Denise stood at the foot of the bed, completely naked, her petite frame bathed in the warm glow of the nightstand lamp and the last remnants of sunlight filtering through the blinds. Before her, Tommy lay sprawled out on the oversized beach towel, his long frame stretched comfortably across the mattress. His head rested against my pillow, arms folded lazily behind his head with the effortless arrogance you’d expect from a man wielding a foot-long cock. He looked completely at home, as if he had always belonged there. Any guilt he might have felt in the early years of this affair was now long gone.
I was watching a real-life homemade porno, one my body refused to turn away from. Not the polished, multi-angle productions shot in crisp 4K with professional performers, but something raw and unfiltered. A single, fixed spy camera, hidden in plain sight behind the disguise of an ordinary wall outlet, broadcasting everything in stark, unwavering detail. They had no idea they were being watched. This wasn’t some distant fantasy with strangers. This was my wife. My best friend. And I was all but forced to witness every second of it.
My gaze flickered between them, unable to settle. Denise was still unshowered from a grueling day of practice, her brown hair a tangled mess, flattened in spots from hours beneath her golf hat. She hadn’t even removed her glasses, a small but jarring detail that only heightened the surreal nature of the scene. Her body bore the unmistakable signs of long days in the sun, sharp tan lines slicing across her toned frame. Her arms and shoulders were bronzed from years on the course, while the skin usually hidden beneath her sleeveless shirt and skirt remained strikingly pale in contrast. Between her legs, her tangled, unkempt bush remained untouched, not out of neglect but out of quiet confidence, a level of comfort in knowing Tommy’s desire for her was unaffected by something so trivial. It also served as a decoy, a natural shield against drawing suspicion, making it easy to believe she was a woman too focused on her career for anything outside of golf.
Then there was Tommy, his slim frame sprawled out in front of her, looking as effortlessly relaxed as ever. His cock still stood tall, twelve inches aimed at the ceiling like a SpaceX rocket on the launch pad. The same cock that had lured countless otherwise happily married women into his room back when we lived together. The remnants of her earlier blowjob left it glistening under the dim light, a slick sheen catching the glow of the room, reflecting off it like a carefully sculpted masterpiece on display.
Denise climbed onto the bed, swinging her leg over Tommy with practiced fluidity, straddling him like a bull rider preparing for the inevitable chaos. She settled onto his stomach, completely relaxed, ready to take on the sexual position right out of the gate that she had always claimed to hate. The sight twisted the knife already buried in my stomach. She had spent our entire marriage dismissing being on top as uncomfortable, a position where she could never finish, something she “just didn’t enjoy.”
Tommy’s cock, thick and rigid, jutted up behind her, pressed snugly against her crack, extending all the way to her lower back. Its entire length glistened with pre-cum from Denise’s earlier attempt at a blowjob, a slick sheen catching the dim light. The stark contrast between her tiny frame and his massive size was almost comical, reminiscent of the absurd mismatch of the sex machine back in North Florida. But this was no machine. This was real. His sheer size only emphasized how small she truly was. Their faces were hidden from the camera, but their body language left nothing to the imagination.
She remained seated on his stomach, their movements unhurried, their chemistry effortless. Their shoulders lifted and fell, their body language indicating shared laughter, a lighthearted exchange the silent spy camera would never capture, but it didn’t need to. The way she lingered on him, relaxed and playful, told me everything. I didn’t have to be in the room to feel immersed in the moment, to imagine the pungent scent of the golf course clinging to her skin, a mix of sunblock, sweat, and Bermuda grass, pressing into Tommy through their body contact, marking him with the remnants of her day. Forced to take in the calm before the inevitable orgasmic storm, I gripped my phone tighter, locked in an internal battle over whether I was truly ready to witness what came next.
The energy between them shifted, the lighthearted laughter fading as an unspoken understanding passed between them. The conversation had ended. It was time to get down to business. This was my last chance to look away, my final opportunity to spare myself from what was about to happen. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. My eyes stayed locked on the screen as Denise pushed herself up from Tommy’s stomach, using her knees for balance. A blowjob had been one thing; watching her stretch her lips around his impossible size had already been devastating. But this was something else entirely.
Even with her lifted position, his cock still extended past her entrance, the thick mushroom head resting against the canyon of her firm cheeks. A bead of pre-cum oozed from the tip, catching the glow of the nightstand lamp, already in the process of descending down his shaft. She leaned forward slightly, reaching back with one hand and grabbed it, the same effortless motion she used to pluck her golf ball from the cup. Steadying herself, she guided him into position, pressing his swollen head against her entrance. She lingered there, anticipation stretching endlessly, her body tensed in quiet readiness.
She sank back slowly, her entrance absorbing the bulbous head as she pressed down on it, forcing it in. Her thighs tensed, a faint shudder running through her body as she adjusted, her walls clenching around the sudden intrusion. Even without sound, I could hear the grunt she released, the same deep, primal noise that had filled the hidden room in our VRBO when she first took in the machine last week. It was the sound of overwhelming fullness, of initial shock, of her body slowly, inevitably giving way.
Denise froze for a moment, letting her body adjust, then began her slow descent. Inch by inch, she lowered herself onto him, his thick shaft steadily disappearing inside her, effortlessly swallowed by the familiar space she had long since made for him. Her thighs quivered slightly, more from anticipation than strain, her breathing slow and measured as she took him deeper. The farther she sank, the more her body enveloped him, accepting him with practiced ease. By the time she reached the base, her ass was flush against his pelvis, her full weight pressing down on him. Without hesitation, she began to gyrate her hips, rolling them in slow, controlled circles, savoring the stretch, adjusting to the sheer fullness of him. His cantaloupe-sized balls rested heavily on the beach towel between his legs, momentarily appearing as an extension of her own body.
She leaned forward, the shift in her body naturally revealing the glistening lower half of Tommy’s cock before she sank back down, only to repeat the motion again and again. With me, cowgirl had always been work, an act of careful balance and constant adjustments. Her disdain for it had less to do with preference and more with necessity; my five inches had never been enough to stay inside her, slipping out at even the slightest disruption in rhythm. But now, as I watched, it was clear that no such struggle existed here. Tommy’s size had completely redefined the position for her, turning what she once claimed to hate into a personal preference. She moved with effortless confidence, bouncing on him with a smooth, natural flow, rising nearly to the tip before letting gravity pull her back down. No hesitation, no awkward corrections. His kielbasa never once in danger of slipping free.
I could only imagine the sounds filling my bedroom in that moment: the moans, the sharp gasps, the wet slaps of flesh against flesh. The camera muted everything, turning the scene into a cruel, silent film playing out on my phone. The lack of sound made it worse, forcing my mind to fill in the missing details, to supply the desperate cries and rhythmic impacts that I knew were there.
I struggled to accept the reality of what I was watching. The woman who had supposedly sacrificed intimacy to chase an LPGA tour card had, behind my back, become the equivalent of a professional porn star. For years, I had accepted her excuses that sex was a distraction, that her focus had to remain on her career, that what we had was enough. But none of it had been true. Here she was, riding Tommy with reckless abandon, her body moving with a confidence and hunger I had never once experienced. The birthday and anniversary sex, the nights where she went through the motions just to check a box, it had all been a lie. Her real desires had been met elsewhere, by him.
A sheen of sweat glistened across her back as she continued bouncing on him, her pace steady and controlled. No longer on her knees, she had shifted to a full squat, her feet planted firmly on either side of his hips as she rode him with effortless precision. Her powerful legs, built for launching 275-yard drives, now carried her through a completely different purpose, her athleticism redirected into a relentless, rhythmic motion. Her thighs flexed, her core tightened with every rise and fall, her hands supported by his for balance. Each descent took her to his base, her body stretching to accommodate him fully, moving with an unbroken rhythm as if she had been made for this.
I couldn’t decide whether not seeing her expression or hearing her screams made it easier or worse. But there was no mistaking the way her body reacted, the tremble in her legs as she rode him harder, chasing something inevitable. It didn’t take long before the same translucent goo that had spilled onto the latex-wrapped dildo in the VRBO now began to slicken Tommy’s cock, coating his shaft thicker with each descent. Her movements grew desperate and erratic, her head tilting back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, her mouth surely open in a silent cry. This was it. Her first real orgasm since her failed golf tournament, the first not forced from her by a cold, unfeeling machine.
Her body seized, her thighs shaking violently as she pushed down one last time, fully impaled on him. She held there, rigid, every muscle in her core and legs clenched so tightly it looked like she might break. Her body had been conditioned to accommodate his size, molded over time to take him completely. His swollen head was likely pressing against her internal organs, buried as deep as she could handle, stretching her to the absolute limit. Then, slowly, the tension unraveled. A deep shudder rolled through her as she exhaled in release, her entire body slackening as pleasure washed over her.
Her strength gave out, and she leaned forward, her thighs quivering as Tommy’s cock finally slipped free, glistening with the evidence of what he had just taken from her. Her arousal coated his length, a slick sheen catching the dim light. She collapsed onto him, her sweaty body pressing against his, her chest rising and falling against his still, unremarkable frame. For a moment, they lay there, tangled in the aftermath of what I could no longer deny. My wife, the woman who had always treated sex like an afterthought, had just unraveled in a way she never had with me. And I was still watching, still unable to look away.
Resting on his body felt like an intermission, a brief pause to catch her breath before the next act. They were close enough that a couple might have kissed in that moment, but there was none of that, just raw, physical release. There was nothing tender, nothing intimate, only the unspoken understanding of two people satisfying a need. After a few steadying breaths, she shifted effortlessly, rolling off him and slipping to the side like a cowboy dismounting after a successful eight-second ride.
She stumbled to her feet at the foot of the bed, using the edge for support as she steadied herself. Her legs wobbled beneath her, still weak from the intensity of what she had just taken. It was the first time I had seen her face since she had been impaled on Tommy, and the expression she wore sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me. A mix of exhaustion and relief painted across her features, the same look she had exhibited in the gynecological chair once the machine had finished with her.
Tommy soon followed her lead, pushing himself up from the bed. Without hesitation, he turned Denise around and lightly shoved her back down, guiding her into the same spot he had just occupied, centered on the beach towel in the middle of the bed. She barely resisted, her body following his direction as if moving on instinct, as if this transition had already been decided.
As she settled in, she reached for my pillow, dragging it a foot closer to where Tommy had rested his head moments before. She adjusted, sinking into its familiar softness as if she had done it a thousand times before, completely at ease, completely unbothered.
It felt like a script playing out, each movement deliberate, each step predetermined. Without a word, Denise spread her legs just as she had the week before, but this time, there were no rusted metal stirrups forcing them apart. No gynecological chair holding her in place. The scene blurred before me as PTSD took hold, dragging me back to that hidden room in North Florida. The dented aluminum box with its footlong rod had been replaced by the real thing: Tommy. There was no control panel, no dial with three settings, and no cold metal frame bolted to my bedroom floor. Just a human version of the machine, standing there with even less emotion than the device itself. Fully erect, his cock still slick from the first of what wouldn’t be the last orgasm, he was ready, unstoppable, inevitable. Challenged to give Denise even more than the machine ever could.
It was surreal to see Denise lying on our bed. Just inches from her face, the phone she had tossed aside before greeting him lay face-up, the unread text hidden beneath the darkened screen, abandoned beside her head, just off the towel. It was still my only lifeline, the one thing that could have interrupted them. But what good would it do now? She had already made her choice, already given herself to him completely.
I couldn’t stop or undo what had been happening behind my back for the entirety of our marriage. The truth was right in front of me, undeniable and crushing. It broke me in ways I couldn’t yet comprehend, yet I felt numb, hollow, as if my mind was already on the verge of accepting my fate. I was hopeless, powerless to do anything but watch.
From the foot of the bed, Tommy looked down at her, both of them laughing simultaneously, the lack of audio making the moment feel even more surreal. The silence was still strange to get used to, their laughter playing out in exaggerated expressions and effortless chemistry. It was intimate in a way that made my stomach turn. I could only imagine what they had been discussing. Maybe it was an inside joke about the machine back at the VRBO, something they had likely dissected in detail over the past week. Denise explaining how it worked, the depth of each of its three settings, gloating about how easily she had handled it, maybe even admitting that screaming his name hadn’t been an accident at all but completely intentional. Anyone cruel enough to do this in my own bed was also cruel enough to share a laugh at my expense, mocking my reaction to watching her take it with such ease.
Tommy wasted no time, their laughter fading as their movements became more deliberate. This was his moment, his chance to reestablish his dominance over the machine Denise had shamelessly bragged about, a direct challenge to his ego he couldn’t ignore. There was no hesitation, no buildup, no pretense of seduction. Just action.
I grasped at anything to distract myself, searching for something, anything, to pull me away from the nightmare unfolding in front of me. My gaze darted around the room, desperate for an anchor. The picture on my nightstand caught my eye, its frame just barely visible at the edge of the hidden camera’s view, but I didn’t need to see it to know what it was. Denise and I, side by side, smiling by the pool on our cruise just a few months ago. She had wrapped herself in a towel that day, the same one she was now sprawled across.
I looked elsewhere, my eyes latching onto the faint glimmer of her wedding band sitting untouched on her nightstand. She had either forgotten to wear it or had found it in her heart to remove it before letting another man wreck her in our bed. The room felt both familiar and unrecognizable, a place I knew yet no longer belonged in. I felt like a stranger in my own life, forced to watch something I could never undo, powerless to do anything but stare.
He stepped between her legs, climbing onto the bed and positioning himself over her, and from the camera’s perspective, her body all but disappeared behind him, his ass and the heavy sway of his massive balls dominating the frame. Only her bronzed, toned legs remained visible, spread wide around him, suspended in the air, held effortlessly in place by her own strength. The soles of her feet faced the camera, rough, discolored, and calloused from years in golf shoes, bearing the wear of endless days on the course. A wave of nausea hit as Tommy scooted up the bed, his sheer presence forcing her legs to spread even wider, her body instinctively adjusting to make space for what was coming next.
While the camera didn’t capture the exact moment he slipped back inside her, Denise’s reaction made it unmistakable. Her legs quivered, her toes curling as her body instinctively adjusted to take him back in. He wasted no time, leaning forward for leverage, nearly laying on top of her, though his weight remained carefully balanced on his elbows, planted firmly on either side of her shoulders. Unlike the machine back at the VRBO, Tommy wasn’t restricted by a dial or bound by the mechanical precision of three depth settings. There was no gradual buildup, no easing in. He had already been all the way inside her, had already reached the deepest point she had to offer, and now, he simply took what he wanted.
From my angle, the camera, perfectly centered from behind them, captured everything with brutal clarity. Tommy’s legs were spread wide, giving me a missionary view that belonged in a professional shoot, every motion laid bare. His ass clenched and released with each thrust, his muscles flexing as he drove forward, fully in control of the pace. With each deep stroke, his massive balls swung forward, colliding with her ass in a steady, weighty rhythm, the soft, fleshy smack unmistakable even in silence. Each impact was a crude punctuation to his dominance, a reminder of just how much of him she was taking, of how completely her body had accepted him. The angle was ruthless, offering me an uninterrupted view of the depth, the power, the sheer ownership of his movements. He wasn’t just fucking her. He was crushing her beneath him, stretching her beyond anything I had ever been capable of, and doing it all in my own bed.
It didn’t take long for the inevitable, a second orgasm in almost as many minutes. Her body gave her away before the camera could. The sudden tremor in her thighs, the way her arms stretched out, fingers gripping the sheets in a desperate, instinctual grasp. And then it happened. Again. Her legs quivered violently around his waist, her calves locking against his lower back as another wave tore through her. She clenched around him in tight, pulsing contractions, gripping him with each surge of pleasure as her release coated his length once more. The tension gradually faded, leaving her legs trembling around him, her body still reacting in small, involuntary spasms as the orgasm ran its course.
I knew her body was spent, the muscles in her legs giving way before Tommy caught her ankles, holding them in the air like a human version of the stirrups that had secured them in place last week. If there was a plea to stop, like before, it was inaudible. There was no red switch to flip, no way to shut it off. There was only Tommy, completely focused, on the verge of his own pleasure. His pace never faltered, never slowed. If anything, he only seemed more determined, his attention now solely on himself.
My mind recoiled, desperate to retreat, but it had already been forced into a dark place I had tried so hard to block out. There was no escaping what came next. This wasn’t like the VRBO, where only Denise’s pleasure had mattered. The machine didn’t have orgasms; it only extracted them. It had no desires, no primal need to finish, no urge to claim her. But Tommy wasn’t a machine, and now I was forced to think about how he would finish.
Any minute now, he would pull out, my only saving grace being the fact that Denise loathed even the thought of semen. To her, it may as well have been battery acid. The idea alone disgusted her, something she had always dismissed outright with a look of pure revulsion anytime the topic was even mentioned. In the entirety of our marriage, it had never come close to her mouth or face, not even in the early days when most couples went out of their way to impress each other. I knew I could rule that out.
Even as my stomach churned at what I was witnessing, I clung to that one truth, praying it was still a line she refused to cross. I couldn’t imagine a scenario where he would finish inside her, but at this point, nothing felt impossible. The Denise I thought I knew would never allow it, but the woman in front of me was a stranger, one fully capable of breaking every boundary I had once believed was unshakable.
Instead, I pictured a prearranged ritual, something rehearsed and repeated over the course of their decade-long affair. Tommy pulling out, following the same unspoken routine they had perfected over the years. At worst, draining himself across her sweaty, exhausted body. At best, into the Royal Caribbean towel beneath her, a precaution to avoid an unnecessary mess. Either way, it would be practiced, effortless, just another part of what they did when I wasn’t there. Then he would leave, the camera would go dark, and my nightmare would finally end.
Tommy slowed his pace, his thrusts becoming more controlled, settling into the familiar rhythm men instinctively found as release approached. Each deep stroke still drove him fully inside her, his thick shaft disappearing completely as his hips met hers. With every push forward, his heavy testicles came to rest against the curve of her ass, the swollen weight of them pressing firmly into her sweat-dampened skin for a lingering moment before he withdrew, only to repeat the motion with the same measured precision.
Denise’s body, numb from the double orgasm that had left her utterly spent, no longer tensed beneath him. She wasn’t meeting his movements or adjusting to his size; she was simply there, her body now just a vessel for his pleasure. His motions were automatic, primal, his focus singular. Every thrust had one purpose, each slow grind bringing him closer, mere seconds from his own release.
Then, without warning, he pulled out. But he didn’t finish into the towel like I assumed he would, or at least hoped, the best-case scenario for this nightmare. He didn’t even finish on her stomach. Instead, he climbed her body like a ladder, shifting forward with slow, deliberate intent. His knees slid up the mattress, pressing against her sides as he moved higher, inch by inch, locking her body into place beneath him. Finally, he came to rest on her stomach as if it were a chair, his weight settled fully over her.
From my angle, I couldn’t see anything, but I didn’t need to. The positioning told me everything. With his full weight pressing down on her torso, I knew his cock stretched across her chest, her C-cup breasts acting like a hot dog bun around his foot-long wiener. His swollen mushroom head hovered near her lips, if it hadn’t already pushed past them. Her head rested on the pillow at a relaxed forty-five-degree angle, perfectly positioned, her lips likely attached to his tip like a feeding tube. The slick valley between her breasts, created by a mixture of her arousal and his own, left a glistening trail against her skin, marking the path to what felt like an inevitable conclusion.
Below him, Denise lay exactly as she had been, legs still spread, her gaping vagina exposed through the tangle of her bush, faintly pulsing from the relentless pounding it had just endured, just as it had when the machine withdrew from her. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t attempted to adjust herself, making no effort to escape the trap created by the sheer leverage of his lengthy body. His knees pressed firmly against her, locking her arms to her sides, keeping her exactly where he wanted. He sat there for a few seconds, hands resting on his hips as he gazed down at her.
His right hand moved swiftly, vanishing beyond the camera’s frame. Aside from his elbow jutting out from the profile of his body, nothing was visible, yet there was no doubt about what was happening. He was on the verge of finishing himself, claiming an area of her body that had remained untouched by my own release. Yet beneath him, there was no struggle, no resistance, only the eerie stillness of a nightmarish routine playing out for what was likely the thousandth time. Like an Alfred Hitchcock film, I didn’t need to see the scene to know exactly what was unfolding, my mind filling in the details.
From behind, his lean frame moved with each stroke, his bony shoulder working in a steady, deliberate rhythm. I could picture him pumping the entirety of his foot-long gift with the precision of a man who had done this countless times before, each stroke measured to wring out every last ounce of pleasure. His body rocked slightly, every movement purposeful, mechanical, inevitable. I didn’t need to see his face to know the expression he wore, the vacant, single-minded focus of a man chasing his peak, oblivious to his best friend’s wife lying beneath him.
His head turned slightly to the right, looking almost as if he were locked on the picture on my nightstand, a framed reminder of the life Denise and I had built together. All while he continued to jerk himself, using my marriage as a final, evil push to send himself over the edge. I couldn’t understand why he was so vengeful. Did he regret introducing me to Denise and wish he had married her himself? Was this his way of reclaiming something he believed should have been his? Or was it something even darker, a bitterness that had festered over the years, fueled by the stark contrast between their paths? Denise’s career had flourished on the Epson Tour, her discipline and dedication pushing her forward, while Tommy’s indulgence in excess had derailed his own golf aspirations. Was this unwarranted payback for a life he felt had slipped through his fingers? Or had he simply always been this cruel?
Before I knew it, Tommy looked up toward the ceiling, his body tensing, muscles tightening, his lower back contracting in pulsing waves. His jerking motion slowed, shifting from the urgent cadence of release to controlled strokes, prolonging the moment for as long as possible. Even without audio, I could hear the roar, the same exaggerated howl ingrained in his DNA. It was an over-the-top alpha display, a signal meant for anyone who might be on the other side of the cheap, hollow-core bedroom door. A declaration that yet another cheating housewife was on the verge of being fed a load from his infamous cock.
I had been ignorantly naïve, gripping my phone as I watched an event that had already happened, five seconds in the past, the camera’s delay stalling the inevitable. I had refused to place Denise, my own wife, in the same category as the countless women who had passed through the revolving door of Tommy’s bedroom back when we lived together. I had buried the memory deep, refusing to acknowledge it: one-night stands who treated Tommy’s load as a prize, a trophy for conquering his size. Almost an obligation. Swallowing him, taking every drop without hesitation, anything to separate themselves from the other women, to remain on his A-list, to secure another invitation rather than being discarded for the next in line.
Tommy’s body gradually relaxed, yet he remained seated on her chest, his frame blocking the camera’s view. He likely watched as her face and glasses were coated in his release or as she struggled to swallow the last of it, a load probably larger than usual, fueled by the excitement of trying to outdo the sex machine. Most couples would have collapsed into bed, maybe curled up together, savoring the moment, but not Tommy. He showed no urgency to move, completely at ease, casually engaged in conversation. Their bodies occasionally shook, subtle movements hinting at a shared laugh.
Denise hadn’t shifted either, still pinned beneath him, making no effort to free herself. She lay there effortlessly, unbothered, engaged in what looked like casual conversation rather than acknowledging the debauchery that had just unfolded in the bed we shared. There was no urgency, no rush to eliminate his remnants from her taste buds, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary.
He began to roll off Denise, dismounting her in the reverse order he had claimed her minutes ago. My attention was split between his spent cock, now returned to its still-gigantic flaccid state after softening between her sweat-soaked tits during conversation, and his balls, drained, noticeably smaller than the ones that had been slapping against her ass not long ago. Denise remained sprawled on the bed, her body glistening with sweat, her head propped up by the pillow. Her glasses sat undisturbed on her face, the lenses catching the faint glow of the TV, reflecting whatever happened to be playing in the background.
Then I saw her face, and my worst fears were confirmed. Sweaty, but not a drop of Tommy on it. No mess, no trace of where he had finished. The absence of evidence told me everything; she had swallowed him completely, just as I had suspected. Denise, my own wife, the same woman who had always expressed nothing but disgust at the sight of cum, was now just another number. One of countless women who had treated Tommy’s seed as a prize, just as passionate to consume it even eleven years later.
Standing once more at the foot of the bed, Tommy reached for the pile of clothes, quickly pulling on his basketball shorts, his length vanishing behind the fabric without a trace. He grabbed his wife beater, sliding it over his head as he exchanged one last laugh with Denise, casual and unbothered, like an employee clocking out for the night. There was zero regret on his face, no sign of hesitation or second thoughts, only the mannerisms of a man who knew he would do it all over again soon. It was purely transactional, routine, nothing more than another notch in an arrangement that had lasted the entirety of our marriage. Then, without pause, he stepped out of the frame, disappearing from the camera’s view.
It felt like a bad dream, watching Denise still lying there, now alone and unmoving, staring at the ceiling. I had to pinch myself just to confirm it was real. Her body remained sprawled across our bed, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths, her eyes eventually drawn to whatever was on TV. There was no rush to get up, no urgency to wash Tommy’s taste out of her mouth.
By now, he was already home, four houses down, just walking distance away. If his wife, Michelle, was knowing and approving of our spouses’ extramarital affairs, he was likely giving her a casual play-by-play, recounting every detail as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. If she wasn’t, he had already slipped into the shower, scrubbing away the scent of Denise and the golf course before she had a chance to suspect anything.
Meanwhile, over the next few minutes, the video feed went back and forth between flickering to life and going dark as the camera’s motion sensor failed to detect movement. Each time, the blackness lingered until the slightest shift, a twitch of Denise’s foot, the slow rise and fall of her chest, or maybe just the weight of her body settling deeper into the mattress, reawakened it, pulling me back into the aftermath again and again.
SportsCenter droned on from the hotel TV, the faint hum of commentators discussing scores and statistics barely registering in my ears. The words blurred together, white noise against the chaos in my head. It was just another reminder of how normal everything outside this room still was, how the world kept moving forward while mine had been dismantled in real time.
I was still trying to process what had just happened. The past eleven years. What my future, if any, looked like with Denise. What my friendship with Tommy looked like after this, if there was still one. Why I had chosen to watch this whole thing. Why I wasn’t as angry as I felt like I should have been. Why I never mentioned her screaming Tommy’s name in the VRBO, why I hadn’t confronted her about anything. And why, beneath the hotel sheets, a tent had formed, created by a cock less than half the size of the one I had just watched pummel Denise. Maybe I was in shock. Maybe I wasn’t.
Maybe, deep down, I had already accepted my unspoken role, the beta male, the one who would be there to emotionally and financially support Denise’s dream while her physical needs were met by Tommy.
There was something about seeing Denise lying there, completely spent and satisfied, unaware she had been watched. Knowing I could never give her what she had just received. I should have felt disgust. Betrayal. Rage. I did, but at the same time, I didn’t. Instead, I felt hollow, a shell of myself, questioning everything. Why didn’t I hate her? Could I really leave her? And why was I so aroused by what had just happened? Watching my own wife perform acts with my best friend that had been all but forbidden in our marriage.
Had listening to Tommy punish cheating housewives through his bedroom door on an almost nightly basis gradually acclimated me to a life of becoming a cuckold against my own control? Had I been conditioned without even realizing it, desensitized to the idea of another man taking what was supposed to be mine until, eventually, I no longer resisted it at all? Was this the only way it could have happened? Would I have agreed to something early on, had I known?
I had a choice. Come Thursday, I could leave Atlanta and start over in another city, erasing myself from their lives completely. Maybe the next time I saw her would be across a lawyer’s desk, signatures finalizing the end of everything. No kids, no shared assets, just a rental we had called home for a decade. Nothing tying me to Orlando. Nothing keeping me there.
Tommy and Denise would fade into distant memories, ghosts of a past I had no reason to acknowledge. No more standing on the sidelines at her golf tournaments, pretending to believe in a dream we both knew had died. No more inevitable conversations about her career being over, no longer my burden to carry. That responsibility would fall to someone else.
I could erase this. Make it all disappear. A year from now, five years from now, maybe it would feel like a bad dream, something that happened to someone else. A story I once heard but couldn’t quite remember the details of.
So why didn’t I want that? What was wrong with me?