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WARNING: 18+. My dark erotic stories blend explicit sexual themes with intense psychological drama, pointed satire, and highly controversial subjects. This work features extreme taboo dynamics, including fictional dub-con or non-con situations, that are essential to character and plot development. All characters are depicted strictly as adults (18+) engaged in fictional role-playing. Reader discretion is strongly advised; if these themes are offensive or triggering to you, please kindly skip my work. Thank you so much!

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Golfing with Daddy: A Daughter's Journal

v1.0

1: Three Strokes to Naked

The trick with a driver is you stick your ass out like you mean it.

So I do. Feet wide. Knees soft. Hips back. My white miniskirt rides up the backs of my thighs, and I can literally feel three pairs of eyes crawl up there with it. Like ants on a popsicle. Or something.

The ball sits on its little wooden tee. Perfect. White. Smug.

I wiggle my butt. Not for the swing. Just because.

Behind me, somebody clears his throat like he swallowed a cashew wrong.

I’m Lorelei. I’m 18, a full-time college student, and I’ve been playing golf for exactly one summer. Daddy taught me. And I want his approval so bad it itches under my skin.

I flip my hair. Long, blonde, messy on purpose. Men lose their minds over messy. It’s like they think I just rolled out of something.

“Lore. You gonna hit it or marry it?”

That’s Jimmy. Jimmy is sweating. Jimmy is always sweating. It’s nine a.m., and he already looks like a glazed ham. His long-sleeve white polo is stuck to his belly in patches shaped like the Great Lakes.

All three of them are dressed like that. White pants down to their ankles. White sleeves down to their wrists. Like a cult that does cardio.

And then there’s me. Short sleeves. My white bra is ghosting through my polo if the light hits right, which it does. A skirt that ends basically where my legs stop being legs and start being... Something else. Little white running shoes. Socks so low they’re more of a rumor.

I look like the dessert. They look like the waiters.

Nassau, Baby

“Hold up.”

Jimmy waddles forward a step and lifts a sweaty finger.

“We playin’ for anything? Or just… for the love of the game.”

Ben snorts. He rests his hands on top of his driver, his belly parked on top of his hands.

“Love of the game. Christ, Jimmy.”

“I’m askin’.”

Orson rolls his neck. Orson’s built like somebody stacked two refrigerators and taught them to golf. His polo is losing a fight with his shoulders.

“Nassau.”

Jimmy squints.

“Front, back…”

“Front nine. Back nine. Full eighteen. Low score takes each.”

Ben nods slow, like a judge.

“Three pots.”

“Could be three winners.”

“One guy.” Orson grins. “I’ll clean house.”

I’m still bent over my ball. Nobody has looked at my face once during this conversation. They’re negotiating over my butt like it’s a conference table.

“How much?”

That’s Ben, scratching his chin.

Jimmy shrugs, and a drop of sweat leaps off his earlobe to its death.

“Five bucks? Losers pay the winner. Each.”

“Five.”

“Five’s fine.”

“Five.”

Done. Like that. Handshake vibes without the handshake. I straighten up a little.

Orson lifts one huge hand. Not to me. To the other two.

“Addendum.”

The Addendum

Ben’s eyebrows go up. Jimmy leans in. Orson’s eyes slide over to me. Down. Up. Down again, slower, like he’s rewinding the good part.

“She don’t pay cash.”

“No?”

“Clothes. One piece per pot.”

I giggle. Out loud. It’s a cute giggle; I’ve practiced it, it’s very effective at parties.

Nobody giggles with me.

Jimmy nods like Orson just cured cancer. Ben is chewing the inside of his cheek. Thinking about it. Actually thinking about it.

My giggle dies somewhere around my collarbone.

‘Oh. Oh, they’re serious.’

“Okay, wait. Wait wait wait.”

I hold up the driver like a crossing guard.

“That’s three pieces. If I lose all three…”

Orson tilts his head. Patient. Like a big dog watching a squirrel do math.

“Bra. Panties. Then what? The shirt? The skirt? I’m either…” I wave a hand at my chest, then my crotch, which, yeah, not my classiest gesture. “Topless. Or bottomless. They’ll kick me off before we reach the clubhouse. Like, banned. Like, security.”

Jimmy’s lips twitch.

“Better win one, then.”

Ben shrugs. His whole belly shrugs with him.

“Gotta beat somebody, girl.”

“That’s not… Daddy. That’s not fair.”

He looks at me. Really looks, for the first time since we parked the cart. Those little pink eyes, crinkled at the corners, warm and amused. The look I live for. The look I’d sell a kidney for.

“Vote.”

“What?”

“We’ll vote. Democracy.” He lifts his hand. “Clothes for the girl.”

Jimmy’s hand shoots up so fast his armpit makes a noise.

Orson’s hand rises slow. Like a sunrise. Like a threat.

Ben turns back to me, eyebrows up.

“Lore?”

I cross my arms. My boobs push up under the polo and three heads track the movement like it’s a tennis match.

“No. Obviously no.”

“Three to one.” Ben slaps his thigh. “Motion carries. Tee it up.”

‘Cool. Great. Love democracy.’

Into the Bush

I set my feet again. Ass out. Breathe. Eye on the ball. Daddy always says eye on the ball.

I draw the club back.

“Can’t wait for them panties after nine.”

Jimmy. Right as I hit the top of my backswing.

I freeze. The club hangs over my shoulder like I’m about to chop wood.

“Jimmy.”

“What? I’m ...