Chapter 6: The Back Nine
The four golf carts had been maneuvered into a tight, semi-private circle, tucked away behind a dense thicket of sprawling oaks that shielded them from the rest of the course. The air here was different—heavy, stifling, and thick with the scent of mown grass, expensive bourbon, and the undeniable, sharp, musky tang of raw arousal.
Ashley knelt on the cart’s floor mat, her posture unnervingly composed despite being entirely naked from the waist down. Her navy skirt was bunched up uselessly around her hips, serving only to frame the stark, vulnerable sight of her bare, trembling legs and the slick, swollen state of her sex. She looked up at the four men, her gaze cool, professional, and entirely unbothered. She wasn't acting like a woman caught in a compromising position; she was acting like a proprietor closing a deal.
"I’m not a machine," Ashley said, her voice raspy, a sharp contrast to the soft, quiet tone she used at home. "Sucking one is standard. Sucking four, all the way to completion, and swallowing each one? That’s a significant amount of labor. My jaw, my throat—it’s a performance, and it’s going to cost you."
Don, the gruff, older man who had been the most vocal about his desire, chuckled. It was a rough, appreciative sound that seemed to rattle in his chest. He leaned back in his cart, eyes roaming over her exposed body with unconcealed, predatory greed. "What’s your rate for the full service, sweetheart? We’ve got the whole afternoon."
"Five hundred a man. Two thousand for the round. And I keep my own pace. I don't want to be rushed, and I don't want to be bruised."
Bob, the wealthy one, didn't even hesitate. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his thick, leather wallet. He counted out the crisp hundred-dollar bills with shaking fingers, his eyes never leaving her lips, and dropped the pile onto the cart’s tray. Ashley watched the money land, a small, triumphant smirk touching her lips. She gathered the cash, sliding it into the small storage compartment of the cart with the business-like air of a bookkeeper settling an account.
"Alright," she said, her eyes darkening as she looked at them. "Line up."
She started with Tom. He was the largest of the group, and she approached him with a focused, almost clinical intensity. She didn't wait for him to unzip; she reached up, her small hands working the fly of his slacks with practiced, aggressive speed. When his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, and already weeping with anticipation—she didn't hesitate.
She took him in a deep, hungry plunge. Her throat worked around the length of him with a professional, rhythmic ease, her cheeks hollowing out as she created the necessary suction. She stayed locked onto him, her eyes fixed on his face, watching the way his jaw tightened and his eyes rolled back as she worked him. She didn't just bob; she moved with a calculated, grinding motion, her tongue swirling around the sensitive, weeping head before she took him again, deeper than before. She let him build, her hands gripped firmly around his waist to keep him anchored, her forehead resting against his stomach. When he finally reached his peak, he let out a jagged, broken groan, his hands tangling in her hair. She didn't pull away—she tightened her grip and swallowed every thick, hot pulse as he unloaded deep into her throat, her chest heaving as she processed it all.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a streak of white glistening on her chin, and immediately turned to Jake.
Jake was leaner, more impatient, and he was clearly vibrating with the need to be next. She took him with a voracious energy, her tongue lashing out to tease the sensitive underside of his head before she forced him down her throat. She gripped his hair, pulling him down to maintain the seal, her lips creating a vacuum that made his body shudder against the cart seat. Every time he tried to pull back, she was there, relentless, her lips suctioning tightly. The sound of her wet, rhythmic bobbing—the wet shhh-shhh sound of her throat working—was hypnotic. When he finally climaxed, he groaned, his hands gripping the shoulders of the cart until his knuckles turned white, and she didn't stop until the last drop was gone, her throat working in rhythmic, involuntary gulps that left her gasping for air.
She was sweating now, her hair clinging to her forehead in dark, damp tendrils. She moved to Don next with a hunger that made my stomach turn.
Don was large and demanding, and she struggled for a moment to get him fully into her mouth, but she didn't break focus. She used both hands to guide him, her tongue flickering out to swirl around the head before she took him whole. The sound of her wet, rhythmic bobbing—the soft, wet slap of her chin against his skin—was the only sound in the field. She stayed with him, persistent and hungry, until he stiffened, his own pleasure shattering as he poured himself into her. She took everything, her eyes closing, her throat locking in that familiar, rhythmic gulping that signaled the end of the service.
Finally, she turned to Bob. By now, she was clearly spent. Her lips were swollen and deep red, her jaw muscles tight from the exertion, and a faint, trembling tremor had entered her hands. Bob reached down, cupping her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as she took him. She didn't rush. She sucked with a slow, deliberate intensity, her eyes locking onto mine—or where mine were hidden—as if she could feel the weight of my gaze. She took him to the edge, let him pull back, then took him over again, dragging the process out until he shuddered, his hands tangled in her hair, unloading into her throat.
She knelt there for a long moment after they were finished, her chest heaving, the remnants of them trailing from the corners of her mouth. She looked like she had just run a marathon.
"Finished?" Tom asked, his voice low and raspy.
Ashley looked up, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She didn't look like she was done. She looked like she was just getting warmed up. She glanced down at her own pussy—still slick, still swollen—and then back at the men, a wicked, defiant light in her eyes that made my blood run cold. She was a shared commodity, and she was clearly loving every single second of it.