Teed Off On

This is fact, not fiction

It was cold-ish, around 8c on the thermometer by the clubhouse and there was wind and occasional bursts of rain, so although it wasn't deserted it wasn't exactly over-run either. It was also a par-3, so skill really wouldn't be the deciding factor. Instead, what would be critical was the first hole. (That latter bit is hindsight) Actually the second hole would prove to be the critical one , because we played the 1st hole normally, warming up and putting some distance between us and the clubhouse, parking lot with its three other cars, etc.

The sign by the 2nd tee read '90 Yards'. On the premise of ladies first, I watched as she dropped a nice straight 9-iron on the front of the green and let the slope take the ball down within about 6 feet of the pin. I then missed the green, bouncing outrageously over a water-filled ditch to leave about 30 yards coming back. I managed to get inside her ball but it didn't matter, because it turned out she could putt.

I handed her my shoes, which she tucked into her bag. Then I started to peel off my already soggy socks, just for comfort sake, but she shook her head and her finger, chuckling, so I had to slog the '110 Yards' to the 3rd green in soaked-through, very slippery socks. My ball was pin high, 15 feet or so to the right. She was 10 or so yards short of the green. Her chip settled inside 3 feet from the pin.

I three-putted.

Barefoot, therefore, I followed her off the 4th tee. '100 Yards". Which, despite the cold climbing my legs, and the difficulty I had finding the grip to the ground to swing properly, we halved.

On the 5th tee, she leaned against the sign proclaiming '90 Yards', using her tee to clean the channels in her 9-iron, and said, "I'm trying to decide which one I would choose." Smiling over at me, she winked. "I mean, the jeans would probably be best if there was no one close by but the downside..." and she had this whole, oh-so not in the least amusing schtick about how difficult a choice I would have to make if I missed another green. Although she phrased the whole bit as though it would be tough for her to choose should she find the roles reversed in a few holes. The problem being that cold bare toes don't really hold well on damp grass and my ball sprayed over the green and perilously close to a small pond. Close to where one of the few other groups on the course were teeing off on a back nine hole. Which was really hard on my heart rate, etc.

I handed over my slacks and followed her shapely petite frame to the next tee. All the while trying to keep the flaps front and back on my shirt from blowing about too much in the wind. Of course that was futile so I'd given up long before we reached the tee. '115 Yards'. More my distance than hers, all things being equal, but the odds weren't going to even out particularly. "Now," she was addressing her ball, "if I had to choose between my blouse and my panties, well, that would be really awkward," she hit a nice clean straight 85 to 90 yards, as usual, and simply continued on, "because it would be too cold for my bra to pass as a bikini top so I'd look like a complete idiot, or, well, anyone who caught a glance would suspect what was really going on..." Punctuating this with a little shudder, she went out to add, "but I'm not sure I could part with my panties in a breeze like this. Did I say breeze? I think a girl could freeze solid in these conditions, what do you think...?"

I think I did well to finally make a putt, halving the hole.

But '80 Yards' was right in her wheelhouse and she very nearly holed out from the 7th tee . What she had left would certainly have been a 'gimme' under ordinary circumstances but when I didn't hole the chip I really needed her to miss one, this one.

"This is a new twist on a wet tee contest," she quipped, after I had replaced the pin and handed over my shirt, her fingertips plucking at my teeshirt down by the hem.

Those occasional bursts of rain when we started had become one continuous burst, lasting over the last 20 or so minutes. Meaning I should have opted for a coat, as she had. Another not so good decision. Mind you, I would have had to take the coat off instead of the shirt...and it was what it was...and what it was was my teeshirt as soaked through as my socks had been back on 3. Peeling the teeshirt up slowly for 5 or 6 inches, between thumb and forefinger, she exposed the engorged tip of my hardon -- protruding above the thick elastic of my boxers. Smiling, she returned the teeshirt to it's original position, smoothing it down and using the opportunity to cup my balls and hardon through the of course wet fabric of my boxers.

This was technically against the rules but I wasn't in any position to protest. Especially as I rather needed her to bend the rules slightly...

***

To back up a little, we had met online. What is it they say?...3 out of 5 new relationships begin online?...something like that. Regardless, we'd met in a particular chat room on the fairly well known site. The site doesn't matter but the chat room was for those of a, shall we say, competitive nature. In fact, her username was 'CB1966'. 'CB' for 'Competitive Bitch' and the '1966' tells you that neither of us was going to be asked for ID at a club or restaurant.

We were just part of the group for quite a while. Killing time and tossing trash talk around with whoever happened to be on when we were. Then we started to exchange more focused barbs between us, and then we discovered some specific common interests and after about, oh, 4 months or so, we exchanged pix. After which the barbs grew really spikey -- and eventually we settled on golf in a community roughly half-way between the cities where we lived. So we could meet on a weekend. Which is why we decided to play despite the iffy weather, because we had gone to some trouble to arrange work schedules, etc., and we had both travelled to get there.

All of which is basically irrelevant. Except that we had really, really nailed down the rules. Very specific they were. No grey areas...

***

So she was way outside the rules, and knew it. But...Clearing my throat, because I needed to, because it seemed to have closed up, I said," I don't suppose there's any chance we could, you know, skip," I cleared my throat again, and gestured to the 11th tee, " to over there?"

"I'm not following you," she replied, tracing my hardon through the wet boxers with her fingertips.

"I'm just thinking we might go straight from here to the 11th...you know, bypass the clubhouse turn, etc."

She smiled, eyes twinkling, rolling my balls gently. "No." Before I could even think of how to try again, she added, "I thought the rules were quite clear. Why don't you spell them out as you understand them."

Rule number one was that neither of us was allowed to touch the other until the game was over, but as she was blatantly breaking that one, to prove she could, I cleared my throat again and said, "Neither player can quit, ending the game, until after a hole she or he has won."

"Correct." She gave my balls a quick squeeze for emphasis, causing me to gasp. "So I can quit at this moment but you can't. Go on."

"Each hole not halved will cost the player with the high score one garment."

"Go on."

" Within the rules of golf, the player with most remaining garments will be the sole judge of play in every respect."

"Which means?"

"You could, if you chose, bypass the next few holes as I've requested."

Eyes twinkling, and fixed on mine, she worked on my cock and balls until I had to look away and shift my weight from one foot to the other.

Dominance thus firmly established, she chuckled and said, "What would be in it for me? By my math you've been losing two of every three holes so if you want to jump to 11 you should just strip off now."

"We could split the difference?" I murmured, not holding out much hope.

"Sure." She released my balls, to peel my boxers down to my thighs. "Leave those on the green here and bring my clubs." Turning away, she said, "And be quick or I might regret it and change my mind."

Leaving my boxers on the green was an advertisement that there was something to look for. Specifically, a male somewhere who was probably naked. As discomfiting as the thought was of someone starting to look for me, there was the reality that anyone who happened into range -- as the group had back on the 5th -- and who chanced to glance in the right direction would notice immediately that I was less than fully clothed. Which left the fact that my teeshirt reached only to the crux where my hardon actually connected to the rest of me. In other words, it wouldn't stretch to cover my balls no matter what -- and if I tucked it over my hardon it created a tent and left several inches of hardon, and my balls, fully exposed. Worse, when I swung the club, the hem of the teeshirt popped off and left my hardon wobbling and jouncing about in full view.

Something she found amusing. Almost as amusing as the distinctive resonant 'plop' created when my ball found the pond. She leaned back against the tee sign, which read '90 Yards', so yes, she was on the green. I found another ball, and, not bothering with the formality of tucking my too short teeshirt over my hardon, proceeded to re-create almost exactly my first shot. 'Plop'.

She was not going to 4 putt. I peeled off the teeshirt and handed it over. She draped it over the tee sign and said simply, "Good. Now you can try the hole again..."

The thing about women is that winning isn't enough. Women humiliate just to prove a point. When I had played out the hole, stark naked, earning a four to her three -- she produced a long slim crop from her bag -- note, she had planned carefully -- and had me lean over, elbows flush on the top of the 12th tee sign, and laid several sharp hard strokes across my butt. Sharp enough and hard enough to have me gasping.

"Keep those legs spread," she said, running the crop between my thighs, making slow sliding contact with my full taut balls, "deny me access and I'll use this down there until you won't be able to close them. "

I believed her, made very sure to move my feet farther apart...gasped again, involuntarily, even though the upward stroke was no more than a tap...then bit my lip so as to make no further sound because she was still chuckling when she laid on the four or five more sharp strokes across my stretched butt.

"Good. Now I strongly suggest you play this hole better or ..." She left the rest unsaid, chuckling instead and teeing up her ball.

She could "suggest" anything she chose. Naked, with a hardon evidently resistant to both cold and wet, and a butt scorched by her enthusiastic application of the crop, I was not well positioned to play the "100 Yard" 12th hole...or any other hole for that matter. Interestingly, she pulled her own tee shot. Left. Not much but certainly enough to have missed the green had she reached it. As much to avoid being mesmerized by own jouncing, rolling hardon -- which she was studying intently, of course -- as I was straightening up, before addressing the ball, I glanced over at her. Forcing my eyes down from her wry smile -- to discover her hands were shaking, distinctly quivering.

I made a clean stroke and found the green. Only to three putt, again.

This time the beating was vicious. Full hard strokes searing my rump, interspersed with three upwards blows to my taut balls and a full range of trash talk..."Thought you said you were a decent golfer"..."how can you be a decent golfer when you can't putt"..."Problem is you're having way too much fun -- well, I have the cure for that"...at which point the fourth upward stroke caused my head to explode and my legs to give way.

"Up!"...I couldn't..."Up now!"...my legs wouldn't work, "Please," I pleaded.

"Ahh, poor baby. What's in it for me to stop beating your loser ass?"

She liked to beat the ass off losers. She'd told me that in the chat room. She was looking forward to beating my loser ass. She'd told me that in the chat room. Now she was getting the chance, and enjoying it. A lot. My mind was clearing, a little. Shaking hands...hers. Horny? "I do excellent oral."

"You'd better do that better than you putt," she replied, "but that can wait. I'm not exposing myself out here just for that." Another stroke to my loser ass ensued, followed by, "C'mon, make me an offer loser." When I hesitated she struck again, and again.

"What would you like?" I managed through gritted teeth, still kneeling at the base of the tee sign. "Decent competition," she struck again, "instead I got you," again, "loser," again.

"Please...what would you accept now?"

More strokes...more pleading...groveling...I mean flat out groveling...offering her "anything, anything you want..."

She positioned me carefully, squat position, knees apart, at the base of the tee sign. '13... 100 yards... Par 3'

"Why are you naked?"

"Because I'm a loser."

"How bad a loser?"

"Every hole."

I was masturbating. She was using her phone to capture the video. "Ummmh, a real loser. You're not going to cum without permission, are you."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a loser."

"Show the girls your loser ass."

I stood up and turned around, showing my beaten ass for the video. Btw, the girls were the girls in the chat room. "And you're going to beat my loser ass some more."

"Yes, I am. Turn back and kneel."

I did.

"Now cum for the girls, loser. Hurry up. I don't want this video to take too long."

I did. Cum. Hard and long, almost blacking out right there in the cold and rain... in front of the tee sign.

We'll consider continuing the account, if there's interest