“Denise!” I shouted, my voice edged with panic, but the sharp hiss of hydraulic noise drowned me out. The bookshelf in our VRBO groaned and creaked, slowly shifting inward on its own. The frame shuddered, books wobbling precariously until a few toppled to the floor with dull thuds, tiny dust clouds rising as they hit. The shelf swung fully open, finally stopping to reveal a dark, ominous passage hidden within the wall. The atmosphere grew heavy and surreal, like something ripped straight out of a Goonies movie, a moment so bizarre it felt entirely disconnected from reality.
“What’s wrong, babe?” she called from the bathroom, rushing into the living room in a flurry, looking like a disheveled mess. Her golf shirt hung untucked over her skirt, a toothbrush dangled from her mouth, and streaks of sunscreen were still smudged across her face where they hadn’t been rubbed in. She froze mid-step, her eyes widening as we both stood transfixed, staring into the dark abyss within the wall of an otherwise ordinary house.
“What in the world?” Denise murmured, stepping cautiously into the living room, moving to stand beside me and grabbing my hand.
“I have no idea what just happened,” I said, panic surging as my heart raced. “There was a button on the side of the bookshelf, and when I pushed it, the wall just started to open on its own.” I turned to Denise, dumbfounded, as if she had some explanation for what had just occurred, but instead, her face mirrored my own bewilderment.
“Wow, that’s bizarre,” she mumbled, her words garbled around the toothbrush still in her mouth. Her confusion lasted only a moment before it shifted into curiosity. Letting go of my hand, she stepped toward the shadowy passage, eyes narrowing as she peered into the darkness. “What do you think this is, Chris?” she asked, her attention fixed on the unseen depths beyond the opening.
“I don’t know… a secret tunnel?” I joked, my voice laced with confusion as I watched Denise, her curiosity far outweighing my own, drifting closer to the dark opening.
“We need to get going,” I said, my voice edged with urgency, but she didn’t respond. Her attention was locked on the hidden passage ahead, the air around us thick with mingling scents of sunblock, toothpaste, and the damp, musty odor wafting from within. It made the atmosphere feel heavy, almost suffocating. Her movements were slow but deliberate, as though an unseen force was guiding her forward.
“I said we need to go,” I repeated, more forcefully this time. Still, she inched closer, her gaze fixed on the void beyond the open bookshelf. Her arm rose slowly, fingers reaching forward, disappearing into the pitch-black depths as if pulled by an invisible magnet.
“Denise, seriously, let’s go,” I pressed, frustration creeping into my tone.
She didn’t flinch, her outstretched fingers lingering in the dark as though compelled by something beyond her control. When she finally glanced back at me, a flicker of childlike curiosity lit her eyes. But it was fleeting, her gaze sharpening into the familiar look of quiet determination I knew all too well. This was supposed to be the biggest golf tournament of her life, but at that moment, the secret room had completely consumed her attention.
“There’s a switch,” she said calmly, as if announcing something obvious, her eyes shifting to meet mine like she was waiting for permission.
“Just turn it on, and let’s get out of here,” I snapped, patience worn thin, desperate to get her to the golf course.
The dark opening flickered to life, casting a cold fluorescent glow into the living room, the faint hum of an aging ballast reverberating. We paused at the musty entrance, hesitant to look inside. It was like standing at the threshold of one of the haunted houses we’d visited during Halloween Horror Nights back home in Orlando. She reached for my hand, tugging me toward the hidden room we had just uncovered. With a shared unease, we stepped across the threshold together, her grip tightening around mine as we ventured into the unknown, entirely unprepared for what lay ahead.
“Oh my God, what the fuck?” Denise gasped, her usually composed demeanor unraveling as the cramped room, no larger than a prison cell, came into view. The shock of the sight caused the toothbrush to slip from her mouth, tumbling out of her control and hitting the floor with a dull thud, a splatter of toothpaste marking the top of my shoe.
I stood frozen, my instinct to turn around and run delayed by sheer disbelief. The room resembled something out of a Saw movie: dimly lit, cold, and uninviting. A crooked fluorescent light buzzed overhead, its uneven chains swaying slightly from the draft coming through the open bookcase from the living room. The flickering, sterile glow only made the room feel more sinister. The unfinished cinderblock walls were stained with age, and the cracked concrete floor looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in decades.
But our attention was immediately drawn to the chair in the center of the room. An old gynecological examination chair, its upholstery worn and split open in places, exposing yellowed foam beneath. It looked like it had been taken straight from a 1970s doctor’s office, its once-cushioned surface stained with time, the faded vinyl clinging stubbornly to the frame. The stirrups were even worse: bent, twisted, and stripped of padding, with only scraps of threadbare fabric barely hanging onto the metal.
As if the sight of the chair weren’t unsettling enough, a large black contraption, roughly the size of a standard moving box, was bolted firmly to the floor in front of it. Its uneven spray-painted finish did little to conceal the streaks of raw, dented aluminum beneath, giving it a harsh, industrial appearance. The box stood on four thick steel legs, each marked with patches of rust that clung to the surface in rough, uneven blotches. Heavy bolts secured the legs directly into the floor. Extending from the side of the box was a thick steel rod aligned with unnerving precision between the stirrups. Mounted on the rod was a massive dildo whose grotesquely exaggerated proportions were impossible to ignore. Its thick, skin-toned shaft was covered in exaggerated veins, each ridge sharply defined, adding to its unnerving lifelike appearance.
Measuring twelve inches long and nearly as thick as my wrist, it exuded an oppressive, dominating presence that could make even the most secure man feel a twinge of doubt. At its tip was an oversized, mushroom-shaped helmet crowning the shaft, absurdly disproportionate to the rest of the dildo, as if it had been designed as a joke taken too far. It stood rigid and unyielding, perfectly parallel to the floor, fixed in place with an air of quiet menace as if waiting with cruel patience for the unfortunate soul who might dare lay in the loathsome gynecological chair before it.
Mounted atop the metal box was a small control panel, no larger than a cellphone, securely fastened to its surface. A faded red switch, its dulled appearance evidence of frequent use, stood out against the crude, makeshift panel that mirrored the rough construction of the box itself. Beside it, a single knob was labeled DEPTH, the word sloppily scrawled in white magic marker, starkly contrasting the black surface of the control panel. The controller had three settings, each indicated by faded numbers, and was currently turned to its lowest position.
Nearby, a table held neatly stacked towels alongside a wicker basket overflowing with Magnum XL branded condoms, some spilling onto the surface beside it. The careful arrangement of the towels and the conspicuously placed condoms made it clear that this room was never meant to remain a secret, adding to the unsettling reality of the hidden sex dungeon within our otherwise ordinary vacation rental.
“We need to go,” I said urgently, my voice sharp as I stood behind Denise, pressing a hand against her back to pull her attention away from the unsettling sight ahead. But she didn’t budge. Her body was stiff, and her eyes focused on the contraption as if caught in a trance.
“Let’s go,” I said again, nudging her more firmly this time. But she remained rooted in place, her eyes fixed on the machine with an intensity that rendered everything irrelevant. Her shallow breaths came slow and steady as if she were completely mesmerized by it.
After a long, uncomfortable pause, she blinked and turned to me, eyes wide and dazed.
“Wow,” she muttered, barely a whisper, before her attention snapped right back to the machine, drawn to it like she was powerless to resist.
“How does this thing even work?” she asked, the inquiry hollow, a performance for no one in particular since the answer was obvious. Her tone, however, carried a curiosity so out of character that it sent a chill down my spine. It made no sense, not with the biggest golf tournament of her career looming over us.
Her left hand hovered over the worn red switch, fingers twitching just above it. The diamond on her wedding band reflected the flickering fluorescent light from above, the faint shimmer quickly absorbed by the cold concrete walls. She glanced back at me, her face calm and unreadable, seemingly oblivious to my frustration.
Without warning, she flicked the switch. The machine rumbled to life with a deep, mechanical growl that hit suddenly with force, abrupt and unsettling, impossible to ignore. The vibration pulsed through the box and into the concrete floor beneath us, a low, steady tremor we could feel in our feet. The sound swelled like a jet engine ramping up, loud enough to command attention but not enough to hurt your ears. The unyielding cinderblock walls absorbed the noise, trapping it in the room and filling the space with a constant, unshakable hum.
Before we could fully process our surroundings, the enormous dildo skewered on the metal rod began its slow, deliberate glide, the first tangible sign of life from the loud, whirling engine encased in the crude black box. The rod moved like a well-oiled piston; each extension met with the sharp hydraulic hiss of escaping air as it retracted. Even on its lowest setting, it only moved a few inches, but its sheer, imposing size commanded respect. The mechanism’s eerie precision was undeniable, driving the footlong monstrosity forward into the open space between the stirrups before retreating with perfect mechanical consistency. In. Out. Again. The unwavering rhythm was hypnotic in its cold efficiency, each thrust as smooth as the last.
“Let’s go!” I said, my voice firmer this time, cutting through the steady pulse of movement.
But she didn’t budge. Oblivious to her impending golf tournament, Denise stood transfixed, her eyes locked on the machine, watching the gigantic dildo move back and forth with unblinking focus. Her fascination hardened into something sharper, more certain. Any doubt about her thoughts vanished at that moment. Her desire wasn’t subtle anymore. It was plain, blatant, and unmistakable, etched into every line of her face. She wanted to be in that chair, at the mercy of this cruel device, and she couldn’t hide it.
“Do you even care about this tournament?” I snapped, my voice sharper than intended. But it did the job. Her attention broke from the machine, eyes blinking like she’d just surfaced from a dream.
“Sorry,” she muttered, a shaky laugh slipping past her lips. Still, she couldn’t entirely hide that lingering spark of intrigue in her eyes, a flicker of something raw and unspoken that remained even as she glanced away.
Her gaze lingered on me momentarily before she reached for the red switch. With a flick, the machine let out a low, mechanical groan as it powered down, the steady rhythm of the enormous dildo slowing, each motion more sluggish than the last until it finally came to a complete stop. The buzz of the aged overhead light returned almost instantly, filling the void the machine’s silence left behind.
Denise crouched to grab her toothbrush from the grimy floor, her focus lingering on the machine for a second longer before she turned toward the living room. The hardwood floor groaned underfoot as she walked away. A moment later, the soft squeal of the bathroom door echoed, followed by the quiet thud of it closing behind her as she disappeared to finish getting ready.
I stood there, still stunned, my thoughts tangled in confusion and disbelief. Eventually, I flipped the switch, plunging the hidden chamber back into darkness as if turning off the light would somehow make it disappear from our memories. Moments later, Denise stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in her usual Thursday outfit, a pink Nike sleeveless shirt and a khaki skirt, just like in the cover photo.
The sunblock that had once streaked her skin was now thoroughly rubbed in, creating a subtle sheen on her tanned complexion, completing her tournament look. But the unexpected detour had thrown her off balance. A creature of habit, she would barely have an hour to warm up by the time we reached TPC Sawgrass in Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida, just a five-minute drive from our vacation rental. The world-renowned course, home to the iconic 17th hole and its infamous island green, loomed ahead, ready to host one of the biggest tournaments of her career.
I dropped Denise off at the entrance of the iconic clubhouse, instantly recognizable to anyone who follows golf. The short drive left no time to process or discuss the unsettling discovery still lingering between us. The weight of it hung in the air, unspoken but undeniable, as I did my best to help her steady her nerves. After parking the car, I made my way to the driving range, ready to follow her every shot, a ritual I’d kept since we first met.
Denise, a professional golfer on the Epson Tour, the official pathway to the LPGA, had one goal: a strong finish at Sawgrass to secure her tour card for the next season. It was a dream she’d chased since she first picked up a club as a child. Usually, we stayed in hotels during her tournaments, sticking to the comfort of routine. But this time, we opted for a vacation rental, hoping for a more relaxed experience during this critical week. Instead, accomplishing her lifelong goal was already off to a shaky start, the unexpected detour weighing heavier than either of us had anticipated.
Our story began eleven years ago, thanks to my best friend Tommy, my college roommate, the best man at our wedding, and now our neighbor. Tommy and I have been friends since elementary school, and as a skilled golfer himself, he met Denise through their college golf teams. It didn’t take long for Denise and me to connect. Just a year after we started dating, we married at twenty-two, fresh out of college, despite our parents’ reservations about us marrying so young. Now, at thirty-two, we’ve been together for almost a decade.
Physically, we make an attractive couple. At 5’2″, Denise exudes a blend of “hot nerd” appeal and athletic charm, perfectly depicted in the story’s cover photo. Her short brown hair is sleek and low-maintenance, framing a face often accented by a pair of intellectual glasses that only add to her quirky allure. She has the look of a tomboy, effortlessly combining femininity with a natural, sporty confidence. Despite her petite frame, her C-cup breasts and toned, athletic build defy the stereotypical image of a female golfer. Her arms and legs are etched with sharp tan lines, the unmistakable mark of countless hours beating golf balls under the Florida sun. Weighing no more than 110 pounds, she is known for drives often exceeding 275 yards, an impressive feat for someone her size, making her one of the longest hitters on her tour.
As for me, I’m Chris, 6’3″ and 220 pounds, with broad shoulders and a solid frame. I’m not the kind of guy who turns heads for better or worse; I’m just average. I’m an accountant, the sort of career you might expect Denise to have if you judged her by her look and composed demeanor. Most people would say I outkicked my coverage in the marriage department, and honestly, they’re probably right.
While many of our friends settled into family life and traditional routines, Denise and I chose a different path. Her relentless pursuit of an LPGA tour card consumed her for nearly a decade, falling just short season after season. From the start, her goal had been mine, and I supported her every step of the way. Our relationship was built on friendship and a deep respect for her drive, with intimacy taking a back seat from day one. Sex became something we learned to live without, reserved for anniversaries, birthdays, or the rare moments when we went through the motions to feel like a normal couple, checking a box before her career inevitably took over again. It felt, at times, like her victories on the Epson Tour had become an emotional high for both of us, a shared triumph that acted as a substitute for intimacy.
The discovery of the sex dungeon introduced an unexpected tension between us, stirring up something that had long been dormant. In our eleven years together, I had never seen Denise so fixated on anything remotely sexual. It revealed insecurities neither of us had fully acknowledged or perhaps had chosen to ignore. The hidden room felt like a world far removed from our own, a space where others indulged in desires we’d quietly neglected in our intimacy-starved marriage. Denise, always laser-focused on her career and seemingly indifferent to sex, now showed a fascination with the machine that was impossible to ignore.
How she looked at it, unguarded, curious, and so utterly locked in that I had to pull her away, was burned into my brain. Her infatuation with it was undeniable, a side of her I’d never seen before. Even as I followed her around the golf course, my thoughts kept circling back to it. The speckled toothpaste on my shoe was a physical reminder of her initial reaction to it, a small, mundane detail that somehow carried the weight of that moment. Clearly, the machine hadn’t just caught her attention; it had seized it completely.
Denise’s round at Sawgrass mirrored the unease sparked by our discovery, unraveling into one of the worst performances of her career. She carded a season-high seventy-nine, her worst competitive score since joining the tour. The sharp focus that usually defined her game was nowhere in sight. The brutal ninety-five-degree heat and suffocating Florida humidity drained her energy with every step, sweat seeping through her tank top as her bronzed arms and legs shimmered under the relentless sun. Between shots, she stared into the emptiness with the same vacant look she’d had while staring at the cruel contraption back at the house. She went through the motions with each swing like she couldn’t get off the course fast enough. This tournament was supposed to be her breakthrough, the culmination of years of effort, but that machine had taken hold of her thoughts. For all the wrong reasons, it was a day neither of us would ever forget.
The drive back to the house was heavy with silence, the sharp, grassy scent of the golf course mixing with the faint, lingering scent of Denise’s stale sunblock and sweat in the confined space of the car. We pulled into the driveway, the engine still cold from the short trip, and sat quietly, gazing at the old house, a modest 1950s build: the kind your grandparents might have lived in. The air conditioner hummed loudly, blasting cool air across our faces as we sat there, neither of us making a move to get out. The thought that strangers passing by had no idea what was hidden behind those walls hung heavy between us. Denise stared ahead, lost in thought, still processing her disastrous round. We both knew the reason for it, but neither of us dared to say it out loud.