Golf Caddie (Patreon)

You never expected a simple collision on the fairway to rewrite your entire existence. One moment you were just another weekend golfer, cursing your slice after the ball veered into the rough; the next, you slammed shoulder-first into a sharply dressed older man whose presence alone screamed old money. His eyes locked onto yours with a cold, proprietary gleam. “Careless,” he murmured, and something invisible snapped into place between you. Heat flooded your chest. Your polo shirt suddenly felt too tight across the sternum as soft, heavy weight began to swell outward. You looked down in shock as two full, round breasts pushed forward, skin stretching, nipples stiffening against the fabric that was already shifting, thinning, and turning white.

“What the hell—?” you gasped, but your voice cracked higher even as the words left your mouth. Your face tingled, cheekbones rising, jaw softening, lips plumping. Blonde hair spilled over your shoulders in soft waves while a green Masters cap materialized on your head. Your hands flew up to touch the brim just as the golf club appeared across your chest, cool metal against newly sensitive skin. Behind you, your hips flared hard; your ass ballooned outward, round and plump, filling the seat of trousers that were dissolving into a tight white jumpsuit. The zipper at the front slid lower of its own accord, framing the deep cleavage that now dominated your view.

You staggered, every step feeling alien. Your center of gravity had dropped; the heavy bounce of your new breasts with each movement sent sparks of unfamiliar sensation racing through you. Your waist cinched in, legs lengthened and smoothed, and the jumpsuit hugged every new curve like it had been tailored for this body alone. The fabric was soft, almost silky, yet structured enough to keep those full tits lifted and displayed. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of a nearby cart window—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, a coy little smile you hadn’t chosen forming on your lips.

This can’t be real, you thought, but the thought already felt distant, softer. The rich man’s hand settled possessively on your lower back. “You’re mine now,” he said quietly. “My gold caddie. You’ll carry the bag, fetch the clubs, and look exactly like this while you do it.” Your mind fluttered; the protest that tried to rise was drowned by a sudden, warm flood of eagerness. You wanted to please him. You wanted to walk at his side in this body, breasts swaying, ass swaying, the green hat perched perfectly as you handed him the next iron with a sweet, obedient smile.

The last of the old you drained away as you straightened, chest out, the jumpsuit’s zipper still half-open to show the soft inner curves of your new tits. Your plump ass shifted as you took your place beside him, the club resting easily across your collarbone. Everything felt right—the weight of the breasts, the soft give of your hips, the way the white fabric clung and the gold logo on the sleeve caught the light. You were his good little golf caddie now, and the only thought left was how perfectly you belonged right here.