The tires gripped the asphalt as I merged onto I-4 from 95, the interstate stretching endlessly before us. We had left TPC Sawgrass an hour ago, with another hour left before reaching home in Orlando. The faint rattle of Denise’s golf clubs in the back of the SUV broke the otherwise silent ride, a gentle but unwelcome reminder of the weekend’s abrupt end. She sat quietly in the passenger seat, her gaze fixed on the passing blur of trees and billboards for the theme parks, fingers loosely cradling a crinkled water bottle. The sting of leaving two days before the tournament had ended was there, hovering, but neither of us seemed eager to confront it.
She had salvaged a seventy-one today, a score that reflected the Denise I knew on the golf course. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close. She had missed the cut by five strokes, sending us home. We had briefly spoken last night about the hidden room after her buzz had worn off. Of course, I hadn’t mentioned it, but it was clear she had no memory of crying out Tommy’s name mid-orgasm or the way she’d taunted me as her tiny body effortlessly absorbed the entirety of the footlong dildo as if our sexless marriage had never existed. There was no hint of shame or recognition in her tone, no acknowledgment of the cruel machine or the reality that this tournament had been her final shot. Instead, she was already mapping out her preparation for the next event, clinging to a delusion that ignored the cold truth of our ten-year agreement and the dream that had just officially ended.
I tried to remain calm. At this point, everything was speculation, a reality I had constructed in the chaos of my mind. The only tangible proof I had was the ease with which her body had taken the dildo. But was that really proof? Sure, she had screamed Tommy’s name, but maybe it was just a harmless fantasy. After all, who hasn’t, at some point, imagined sleeping with their spouse’s best friend? Could I really base a life-altering accusation on something so subjective? My thoughts circled like vultures, picking apart every detail from that night, desperately searching for something concrete. But the more I questioned it, the more tangled I became in the uncertainty.
How could I confront her now, at the lowest point in her career, when she was already teetering on the brink of losing the dream she had spent her entire life chasing? One wrong word, one poorly timed accusation, and I could destroy everything, not just her dream but the life we had built together.
By the time we arrived back in Orlando on Friday evening, the familiar version of Denise, the one who could easily brush off setbacks, especially a bad round of golf, had already started to reappear. She unpacked quickly, tossing her golf clubs in the garage without a second thought and slipping effortlessly back into the rhythms of home as if the past two days were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. The silence of the drive was soon replaced by the comforting hum of normalcy: her laughter at a TikTok video, the background murmur of the Golf Channel, and the soft clinking of ice as she poured herself a drink. Just like after her disastrous opening round, she bounced back with an unnerving calm, neatly compartmentalizing the failure as though it had never happened.
Saturday arrived with an air of unease. Denise should have been at TPC Sawgrass, warming up beside her peers on the Epson Tour, the very competition standing between her and an LPGA tour card. It was supposed to be the third round of her tournament, known as “moving day,” the moment players positioned themselves for the final push toward victory. She should have been stepping into the weekend, ready to chase a lifelong dream. Instead, that dream had been replaced with a trip to the local driving range before sunrise, where she practiced as if the next tournament were just around the corner, either in denial or oblivious to the fact that our unspoken agreement had officially expired. She knew it wasn’t her swing that had thrown her off course but the lingering pull of the machine, the mechanical version of Tommy, waiting for her back at the house.
To my surprise, Denise had already arranged a double date with Tommy and Michelle that night. While it was typically a regular occurrence, tonight felt like terrible timing. As I mentioned, she and Michelle had grown close over the years, probably her closest friend, their bond naturally forming through my long-standing friendship with Tommy and the fact that we all lived in the same neighborhood. The two women had always connected effortlessly, sharing laughs over backyard barbecues and casual get-togethers. On the surface, everything seemed ideal, two couples seamlessly intertwined by history and shared experiences.
To say I was annoyed is an understatement. This was a total “not reading the room” moment for Denise. I wasn’t ready for this. We weren’t even supposed to be here. We should have been preparing for the final day of a career-defining golf tournament, not playing pretend at a double date. The thought of sitting across from Tommy, pretending Denise hadn’t screamed his name during an explosive orgasm just twenty-four hours earlier, felt unbearable. The right move for Denise would have been to stay home, reflect on the reality of her failed tournament, and not plan a night out with friends. What was she thinking? Maybe she needed the distraction, some girl time with Michelle, but why did she need to drag both Tommy and me along for the ride?
The Outback Steakhouse by our neighborhood was a place so familiar it should have put me at ease, but it didn’t. We sat in a booth in the back corner of the restaurant, Denise and I, across from Tommy and Michelle, our usual seating arrangement on our dates. I tried to stay present, to respond when needed, but my mind kept drifting. Every glance Denise exchanged with Tommy felt like a clue waiting to be uncovered. I scrutinized their body language, searching for anything: a lingering gaze, a subtle shift in posture, or an unspoken connection. But I saw nothing. No obvious signs, no proof to validate the storm of suspicion raging inside me. And yet, the absence of evidence only deepened my anxiety, making me feel worse.
The contrast between the composed Denise sitting beside me now and the sweaty, disheveled mess pinned to the decrepit gynecological chair barely a day ago was overwhelming. Flashbacks hit me in waves, the image of her screaming Tommy’s name at the top of her lungs and surrendering to the machine replaying relentlessly in my mind. Her body, covered in a sheet of perspiration, her face flush with ecstasy then, was now back to normal, calm and collected, as if that version of her had never existed. The same sleeveless arms that had stretched over her head as if riding a roller coaster in the midst of an orgasm now rested casually on the table, wrapped around her drink as she chatted about the past two days as if nothing had happened. But seeing Tommy made everything real. The thought of what lurked under the table, packed in his underwear beneath his jeans, only twisted the knife deeper, making it nearly impossible to sit there without feeling like I was unraveling.
The conversation never drifted toward the hidden room at the vacation rental. How awkward would that have been? Instead, it mainly focused on her performance on the course. Tommy, a golfer himself, seemed genuinely baffled by her seventy-nine on Thursday, throwing out theories about bad luck and difficult course conditions. But in my mind, Denise had already alerted Tommy to everything that had happened behind my back, forcing him to act as if he didn’t know. Maybe it was the reality I had created for myself, but his casual comments felt rehearsed, like someone playing their part perfectly to avoid suspicion. Denise just smiled and shrugged, offering polite, vague responses, never once hinting at the real reason her game had unraveled. To anyone else, it would have seemed like a normal conversation, but to me, every word felt like part of a carefully constructed lie.
As Monday arrived, I buried myself in work, channeling all my energy into preparing for a major client audit scheduled for the following week. The conversation about officially putting Denise’s dream on hold never happened, the wounds from the past week were still too raw. I chose to let her live in denial, pretending her attempt to make the LPGA tour was still alive, even though we both knew the odds were now next to impossible. But that trip to North Florida had changed me. Insecurity crept in, festering beneath the surface, and no amount of work could drown it out. Each day blurred into a haze of emails, spreadsheets, and conference calls, but no matter how busy I tried to stay, the memory of that night clung to me like a shadow I couldn’t shake.
Flashes of her tanned legs locked in the frayed stirrups haunted me. And her voice, “Oh God, Tommy, I’m gonna cum!” played on a loop, a cruel refrain that invaded my thoughts even when I wasn’t thinking about her. The harder I tried to focus, the more my mind wandered. Paranoia had officially taken over.
Within a few days, I had become a shell of my former self; some might even say crazy. My mornings were suddenly spent calling in late to work just so I could tail Denise to the driving range, watching her until she struck her first shot, ensuring she wasn’t sneaking off with Tommy. Any time I had alone, I obsessively rifled through her closet. The pink Nike sleeveless shirt she had worn during her disastrous round and while being pummeled in the gynecological chair hung front and center as if it had been placed there intentionally, like some twisted trophy. I searched desperately for a hidden sex toy resembling the dildo attached to the machine back in our house in Ponte Vedra Beach or maybe a pair of sexy lingerie buried among the drawer of beige granny panties that seemed to define our sexless marriage.
I was desperate to find anything, something to justify what I had seen that night or imply the existence of a secret life Denise had been living outside our marriage. But every empty discovery only deepened my obsession, leaving me spinning further into the unknown.
Nothing between Tommy and I had changed. We texted throughout the day, exchanging jokes, sports updates, and weekend plans like we always had. We waved at each other as we passed by each other’s houses, the same friendly acknowledgment we’d shared for years. On the surface, everything remained normal. But beneath the smiles and casual exchanges, paranoia brewed. How much did he know? How much was he hiding? I needed an explanation for how Denise had taken that monstrosity with such disturbing ease, and I was willing to do anything to find out.
While things at home continued to seem fine on the surface, just as they had prior to the TPC Sawgrass trip, my insecurity and anxiety had only gotten worse. The easy conversations Denise and I shared, the casual dinners, and our quiet evenings spent watching TV suddenly felt like a cruel act. I had created my own reality in my head, where every moment was suspect, every word had a hidden meaning, and every glance hinted at betrayal. Each day, I was more tempted to confront her, to ask why she had screamed Tommy’s name multiple times that day in the hidden room, or to casually slip a joke into a conversation with him, testing whether I could get any kind of reaction. But I could never force myself to do it. The fear of hearing what I already suspected held me back, paralyzing me. If they weren’t hiding something, I risked looking insane. If they were, I wasn’t ready to face it. So instead, I bottled it up, letting the tension fester until it felt like a weight I couldn’t escape.
To make matters worse, I was scheduled to travel for work the following week, a normal monthly occurrence and a routine I had maintained for the entirety of our marriage. This was how I made my living, how I made our living, a necessity that allowed Denise to chase her dream despite the minuscule income she earned on the Epson Tour. But with the way things were spiraling, leaving her home alone for three days felt like torture. I wouldn’t be able to track her. I’d lose control. I suddenly didn’t trust her, not because of any tangible evidence but because of a reality I had constructed in my own head. And if I hadn’t completely lost my mind by then, this trip would likely be the breaking point.
My mind soon wandered to logistics. If they were intimate, how was it happening? Where was it happening, and when? Living on the same street made infidelity both convenient and possible, but it also carried a lot of risk. Michelle and I both worked from home, and outside of Denise’s practice sessions at the golf course, we were rarely apart. Was Michelle in on it? Was she turning a blind eye, or worse, openly sharing the wealth of her husband’s twelve-inch cock with Denise behind my back? Why would she do that to me? We were friends. I highly doubted it, but at this point, I wasn’t ruling anything out.
If not at our houses, where else could it have happened? The thought gnawed at me. Could they have met in hotel rooms or snuck off to some hidden spot between Denise’s golf practices? My paranoia painted every possibility, no matter how outrageous or unlikely. But no matter how many scenarios I cycled through, one possibility always circled back: if my suspicions were right, it was happening when I was out of town for work. And with my pending trip to Atlanta just a few days away, I was left reeling, knowing I’d need to figure something out before the uncertainty consumed me entirely.