My guardians keep pushing me into golf, which I hate and happen to be terrible at. No matter how many shots I shank, they won’t let me quit. If I really wanted out, I’d need to get creative. Then I noticed how close my steppy’s cock pressed against my ass whenever he corrected my posture. Maybe he didn’t actually care whether I became a good golfer—and if a short skirt was enough to keep him happy, I could strike a deal. I may not know how to swing a club, but I know how to handle a dick. If he convinces my steppy to let me quit, I’ll demonstrate my riding skills. She doesn’t even need to find out. I’ll be very, very discreet—and keeping quiet is half the fun.




























































































