My legs buckled beneath me, leaving me slumped against the machine’s dented casing, my entire body trembling in shock. Denise’s scream for Tommy, teetering on the edge of an explosive orgasm, echoed endlessly in my mind, her voice flooding every inch of the hidden dungeon in our VRBO, nearly drowning out the rhythmic hydraulic hiss of the merciless contraption. Reclined in the worn gynecological chair, fresh off the golf course, her legs remained locked tightly in the frayed stirrups, ankles still speckled with bunker sand from her round. Sweat coated every inch of her tanned skin, catching the harsh fluorescent light and making her glisten like she had just finished a grueling workout. She looked utterly wrecked, a disheveled mess stripped of the composed, confident woman I had married, her entire body given over to the machine’s punishing rhythm.
It struck me like a sledgehammer to the chest, leaving me hollow as my heart pounded uncontrollably. I clung desperately to the faint hope that I had simply misheard her, begging with every fiber of my being for this to be some cruel trick of my imagination. But the sight of Denise’s petite body, absorbing the entirety of the footlong dildo with an unsettling ease, shattered any fragile illusions I tried to hold onto. A wave of dread engulfed me, deeper and more consuming than anything I had ever felt, rooted in hearing Tommy’s name ripped from her lips, screamed at the peak of raw, unrestrained ecstasy.
It was the one name no man would ever want tied to their partner in a moment of intimacy. Tommy, my best friend, the man who had introduced us and remained a constant presence in our lives, had his name torn from her in the throes of an orgasm, dragged out by the machine as it unearthed a dark secret from her body, a truth that was meant to stay buried forever.
PTSD engulfed me, memories of my years living with Tommy crashing into the present like a freight train. The unspoken elephant in the room, the year they had known each other before he had introduced us, suddenly felt suffocating, an invisible force crushing down on me with unbearable intensity. My mind began to spin, the edges of my consciousness fraying as a dizzying wave threatened to consume me.
My fingers drifted from the controller’s depth knob to the red switch, ready to make it stop, confront Denise, and demand an answer for the name she had just screamed, a name that wasn’t mine. But my body refused to cooperate, shutting down under the moment’s weight. On the edge of paralysis, I stood frozen, the sounds of the room, Denise’s orgasmic cries, and the hydraulic hiss of the machine fading into a haunting silence. My mind began to detach, drifting toward the past, where the seeds of this moment had been unknowingly planted.
Tommy, my aforementioned best friend since the third grade and an active staple in both of our lives, was, as you may have guessed, more than that. He was a force of nature, larger than life in every way, and the year of friendship he shared with Denise before I entered the picture had always loomed between us like an unspoken shadow. Whether by design or coincidence, it was a topic we never dared to address.
It was a fear I had reluctantly resigned myself to live with, too afraid to confront the truth, instead weaving a comforting narrative where their relationship had never crossed that line. Denise’s low sex drive throughout our marriage became my fragile reassurance, a delicate illusion I clung to, convincing myself they had perhaps never been intimate. But the moment we stepped into the hidden room that morning, it was as if I had been thrust back into my college days, haunted by memories I had desperately tried to bury.
Tommy was what you might call “gifted,” affectionately nicknamed “Tube Steak Tommy” by our circle of friends. His size was nothing short of cartoonish, twelve inches of pure spectacle that left an unforgettable impression on everyone, regardless of their sexual orientation. A shameless womanizer, he wielded his endowment like a weapon, effortlessly dismantling relationships whenever boredom struck, or when someone’s husband or boyfriend looked at him the wrong way. Having met Denise through their college golf teams, their talents ultimately took them in two different directions. While she honed her skills with discipline and focus, carving out a career on the professional tour, Tommy squandered his, allowing his physical gift and indulgent lifestyle to derail what could have been a promising future on the course.
I thought back to the countless nights in our cramped two-bedroom apartment, the thin walls offering little privacy from the symphony of muffled moans that followed one woman after another into Tommy’s room. Hours later, they would emerge sexually altered, some of them twice his age, returning to their husbands hollowed out both emotionally and physically, unable or unwilling to resist the magnetic pull he seemed to have on everyone. Each encounter lingered in my mind, a cruel reminder of the genetic lottery I had lost, leaving me to constantly wonder why I had not been dealt the same enviable hand.
Tommy wasn’t exactly a good guy, and our friendship sometimes felt more like a necessity, shaped by the sheer duration of our relationship. He was always the center of attention, a gravitational force pulling everyone into his orbit. Being close to Tommy meant accepting the unspoken hierarchy in our dynamic, with him firmly seated in the alpha role. I understood my place, knowing it was easier to remain in his circle than risk being cast out. There was, of course, the added bonus of his leftovers, women otherwise out of my league, willing to hook up with his best friend to stay in his good graces. As a single, perpetually horny college student, I took what I could get, even if it meant living in his shadow.
Despite everything, Tommy was still a good friend. For all his flaws, he was dependable and the kind of person who would drop everything to help, no questions asked. Denise and his wife, Michelle, got along well, and the four of us often spent time together. It felt natural. After all, Tommy had introduced me to Denise, the very architect of my marriage. In a strange way, I almost felt indebted to him, as if I owed him for the life I had built with her.
Early in my relationship with Denise, the unease surrounding Tommy gnawed at me. The thought of her ever being on the receiving end of his attention churned my stomach, yet I dared not voice it, too afraid of appearing insecure. Tommy would never confess to anything, not out of malice but from a misplaced sense of kindness that only deepened my discomfort. Over time, as Tommy settled down, the anxiety that once plagued me began to dissipate. His freakish gift felt like a lifetime ago, a distant dream, completely erased from my mind.
But the discovery of the hidden room shattered that illusion, dragging that fading dream back into a vivid, nightmarish reality. The massive dildo affixed to the machine, down to its unnerving vein pattern, looked as though it had been molded directly from Tommy, a chilling reminder of the man whose shadow had loomed over so many facets of my life. It was just a toy, but its proximity to Denise forced me to confront a past I had foolishly pretended didn’t exist.
“Oh God, Tommy, I’m gonna cum!” Denise screamed, her voice slicing through the haze of my flashback and slamming me back into the grim reality of the hidden room in our vacation rental. The transition was disorienting, like being jolted awake from a vivid dream. For a split second, I wasn’t sure what was real, the memory of Tommy or the gut-wrenching reality unfolding before me.
Denise seemed lost in an almost vegetative state of mind, oblivious to the name she was shouting, as though her body was working on instinct alone, tethered to Tommy through some twisted muscle memory. Her flushed face mirrored the sheer exhaustion I had seen on the women who used to leave Tommy’s bedroom, a humbling and gut-wrenching sight I never thought I’d associate with my own wife. The footlong dildo wasn’t just a machine’s tool; it had become an unwitting truth serum, dragging out a secret she had likely hoped would remain buried forever.
I wanted desperately to flip the switch and end it all, but there was no undoing what had already been set into motion. Denise was like a rocket hurtling through the atmosphere, far beyond the point of no return, locked on a trajectory toward an inevitable and devastating climax. She had been yearning to return to this house all day, to let the merciless machine simulate Tommy and relive a secret history that had likely consumed her thoughts for the entirety of our marriage. Its pull had eclipsed even the weight of the most important tournament of her career, her mind consumed by this illicit craving despite knowing what a poor performance would cost her: the end of her dream and the grim reality of trading the golf course for a desk job.
“Oh no!” she screamed, her voice breaking as her tone reached an unrestrained peak. Her body began to convulse, legs trembling so violently in the stirrups that blades of grass fell from her golf shoes, scattering onto the floor. A raw, primal grunt escaped her lips, caveman-like in intensity, as her orgasm began to seep out, coating the entirety of the condom-wrapped dildo. Each mechanical retraction left behind a glistening trail that grew thicker with every thrust.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” she screamed repeatedly, oblivious to my presence, her voice raw and desperate as she struggled to withstand the overwhelming waves of an orgasm that seemed endless, channeling all the frustrations of her career-ending day onto the slick, slimy dildo. While the reality of this day would inevitably crash down on her later, in that moment, nothing else existed but the all-encompassing sensation consuming her. Her body convulsed violently, abs contracting beneath the damp fabric of her sweat-soaked golf shirt with every spasm, her sports bra shifting with each powerful thrust of the machine.
Her entire body glistened with sweat, a slick sheen accentuating the faint white traces left on her bronzed skin from the remnants of her used sunblock. The mingling scents of perspiration and Coppertone filled the room as she screamed at the top of her lungs, her arms raised high above her head as if riding a roller coaster. Clumps of deodorant, a result of activation from the Florida heat during her earlier round, were visible under her arms as her hands made contact with the concrete wall behind the chair, her nails scraping the surface in response to the overwhelming sensations coursing through her.
In my mind, the machine warped into Tommy, the dented black box becoming his wiry 6’4″ frame, the metal rod and oversized dildo twisting into his hips and monstrous length. Each mechanical thrust felt human, deliberate, as if he were standing there between Denise’s stirrup-bound legs. Her screams only deepened the illusion, forcing me to picture her as one of the many women I’d watched stumble out of his bedroom during college; exhausted and changed.
I leaned against the casing for support, my stomach twisting violently. The realization was daunting: the machine had been nothing more than the Ponte Vedra Beach stand-in for Tommy while she was away, its allure too much to pass up even for a weekend. This wasn’t just a fantasy rekindled after a decade, it had never ended. The sickening truth hit me like a freight train. For Denise, this wasn’t just a machine, it was Tommy.
Suddenly, her body began to relax, the tsunami of her climax receding into a lingering stillness. Her abs, once clenched tight in the throes of pleasure, softened beneath her damp golf shirt, the faint outline of her toned muscles smoothing as the tension drained from her frame. The violent trembling of the stirrups stilled, her legs now resting limply, her body temporarily numb to the machine’s continued assault. Her arms, which had been stretched above her head, slowly returned to her sides.
“Turn it off, turn it off,” she suddenly pleaded, her earlier taunts urging me to crank the depth controller to its max now replaced by a breathless cry. Her body jolted out of its post-orgasm haze, legs trembling as the relentless mechanical thrusts pushed her past her limit. Her breath hitched, voice breaking as she twisted against the chair’s stirrups, the sensation too much to endure. The sound of her plea shattered my paralysis, and my fingers scrambled to find the red switch, flipping it off in a panic that matched Denise’s.
The machine powered down in stark contrast to the way it had roared to life, the mechanical whirl fading into a low hum as its thrusts slowed with calculated precision. The massive dildo began its gradual retreat, inch by inch, until its imposing length hovered just four inches from her worn entrance just as it had started. The final hiss, like the soft release of air from a county fair ride returning to its starting position, signaled the rod’s return to its resting place, leaving the once-dominating machine eerily silent.
Denise lay slumped in the gynecological chair, sweaty and utterly spent, her physical state difficult to reconcile with the composed woman I knew. Her eyes fluttered open behind her fogged glasses, revealing the glazed-over expression of someone slowly returning to reality. Yet, even in this fleeting moment of clarity, she remained blissfully unaware of the devastating secret she had unknowingly revealed at the height of an orgasm unlike anything I had witnessed in our eleven years together. Any denial that this was a one-time interaction more than a decade ago was obliterated by the cruel reality staring me in the face.
While I wasn’t a female, I knew the human body didn’t simply adapt to something like this overnight, or through a seldom-existent sex life with me, a man half the size and a third of the girth of what she had just taken on. Denise’s ability to take the full length of the machine with such unsettling ease wasn’t the product of a long-dormant fantasy finally being fulfilled; it was unmistakable proof of conditioning. This wasn’t a fleeting indulgence. It was ongoing, a secret life built on a dependency I had been too blind to recognize.
A tidal wave of emotions crashed over me, tangled and suffocating, driven not just by Denise’s actions but by Tommy’s betrayal cutting deeper than I could have imagined. Denise hadn’t been disinterested in sex after all. She had simply held onto something that predated our marriage, a connection she had been either unwilling or unable to sever, even after we exchanged sacred vows. My life flashed before me as I stared at the woman I thought I knew, my mind spinning. And Tommy, how could he do this to me? The man I had trusted since the third grade, my so-called best friend. I had been the one supporting her dreams, standing by her through everything. Not him. But in the end, he had given her what I never could, something she had clearly never been ready to give up.
Denise lifted her legs from the frayed stirrups one by one, with the same slow, methodical care she had used to place them there. Each motion seemed guided by muscle memory, her body operating on autopilot as exhaustion draped over her like a heavy blanket. She eased herself out of the gynecological chair, her legs trembling beneath her, threatening to give way. Nearly stumbling, she shuffled toward the door, her drained, disoriented state making it clear she couldn’t register the magnitude of what had just happened. Without a word, she disappeared into the hallway, the faint echo of her footsteps ending with the soft click of the bathroom door. Moments later, the hiss of the shower rang through the house, leaving me alone to face the fallout.
The scene before me felt like the sexual equivalent of a crime scene, every detail leaving an imprint on my mind. The orgasm-coated Magnum-XL condom clung to the dildo like a damning trophy, its slick surface catching the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights. The soaked lower half of the white bath towel lay wrinkled and stained, bearing the marks of just how thoroughly the machine had worked her over. Near the base of the chair, the torn condom wrapper rested beside her soiled granny panties, crumpled and splattered on the cold concrete floor exactly where she had left them. The sight hit me harder than it should have, the discarded items acting as a grim reminder of the premeditation behind everything that had just unfolded. The air hung thick, suffocating, pressing down on my chest as I struggled to comprehend the crushing truth now staring me in the face.