve. So instead I said, "You're going to try that putt five more times, and you're going make the majority...or else."

He was NEVER going to make those putts, girls. I could see it in his eyes. He didn't even want to make those putts. I was just buying time to think it through, really. And to savour, of course.

So over to you, girls...he's naked, he's gorgeous, he's on the green of your local golf course in dead of night... he WANTS to be your personal plaything...

What are you going to do to break him in properly...???

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