#chaesol

Her brand-new polo shirt, a pristine white that now felt two sizes too small, clung to her skin with a desperate, damp grip. The fabric strained across her chest, a constant, tight reminder of the anatomy that made dance rehearsals a strategic nightmare and now seemed to make holding a golf club an impossible feat.

Her hands, more accustomed to the delicate weight of a microphone than the rough, textured grip of a driver, slipped again. The club clattered to the artificial turf of the private practice bay with a sound of finality that echoed her own despair.

“Aish,” she muttered under her breath, wiping her sweaty palms on the tight white shorts that were cutting into her thighs. This was a disaster. A last-minute, hellish assignment from her company. Some variety show producer had the “brilliant” idea of a “Celebrity Golf Challenge,” and because she was the maknae, the one always shoved into the “awkward but cute” roles, she got the short straw. Two weeks of intensive training before the cameras started rolling. Two weeks to transform from a girl who thought a birdie was something you fed crumbs to in the park into a passable amateur golfer.

The sound of polished leather on concrete made her jump. She turned, and her breath hitched in her throat.

Leaning against the doorframe of the bay was a man. He wasn’t what she’d expected. Mr. Park, her instructor, was supposed to be the best in the country. She’d pictured some grizzled, ancient pro with a potbelly and a sour disposition.

This man was… not that.

He was older, yes—maybe in his late fifties—but he wore his age like a fucking trophy. Silver hair, thick and perfectly styled, swept back from a tan, sharp-featured face. His eyes were a cool, assessing gray, missing nothing. They scanned her from head to toe in one swift, unnerving motion, and Jeewon felt a flush that had nothing to do with the sun heat her cheeks. He was lean and fit, his athletic build evident even under his own impeccably tailored, navy-blue polo shirt and tailored trousers. He exuded an aura of effortless, expensive authority.

“Jeewon-ssi,” he said. His voice was a low, smooth baritone, like aged whiskey poured over dark stones. It wasn’t a question. “I am Mr. Park. Your company sent me.”

She bowed deeply, her training overriding her fluster. “Yes, sir! Thank you so much for taking the time to train me. I know I’m… a complete beginner.” Her voice came out smaller than she intended.

A slow, easy smile touched his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Those remained fixed on her, analytical and intense. “Everyone starts somewhere. Even the greats.” His gaze lingered for a beat too long on the way her shirt stretched across her chest before drifting down to the club at her feet. “Though they usually start by holding onto their equipment. Pick it up. Let’s see your stance.”

Flustered, Jeewon scrambled to grab the driver. She assumed what she thought was a golf pose, knees locked, feet too close together, her grip so tight her knuckles were white.

Mr. Park let out a soft, almost inaudible chuckle. It wasn’t unkind, but it was patronizing. “I see. Well. The first lesson is always foundation.” He didn’t move from his spot. “Widen your stance. Shoulder-width apart. You need a stable base, or you’ll topple over with a swing.”

She adjusted her feet, feeling clumsy.

“Wider,” he commanded, his voice still calm. “Don’t be shy.”

She shuffled her feet further apart.

“Good.” Finally, he pushed off from the doorframe and walked toward her. He moved with a predator’s grace, silent and sure. He stopped directly behind her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the clean, sharp scent of his sandalwood cologne mixed with something else, something inherently masculine and powerful. It was overwhelming.

Jeewon froze. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs like a trapped bird.

“Your grip is all wrong,” he murmured, his voice now right by her ear. His breath was warm on her neck. He didn’t just tell her; he showed her. His arms came around her, his own hands, large and tanned with a dusting of silver hair on the wrists, covering hers completely. His skin was surprisingly rough, calloused from a lifetime of holding clubs, a stark contrast to her own softness. He began to reposition her fingers on the rubber grip, his touch slow, deliberate, almost sensual. “You’re holding on for dear life. It’s a club, not a lifeline. Relax your hands. Let the club sit there. Guide it, don't strangle it.”

She tried to breathe, to relax, but it was impossible. He was everywhere. His chest was pressed lightly against her back, his thighs brushing against the back of her legs. He was rearranging her, molding her posture with his own body.

“Now,” he whispered, his voice a low vibration she felt through her spine. “The swing. It’s not in the arms. It’s a rotation. A transfer of power.” His hands left hers and settled firmly on her hips. Jeewon jolted at the contact. His thumbs pressed into the dip of her waist. “From the ground up. Through your legs, your core…” His hands slid from her hips around to her lower stomach, pulling her back slightly so her ass was nestled firmly against his groin. She could feel the hard, unyielding ridge of him through his trousers. A shocked gasp caught in her throat.

He ignored it, or perhaps he simply didn’t care. He began to rock her body with his, a slow, practiced, hypnotic motion. Back… and through. Back… and through.

“Feel that?” he breathed into her ear, his voice husky. “That’s the rhythm. That’s the power. You have to let your body move. You’re too stiff.”

He was hard against her. There was no mistaking it. And he was still moving, grinding himself against her in the guise of teaching her the golf swing. A dizzying cocktail of shock, confusion, and a traitorous, unwanted thrill shot through her. This was Mr. Park. The legend. And he was… he was…

“Sir, I…” she stammered, trying to pull away, but his hands on her stomach held her fast.

“Shhh,” he soothed, his lips dangerously close to her earlobe. “Don’t think. Just feel the motion. Let me guide you.” One of his hands drifted upward from her stomach, splaying across her rib cage, his pinky finger brushing the underwire of her bra. “You have a strong frame. A dancer’s body. You just need to learn how to use it for this.”

The lesson continued like that for an hour. A torturous, confusing hour. His touches were always professional on the surface—a correction of her elbow, a press on her shoulder to level it, a hand on her hip to stop her sway. But they were always lingering. Always accompanied by a low, murmured compliment that felt intensely personal. “Good girl.” “You’re a quick learner.” “Such a natural rhythm.” And his eyes… his eyes were constantly drawn to her chest, watching the way her breasts moved with every practice swing, with every adjustment he made.

By the time he called the end of the session, Jeewon was a mess of sweat, confusion, and a strange, humming arousal. Her skin felt hyper-sensitive; every place he’d touched her tingling.

“We’ll continue tomorrow, same time,” he said, his voice back to its cool, professional baritone as he wiped down his own club with a towel. He looked completely unruffled, as if he hadn’t just been semi-erect against her back for the better part of an hour. “You did… adequately for a first day.”

“Thank you, sir,” she mumbled, unable to meet his eyes. She practically fled the bay, heading for the sanctuary of the women’s locker room.

The locker room was opulent, all marble and gleaming chrome, and most importantly, empty. She leaned back against the cool wood of the lockers, closing her eyes, trying to slow her racing heart. What was that? Was she imagining things? Was that just how real golf instruction was? It seemed impossible. It felt… deliberate.

The creak of a door hinge made her eyes snap open.

Mr. Park stood in the doorway to the locker room. He’d followed her. He let the door swing shut behind him with a soft, definitive click. The sound echoed in the silent, steamy room.

“You left your water bottle,” he said, holding up the plastic bottle she’d abandoned. His expression was unreadable.

“Oh… th-thank you,” she stammered, pushing off from the lockers. She took a few steps toward him to take it, her hand outstretched.

He didn’t give it to her. Instead, he took another step forward, closing the distance between them. The space, which had felt so large moments before, suddenly shrank to the size of a closet. He was looking down at her, his gray eyes dark, intense, no longer hiding their intention.

“You have incredible potential, Jeewon,” he said, his voice dropping to that intimate, husky murmur again. “A body built for power. But you’re holding back. There’s tension in you.” He reached out, not for her hand, but to gently tap a finger on her temple. “Up here. And…” his finger trailed down, through the air, until it was pointing directly at the straining fabric over her left breast. “…here.”

Jeewon’s breath caught. She couldn’t move. She was paralyzed, a rabbit caught in the gaze of a very experienced, very hungry wolf.

“All that tension needs to be released,” he continued, taking the final step that eliminated the space between them. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel the heat of his body. His cologne filled her senses. “If you want to excel. If you want to win. You need to learn to let go. To… relax.”

His hand came up, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, to slap him, to scream. She did nothing. Her mind was screaming, but her body was frozen, a traitorous part of it thrilling at the raw, dominant energy pouring off him.

His calloused fingertips finally made contact with the skin of her collarbone, just above the neckline of her polo shirt. The touch was electric. A jolt shot straight through her core. He traced a slow line along her collarbone, his eyes locked on hers, watching her reaction.

“You’re so tense,” he whispered, his voice like gravel. “See?” His other hand came up, and he gently took one of her hands in his, guiding it up to place it on his own chest, over his heart. She could feel the strong, steady beat under her palm. “My rhythm is steady. Controlled. You need to find that.”

His hand on her collarbone drifted downward, over the frantic pulse in her throat, down to the top button of her polo shirt. His eyes asked a silent question.

Jeewon, her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest, gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. She was lost. This was wrong, so wrong, but the allure of him, his power, his confidence, was a drug she hadn’t known she craved.

With deft fingers, he undid the first button of her shirt. Then the second. The third. The damp, strained fabric fell open. She was wearing a simple white sports bra beneath, soaked with sweat, doing little to contain the full, heavy swell of her breasts.

Mr. Park’s eyes darkened with pure, unadulterated hunger. A low groan escaped his lips. “Fucking hell,” he breathed, the professional veneer finally cracking completely. “They’re even more perfect than I imagined.”

He didn’t ask permission this time. His hands, those strong, calloused golf-pro hands, came up and covered her breasts over the thin fabric of the bra. He squeezed gently, his thumbs finding her nipples and rubbing slow, deliberate circles. Jeewon cried out, a soft, broken sound, her knees buckling. The sensation was overwhelming. It was shameful. It was incredible.

He held her up, pulling her tight against him, his mouth descending to hers. His kiss wasn’t gentle or exploratory. It was claiming, possessive, and skilled. It tasted like coffee and power. One of his hands slid behind her back, unhooking her bra with a practiced flick of his wrist. The garment fell away, and her breasts spilled free into his waiting hands.

“God, look at you,” he growled against her mouth, breaking the kiss to look down at her bare chest. He was breathing heavily now, his own control slipping. He groped and kneaded her flesh, his thumbs and fingers pinching and rolling her stiffened nipples, making her whimper and writhe against him. “All this… perfection. Wasted on little girls who don’t know what to do with it.”

He backed her up until her legs hit a wooden bench in the center of the locker room. “Sit,” he commanded, his voice rough with desire.

She obeyed, collapsing onto the bench, her shirt hanging open, her breasts exposed and heaving. She felt dizzy, exposed, utterly consumed.

Mr. Park dropped to his knees in front of her. He pushed her legs apart, settling himself between them. His hands ran up her bare thighs, under the tight white shorts, gripping the soft flesh of her hips. He leaned forward and, without any further preamble, took one of her nipples into his hot, wet mouth.

Jeewon screamed. Her head fell back, a moan tearing from her throat as he sucked hard, his tongue lashing and flicking over the sensitive peak. It was a sensation so intense it bordered on pain, a direct line of fire straight to the aching heat building between her legs. He worshiped her breasts with his mouth and hands, sucking one while massaging the other, lavishing them with an attention that was bordering on obsession. He bit down gently, making her cry out, then soothed the spot with his tongue.

“You like that, you fucking gorgeous creature?” he muttered, switching to her other breast, giving it the same devastating attention. “You like having your perfect tits sucked by an old man?”

She couldn’t form words. She could only moan and grip his silver hair, not pushing him away, but holding on for dear life as he unraveled her completely.

His hands left her breasts and went to the button of her shorts. He undid it, yanked the zipper down, and in one swift motion, pulled the shorts and her damp panties down to her ankles. The cool air of the locker room hit her wetness, and she flinched.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered, looking up at her from his knees, his face level with her naked core. His eyes burned with lust. “Let me see all of you.”

Trembling, ashamed, but more aroused than she had ever been in her life, Jeewon let her knees fall apart.

Mr. Park let out a string of filthy, appreciative curses. “So pretty. So pink and wet for me already.” He didn’t hesitate. He leaned in and buried his face between her legs.

Jeewon’s world exploded. His tongue was ruthless, expert. It was a fucking masterclass. He licked broad stripes through her slick folds, circled her clit with maddening precision, then sucked the sensitive bud into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue until she was sobbing, her hips bucking off the bench uncontrollably. He held her down, his strong arms pinning her hips as he ate her out like a man starved. The sounds were obscene, wet and sloppy, mixed with his grunts of pleasure and her own helpless, high-pitched cries.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled, his voice muffled by her flesh. “Come on, my face. Come for me. Let all that tension go.”

The command, the sheer dominance in his voice, was the final push she needed. A tidal wave of pleasure crashed over her, so violent and intense her vision whited out. She screamed, her body convulsing, back arching off the bench as the orgasm ripped through her.

Before she could even come down, before the last tremors had even finished wracking her body, Mr. Park was on his feet, fumbling with his own belt buckle. His eyes were wild, his face glistening with her arousal. He freed his cock, and Jeewon’s eyes widened. It was thick, veined, and rock-hard, standing straight out from a thatch of silver hair. It looked intimidating, powerful, just like him.

He pushed her back until she was lying flat on the hard wooden bench, her ass perched on the edge. He grabbed her hips, yanking her toward him, and positioned the broad head of his cock between those huge tits. He wanted to feel those tits on his cock. He wanted to know how it felt to have his thick cock pillowed by those two huge breasts.

Finally, his cock was buried inside her cleavage. She could feel the hot rod moving in between her boobs. His hands were roughly squeezing her boobs, and his fingers were playing with her nipples. She felt like she was in heaven. He groaned, throwing his head back in pleasure, feeling that soft titties around his cock. She even held both sides of her boobs pressing together, creating friction as he rocked his hips into her boobs.

Jewoon watched his thick, long, hard cock coming towards her mouth, the thick precum oozing out of its slit and her tongue stretched out to taste it. The double sensation of both her tongue and her big soft boobs made him go mad.

He knew he could not cum and waste this opportunity so he removed his cock from her valley.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

Dazed, overwhelmed, Jeewon forced her eyes to focus on his.

He thrust into her in one long, brutal, fucking stroke. She cried out—a sharp sound of shock and pleasure-pain as he filled her completely, stretching her in a way she’d never felt before. He was so big, so deep.

“Fuck!” he roared, his head thrown back, his hands gripping her hips like vices. “Your fucking cunt is incredible. So tight around my cock.”

He didn’t give her time to adjust. He set a punishing, relentless rhythm, pounding into her on the hard bench. Each thrust drove her body up the polished wood. The bench screeched against the marble floor with every drive of his hips. The sound echoed through the empty locker room, an obscene soundtrack to their fucking.

He leaned over her, bracing one hand on the bench by her head, his eyes locked on her bouncing breasts. “Look at them,” he grunted, slamming into her. “Look at those perfect tits bounce while I fuck you.” He captured one in his hand, squeezing it roughly, pinching her nipple as he pistoned in and out of her. “Mine. You understand? This is all mine now.”

Jeewon was mindless. She was just a vessel for sensation. The slap of his skin against hers

The world had narrowed to the brutal, rhythmic slam of his hips, the wet, slapping sound of their bodies connecting, and the raw, animalistic grunts tearing from Mr. Park’s throat. Jeewon was pinned, a butterfly under glass, her senses completely overwhelmed. The hard, unyielding wood of the bench dug into her back, a sharp counterpoint to the deep, stretching fullness where he was buried inside her. Each powerful thrust sent a jolt through her entire system, a confusing mix of pleasure and a faint, fading ache.

He was fucking her with a single-minded intensity, a man possessed. His eyes were glued to her breasts as they jiggled and bounced with every movement, a look of pure, unadulterated obsession on his face.

“Fucking look at them,” he growled again, his voice ragged. One hand left her hip and roughly palmed her breast, squeezing the soft flesh, his thumb scraping over her hardened nipple. The sensation was electric, a direct line to her core that made her clench around him involuntarily. He groaned, a deep, satisfied sound. “That’s it. Your body knows what it needs. It knows this cock.”

He changed his angle slightly, leaning over her more, and the new depth made her gasp, her eyes flying open wide. He smirked, a predatory, knowing expression. “There it is. Found it, didn’t I?” He began to piston into that exact spot, a shorter, harder, more focused rhythm that made her see stars. The building pressure from before, the one he’d torn apart with his mouth, began to coil again, tighter and hotter, deep in her belly.

“Sir… I… I can’t…” she whimpered, her hands scrambling for purchase on the slick wood beneath her.

“You can,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a brutal, claiming kiss, swallowing her moans. His tongue plunged into her mouth, mimicking the rhythm of his hips below. He tasted of her, of sweat, of pure, raw power. “You will. You’ll come on my cock like a good little golfer. Show me your follow-through.”

The filthy words, the sheer dominance, shattered the last of her resistance. Her orgasm crashed over her without warning, a silent, seismic event that ripped the air from her lungs. Her body arched off the bench, rigid, as a wave of pure, blinding pleasure electrocuted her from the inside out. Her inner muscles clamped down on him in a series of violent, uncontrollable spasms.

Mr. Park roared above her, his own control breaking. “Yes! Fuck! That’s it! Milk me, you perfect slut!” His thrusts became erratic, frantic, losing all rhythm as he chased his own finish. He drove into her one last time, deep, burying himself to the hilt, and held there. A guttural, primal sound was torn from his chest as he came, pulsing inside her, filling her with his release.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing echoing in the steamy, opulent locker room. He collapsed on top of her, his weight pressing her into the hard bench, his face buried in the sweaty junction of her neck and shoulder. She could feel the frantic beat of his heart against her chest, a wild drum matching her own.

Slowly, the world started to come back into focus. The chill of the air on her damp skin. The ache between her legs. The overwhelming scent of sex and sandalwood. The reality of what had just happened, where they were, began to seep through the haze of endorphins.

Mr. Park was the first to move. He pushed himself up on his arms, looking down at her. His expression was unreadable, a mix of satiated lust and that cool, assessing look he’d had on the driving range. His gaze traveled over her face, down her body, lingering on her breasts, which were now marked with faint red patches from his rough hands. He slowly pulled out of her, and Jeewon winced at the sudden emptiness, a trickle of his cum leaking out onto the bench.

He didn’t say anything. He just stood, tucking his softening cock back into his trousers and fastening them with an air of utter normality, as if he’d just finished a business meeting, not a raw, fuck on a locker room bench. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief—monogrammed, of course—and handed it to her.

“Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice back to that smooth, professional baritone, though perhaps a touch huskier than before. “We have a lot of work to do tomorrow. Your hip rotation is still inefficient.”

Jeewon took the cloth with trembling fingers, too stunned, too thoroughly fucked-out to process his words. He turned and walked to the sink, running the water and washing his hands with meticulous care, as if scrubbing in for surgery.

She sat up slowly, her body feeling used and boneless. She dabbed between her legs with the handkerchief, her mind a whirling void. She’d just let her golf instructor fuck her on a bench. She’d come harder than she ever had in her life. And he was talking about her hip rotation.

He dried his hands and turned to look at her, leaning back against the marble countertop. He watched her clean herself, his eyes dark and possessive.

“This stays between us,” he stated, not a request, a fact. “This is part of your training. Focus. Discipline. Release. You can’t be tight on the course. This…” he gestured vaguely between them, “…loosens you up. It’s a tool. Do you understand?”

She nodded mutely, clutching the now-soiled handkerchief to her chest. She understood nothing.

“Good.” He pushed off the counter. “I’ll see you tomorrow at nine. Sharp. Don’t be late.” He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. He looked back at her, a ghost of that predatory smile touching his lips. “And Jeewon… wear a different bra. That one provides inadequate support for your swing.”