Aaaaaahhh! Dear God, I’ve never had a three-iron used like this before! My knees buckle and I almost collapse, as you relentlessly push its long shaft even further into me, and its ribbed plastic grip rasps along the walls of my vagina.

This was so unexpected: I’m bewildered, and don’t know what to do – but now my body is taking over, responding to your mouth and hands and (aaahh, fuck!) what you are doing between my legs, and my hips are bucking in time with your urgent forceful thrusts.

‘Ooooh! Oh, God!! Aaagghh, Ms Michaels – oh, yes! Fuck me, you bitch – aahh! fuck me harder!!’

You are learning to play golf, and this is your third lesson in a series of a dozen with me, the recently-appointed women’s professional at this prestigious course with its luxurious clubhouse. I am 26 years old, and have played on the women’s professional circuit for the last five years. I did averagely well but made no fortune, and when this opportunity came along, for a variety of reasons – more in my personal life than my playing – I decided to quit the tour, and settle down.

I am quite tall at five feet ten inches in my socks, long in the legs, and wiry and slender in build – all of which made me one of the longest drivers on the tour. However, I have quite definite feminine curves – my ass is quite trim and my breasts are a nicely manageable 30C cup – and it is all topped by a mop of black hair, trimmed to the collar, which frames my pixie-like features and my bright eyes. I move with the fluid grace and vitality of an athlete who keeps herself in top physical condition, and I know that I look attractive – I get plenty of signals of interest.

You, Ms Michaels (you were very clear on that at the start, that it was not Mrs Michaels), are attractive too, but in a different way – from authority, assurance and experience. I would guess you are in your late 30s, maybe even a little more, as you obviously look after yourself well and have the best manicurists, hair stylists, masseuses and so on. Your hair is blonde, straight and gathered in a pony tail behind your white silk cap. You are almost my height, and fuller in frame – most evidently in your generous bust (your partly open shirts always show plenty of cleavage and the top edges of a white bra, I guess around a 34E cup), your broader hips and your rounded jutting butt. You have a sway in your walk that catches attention, but your stride is one of command, with your head held high and your clear grey eyes calmly appraising – in fact, you stalk like a powerful big cat in the jungle, afraid of nothing. You are clearly quite wealthy, and I am sure you are a successful figure in some profession or in the business world.

Whatever your work is, you can take all of Tuesday afternoon away from it, and so here we are a little after three o’clock on this pleasantly warm early summer day. We are out on the course for the first time – your previous two lessons have been on the driving range and the practice putting green, but now it is time to try a few actual holes. We have walked out to the tenth, almost the furthest from the clubhouse, and will play our way back and see how many we can fit in during your 90 minute lesson. It is always quiet at this time, so we won’t be holding up any of the regular players – in fact, the course is almost deserted; there are some people a few holes ahead, but no one in sight behind at all.

We play the tenth – you land in the bunker protecting the left-front of the green, and that gives me the chance to show you the use of the sand wedge – and then we proceed to the eleventh. It is a dog-leg par 4, at the outer edge of the course and with a large wooded area down one side. You tee up, and I notice you glancing around before taking your stance – but there is really no need to worry, there’s no one in sight at all. I see you glance at the woods, but I think nothing of it. Then you drive – but it’s a real slice, I would almost have thought deliberate if you were not a complete novice, and your ball skews away left and disappears into the woods about a hundred yards down the fairway.

I quickly take my drive – long and straight down the middle, which is always satisfying – and then I join you under the trees to search for your ball; it might well be playable from wherever it has ended up, and I think that would be a valuable lesson for you. There is some shrubbery along the edge of the wood, cutting off our view of the fairway, but under the larger trees the ground is fairly bare. We search fruitlessly for a few minutes (little do I know it, but you have found the ball already and it is in your pocket), and I see you glancing at me quickly from time to time. Then you point towards the base of a large oak tree just ahead of me, and exclaim: ‘There! Is that it?’

I stoop to look, and you hurry up behind me. There is nothing there, but as I straighten up you wrap your arms around me from behind, cupping and kneading my breasts, and you grind your crotch against my ass. Your mouth kisses my neck, and you say huskily:

‘I want you! I want you so much, and I’m not waiting any longer!’

I am completely taken aback, literally shocked rigid for a moment – which is long enough for you tug my polo-shirt top out of the waistband of my skirt, and then slide your hands underneath it, up my front to capture my breasts in their sports bra, groping them roughly and squeezing my nipples.

‘What? Ms Michaels – no! Umm – please, wait! Oh! Oh, no, you can’t … really, no … not here …’ I stutter, and trail off in lame in confusion.

‘Oh, yes I can, honey! … I am, and I will!’ comes back in your rich warm tones, calmly assured and determined, but with a husky undertone of desire that sends shivers down my spine.

You release my breasts, and for a moment grip my shoulders and commandingly push me forward against the tree trunk, so that I am pressed in a sandwich between its rough bark at my chest and your firm female flesh behind me – I can feel your full breasts pressing into my back, and get almost a jolt of electricity from the hardness of your nipples, unmistakeable even through the three layers of your bra, your elegant white shirt and my own top.

Almost fainting with shock, I clutch desperately at the tree trunk to keep me upright, as sensations wash through me. With a deft tug, you have pulled my short pleated skirt above my hips, and now you shove a hand between my legs, first rubbing along the crotch of my panties, pushing the fabric into my slit, and then – ahh!! Jesus!! – you twist aside their gusset and push two long fingers right into my pussy. I have gone all loose and lubricated, and your fingers slide home nearly up to the knuckle.

I give a shaky, squealing gasp. My God! You ARE doing this, right here ON THE GOLF COURSE!! You are taking me, finger-fucking me with increasing force, in broad daylight by the eleventh fairway! Anyone coming along could see us … well, perhaps not from the fairway, the shrubs block the view and the light is dimmer here in the shade, but if they were to come into the woods …

Your mouth has been kissing my cheek and the back of my neck, and nibbling on my ears, and now you whisper to me, as if you can read my thoughts:

‘Don’t worry, babe, no one can see us, just enjoy it – let me have you, let me take you!’

My response is weak, quavering, indecisive:

‘No! Nooohh! Ms Michaels, please … ahhh! Oh … yes, oh! more … oh, help, yes!’

As I lean sprawled against the tree, all my resistance overcome, you pull my polo shirt over my head and unclip my sports bra. The touch of your fingers on the bare skin of my breasts ignites a wildfire in my pussy, and without conscious thought my back arches and my ass thrusts out to grind against your crotch. You give a groan of desire and grind back, at the same time squeezing my tits and grunting: ‘Go for it, bitch, go for it, you slut!’

You step back for a moment, and we are both panting for breath, our nostrils flared and our nipples hard and erect. I make no move as you reach for my bikini panties and drag them down to my ankles with one firm pull; you give a little slap to my right leg, and I have no thought of disobeying the obvious command – I step out of the panties, and you position my feet to widen my stance.

You kneel behind me, holding my hips in a firm grip, and your mouth licks around my ass and the base of my cunt, whilst you fingers re-enter my vagina and your out-thrust thumb rams up against my clitoris. My breath runs ragged, almost sobbing – a sheen of sweat coats my flanks, and the muscles in my stomach and pelvis contract as an orgasm starts to build.

Now you reach for the three-iron, which you dropped when you jumped me – but dropped quite deliberately within easy reach, for you had all this planned out before you arrived today, and you knew just what you wanted – me!! – and how you were going to do so. The fingers of your left hand prise my labia apart and reveal the moist pink target, and then you push the handle of the club up into me, like a huge dildo. I give a little scream of shock and alarm as I feel its ribbed grip slide inside my vagina, but then I surrender to its penetrative power.

You start to pull it in and out of my pussy, driving deeper and harder, and I surrender completely. Within moments I am just vaginal nerve-endings and a gasping voice that is pleading for you to take me and fuck me, and do me harder and harder and … oh, yes, please – harder!

Well, you don’t like to disappoint a hot babe – so you give me what I am pleading for, and more. The golf club is coated with my juices, getting sticky and slippery in your grasp as you piston it into my pussy. I start to babble – never, ever, have I been overcome in such a way, entered so deep, thrust into for so long, taken so high in my climax. In fact, my yelps and cries are becoming so loud and shrill that you take the golf ball from your pocket and push it into my mouth, telling me fiercely to suck on it.

I close my eyes tightly, and the world falls away – all of my senses are focused on your piledriving fucking of my pussy, and the long steel shaft of the golf club slams in an out of me like a demented drill shaft. You’re drilling me for oil – and you’re gonna get a gusher!

And then you add something more – I can’t believe that I could possibly be stimulated more than this, or be surprised again, but you are so artful, so clever. I’m not aware of you moving your left hand, which was steadying you against the tree trunk as you squatted between my legs, with your right hand firmly gripping the steel pole of the three-iron and thrusting it in and out of me. However, I am suddenly made only too aware that you have two hands – for with sudden force you push the index finger of your left hand into my ass-hole, whilst its thumb rims around my anus.

Holy fucking shit …. holy fucking, anyway! I’ve never been double-penetrated before, and only thin membranes of flesh separate where you are shafting me with the golf club and where your finger … arrgh, oh-my-fuck … oh! now it’s two fingers! … swirls around my anal opening, setting every nerve on fire.

I am barely managing to inhale through my flared nostrils, as my tongue wraps around the golf ball in my mouth. In my frenzy, I am chewing on it, and saliva drools from my parted lips and down my chin – oh! Ms Michaels, you’ve got me wet and squirting in every hole – aaahh! – you devil-woman!

You bitch-goddess, make me cum, please … I can’t take this much longer, I’m going to fall apart, I’m gonna faint, or asphyxiate … or swallow this fuckin’ golf ball whole, or something … oh, use me, you bitch, you’ve got what you want, so take me down, take me up, please … and soon, I’m begging you, oh! fuck me soon, please, have mercy, do it!

My legs are shaking, trembling, and sweat pours down my breasts and thighs. My hips judder spasmodically, and a high-pitched mewling noise is escaping the gag of the golf ball in my mouth. And then, unbelievably, you take your final shot – and it sure is a hole in one! You don’t relent on the pace with which the three-iron is pistoning my pussy, but you add a corkscrew motion as well, and this scrapes the ridges of the plastic grip around inside my vagina, with truly devastating effects.

It’s all too much, and I surrender totally to your command and control – I will never resist anything you want from me, ever again. Then like a freight train howling in the night, my climax comes upon me, with long rumbling driving momentum. I quiver all over from its intensity, and my mouth gapes wide, letting the wet and tooth-marked golf ball fall to the ground beneath me, as saliva dribbles down my chin and pussy juices course down my thighs. My head is spinning, I am dizzy and disoriented, and I clutch at the tree trunk as if it was a life-raft in a storm … in a tornado!

You step back to admire your handiwork, savouring the view of this trim athletic young woman, naked apart from her shoes, ankle socks and the skirt rucked up around her waist, spread-eagled with her pussy exposed, and sprawled against the tree trunk like a puppet whose strings have been cut, sweat-soaked, her eyes closed and her body trembling in the aftershocks of the most powerful tidal wave of orgasms that she has ever known. If the tree wasn’t here to hold me up, I’d be flat on my face on the ground, and probably passed out as well.

Unseen by me, your lips curve, and you regard me with a wolfish smile of satisfaction. There is no doubt that I have been – that I am – utterly, utterly fucked. You know that you have made a conquest, that I am now yours just as much as if you had planted your flag on my head. I will be another useful addition to your lesbian harem, and a decorative bit of pussy-fluff to take on your arm to the exclusive Sapphic parties of your equally wealthy lesbian businesswoman friends – where I will be passed around like a fresh new box of candy, for everyone to take a bite, and I will learn the ultimate pleasure: a gangbanging from a team of experienced older dykes. But that lies in my future, and for now you intend that I should learn my place in your scheme of things.

You give me a sharp, stinging slap on the rump, and tell me in a rough, eager, demanding voice to snap out of it, that I have work to do. I am so dazed that at first I don’t realise what you mean, and I start to pull my skirt down and reach for my top – until you slap my hand away. With an impatient grunt at my stupidity, you take a fistful of my skirt in one hand and a clump of my hair in the other, and you push me against the tree and also down onto my knees. My head is brought level with the crotch of the navy-blue shorts that you are wearing, and which earlier I couldn’t help noticing tightly encased the rich curve of your pelvis and full flare of your hips and ass.

Oh, right … I get it … you want me to eat your pussy, make you come as well? Well, as it happens, I am a lesbian; I wonder if you knew that for sure, or were going on instinct – or, maybe, with the arrogance of the rich towards those in their pay, you didn’t give a flying fuck anyway. I would have gladly lapped at your labia any day and any time, even without you blowing my mind like that. It also so happens that I’m pretty starved for sex (and that surely added an element to the explosive cocktail of my climax), and I like being taken by an older woman. In fact, I was the fuck-bitch of one of the world’s top five female golfers, a woman in her early 30s who broke me in as a lesbian a few months after I joined the tour. I warmed her bed almost every night for five years, and then the evil bitch just dumped me for a younger model – she likes them fresh and sweet – so she replaced me with some wunderkind strawberry-blonde of just 19 who was already being tipped as some kind of female Tiger Woods. Well, she sure was a tigress for pussy, and she and my former lover abused and degraded me, and to my shame I let them – if they offered me the chance of a threesome, I would crawl on my belly across their bedroom floor, lick their feet and beg to be used. It makes me ashamed to think of it now – that’s why I quit the tour, I couldn’t take it any more. However, in the four months that I have been here, I’ve been with no one – I just haven’t had the nerve to trawl my ass round the lesbian bars in these parts, those bitches undermined my self-confidence so much that I couldn’t face the rejection.

But you want me, in fact you want me with searing impatience, and you grip my chin with one hand as you jerk undone the button on the waistband of the shorts and yank down its bronze zipper. Pulled open, the shorts slip down to hang at your knees, revealing a pair of scarlet panties (I knew they would be jet black or bright red, you’re that kind of woman – no half-measures or compromises), expensive designer stuff with scalloped lace-trimming and gauzy side panels, while the rich red silky centrepiece is now marked with a dark patch at your cunt.

I lean wondrously forward, and trace a finger through that oozing dampness, running my nail along the cameltoe of your groove – oh, yeah, don’t think me innocent just because you took (and how you took!) me by surprise, I’ve been an active lesbian for five years, and not only with my former lover – she had a taste for threesomes (that was why she still used me sometimes, even after ditching me for Miss Blondelicious), and we sometimes did it with other players, or with local club officials where the events were held, or golf journalists, or a fan – if she was young, pretty and willing … when we did the demonstration tour in Japan, oh! it was pussy heaven.

You unbutton your stylish white shirt – through which your bra has been partly visible – and slip it off your shoulders. Your magnificently full breasts are revealed in the other half of your lingerie set – a scarlet half-cup bra which both supports and thrusts them forwards. You are hungry for it, and you tug your own panties down, and with the same forceful lunge pull them and your shorts over your shoes. The freedom this gives lets you broaden your stance, and now you spread your thighs apart and brace your self, squashing me between your pelvis and the tree.

The back of my head bumps against the bark of the trunk, shocking me back into full awareness as you press your crotch against my face, and my nose is squidged into your slit for an exotic moment. Your intoxicating scent fills my nostrils, whilst the sense of your wetness arouses me – my nipples harden into stiff erection, and with a moan I reach up with one hand to twist and pull on my own tits. Your Venus mound is full and prominent, and I am hypnotised by the sight of your full, fleshy and clean-shaven pussy.

You give another grunt, and begin to grind your crotch against my face, whilst you reach a hand between your legs and pull your labia apart. I need no more opportunity: seizing your hips to steady myself, I stick my tongue into your vagina and begin a pattern of probing thrusts and swirling licks, alternating the pace and direction unpredictably.

You look down with deep satisfaction at the top of my bobbing head, enjoying the sight of this athletic young sports-babe submissively serving you, eagerly lapping at your vagina to give you pleasure. You give a half-choked moan; as you feel your arousal building, you release your grip on the back of my head and reach for your own breasts. Two forceful tugs spill them out of the bra cups, and you take hold of your own nipples, stroking and squeezing them. You shift to arch your legs further apart, and then your pelvis jerks forwards – almost tipping me over backwards – as you reach the brink of orgasm.

I swiftly resume my position, but now I focus my oral attentions on the nub of your clitoris – large anyway, and now engorged, I can suck and nibble on it, driving you to frenzy. And then, taking a leaf from your book, I shove two fingers into your vagina, straight upwards from below, all the way in to my knuckles. Reliving your wonderful use of the golf club (oh, how I shall treasure that three-iron, for ever and ever!), I ram my fingers in and out of your sloppy, gaping hole. With a moan, you spread wider and open further. There is no doubt that you are a woman who fucks often, hard and deep, for your pussy is like a tunnel. For the first time in my life, I sink my hand right into a woman – I have long fingers, slender but very strong from hours of practice on the driving range, and usually they are more than enough. But not now, not here with you, you incredible bitch! My hand meets no more than token resistance as I squirm and push it further into you, and suddenly my knuckles are past the first constriction of your vaginal opening, and sliding wetly into you.

I can’t believe it, I am fisting you! I am fist-fucking a rich older bitch, and I’m thrilled by every second of it – I’ve actually never fisted a woman before. I sink into you, my wrist and then three or four inches of my arm. Holy shit, I’m so turned on by this, I’m running wet and dripping from my own cunt, almost as much as if I was cumming myself.

‘Yeah!’ you snarl at me, your voice rough and thick with lust; ‘you dirty, dirty little slut! You cow, c’mon on, do it you bitch, yeah! Fist me hard, fist me good, harder … harder … go on, slut!

I rasp the rough edge of my tongue across your clit, and synchronise it with my fullest pull back of my arm and then my longest, deepest thrust inside you. Your head thrashes from side to side, your teeth gnash together, and your breath dissolves into ragged panting. Your well-built frame goes rigid like stone for a brief moment, and then vibrates in ecstasy – and you heighten your intense, blazing climax by crushing your nipples between your fingers before flinging your arms wide to clutch at the tree trunk, and you give a long groaning yowl.

I remain where I am – for I feel it is my place, to be kneeling in reverence at your feet, my lips just inches from your cunt. After a moment, your breathing returns to something closer to normal, and you lean away from me, giving me more room to breathe. You reach down and ruffle my hair affectionately, and in a much softer tone than anything you have said since you began your seduction of me (if that’s the right word for something so vigorous and commanding), you say:

‘Well, you are hot stuff, aren’t you? I thought maybe your fires had gone out, but I think we’ve re-ignited them!’

I smile up at you, and nod. Oh, yes, you surely surely have – and it is like the dam has been breached, and I suddenly realise that I am consumed by desire for lesbian sex. I also have the pleasant feeling that I won’t have to hunt for it – because you have already hunted and captured me.

There is a small towel in our golf bags, normally used to dry the grips of the drivers and of your hands, whether of sweat on hot days or rain on wet ones. We each use these to wipe around between our legs and over our thighs and torsos, and then we shuffle back into our discarded clothes. I dry off the golf ball that had served as my muffler, but I slip into my pocket – I intend to keep it as a souvenir of this amazing day, and not to risk losing it by playing it.

When we are presentable again, hair combed and faces dried, you take my hand and draw me back against you. With one hand cupping my chin, you look firmly into my eyes, and ask me if I want to come back to your house after we finish the round, as you express it ‘for more fun fucking and more fucking fun!’. I smile broadly and nod happily, and you seal the pact with a kiss on my lips. Then, still holding my hand, you lead me back to the fairway. Incredibly, only about twenty minutes has passed whilst we were in the woods, and no one will remark our slightly later than average return to the clubhouse – after all, it is partly a tuition round, and bound to take longer. It looks as if two groups have played through the eleventh whilst we were out of sight in the woods; they did not see or hear us, and seem not have seen my ball lying in the fairway.

As we stroll to the twelfth tee, you admit to me that you are not a beginner at golf, that you played quite regularly some years ago but then the demands of business crowded it out – that you were really wanting a refresher course, but when you saw a piece in the local newspaper about my taking up this job, and saw my picture, you decided it would give more opportunities if you pretended to know nothing of the game. I smiled inwardly – my instinct had been right, and of course your hooked drive into the woods had been entirely intentional.

You look at me as I take my stance to address the ball for my drive down the long par-five twelfth, admiring my figure in profile, and especially the lean jut of my ass.

‘If this was match-play’, you remark casually, ‘for certain, I won that last hole!’

I release a smashing drive that bounces down to the centre-left of the fairway, to the ideal position from which to fade one round the turn and onto the green with the second and make an eagle opportunity. Then I look at you, and grin:

‘Lady, for sure, you won not just the hole but the match!’

Then I turn towards you, and lift the front of my skirt – my pussy is naked beneath, as I had stuffed my soiled panties into a pouch in my golf bag rather than putting them back on. I run one finger lasciviously up and down my slit, teasing it open to show a flash of the hot pink inner flesh.

‘… and here’s your prize!’ I added; ‘and you get to take it away with you – but put it in your bedroom, not on the mantelpiece!’

You laugh, amused by my metaphor, and your pulse quickens at the thought of the ways in which you and friends will use my fit young body. Reaching forward, you thrust a finger into my pussy, and reply:

‘Don’t worry, I will! I believe that things are there to be used – and you will be, oh yes, you will be!’

If you enjoyed this, check out my other stories … you might like them too … (to find them, follow the author link at the top of this story)

Aaaaaahhh! Dear God, I’ve never had a three-iron used like this before! My knees buckle and I almost collapse, as you relentlessly push its long shaft even further into me, and its ribbed plastic grip rasps along the walls of my vagina.

This was so unexpected: I’m bewildered, and don’t know what to do – but now my body is taking over, responding to your mouth and hands and (aaahh, fuck!) what you are doing between my legs, and my hips are bucking in time with your urgent forceful thrusts.

‘Ooooh! Oh, God!! Aaagghh, Ms Michaels – oh, yes! Fuck me, you bitch – aahh! fuck me harder!!’

You are learning to play golf, and this is your third lesson in a series of a dozen with me, the recently-appointed women’s professional at this prestigious course with its luxurious clubhouse. I am 26 years old, and have played on the women’s professional circuit for the last five years. I did averagely well but made no fortune, and when this opportunity came along, for a variety of reasons – more in my personal life than my playing – I decided to quit the tour, and settle down.

I am quite tall at five feet ten inches in my socks, long in the legs, and wiry and slender in build – all of which made me one of the longest drivers on the tour. However, I have quite definite feminine curves – my ass is quite trim and my breasts are a nicely manageable 30C cup – and it is all topped by a mop of black hair, trimmed to the collar, which frames my pixie-like features and my bright eyes. I move with the fluid grace and vitality of an athlete who keeps herself in top physical condition, and I know that I look attractive – I get plenty of signals of interest.

You, Ms Michaels (you were very clear on that at the start, that it was not Mrs Michaels), are attractive too, but in a different way – from authority, assurance and experience. I would guess you are in your late 30s, maybe even a little more, as you obviously look after yourself well and have the best manicurists, hair stylists, masseuses and so on. Your hair is blonde, straight and gathered in a pony tail behind your white silk cap. You are almost my height, and fuller in frame – most evidently in your generous bust (your partly open shirts always show plenty of cleavage and the top edges of a white bra, I guess around a 34E cup), your broader hips and your rounded jutting butt. You have a sway in your walk that catches attention, but your stride is one of command, with your head held high and your clear grey eyes calmly appraising – in fact, you stalk like a powerful big cat in the jungle, afraid of nothing. You are clearly quite wealthy, and I am sure you are a successful figure in some profession or in the business world.

Whatever your work is, you can take all of Tuesday afternoon away from it, and so here we are a little after three o’clock on this pleasantly warm early summer day. We are out on the course for the first time – your previous two lessons have been on the driving range and the practice putting green, but now it is time to try a few actual holes. We have walked out to the tenth, almost the furthest from the clubhouse, and will play our way back and see how many we can fit in during your 90 minute lesson. It is always quiet at this time, so we won’t be holding up any of the regular players – in fact, the course is almost deserted; there are some people a few holes ahead, but no one in sight behind at all.

We play the tenth – you land in the bunker protecting the left-front of the green, and that gives me the chance to show you the use of the sand wedge – and then we proceed to the eleventh. It is a dog-leg par 4, at the outer edge of the course and with a large wooded area down one side. You tee up, and I notice you glancing around before taking your stance – but there is really no need to worry, there’s no one in sight at all. I see you glance at the woods, but I think nothing of it. Then you drive – but it’s a real slice, I would almost have thought deliberate if you were not a complete novice, and your ball skews away left and disappears into the woods about a hundred yards down the fairway.

I quickly take my drive – long and straight down the middle, which is always satisfying – and then I join you under the trees to search for your ball; it might well be playable from wherever it has ended up, and I think that would be a valuable lesson for you. There is some shrubbery along the edge of the wood, cutting off our view of the fairway, but under the larger trees the ground is fairly bare. We search fruitlessly for a few minutes (little do I know it, but you have found the ball already and it is in your pocket), and I see you glancing at me quickly from time to time. Then you point towards the base of a large oak tree just ahead of me, and exclaim: ‘There! Is that it?’

I stoop to look, and you hurry up behind me. There is nothing there, but as I straighten up you wrap your arms around me from behind, cupping and kneading my breasts, and you grind your crotch against my ass. Your mouth kisses my neck, and you say huskily:

‘I want you! I want you so much, and I’m not waiting any longer!’

I am completely taken aback, literally shocked rigid for a moment – which is long enough for you tug my polo-shirt top out of the waistband of my skirt, and then slide your hands underneath it, up my front to capture my breasts in their sports bra, groping them roughly and squeezing my nipples.

‘What? Ms Michaels – no! Umm – please, wait! Oh! Oh, no, you can’t … really, no … not here …’ I stutter, and trail off in lame in confusion.

‘Oh, yes I can, honey! … I am, and I will!’ comes back in your rich warm tones, calmly assured and determined, but with a husky undertone of desire that sends shivers down my spine.

You release my breasts, and for a moment grip my shoulders and commandingly push me forward against the tree trunk, so that I am pressed in a sandwich between its rough bark at my chest and your firm female flesh behind me – I can feel your full breasts pressing into my back, and get almost a jolt of electricity from the hardness of your nipples, unmistakeable even through the three layers of your bra, your elegant white shirt and my own top.

Almost fainting with shock, I clutch desperately at the tree trunk to keep me upright, as sensations wash through me. With a deft tug, you have pulled my short pleated skirt above my hips, and now you shove a hand between my legs, first rubbing along the crotch of my panties, pushing the fabric into my slit, and then – ahh!! Jesus!! – you twist aside their gusset and push two long fingers right into my pussy. I have gone all loose and lubricated, and your fingers slide home nearly up to the knuckle.

I give a shaky, squealing gasp. My God! You ARE doing this, right here ON THE GOLF COURSE!! You are taking me, finger-fucking me with increasing force, in broad daylight by the eleventh fairway! Anyone coming along could see us … well, perhaps not from the fairway, the shrubs block the view and the light is dimmer here in the shade, but if they were to come into the woods …

Your mouth has been kissing my cheek and the back of my neck, and nibbling on my ears, and now you whisper to me, as if you can read my thoughts:

‘Don’t worry, babe, no one can see us, just enjoy it – let me have you, let me take you!’

My response is weak, quavering, indecisive:

‘No! Nooohh! Ms Michaels, please … ahhh! Oh … yes, oh! more … oh, help, yes!’

As I lean sprawled against the tree, all my resistance overcome, you pull my polo shirt over my head and unclip my sports bra. The touch of your fingers on the bare skin of my breasts ignites a wildfire in my pussy, and without conscious thought my back arches and my ass thrusts out to grind against your crotch. You give a groan of desire and grind back, at the same time squeezing my tits and grunting: ‘Go for it, bitch, go for it, you slut!’

You step back for a moment, and we are both panting for breath, our nostrils flared and our nipples hard and erect. I make no move as you reach for my bikini panties and drag them down to my ankles with one firm pull; you give a little slap to my right leg, and I have no thought of disobeying the obvious command – I step out of the panties, and you position my feet to widen my stance.

You kneel behind me, holding my hips in a firm grip, and your mouth licks around my ass and the base of my cunt, whilst you fingers re-enter my vagina and your out-thrust thumb rams up against my clitoris. My breath runs ragged, almost sobbing – a sheen of sweat coats my flanks, and the muscles in my stomach and pelvis contract as an orgasm starts to build.

Now you reach for the three-iron, which you dropped when you jumped me – but dropped quite deliberately within easy reach, for you had all this planned out before you arrived today, and you knew just what you wanted – me!! – and how you were going to do so. The fingers of your left hand prise my labia apart and reveal the moist pink target, and then you push the handle of the club up into me, like a huge dildo. I give a little scream of shock and alarm as I feel its ribbed grip slide inside my vagina, but then I surrender to its penetrative power.

You start to pull it in and out of my pussy, driving deeper and harder, and I surrender completely. Within moments I am just vaginal nerve-endings and a gasping voice that is pleading for you to take me and fuck me, and do me harder and harder and … oh, yes, please – harder!

Well, you don’t like to disappoint a hot babe – so you give me what I am pleading for, and more. The golf club is coated with my juices, getting sticky and slippery in your grasp as you piston it into my pussy. I start to babble – never, ever, have I been overcome in such a way, entered so deep, thrust into for so long, taken so high in my climax. In fact, my yelps and cries are becoming so loud and shrill that you take the golf ball from your pocket and push it into my mouth, telling me fiercely to suck on it.

I close my eyes tightly, and the world falls away – all of my senses are focused on your piledriving fucking of my pussy, and the long steel shaft of the golf club slams in an out of me like a demented drill shaft. You’re drilling me for oil – and you’re gonna get a gusher!

And then you add something more – I can’t believe that I could possibly be stimulated more than this, or be surprised again, but you are so artful, so clever. I’m not aware of you moving your left hand, which was steadying you against the tree trunk as you squatted between my legs, with your right hand firmly gripping the steel pole of the three-iron and thrusting it in and out of me. However, I am suddenly made only too aware that you have two hands – for with sudden force you push the index finger of your left hand into my ass-hole, whilst its thumb rims around my anus.

Holy fucking shit …. holy fucking, anyway! I’ve never been double-penetrated before, and only thin membranes of flesh separate where you are shafting me with the golf club and where your finger … arrgh, oh-my-fuck … oh! now it’s two fingers! … swirls around my anal opening, setting every nerve on fire.

I am barely managing to inhale through my flared nostrils, as my tongue wraps around the golf ball in my mouth. In my frenzy, I am chewing on it, and saliva drools from my parted lips and down my chin – oh! Ms Michaels, you’ve got me wet and squirting in every hole – aaahh! – you devil-woman!

You bitch-goddess, make me cum, please … I can’t take this much longer, I’m going to fall apart, I’m gonna faint, or asphyxiate … or swallow this fuckin’ golf ball whole, or something … oh, use me, you bitch, you’ve got what you want, so take me down, take me up, please … and soon, I’m begging you, oh! fuck me soon, please, have mercy, do it!

My legs are shaking, trembling, and sweat pours down my breasts and thighs. My hips judder spasmodically, and a high-pitched mewling noise is escaping the gag of the golf ball in my mouth. And then, unbelievably, you take your final shot – and it sure is a hole in one! You don’t relent on the pace with which the three-iron is pistoning my pussy, but you add a corkscrew motion as well, and this scrapes the ridges of the plastic grip around inside my vagina, with truly devastating effects.

It’s all too much, and I surrender totally to your command and control – I will never resist anything you want from me, ever again. Then like a freight train howling in the night, my climax comes upon me, with long rumbling driving momentum. I quiver all over from its intensity, and my mouth gapes wide, letting the wet and tooth-marked golf ball fall to the ground beneath me, as saliva dribbles down my chin and pussy juices course down my thighs. My head is spinning, I am dizzy and disoriented, and I clutch at the tree trunk as if it was a life-raft in a storm … in a tornado!

You step back to admire your handiwork, savouring the view of this trim athletic young woman, naked apart from her shoes, ankle socks and the skirt rucked up around her waist, spread-eagled with her pussy exposed, and sprawled against the tree trunk like a puppet whose strings have been cut, sweat-soaked, her eyes closed and her body trembling in the aftershocks of the most powerful tidal wave of orgasms that she has ever known. If the tree wasn’t here to hold me up, I’d be flat on my face on the ground, and probably passed out as well.

Unseen by me, your lips curve, and you regard me with a wolfish smile of satisfaction. There is no doubt that I have been – that I am – utterly, utterly fucked. You know that you have made a conquest, that I am now yours just as much as if you had planted your flag on my head. I will be another useful addition to your lesbian harem, and a decorative bit of pussy-fluff to take on your arm to the exclusive Sapphic parties of your equally wealthy lesbian businesswoman friends – where I will be passed around like a fresh new box of candy, for everyone to take a bite, and I will learn the ultimate pleasure: a gangbanging from a team of experienced older dykes. But that lies in my future, and for now you intend that I should learn my place in your scheme of things.

You give me a sharp, stinging slap on the rump, and tell me in a rough, eager, demanding voice to snap out of it, that I have work to do. I am so dazed that at first I don’t realise what you mean, and I start to pull my skirt down and reach for my top – until you slap my hand away. With an impatient grunt at my stupidity, you take a fistful of my skirt in one hand and a clump of my hair in the other, and you push me against the tree and also down onto my knees. My head is brought level with the crotch of the navy-blue shorts that you are wearing, and which earlier I couldn’t help noticing tightly encased the rich curve of your pelvis and full flare of your hips and ass.

Oh, right … I get it … you want me to eat your pussy, make you come as well? Well, as it happens, I am a lesbian; I wonder if you knew that for sure, or were going on instinct – or, maybe, with the arrogance of the rich towards those in their pay, you didn’t give a flying fuck anyway. I would have gladly lapped at your labia any day and any time, even without you blowing my mind like that. It also so happens that I’m pretty starved for sex (and that surely added an element to the explosive cocktail of my climax), and I like being taken by an older woman. In fact, I was the fuck-bitch of one of the world’s top five female golfers, a woman in her early 30s who broke me in as a lesbian a few months after I joined the tour. I warmed her bed almost every night for five years, and then the evil bitch just dumped me for a younger model – she likes them fresh and sweet – so she replaced me with some wunderkind strawberry-blonde of just 19 who was already being tipped as some kind of female Tiger Woods. Well, she sure was a tigress for pussy, and she and my former lover abused and degraded me, and to my shame I let them – if they offered me the chance of a threesome, I would crawl on my belly across their bedroom floor, lick their feet and beg to be used. It makes me ashamed to think of it now – that’s why I quit the tour, I couldn’t take it any more. However, in the four months that I have been here, I’ve been with no one – I just haven’t had the nerve to trawl my ass round the lesbian bars in these parts, those bitches undermined my self-confidence so much that I couldn’t face the rejection.

But you want me, in fact you want me with searing impatience, and you grip my chin with one hand as you jerk undone the button on the waistband of the shorts and yank down its bronze zipper. Pulled open, the shorts slip down to hang at your knees, revealing a pair of scarlet panties (I knew they would be jet black or bright red, you’re that kind of woman – no half-measures or compromises), expensive designer stuff with scalloped lace-trimming and gauzy side panels, while the rich red silky centrepiece is now marked with a dark patch at your cunt.

I lean wondrously forward, and trace a finger through that oozing dampness, running my nail along the cameltoe of your groove – oh, yeah, don’t think me innocent just because you took (and how you took!) me by surprise, I’ve been an active lesbian for five years, and not only with my former lover – she had a taste for threesomes (that was why she still used me sometimes, even after ditching me for Miss Blondelicious), and we sometimes did it with other players, or with local club officials where the events were held, or golf journalists, or a fan – if she was young, pretty and willing … when we did the demonstration tour in Japan, oh! it was pussy heaven.

You unbutton your stylish white shirt – through which your bra has been partly visible – and slip it off your shoulders. Your magnificently full breasts are revealed in the other half of your lingerie set – a scarlet half-cup bra which both supports and thrusts them forwards. You are hungry for it, and you tug your own panties down, and with the same forceful lunge pull them and your shorts over your shoes. The freedom this gives lets you broaden your stance, and now you spread your thighs apart and brace your self, squashing me between your pelvis and the tree.

The back of my head bumps against the bark of the trunk, shocking me back into full awareness as you press your crotch against my face, and my nose is squidged into your slit for an exotic moment. Your intoxicating scent fills my nostrils, whilst the sense of your wetness arouses me – my nipples harden into stiff erection, and with a moan I reach up with one hand to twist and pull on my own tits. Your Venus mound is full and prominent, and I am hypnotised by the sight of your full, fleshy and clean-shaven pussy.

You give another grunt, and begin to grind your crotch against my face, whilst you reach a hand between your legs and pull your labia apart. I need no more opportunity: seizing your hips to steady myself, I stick my tongue into your vagina and begin a pattern of probing thrusts and swirling licks, alternating the pace and direction unpredictably.

You look down with deep satisfaction at the top of my bobbing head, enjoying the sight of this athletic young sports-babe submissively serving you, eagerly lapping at your vagina to give you pleasure. You give a half-choked moan; as you feel your arousal building, you release your grip on the back of my head and reach for your own breasts. Two forceful tugs spill them out of the bra cups, and you take hold of your own nipples, stroking and squeezing them. You shift to arch your legs further apart, and then your pelvis jerks forwards – almost tipping me over backwards – as you reach the brink of orgasm.

I swiftly resume my position, but now I focus my oral attentions on the nub of your clitoris – large anyway, and now engorged, I can suck and nibble on it, driving you to frenzy. And then, taking a leaf from your book, I shove two fingers into your vagina, straight upwards from below, all the way in to my knuckles. Reliving your wonderful use of the golf club (oh, how I shall treasure that three-iron, for ever and ever!), I ram my fingers in and out of your sloppy, gaping hole. With a moan, you spread wider and open further. There is no doubt that you are a woman who fucks often, hard and deep, for your pussy is like a tunnel. For the first time in my life, I sink my hand right into a woman – I have long fingers, slender but very strong from hours of practice on the driving range, and usually they are more than enough. But not now, not here with you, you incredible bitch! My hand meets no more than token resistance as I squirm and push it further into you, and suddenly my knuckles are past the first constriction of your vaginal opening, and sliding wetly into you.

I can’t believe it, I am fisting you! I am fist-fucking a rich older bitch, and I’m thrilled by every second of it – I’ve actually never fisted a woman before. I sink into you, my wrist and then three or four inches of my arm. Holy shit, I’m so turned on by this, I’m running wet and dripping from my own cunt, almost as much as if I was cumming myself.

‘Yeah!’ you snarl at me, your voice rough and thick with lust; ‘you dirty, dirty little slut! You cow, c’mon on, do it you bitch, yeah! Fist me hard, fist me good, harder … harder … go on, slut!

I rasp the rough edge of my tongue across your clit, and synchronise it with my fullest pull back of my arm and then my longest, deepest thrust inside you. Your head thrashes from side to side, your teeth gnash together, and your breath dissolves into ragged panting. Your well-built frame goes rigid like stone for a brief moment, and then vibrates in ecstasy – and you heighten your intense, blazing climax by crushing your nipples between your fingers before flinging your arms wide to clutch at the tree trunk, and you give a long groaning yowl.

I remain where I am – for I feel it is my place, to be kneeling in reverence at your feet, my lips just inches from your cunt. After a moment, your breathing returns to something closer to normal, and you lean away from me, giving me more room to breathe. You reach down and ruffle my hair affectionately, and in a much softer tone than anything you have said since you began your seduction of me (if that’s the right word for something so vigorous and commanding), you say:

‘Well, you are hot stuff, aren’t you? I thought maybe your fires had gone out, but I think we’ve re-ignited them!’

I smile up at you, and nod. Oh, yes, you surely surely have – and it is like the dam has been breached, and I suddenly realise that I am consumed by desire for lesbian sex. I also have the pleasant feeling that I won’t have to hunt for it – because you have already hunted and captured me.

There is a small towel in our golf bags, normally used to dry the grips of the drivers and of your hands, whether of sweat on hot days or rain on wet ones. We each use these to wipe around between our legs and over our thighs and torsos, and then we shuffle back into our discarded clothes. I dry off the golf ball that had served as my muffler, but I slip into my pocket – I intend to keep it as a souvenir of this amazing day, and not to risk losing it by playing it.

When we are presentable again, hair combed and faces dried, you take my hand and draw me back against you. With one hand cupping my chin, you look firmly into my eyes, and ask me if I want to come back to your house after we finish the round, as you express it ‘for more fun fucking and more fucking fun!’. I smile broadly and nod happily, and you seal the pact with a kiss on my lips. Then, still holding my hand, you lead me back to the fairway. Incredibly, only about twenty minutes has passed whilst we were in the woods, and no one will remark our slightly later than average return to the clubhouse – after all, it is partly a tuition round, and bound to take longer. It looks as if two groups have played through the eleventh whilst we were out of sight in the woods; they did not see or hear us, and seem not have seen my ball lying in the fairway.

As we stroll to the twelfth tee, you admit to me that you are not a beginner at golf, that you played quite regularly some years ago but then the demands of business crowded it out – that you were really wanting a refresher course, but when you saw a piece in the local newspaper about my taking up this job, and saw my picture, you decided it would give more opportunities if you pretended to know nothing of the game. I smiled inwardly – my instinct had been right, and of course your hooked drive into the woods had been entirely intentional.

You look at me as I take my stance to address the ball for my drive down the long par-five twelfth, admiring my figure in profile, and especially the lean jut of my ass.

‘If this was match-play’, you remark casually, ‘for certain, I won that last hole!’

I release a smashing drive that bounces down to the centre-left of the fairway, to the ideal position from which to fade one round the turn and onto the green with the second and make an eagle opportunity. Then I look at you, and grin:

‘Lady, for sure, you won not just the hole but the match!’

Then I turn towards you, and lift the front of my skirt – my pussy is naked beneath, as I had stuffed my soiled panties into a pouch in my golf bag rather than putting them back on. I run one finger lasciviously up and down my slit, teasing it open to show a flash of the hot pink inner flesh.

‘… and here’s your prize!’ I added; ‘and you get to take it away with you – but put it in your bedroom, not on the mantelpiece!’

You laugh, amused by my metaphor, and your pulse quickens at the thought of the ways in which you and friends will use my fit young body. Reaching forward, you thrust a finger into my pussy, and reply:

‘Don’t worry, I will! I believe that things are there to be used – and you will be, oh yes, you will be!’

If you enjoyed this, check out my other stories … you might like them too … (to find them, follow the author link at the top of this story)