Propped against a wall of pillows on the hotel bed, I froze, the app’s chime cutting through the silence like a siren, signaling Denise’s return to the bedroom. For a brief moment, I had a choice: ignore it and let the unanswered questions fester, or tap the alert and confirm what I already feared; that Tommy’s footlong cock had been solely responsible for her effortless acclimation to the cruel contraption in the VRBO last week. My thumb moved on its own, unlocking the phone and tapping the notification, sealing my fate before hesitation could pull me back.
The hidden camera flickered to life as Denise reentered the frame. She moved toward the bed, fingers combing absently through her disheveled hair, but then she stopped, her gaze flicked toward the bedroom entrance, just off camera. Before I could react, the familiar figure stepped into view. My breath hitched, and there it was, my worst nightmare, unfolding right in front of me, as undeniable as the phone slipping from my trembling hands onto the hotel bed. I slumped back against the pillows, my chest constricting as the noise of SportsCenter faded into a muffled hum, everything around me dissolving into a fog of disbelief. For a moment, I sat paralyzed, clinging to the fragile hope that what I had just seen was a trick of the mind, a cruel hallucination born of paranoia.
But the hope disappeared as quickly as it had come. I picked my phone up off the bed and refocused on the screen, my heart sinking like a stone to the pit of my stomach. There he was, Tommy, standing in the middle of my bedroom, his presence confirming everything I had feared but wasn’t ready to confront.
They looked too comfortable, as if this was their space, not mine. Tommy stood there in loose basketball shorts and a wife beater, dressed more like a rebellious teenager than a man moments away from taking his best friend’s wife. His outfit wasn’t just casual, it was dismissive, as if he’d shown up after mowing the lawn or finishing a quick workout, indifferent to how he looked because he didn’t have to care. Meanwhile, Denise walked past him toward the bathroom, her face coming into focus as she passed the hidden camera, almost in slow motion. Calm, relaxed, her gaze soft and unfazed, showing no trace of tension or hesitation. It wasn’t the face of someone sneaking around or making a mistake, it was the face of someone at ease, someone who’d done this before. And that’s what made it unbearable. This wasn’t something spontaneous. This was routine.
I wanted to turn away, close the app, and convince myself this was just a bad dream born from my suspicions. But I couldn’t. My eyes locked onto the screen as Tommy moved toward the bed and sat down on the edge, the same spot where Denise had been sitting just minutes earlier, texting me before she left the room. Her phone lay face-up on the rumpled sheets where she had tossed it, my last unanswered message staring back at me like a silent rejection. The weight of the moment pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Even with the muted feed, no audio was necessary as I sat there, watching my best friend since third grade wait patiently for my wife to reappear into view.
Denise reentered the frame, still in her worn golf attire, a large beach towel resting over her arm. The sight instantly transported me back to last week, to the frayed gynecological chair where a similar towel had caught every ounce of her surrender. My fingers trembled, the phone slipping slightly before I tightened my grip, unable to look away. The towel, clearly meant to catch the bodily fluids that would soon follow, was only part of it. It was the ease in her stride, the way she moved toward Tommy with a familiarity that stung. Each step was a silent confirmation of how many times this had already happened, the knife twisting deeper with every movement.
Sitting there with my eyes glued to the screen, I struggled to accept that what I was witnessing hadn’t been a one-time betrayal but a carefully timed ritual spanning the entirety of our ten-year marriage, perfectly aligned with my work trips. Our relationship felt tainted, every memory rewritten as I imagined all the nights I’d been away while this played out in the bedroom we shared. My so-called sexless marriage finally made sense; it had only been sexless for me.
The betrayal ate at me, hollowing me out with each thought. How could Tommy do this? How could she? I was the one who had been there for him since childhood, the one who put my own dreams on hold to fund hers. I was the one standing by her through every disappointment, including last week’s failure at TPC Sawgrass, not him. He wasn’t the one working endless hours and staying in hotel rooms across the country to keep her dream alive. That was me. It had always been me. And now, they were doing this, in my own bedroom. The place that was supposed to be our sanctuary.
They were so comfortable in each other’s presence that a shower wasn’t even necessary. Denise, disheveled and sweaty from a long day of practice, hadn’t even bothered to clean up. The familiar scent of sunblock and grass clung to her skin, so strong I could all but smell it through the camera. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t an obstacle, it was part of the routine, something they’d long grown used to. I wasn’t watching two people on edge, sneaking around under the weight of a forbidden affair. I was watching two people completely at ease, comfortable in their own skin and in each other’s company, as if this were just another ordinary part of their day.
There was no conversation, no small talk, no hint of romance. Tommy pulled off his wife beater before he’d even fully stood, tossing it lazily onto the floor, right in the same spot where my shirt usually landed when I undressed before bed. The sight twisted the knife deeper, a cruel reminder of how seamlessly he had embedded himself into my life, down to the smallest, most intimate routines. He stepped aside as Denise calmly fanned out the large beach towel; I recognized it instantly as the one we’d accidentally taken from Royal Caribbean on our cruise a few months back. She spread it perfectly into place, the edge coming to rest just beside her cell phone on the bed. Every movement was smooth, practiced, part of an instinctual routine that had long since become second nature.
Tommy’s 6’4” wiry frame was unremarkable; long, lean limbs, a smooth, flat torso, and olive skin free of imperfections. His narrow shoulders hinted at a body that had never touched a weight rack. Built for two things: generating clubhead speed and the cruel display that would soon unfold before me.
A million thoughts exploded at once, but the loudest, oddly, wasn’t about Denise. It was about Tommy, the friend I’d known since the third grade. The friend who had been there through every milestone: childhood sleepovers, graduations, job promotions, and the day he introduced me to the woman I’d marry. He’d been my best man, standing proudly beside me as I made promises I thought would last a lifetime. But he hadn’t let her go. He’d carried on with her for the entirety of our ten-year marriage. The realization burned through me like acid, corrosive and unforgiving.
I was so furious, I felt calm, a strange, sedated calm that defied logic, like the eerie stillness when you watch a bad dream unfold, powerless to wake yourself up. My mind raced beneath the surface, churning with thoughts I couldn’t control, but my body remained still, frozen as if surrendering to the inevitable. It wasn’t peace; it was the hollow numbness that sets in when you’ve exhausted every possible way to fight and know there’s nothing left to do but watch.
Denise smoothed out the edges of the fanned-out beach towel, her hands gliding over the fabric with practiced precision before she turned to face Tommy. Standing shirtless in his loose basketball shorts, he towered over her petite 5’2” frame, her face aligning perfectly with his toneless chest. They fit together effortlessly, their body language too natural, too familiar, like this was just another ordinary moment between them, a routine neither had to think twice about. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness, only the ease of two people who had done this countless times before.
There was nothing I could do, short of calling her phone to cause an interruption, anything to break the moment, but that wasn’t an option. Denise, rarely the initiator, gripped the sides of his shorts, her fingers curling around the fabric as she lowered herself gracefully to her knees. The weight of her movement brought the shorts sliding past his knees and down to his ankles. He wasn’t even wearing underwear. The fabric pooled silently on the floor before being casually kicked aside, joining the pile with his discarded wife beater.
It was heart-wrenching seeing Tommy standing fully naked at the foot of my bed, his cock hanging right in front of Denise’s face as she knelt before him. Nearly eight inches even in its limp state, it dangled thick and heavy, the shaft gently swaying as he rocked back and forth teasingly. Each testicle hung low, the size of a grade A egg, perfectly symmetrical to the footlong sausage they accompanied in its fully erect state. His casual arrogance radiated from the same look I had seen hundreds of times when we were roommates, but now, it wasn’t aimed at random women he had met online, it was directed at my wife.
Denise mirrored his grin with a sly, knowing smile, her expression indifferent to the floppy monster hanging inches from her face, already larger than most men at full length. She wasn’t impressed because she didn’t need to be. She had likely already experienced it a thousand times. I had almost forgotten just how massive it was, but the nickname “Tube Steak Tommy” wasn’t something you could just forget. It had been earned, not given.
Now, seeing it up close for more than a fleeting moment, the sheer size made my stomach twist. In college, it had been different; he’d whip it out at parties as a joke, laughing and calling anyone “gay” who so much as let their eyes linger. We had all dismissed it, pretending it was harmless, just part of his crude sense of humor. But I understood now. Those weren’t jokes; they were declarations, subtle but unmistakable power plays. You didn’t have to stare, just a split second was enough for your mind to capture it, a snapshot burned into memory, ensuring you’d never unsee what you had just witnessed.
Denise stared at his crotch with an eagerness I’d hardly ever seen, her gaze locked on him as if the rest of the world had disappeared. There was zero pause, zero guilt, as if I didn’t even exist. She reached out and grabbed him with the ease and confidence of someone intimately familiar with every inch of him, her small hands wrapping around him like this was second nature. Their angle to the camera felt cruel, as if I were being punished for my voyeurism; nothing hidden, nothing left to the imagination. I could see everything.
Their routine was so familiar that he hadn’t even hardened yet. His cock lay thick and heavy in her tiny hands, the sheer contrast making it look almost unnatural, as if she were struggling to handle something never meant for her grip. It sprawled across her palms, her fingers barely able to curl around its girth, shifting slightly under its own weight; in the same way she had fumbled to handle the sex machine’s footlong dildo. I wanted to toss the phone aside, bury my face in the pillows, and block out the nightmare. But my fingers only tightened around the device, my eyes betraying me, locked onto the screen as though it were the only tether to reality. I watched, helpless, like a passenger staring down an impending train wreck; horrified, yet incapable of looking away.
It’s impossible to put into words, the gut-wrenching mix of rage and helplessness that came with watching my wife about to be on the receiving end of a man like Tommy. I had always wondered about the husbands, the ones whose trophy wives returned to them hollowed out, both physically and mentally, after Tommy was done with them. Now, I was about to find out firsthand. Denise, the composed woman known for effortlessly crushing 275-yard drives, was reduced to a sweaty mess on her knees, fumbling with the massive, floppy monster in her hands as it began to swell. She leaned in, her lips parting, her face hovering just inches away. My pulse thundered as I stared, knowing that in real life, her mouth had already wrapped around his massive mushroom tip, even though the camera’s five-second delay hadn’t yet caught up to reveal it. My grip tightened around the phone, frozen in place, unable to tear my eyes away, bracing for the moment I knew I couldn’t escape.