Chapter One: Swinging Into Temptation
The late afternoon sun bathed the St. Albans Golf Club in Swanton, Vermont, in a golden glow, but Tom Miller’s mind was far from the fairways. At 32, with his stocky, athletic build and brown wavy hair ruffled by the breeze, Tom gripped his golf bag, feeling the sting of the course’s strict dress code. His long-sleeved t-shirt, slightly dirt-stained from the drive, wasn’t up to par, and the pro shop lady’s polite refusal left him flustered. That’s when the old curmudgeon shuffled over—M. Emmet Walsh, though Tom didn’t know his name yet.
Walsh, 5’10” with a heavyset, paunchy build, moved with a lumbering grace, his ruddy, hangdog face framed by a bald head and retreating hairline. His deep-set blue eyes sparkled with jocular sarcasm as he drawled in that gravelly voice, “I can take his shirt,” nodding toward Tom with a crooked grin. Dressed in a red and white checkered button-up shirt, light gray pants, white athletic shoes, and that gray and white striped conductor’s cap, Walsh looked equal parts rugged and charming. Tom, thinking him an eccentric old bum, declined politely but couldn’t ignore the man’s surprising allure—his chubby paunch, three-day stubble, and hairy arms peeking from rolled-up sleeves were oddly magnetic.
After Walsh wandered off, the pro shop lady returned with a collared shirt and revealed, “That’s M. Emmet Walsh, the actor. He lives here when he’s not in Hollywood—nicest guy, very friendly and humble.” Tom’s jaw dropped. The M. Emmet Walsh? The weirdo turned out to be a legend, and Tom chuckled, imagining Walsh relishing his eccentric persona.
Changed and armed with his golf bag, Tom headed for a cart. A familiar gravelly voice called out, “Hello, young man.” Turning, Tom saw Walsh, cap tilted jauntily, blue eyes twinkling.
“Oh, hi!” Tom stammered, then blurted, “Are you Emmet Walsh?”
“I think so. What do you think?” Walsh replied, his flat, sarcastic delivery teasing. After Tom’s fanboy gush, Walsh quipped, “You should read more books,” his dry humor disarming. Sensing Walsh’s humility, Tom started to walk away, but Walsh’s voice halted him. “If you’re not doing anything, would you like to join an old man in a game of golf?”
“Sure, ah… M. Emmet,” Tom replied, nerves tingling.
“Great. Call me Michael or Mike. Emmet’s just my screen name,” Walsh said with a wink.
As they played, Walsh’s charming wit calmed Tom’s jitters, but his mind spun with filthy fantasies. He pictured stripping Walsh’s checkered shirt off, revealing his hairy, stocky chest, and bending him over—turning the rugged actor into a submissive whore, begging for Tom’s 7-inch cut cock. Tom’s erection strained painfully, the thought of Walsh’s surprisingly hairy body under his hands driving him wild.
By the 9th hole, their banter turned electric. Walsh’s eyes lingered on Tom, and Tom dared, “You know, if I got you in my bed, I’d satisfy you in ways you’ve never imagined.”
Walsh’s ruddy cheeks flushed, but his grin widened. “Is that so, boy? Prove it.”
They abandoned their game, slipping into the nearest clubhouse bathroom. Empty and quiet, the tiled room echoed with their heavy breaths. Tom led Walsh into a spacious stall, locking the door. Walsh’s nervousness was palpable, his weathered hands trembling slightly, but Tom took control, his athletic frame dominating the older man’s stocky build.
Without a word, Tom flipped the toilet lid closed and sat, yanking his pants and boxers down to free his throbbing 7-inch cock, veins bulging and precum already beading at the tip. He locked eyes with Walsh, whose blue gaze darkened with raw hunger. Tom gripped Walsh’s hips, pulling him closer, and pressed his lips to the bulge straining against the light gray pants. With deft fingers, he unbuttoned and unzipped, freeing Walsh’s 7.5-inch cock—thick, veined, and heavy, its uncut head glistening with precum, surrounded by a nest of wiry, graying pubic hair.
Tom’s mouth descended, his lips stretching around the broad head, tasting the salty, musky precum as his tongue swirled with deliberate, slow licks. He teased the sensitive ridge, flicking his tongue against the foreskin, then sucked gently, drawing a guttural, “Oh! God!” from Walsh’s gravelly throat. The older man’s weathered hands, rough and calloused, gripped Tom’s head, fingers tangling in his brown wavy hair, pulling him forward. Walsh’s cock slid deeper, the head brushing the back of Tom’s throat, its girth stretching his lips wide.
“Hell, that feels wonderful,” Walsh rasped, his grin widening as sweat beaded on his bald head and rolled down his ruddy cheeks. His hairy chest, visible through the unbuttoned collar of his checkered shirt, rose and fell rapidly, the gray and white striped cap still perched jauntily. Tom intensified his efforts, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing faster, his lips forming a tight seal around Walsh’s shaft. He lapped at the underside, tracing the thick vein with his tongue, then swirled it around the head, collecting every drop of precum, savoring the earthy, masculine taste.
Walsh’s hips bucked, driving his cock deeper, the head bumping Tom’s throat with each thrust. Tom fought the urge to gag, relaxing his throat to take more, wanting to worship Walsh’s cock like a prized possession. He imagined it as his personal pussy, sucking and licking with fervor, his tongue dancing along the shaft, teasing the sensitive frenulum until Walsh groaned louder.
“Never had anyone suck my pecker like this,” Walsh growled, his voice thick with lust, watching Tom’s lips stretch and glisten with saliva and precum.
“You’re damn good at sucking cock,” Walsh added, his blue eyes locked on Tom’s, filled with feral hunger. Tom’s hands roamed Walsh’s hairy thighs, feeling the coarse hair against his palms as he steadied himself. Walsh fucked Tom’s mouth faster, his rhythm growing frantic, the wet, slurping sounds echoing in the stall. Sweat dripped from Walsh’s sideburns, and he bit his bottom lip, his ruddy face contorted with pleasure as he thrust deeper, his balls slapping against Tom’s chin.
Tom’s own cock throbbed painfully in his pants, but he focused on Walsh, wanting to drive him wild. He took Walsh’s cock as deep as he could, burying his nose in the wiry pubic hair, inhaling the musky scent of sweat and arousal. His tongue worked tirelessly, swirling and flicking, teasing the head until Walsh’s groans turned into desperate moans. Tom’s lips tightened, his suction intensifying, and he hummed softly, the vibration sending shivers through Walsh’s body.
“Get ready. I’m going to unload!” Walsh warned, his voice trembling with urgency. But Tom craved it—every drop. He sucked harder, his tongue lashing the sensitive tip, urging Walsh over the edge.
“Damn! Here it comes!” Walsh cried, his body tensing as he erupted, hot, thick spurts of cum flooding Tom’s throat. Tom swallowed greedily, the salty, musky taste overwhelming him, some of it dripping from the corners of his mouth as he savored the raw, primal release.
Gasping, Tom stood, yanking his pants down to reveal his rigid 7-inch cock, veins bulging and precum glistening. He jacked it furiously, the tip red and swollen, aching for release. Walsh’s eyes widened, his gaze dropping to Tom’s thick shaft.
“Hell, makes my dick look small,” he muttered, a mix of awe and amusement in his gravelly voice.
Tom stepped closer, his cock brushing against Walsh’s still-exposed, softening member, smearing precum on the hairy skin. Walsh reached down, his weathered hand cupping Tom’s balls, squeezing hard—surprising Tom and sending a jolt of pain and pleasure through him. Tom yelled, the sound echoing in the stall, as he climaxed, cum spurting across Walsh’s hand and dripping onto the floor, the sticky warmth pooling between them.
“That felt mighty good,” Walsh said, wiping his hand on his pants as he zipped up his fly, his grin wide and satisfied.
“You know, if you’re not doing anything, we could share a beer. Talk some more. If you want…”
Tom, still catching his breath, nodded, stunned but exhilarated. He didn’t need to be asked twice.
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