Green Fairway, Red Hot Payment

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wave of sound washing over me as I watched the final moments of “The Match.” Phil Mickelson and Tom Brady, titans of their respective sports, locked horns on the green, the tension palpable even through the television screen. The announcer’s voice, amplified and booming, filled the air as Mickelson launched a drive from 150 yards, the golf ball arcing high into the sky before disappearing over the trees. "Suck it," he yelled, a defiant grin plastered across his face, silencing the commentator and sending a ripple of laughter through the audience.

My own amusement was interrupted by Mel’s voice, sharp and insistent, cutting through the din. “What’s was that about?” she demanded, appearing in the doorway of our living room, her face a mixture of annoyance and curiosity.

“Just watching the spectacle,” I replied, gesturing towards the television. “It got me thinking, though. Do you think his supermodel wife goes down on him after a shot like that?”

The thought hung in the air, laced with a playful challenge. We had a tradition at our golf course, a bizarre yet oddly satisfying ritual: whenever a player holes out from anywhere off the green, their spouse had to go down on them that night. It was a silly, slightly degrading custom, perfect for injecting a little heat into a hot summer’s day, and the image of Mickelson’s wife, Gisele Bündchen, submitting to his pleasure after his victory, was undeniably potent.

“And you still owe me one from late last year,” I added, changing the subject abruptly. “That shot just off the green, the one I holed in the fall? You conveniently forgot about that unpaid oral.”

Mel’s eyes narrowed. “That shouldn’t have counted; you could have putted,” she retorted, launching into a familiar argument that had become a staple of our marital dynamic. It was a pointless debate, really, as we both knew the rules were clear.

I turned back to the television, succumbing to the hypnotic pull of the game, and, as always on a Sunday afternoon, drifted off to sleep on the couch. The rhythmic sounds of the golf clubs and the announcer’s voice lulled me into a deep, dreamless slumber.

Then, a gentle jostle woke me, the familiar weight of Mel’s body pressing against my legs. She was unzipping my shorts, her movements deliberate and intimate, as she prepared to take her turn. “Sleep crept in, eyes shut,” I murmured, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, “Jostle my consciousness back, Soft, now harden, mouth.”

As she straddled my legs, her touch sent a shiver down my spine. Her fingers worked their way into my boxers, pulling them down slowly, deliberately, until only my briefs remained. I lay still, allowing her to fully embrace me, savoring the anticipation of what was to come.

“Blood rushing, filling,” she whispered, her voice husky with desire, “Wet, warm, penetration deep. Strong hold, gentle rub.”

Her hand cupped my balls, pulling them taut, as her tongue, wet and eager, nestled around the head. She began to stroke, her fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles, igniting a fire within me. The sensation was exquisite, primal, a rush of pleasure that surged through my veins.

“Captured in wet warmth,” Mel murmured, her gaze locking with mine, “Cool air, heated gaze, beauty. Push, pressure, depth, hold.”

She momentarily released, noticing my attention and meeting my eyes. Her shirt was pulled open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage, and she smiled, a playful invitation that sent a jolt of electricity through my system. As she plunged down, her body pressed against mine, her weight both grounding and stimulating.

“Limit reached, gasp, smile,” I groaned, struggling to contain the building wave of pleasure, “Swirling wet tongue, caress, rub. Ocean tide rises.”

Mel came up with a quick gasp, her fingers continuing their rhythmic dance across my length. She caught my gaze, her eyes filled with a mixture of lust and tenderness, and I felt myself succumb to her dominance, losing all control. She caressed the head with her lips, a slow, deliberate exploration that intensified the sensations already coursing through me. Her fingers stroked below, sending waves of pleasure washing over my body, and the release finally erupted, a volcanic eruption of sensation that left me breathless.

“Wave crests and crashes,” she whispered, her voice thick with pleasure, “Gulp, Gulp, Swallow, worn proudly. Lick, kiss, sharing hot.”

“It’s cumming, Mel,” I managed to say, my voice strained, as she reached the base a second time, pushing deep into my body. The second and third spurts were even more intense, each one a surge of pure, unadulterated pleasure. As she held there, savoring the moment, I felt myself slowly relax, surrendering completely to her control.

“Better than any supermodel, I guarantee,” she confidently announced, pulling back off my legs and returning to her work, “Scrubbing off the last bits of pleasure from your skin.”

As she finished, she stood up, brushing off her trousers. “Now, let’s see if you’re ready for another round,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “After all, you still owe me one from that chip-in last fall.”

The thought of facing her again, of submitting to her demands, sent a fresh wave of anticipation through me. I knew it wouldn't be easy, but I was willing to endure whatever she had in store for me. After all, a little bit of humiliation was a small price to pay for the pleasure she offered. The game had just begun, and I was determined to play it to the very end.

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