Tamara & Tenille V
The empty chardonnay bottle clinks against the golf cart's cup holder as Tenille tilts it upside down, her red-tipped nails tapping the glass. A single golden drop rolls down the inside, catching the sunlight before it vanishes.
She smirks, those full lips glistening with the last sip, and I can already see the mischief brewing behind her eyes—like a storm front moving in over the fairway.
"No more wine," I murmur, stretching my arms overhead. The humidity clings to my skin, the fabric of my tank top sticking just enough to outline the curve of my breasts.
"Do we count kangaroos now? Or just watch these two hack at the ball like it owes them money?"
Trent's swing connects with a dull thwack, the ball arcing lazily before plopping into the rough. Tristan doesn't even bother hiding his laugh, his bicep flexing as he adjusts his grip on the club. "Your form's fucked, mate," he calls, voice rough with amusement. "You're swinging like you're trying to dig a hole."
Trent flips him off, but his eyes flick to us—lingering on Tenille's crossed legs, the way her sundress rides up her thighs. I see the hunger there, the same restlessness that's been humming under my skin since the beach. Since the park. Since before that, if I'm honest.
"Bugger that," Tenille says suddenly, her voice dropping into that smoky register that means trouble.
She leans in, the scent of jasmine and something—musky, like sweat and salt—flooding the space between us.
"Uh, ooh." Her fingers dig into my knee, nails biting through the fabric of my shorts. "I know what can be buggered."
I don't even have to ask.
The way her pupils blow wide, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip—it's all there, the filthy suggestion hanging between us like the heat haze over the green. She doesn't whisper. She breathes the words against my ear, her lips brushing the shell so lightly it sends a shiver down my spine.
"Arses. Right here. Right now."
My pussy leaks. Just like that. No warning, no buildup—just wet, aching need at the thought of it.
Trent's ass, tight from years of gym sessions, spread open while Tenille's tongue works him over. Tristan's, that athletic curve of muscle, flexing under my hands as I—
"Fuck," I breathe out, low and rough. "You're a menace."
Tenille grins, all teeth. "And you love it."
I do. God, I do. The risk of it, the sheer audacity—out here in the open, where some club member could wander by with their caddy, where the wind could carry a moan just a little too far. My fingers twitch against my thighs, imagining the weight of a golf club in my hand, the way the grip would feel slick with lube, the way—
"Oi." Tenille snaps her fingers in front of my face, dragging me back. "You in or out, Tam?"
I don't answer. I just stand, my shorts suddenly too tight, the seam pressing right against my clit. The men turn at the movement, Trent's club halfway through another swing, Tristan's brow furrowing as he tracks the shift in the air.
They know.
Of course they know.
The way Tenille's dress is hitched up just enough to show the lace edge of her thong, the way my nipples are hard little points under my top—we're not exactly subtle.
"Boys," Tenille purrs, stepping forward. Her heels sink into the grass, the stilettos making her hips sway like a metronome set to sin.
"How's your aim?"
Trent swallows, Adam's apple bobbing.
"Good. Why?"
She doesn't touch him. Not yet. But her gaze rakes down his body, lingers on the bulge in his golf slacks.
"Prove it."
Tristan's the first to catch on. His laugh is dark, knowing.
"You want us to drive something, love?"
Tenille's smile is slow, deliberate. "Mmm. Think of it as… target practice." She glances at me, and I nod, my pulse hammering in my throat. "Tamara and I will even give you a hole to aim for."
Trent's club hits the ground with a dull thud. "You're serious."
"I'm always serious about a good fucking." Tenille turns, bending just enough to give them a flash of her arse, the round globes barely contained by that scrap of lace.
"Last one to drop their pants buys a round of drinks."
That does it. Tristan's belt is undone before she's even finished speaking, his cock already half-hard as he shoves his slacks down. Trent's slower, but his hands shake as he fumbles with his zipper, his erection springing free—thicker than Tristan's, veined and flushed at the tip. My mouth waters. I want to taste him. Want to feel him choke me while Tenille—
"Lube," I say abruptly, because if we don't have it, I'm going to lose my mind. "Condoms."
Tenille's already digging in her purse, pulling out a travel-sized bottle of slick and a strip of rubbers.
"Always prepared," she murmurs, tossing them onto the grass. Then she crooks a finger at Trent. "On your knees, darling. Ass in the air."
He obeys. Just like that. No hesitation. The sight of him—broad shoulders, pale arse cheeks clenching as he bends over—makes my knees weak. Tenille sinks to the grass beside him, her dress pooling around her waist, and spits into her palm before rubbing it between her fingers.
"Watch," she orders me, her voice thick. "Watch how he takes it."
I do. I do.
Her fingers press against his hole, not gentle, not teasing—just there, insistent. Trent groans, his cock jerking, a bead of pre-cum welling at the tip.
"Fuck—Tenille—"
"Shh." She doesn't even look at him. Her eyes are on me, daring me, owning me.
"You'll get yours."
Her finger sinks into the first knuckle. Trent's breath hitches, his thighs trembling. I can see the stretch, the way his rim flushes dark, the way his balls draw up tight.
My own cunt is dripping. I'm so wet I can feel it sliding down my inner thighs, the sticky heat of it, the need—
"Your turn," Tenille says, and I realise she's not talking to me.
Tristan's already moving, stripping off his shirt, his cock jutting out proud and thick. He doesn't ask. He just grabs my wrist and yanks me forward, spinning me so my back is to his chest. His other hand slides up my stomach, under my top, palming my breast hard enough to make me gasp.
"Bend over," he growls in my ear. "Let me see that pretty arse."
I do. Because I want to. Because the idea of him behind me, of his cock sliding into my tushy while I watch Tenille fuck my husband with her fingers—it's too much.
It's everything.
My hands hit the grass, the blades cool against my palms, the scent of cut lawn and sweat and lust filling my lungs.
Tristan's fingers hook into the waistband of my shorts, yanking them down with my underwear in one rough motion. The air hits my bare cunt, my exposed hole, and I whimper, pushing back against him.
"Fuck me," I demand. "Now."
He laughs, low and dirty. "Since you asked so nicely."
Then his cock is there, thick and hot, pressing against my entrance. I'm so wet he slides in easily, filling me in one deep thrust that steals my breath.
My fingers curl into the grass, my nails digging into the earth as he sets a punishing rhythm, his balls slapping against my clit with every snap of his hips.
"Look at them," he grunts, his voice strained. "Look at your husband taking another woman's fingers like a good little slut."
I do. Trent's face is buried in the grass now, his ass in the air, Tenille's fingers buried knuckle-deep in his hole. She's added a second one, scissoring them, stretching him, and his cock is weeping, a steady stream of pre-cum dripping onto the grass.
"Please," he moans, his voice muffled. "Please, I need—"
"You'll get what you're given," Tenille snaps, but her own breath is ragged, her free hand diving between her legs.
She's touching herself, her fingers working her clit in tight little circles, her thighs glistening with her own arousal.
Tristan's cock swells inside me, his thrusts turning erratic.
"Fuck, Tam—gonna come—"
"Do it," I snarl. "Fill me up while you watch him get fucked."
He does. With a groan, his cock pulses, hot cum flooding my cunt, dripping down my thighs as he rides out his orgasm. I can feel every twitch, every jet, and it sends me spiralling—my own climax crashing over me, my walls clamping down around him, milking him dry.
Tenille's not done. She pulls her fingers free of Trent's ass with a wet pop, then grabs his hips, yanking him onto his back. His cock is desperate, leaking, the head dark with need. She straddles him, her thong long gone, and sinks onto him in one smooth motion.
"Your turn to drive," she purrs, rolling her hips. "Show me how hard you can fuck me while your wife watches."
Trent groans, his hands gripping her waist, his cock disappearing inside her inch by inch. I'm still panting, Tristan's cum dripping down my legs, but I can't look away. The way Tenille's tits bounce, the way Trent's abs flex as he thrusts up into her, the slap of skin on skin—
"Again," I hear myself say. My voice is hoarse, raw. "I want again."
Tristan's already hard again, his cock glistening with my arousal. He doesn't need to be told twice. He spins me around, pushes me onto my hands and knees, and this time, when he presses against me, it's not my cunt he's aiming for.
His spit-slicked thumb circles my hole, pressing just enough to make me whimper. "You sure?"
I don't answer. I push back.
The burn is exquisite. Stretching, owning me. He works the tip in first, then more, his free hand tangling in my hair, yanking my head back so I'm forced to watch Tenille ride my husband, her nails digging crescents into his chest.
"Fuck," I gasp, the word torn from me as Tristan bottoms out, his balls pressed flush against my ass. "Harder."
He obeys. And I scream. Because it hurts, it burns, but God, it's perfect—the way he fills me, the way Tenille's moans mix with Trent's, the way the sun beats down on us like a spotlight, like we're the only people in the world.
Like we're Gods.
"Orrgghh! Aahh! AAhh!"