Chapter 10: Golf Course Degradation
The charity scramble was in full, sun-drenched swing. The 14th green was an emerald jewel set against a cloudless blue sky, flanked by polite applause and the clink of glasses from the patio of the clubhouse. Kathryn stood at the edge of the viewing area, her sundress a simple, floral cotton that stirred in the warm breeze. Each gust whispered against her bare skin underneath, a constant, shocking reminder of her nakedness. She felt utterly exposed, a secret on display.
David was thirty yards away, deep in conversation with a client from the firm, gesturing with a bottle of mineral water. He looked polished, successful, oblivious. Every time he laughed, a sharp splinter drove itself deeper into Kathryn’s heart.
Richard emerged from the crowd as if conjured. He wore tailored linen trousers and a polo shirt, the picture of casual wealth. He didn’t look at her. He simply walked past, his arm brushing hers, and his voice, low and clear, cut through the hum of conversation. “The maintenance shed. Now.”
He moved away, heading towards a small, white-painted building half-hidden by a copse of ornamental shrubs behind the green. Its door was slightly ajar.
Her legs carried her forward automatically. The applause for a successful putt rang out, muffling the sound of her sandals on the path. She slipped inside the shed.
It was dim, hot, and smelled sharply of fertilizer, grass seed, and gasoline. Light sliced in through dusty windows, illuminating floating motes. Bags of turf feed were stacked against one wall. Richard stood in the center, his silhouette dark against the bright sliver of the door.
Before she could speak, he was on her. His hand clamped over her mouth, his other arm locking around her waist, and he hauled her deeper into the gloom. He spun her and bent her forward at the waist, forcing her torso down over a hefty, rough-textured bag of fertilizer. The burlap scratched her bare stomach through the thin dress.
“Not a sound,” he growled into her ear.
She heard the rustle of his trousers, the clink of a belt. He gathered the hem of her sundress in his hand and yanked it up to her waist, exposing her completely to the warm, dusty air. His fingers parted her from behind, a crude, clinical assessment.
“Soaking,” he muttered, a note of dark satisfaction in his voice. “You walked past all those people, your husband included, with your bare cunt dripping for me.”
He didn’t enter her. Instead, his hands went to her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. He began to rock her against the gritty burlap bag, the coarse material rubbing her clit through the fabric. It was a taunting, indirect friction. She bit down on her own arm to silence a moan.
“Beg for it,” he whispered. “Beg for my cock, you charity event slut.”
Outside, the rumble of a golf cart passed close by, followed by male laughter. The proximity of discovery was a live wire touching her spine. “Please,” she hissed into her own skin.
“Please what?”
“Fuck me.”
He shoved her underwear, a simple cotton bikini brief she’d carried in her handbag, into her mouth. The fabric tasted of laundry soap and her own salt. He held it there, his palm pressing against her lips, muffling her completely. He positioned himself.
The head of his cock pushed against her, stretching her open. Then he drove into her with one relentless, deep thrust. The air left her lungs in a sharp, stifled huff against his hand. She was utterly full, the thick invasion a shock after the teasing.
He set a brutal, immediate rhythm. Each slam of his hips hammered her pelvis into the unyielding bag of fertilizer. The burlap rasped her skin raw. His grip on her hips was iron, holding her in place for his assault. The only sounds were the wet slap of flesh, his ragged grunts, and the crinkle of the burlap bag.
His other hand came around, fingers finding her clit. He pressed and circled, not to please but to dominate, to force a reaction from her traitorous body.
“You feel that?” he whispered, his voice ragged with effort. “Every time your husband sees this green, he’ll remember who owns your cunt. He’ll see the fucking sprinklers and think of how wet you get for me.”
Tears blurred her vision, falling silently onto the rough bag below. Shame and a terrifying, overwhelming pleasure twisted together inside her. The crude pressure on her clit, the deep, punishing fullness, the gag in her mouth—it was too much. Her body began to tighten, a coil spring wound beyond its limit.
He felt it. “That’s it. Come on my cock while he’s out there shaking hands.”
The orgasm tore through her, violent and silent, a series of sharp, internal clenches that milked his thrusts. He fucked her through it, his pace turning frantic and erratic.
“Take it,” he snarled. “Take all of it, you dirty whore.”
He plunged deep and held, a shudder passing through him. She felt the hot, distinct pulse of his release inside her. He kept moving, slow and shallow, working every last drop into her.
Finally, he stilled. His weight slumped over her for a moment before he pulled out. The sudden emptiness was profound. A warm trickle began its slow course down her inner thigh, identical to the feeling on the forest trail.
He stepped back, tucking himself away, zipping up.
He stepped back, tucking himself away, zipping up. His breathing was already steadying. Kathryn remained bent over the bag, the underwear still stuffed in her mouth, her body trembling. With a detached efficiency, he pulled the sodden fabric from between her teeth and tossed it onto a shelf of paint cans.
“Get up,” he said, not unkindly. “Straighten your dress.”
She pushed herself upright, her legs unsteady. The warm trickle was a blatant, shameful fact. She smoothed the sundress down over her hips, the cotton now clinging unpleasantly in places. He watched her, then dipped a finger between her legs, collecting the mixed wetness there. He held his glistening finger up to the dusty light.
“A souvenir,” he murmured, then wiped it clean on the front of her dress.
He walked to the shed’s door and peered out. “Your husband is by the beverage cart, looking lost. Perfect.” Richard turned back to her, his eyes sharp. “Go out first. Walk to the patio. Get a drink. I’ll follow in a moment.”
She moved past him, the bright sunlight a physical assault after the shed’s dim interior. Every step felt illicit, the evidence of Richard cooling on her skin. She found David at the stone patio bar, fumbling for his wallet.
“There you are,” he said, his smile vague. “I was looking for you. Want a lemonade?”
“White wine,” she managed, her voice scratchy.
As the bartender poured, Richard’s presence announced itself beside David, a heavy hand clapping his shoulder. “David! Enjoying the event?”
David turned, his face brightening with neighborly recognition. “Richard! Yes, great turnout. Your donation put the fundraising over the top, I heard.”
“All for a good cause,” Richard said, his gaze sliding past David to rest on Kathryn for a calculated second. He then looked down at his own hands, frowning. “Ah, damn it. Sticky.”
Kathryn froze. Richard raised his right hand, his fingers visibly glistening with a clear, viscous fluid. He waved them slightly. “Tripped by the sprinkler head back there. Got this maintenance gel all over me. Nasty stuff.”
He presented his soiled hand to David, as if displaying a minor injury.
“Here,” David said, ever the fixer. He grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the brass holder on the bar. “Let me get that for you.”
Richard extended his hand obligingly. David, with brisk, helpful motions, began to wipe the mess from Richard’s fingers. He scrubbed at the digits, the napkins soaking through, peeling the residue from the man’s knuckles and clean, trimmed nails.
Kathryn watched, the world narrowing to that point of contact. Her husband’s diligent, unwitting fingers cleaning her wetness and Richard’s spend from the older man’s skin. The mundane horror of it stole the air from her lungs.
“There you go,” David said, tossing the sodden napkins into a nearby bin. “Good as new.”
“Much obliged,” Richard said, flexing his clean hand. He gave Kathryn a slow, direct look, a private smirk playing on his lips. “Always able to count on you, David. A real hands-on guy.”
He picked up the glass of wine the bartender had set for Kathryn. He took a deliberate sip from it, his eyes locked on hers over the rim, and placed it back on the bar before her.
The wine glass was a landmine on the polished teak. Kathryn stared at the faint smudge his lips had left on the rim. She couldn't lift it. Her skin felt like it was vibrating at a frequency just below human hearing.
“You okay, Kat?” David’s voice came from a tunnel. He was looking at her with that mild, familiar concern, the kind reserved for a stubbed toe or a misplaced key.
Richard answered for her. “Sun’s strong. Perhaps she’s a bit peaked.” His tone was avuncular, rich with false care. “David, I’ve been meaning to ask. You mentioned tax strategy headaches with the Roth conversion last month at the block party. My portfolio manager is a wizard. Free consult. Come by the house tomorrow morning, say ten?”
David’s face brightened, the easy flattery of professional interest erasing the last trace of suspicion. “That’s… incredibly generous, Richard.”
“Think nothing of it.” Richard’s hand returned to David’s shoulder, a friendly anchor. “We’re neighbors. We help each other out.” His gaze, when it flicked to Kathryn, was arctic. “Goodbye, Kathryn. Enjoy your wine.”
He melted back into the crowd, leaving the toxicity hanging in the air between them. David prattled on about interest rates and diversification. Kathryn finally picked up the glass. The wine tasted of copper and betrayal.
---
The grandfather clock in Richard’s foyer was tolling the tenth chime when David rang the bell the next morning. The house was a monument to silent wealth, all cream marble and abstract art that looked expensive without being memorable. Richard greeted him warmly, ushering him into a wood-paneled study that smelled of leather and lemon polish.
“Coffee? I’ve just brewed a Sumatra.”
“Black, please. This is quite a place.”
They discussed numbers for twenty minutes. Spreadsheets glowed on a large monitor. David was leaning forward in his chair, earnest, nodding. Richard watched him with the focused interest of a biologist diagramming a specimen.
“The key,” Richard said, turning from the screen, “is understanding the underlying assets. You have to get your hands on them. Feel their structure.” He stood and walked to a sideboard, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. He didn’t offer one to David. “Some things require a more… physical assessment.”
David frowned, a polite confusion knitting his brows. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Richard took a slow sip of scotch. He set the glass down with a precise click. “Let me demonstrate.”
He moved with a sudden, unnerving purpose. He circled the desk and stood behind David’s chair. Before David could react, Richard placed his hands on his shoulders. The grip was firm, managerial at first.
“Richard?”
“Just relax. This is part of the consult.” His thumbs dug into the tense muscle of David’s trapezius, a strong, insistent massage. David stiffened, then gave an awkward, obligatory chuckle.
“Really, it’s okay, I—”
The hands slid down from his shoulders, over his chest.They stopped. One hand spread flat over David’s sternum, holding him back in the chair. The other dropped into his lap, palming him through his chino trousers.
David jolted as if electrocuted. A strangled, wet sound escaped his throat. His hands flew up to grab Richard’s wrist, but the older man’s grip was immovable, a claim.
“What are you—stop—“
“I saw the way you looked at my hands yesterday, David,” Richard murmured, his mouth close to David’s ear. His own breath was calm. “Cleaning them so thoroughly. You were fascinated.”
He squeezed. David bucked in the chair, a flush of horror and shock mottling his neck. “Don’t—“
Richard’s hand worked him with a brutal, practiced efficiency through the fabric, ignoring the writhing. In seconds, against all will, David felt a treacherous, humiliating swell beneath the older man’s palm. A tear of pure shame tracked from the corner of his eye.
David’s breath hitched, a ragged sawing in the silent study. The tear cooled on his cheek. Richard’s hand remained, a firm, undeniable weight that molded the growing hardness beneath it. Shame burned through David’s gut, but a deeper, older hunger flickered—a craving for decisive action, any action, after years of polite inertia.
“See?” Richard’s voice was a low vibration against his ear. “Your body understands the transaction. It’s smarter than you are.”
He unbuttoned David’s trousers with quick, clinical tugs. The zipper’s rasp was obscenely loud. Cold air hit David’s exposed skin, followed by the rough warmth of Richard’s hand slipping inside. He took David’s cock in a tight, dry grip.
David cried out, a short, sharp sound of protest that died in his throat. His head fell back against the chair, staring at the ceiling’s recessed lights. He was fully, achingly hard in the older man’s fist.
“You wipe my fingers clean of your wife’s cunt juice and my come, and you get hard thinking about it,” Richard stated, beginning to stroke him with a brutal, pacing rhythm. “Admit it.”
“No,” David gasped, but his hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk upwards into the friction.
Richard’s other hand slid from David’s chest to his throat, not squeezing, just resting. A threat. A claim. “You’ve spent years politely ignoring what she needs. I didn’t. I took it. I bent her over a bag of fertilizer and fucked the married life right out of her while you clinked glasses fifty feet away.”
Each word was a puncture. David squeezed his eyes shut, but the images flooded in: Kathryn’s distant gaze, the shed’s white door, the glistening fluid on Richard’s fingers. His cock twitched in Richard’s hand.
“Look at me,” Richard commanded.
David opened his eyes, turning his head. Richard’s face was close, his expression one of cool analysis. He increased the speed of his strokes, his dry skin chafing the sensitive head.
David’s climax was a violent, unwilling surrender. It ripped up from his groin, a searing violation of his own self. His back arched against the leather chair, a choked gasp tearing from his throat as he spilled over Richard’s knuckles and his own stomach in thick, shameful pulses.
Richard watched the mess coat his hand with detached interest. He released David’s spent cock, letting it fall against the damp fabric of his open trousers. He brought his wet fingers to his own lips, tasting them with a deliberate flick of his tongue. David watched, paralyzed, a low moan of self-disgust escaping him.
“A different vintage than your wife’s,” Richard observed, his voice devoid of inflection. He wiped his hand on a monogrammed handkerchief from his breast pocket. “But just as yielding.”
David fumbled, clumsy and shaking, to tuck himself away and zip his trousers. The stain on his chinos was a dark, damning blotch. He couldn’t meet Richard’s eyes. The leather of the chair squeaked under his trembling weight.
“She doesn’t know,” David mumbled, the words sticking in his cotton-dry mouth.
“Of course she doesn’t.” Richard returned to his seat behind the vast desk, a king reclaiming his throne. “This stays between us. A private understanding.”
He slid a crisp, cream-colored business card across the polished wood. It bore only a ph