‘Concentration comes out of a combination of confidence and hunger.’
– Arnold Palmer
Oh, it’s my favourite time of the year again! It’s Feb Photo Fest time!! Every day in February, gorgeous sex bloggers from across the world will be sharing sexy and erotic photos on their blogs or on Twitter – it’s worth keeping an eye on #FebPhotoFest so you don’t miss anything.
I’m starting strong with a photo that I am so pleased with, taken by the hugely talented Exposing 40, combined with a story written for me by the fantastic Exhibit A from an idea he had while holding that golf club exactly in place…
I can’t express how lucky I am to have so many extraordinarily wonderful and talented people in my life. I do hope you enjoy this as much as I do!
Do you trust me?
I mean really trust me.
I’m not talking about the casual, unthinking, everyday trust that flows between us as easily as the kiss you place on my lips each morning.
It is not my motives that I want you to interrogate, nor the decisions and actions that flow directly from them.
I’m not asking you to affirm your confidence in my love for you – or even in the care I show for your love of me. I hold your heart in my hands, dear one, as you do mine. That is just how it is.
Instead please ask yourself this: do you trust me? Do you have faith in my competence? More to the point, do you believe that I have a realistic grasp of my own capabilities? That when I say I’m going to do something, I can do it; I will do it – or just that I’ll try my best?
Because sometimes best intentions don’t matter.
When I tell you to kneel naked at my feet and open your mouth, I know you’ll do it. I know you’ll suck my fingers or eagerly take my cock to the back of your throat until you splutter and choke.
But what if I put something else there instead? What if I jam a small wooden golf tee between your teeth and tell you to hold it there? You’ll need to bite down firmly enough to keep it in place, but not so firmly that you snap it. Easy enough, right?
For a minute or two, sure. While your jaw is still nice and relaxed, and my fingers are in your hair. Less easy, perhaps, if I push you flat on your back and pinch your nipples or curl my hand around your throat.
Do you trust me?
Enough to remain still and silent when I take a golf ball from my pocket and place it – carefully, oh so carefully – atop the tiny, grooved tee peg? I imagine the change in weight will increase the amount of force you need to apply to that single focal point between your four incisors. It will also magnify the impact of any minute shift in position; one slip, one involuntary jaw movement, and the ball will smack your chin, or roll down your cheek and across the floor.
You won’t even be able to swallow. As the saliva builds up in your mouth – as your jaw starts to ache and your lips tremble – I will run the back of my hand between your tits and along your bare torso to rest lightly in your pubic hair. I will push your legs apart and cup your pretty cunt. And when I stand up, and reach behind me for my 5-iron, I will ask you this:
“Do you trust me?”
Maybe you know the physics, and maybe you don’t. The numbers themselves aren’t especially relevant. A golf club is travelling at over 35 metres per second when it makes contact with the ball. 80 miles per hour, give or take. It carries enough force to propel a 45-gram golf ball hundreds of yards through the air. That data is relevant to sports scientists and swing coaches, to club manufacturers and golf professionals.
It holds limited value for you. The outcome of one full-length golf swing – titanium club head arcing back over my head, then whipping at speed through a sharply-angled descent, till it makes contact with the dimpled surface of the ball – may depend on an unknown set of variables, but I imagine you’re far more interested in the impact point itself than you are in the parabola that precedes it.
Because that impact point is everything. Get it right and the club head will pick that ball off its tee as cleanly and effortlessly as you might brush an insect or a bead of sweat from your skin in summer. You’ll barely even feel the tee move. Get it wrong though…
Do you trust me?
Perhaps you see now that your answer to this question has consequences. I am not asking you to validate my intentions; I am asking whether you have faith – total faith – in my ability to swing this club from a point high above my head, through 180 degrees in a quarter of a second, to connect with a small white ball rather than your beautiful face.
Think about what will happen if I miss. If I get it wrong. Do you know just how little margin for error there is in a golf swing? How utterly it relies on a synchronous repetition (or reflection) through your whole body – hands, arms, shoulders, hips, back – of the shift in weight and torque in the downswing that went into drawing back the club? A twitch here, a slight loss of balance there, and the whole thing collapses.
Visualise that for a moment, please. The solid titanium face of this fucking 5-iron, smashing into your soft, pale cheek. Slicing through skin and shattering bone: maybe your cheek, maybe your lower jaw. Teeth exploding into tiny pieces inside your mouth. The taste of blood on your tongue, in your nose and throat. What would that be like? How profoundly would it change your entire life, if I missed the ball and hit you instead?
I need you to think about that, because I’ve thought about it. When you look up at me, and see in your peripheral vision the club head settling against the ball, ready to strike, I need you to know that I’ve turned this over in my head from every angle. That I understand the catastrophic consequences of getting it wrong. I need you to realise how sure – how absolutely certain – I must be that I will make contact with the ball rather than your face, even to consider swinging the club.
But that certainty in itself is not enough – because it is my certainty. And I could be wrong. I really could. Which is why before I do anything – before I address the ball, or put it on the tee, or even put the tee in your mouth – I need you to answer one simple question.
Do you trust me?
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