As we stepped into the house, our eyes were immediately drawn to the open bookshelf on the right, revealing the hidden sex dungeon precisely as we’d left it before rushing out the door to the golf course: a dark, unignorable void. The faint, musty smell from the secret space had seeped into the living room, clinging to the air.
Denise set her clubs down, the familiar clank of irons jostling together, serving as a reminder of her disastrous day. She usually went straight for a shower after a round but headed toward the kitchen instead, still not having said a word to me since we’d left the course.
I lingered for a moment, taking it all in, then sank onto the couch and flipped on the TV, letting the noise fill the awkward void. From the kitchen, I heard the soft rattle of bottles and the clinking of glassware. Moments later, she returned with drinks we’d brought from home, intended to be celebratory but now carrying a much different tone. She handed me a cold beer and carried an overfilled glass of rosé for herself, the wine trembling dangerously close to the rim with each step she took.
"Well, that sucked," she said with a chuckle, her usual personality finally breaking through as she flopped onto the couch beside me, cutting through the tension in the room. The faint stench of the golf course, a mix of sweat and grass, lingered as she settled in, her disappointing round finally acknowledged without either of us needing to say more. As she leaned back, a splash of wine sloshed over the rim of her glass, soaking into her shirt and mingling with the dampness already clinging to it from the brutal Florida humidity.
"You’ll bounce back tomorrow," I said, doing my best to encourage her, but we both knew the odds. After today’s round, it was nearly impossible. She’d need a miracle to avoid missing the cut, and quietly, we both knew we’d be packing up and heading back to Orlando early.
The dark opening to the TV's right loomed, an unspoken presence neither of us could entirely block out. I made feeble attempts to distract her with small talk: dinner plans, the evening ahead, anything to keep her mind from drifting where we both knew it would. But beneath it all, an unshakable truth hung in the air: this was likely Denise’s last shot at making the LPGA Tour.
Her earnings on the Epson Tour had barely covered her expenses, each tournament a costly gamble that left just enough to keep her going. Unfortunately, this tournament was different. It marked the end of the ten-year deadline we had quietly agreed to when we got married, a deadline that had now reached its expiration date. At thirty-two, her best golf was behind her. It was a young person’s game. If she didn’t make it now, she probably never would. Golf would shift from a career to a weekend hobby, a game she’d still dominate against locals and weekend warriors, but it wouldn’t define her life anymore. She’d have to find a steady and practical nine-to-five and begin the quiet, inevitable process of letting go of the dream that had driven her for so long.
Denise began taking long, purposeful sips of wine, each more deliberate than the last. The weight of the realization hit her without needing to be spoken. Her dream, a lifetime in the making, had been undone, not by a poor swing or missed putt, but by something far stranger, a sexual contraption that had derailed her focus in ways neither of us had ever imagined. Every sip seemed to intensify the frustration, the humiliation, and the sinking feeling that she’d lost control over something she’d worked so hard for.
Within minutes, she had drained what would usually last her an entire evening from her glass. Unaccustomed to such rapid consumption, her petite frame seemed all the more unsteady for it. She was usually a light, social drinker, never like this, not even after other frustrating days. Seated on the couch, she turned the empty glass slowly in her hands, her fingers idly tracing the rim as she gazed into the dark hollow of the open bookshelf. Her silence felt heavier than usual, each unspoken thought stretching out in the quiet. This wasn’t just about a bad round of golf.
She rose from the couch and headed toward the kitchen again, the old hardwood floors groaning beneath each step of the soft-spiked golf shoes she hadn’t yet removed. I heard the familiar clatter of bottles and the soft thud of the fridge door closing. When she returned, she handed me a fresh beer, her movements slower, more measured this time. Her wine glass was filled to the brim again, no longer just a drink but a way to dull the sting of a shattered dream and a liquid motivation to approach what had been on her mind the entire day.
Instead of sitting back down, she began to pace, her steps uneven, each carrying a slight wobble as the wine took hold. Her movements were slow and deliberate, as though following a path she had already mapped out in her mind. She drifted toward the old bookshelf to the left of the TV, her hand gliding over the spines of the worn books with feigned interest. Her touch lingered, tapping lightly on a few covers, not out of curiosity, but as if stalling for the inevitable.
She crossed in front of the TV, her steps slow and measured, each making the old floor creak louder beneath her light 110-pound frame. When she reached the shadowy entrance to the secret room, she stopped. It was as if the room itself were pulling her in, an unseen magnet guiding her forward with a quiet, irresistible force.
Denise took a long sip of wine before disappearing into the shadows beyond the bookcase. Moments later, the fluorescent light flickered on, casting a cold, erratic glow across the room, like the entrance to a haunted house. The sharp click of the switch echoed through the stillness, and I sat motionless on the couch, my mind spinning, struggling to make sense of what was unfolding. My wife, who had been sexually distant and reserved for the entirety of our decade-long marriage, now seemed utterly entranced by the imposing machine. A deep unease settled in my chest, and the rising pressure to do something and join her finally forced me to my feet.
I shuffled hesitantly across the living room, the low, uneven buzz of the faulty light growing louder with each step. I stood at the threshold, my eyes acclimating to the familiar but disturbing sight ahead. There she was: Denise, wine glass in hand, her gaze locked on the device with a focus even sharper than it had been that morning, now heightened by the wine coursing through her veins. She had already chugged half her glass since refilling it minutes ago. She didn’t notice me standing behind her, completely absorbed by the sight of the imposing contraption.
I watched in stunned disbelief from the threshold, struggling to reconcile the focused, disciplined, and reserved woman I thought I knew with the one now entranced by something so far removed from the life we’d built together. Desperate to cut through the tension and break the silence, my mind grasped for something to say. Before I could stop myself, the words escaped my lips.
"You want to try it or something?" I asked, forcing a nervous laugh that felt misplaced as the moment itself.
She spun around, nearly spilling her wine, the whiff of stale sunblock and golf course filling my nose as she moved. “Oh my God, Chris, that thing is fucking huge,” she said, her voice a shaky blend of nervous amusement and awe. Hearing those words come out of her mouth to describe the device shook me to my core. There was no attempt to hide it; the curiosity was right there in her eyes, unguarded and undeniable. Regret hit me almost instantly. I shifted my focus, refusing to look directly at the hulking foot-long dildo as if ignoring it might somehow make it disappear.
Like a drunken college girl with all her inhibitions left behind, Denise tipped back the rest of her wine in one swift gulp, the uncharacteristic chugging sound competing with the soft buzz of the overhead light. She handed me the empty glass as if I were a waiter she was too good to acknowledge, her eyes never leaving the intimidating device.
“Screw it, why not?” she muttered, her tone casual but edged with quiet resolve as she answered my rhetorical question. She snatched a white bath towel from the table, its hotel-quality thickness giving it a deceptive weight. With brisk, practiced movements, she snapped it open and draped it over the lower half of the worn chair, smoothing it flat with quick swipes of her palm. The towel was clearly intended as a shield, offering its subject the experience of the machine while acting as a barrier against the grime of the disgusting chair beneath, a disturbing yet oddly thoughtful touch from the VRBO host. Then, with the same nonchalance as grabbing a napkin, she plucked a condom from the overflowing basket. Her movements were sharp, purposeful, and stripped of doubt, leaving me too stunned to speak.
Denise turned to me with a playful grin, the scent of wine drifting off her breath. “Haven’t seen one of these in a while,” she teased, holding up the condom between her thumb and index finger. The gold wrapper caught the flickering light, and the bold "Magnum XL" label felt like it was mocking me outright. A size meant for men, and now machines, I had no hope of measuring up to. Like the towel draped over the chair, the condom had been placed here with intention, a quiet offering for deprived women and adventurous couples looking to experience the absurdity of the contraption before us.
With the careless confidence of a tipsy co-ed, she tore it open, her casual, teasing demeanor an awkward attempt to soften the moment. But it had the opposite effect. Each playful movement only made its weight heavier, sharpening the edge of my discomfort. She didn’t seem to notice or care. Unbothered by my silence, she slipped the condom from the wrapper, its girth a startling reminder of the task my tiny wife was fearlessly up against.
"Let’s see if I still remember how to do this," she said with a playful laugh, though a flicker of hesitation clung to the edges of her voice. We hadn’t used a condom since college, and even then, she was never the one handling it. Denise stepped closer, her hands shaky but determined, as she placed the condom at the tip of the silicone beast. She paused there, taking in its size one last time before beginning the daunting task of wrapping it in latex, her fingers moving with slow, deliberate precision. The sight hit me harder than I expected. The sheer size of the dildo against her small hands made the contrast impossible to ignore, every inch of the rubber sinking me deeper into a quiet sense of inadequacy.
She paused briefly, then used both thumbs and index fingers to stretch the condom, tugging at the already wide edges to make the opening large enough to fit over the massive, mushroom-shaped helmet. The thick ridge pushed back stubbornly, the latex straining against her efforts like a too-tight bed sheet fighting its way over the corner of a heavy mattress. Her brows, still marked with the faint residue of dried sweat from a long day on the golf course, pulled together in quiet concentration, each slight adjustment deliberate and precise. After a moment of focused effort, the latex finally snapped into place over the bulbous head. She let out a soft, breathy "Wow," the quiet disbelief in her voice hanging in the air longer than the word itself.
My mind raced with unfathomable thoughts of how that monstrosity could ever fit inside my tiny wife. There wasn’t a chance she could handle it, but I knew Denise’s competitive nature all too well. To her, this would be a challenge, a test of her will to conquer, and that was what terrified me most.
She hesitated momentarily, her fingers hovering over the colossal toy as if grappling with the thought of touching something that had likely been inside hundreds of curious women like herself. But then, with quiet determination, she began to roll the condom down the gigantic shaft, her movements slow, almost teasing, as each veined ridge disappeared inch by inch beneath the taut latex. Her hands gripped the shaft, jerking it subtly back and forth, yet even with both hands, they couldn’t fully wrap around its girth. The stark contrast between her tiny hands and the dildo made my chest tighten with anxiety, a feeling that deepened as she seemed to silently measure its overwhelming size against the modest five inches she had grown accustomed to with me. Finally reaching the base, the condom stopped, perfectly flush at an exact twelve inches, as if custom-made for the massive toy, the latex stretched so tightly that it seemed as though it might split at its seams.
In one fluid motion, Denise’s eyes shifted to the latex-wrapped monster, lingering momentarily as if admiring her handiwork. Then she lifted her skirt just enough to hook her fingers around the sides of her plain, beige granny panties, exposing her sun-bronzed legs, marked by sharp, defined tan lines separating the middle of her thighs. The simplicity of her underwear spoke volumes about the stagnation in our love life, a quiet reminder that lingerie had long been unnecessary in our sex-starved marriage. Slowly, she raised one leg, then the other, carefully sliding the soaked fabric over each shoe. As she let go, the panties fell to the concrete floor with a soft, juicy thud, a sound weighted with the day’s lingering anticipation of this moment.
She maneuvered around the machine and approached the gynecological chair, its awkward height forcing her to climb onto it with focused care, each movement slightly hesitant, like navigating a jungle gym. Her hands gripped the sides tightly for balance, the soft spikes of her golf shoes anchoring her to the base as she hoisted herself up. As she settled in, her body weight pressed into the chair, causing the yellow padding to bulge through the torn fabric. She leaned back slowly, her body sinking onto the towel she had carefully laid out as she adjusted her position. For a moment, she paused, her movements slowing as if suddenly aware of my presence and the vulnerability of her position, her lower body still modestly shielded by her golf skirt.
I remained frozen behind the black box, my gaze locked on Denise as she lifted her right leg and eased her ankle into the stirrup. The frayed padding compressed beneath her weight, the metal frame emitting a faint rattle as it adjusted. Her left leg followed quickly, leaving her fully vulnerable, though still modestly covered by her golf skirt, which threatened to slide back under the pull of gravity. My eyes drifted downward to the bottoms of her golf shoes, the soft spikes still laced with blades of grass and dirt from the course. Grains of sand clung stubbornly to her ankles, remnants of her lone bunker shot on the eighteenth hole earlier that afternoon. The faded sunblock on her skin acted like adhesive, holding the sand firmly in place.
“I’m nervous,” she admitted with a soft laugh, the unease of a sober Denise flickering through her drunken exterior as she glanced up at me through her glasses while leaning back in the chair. From her position, with her legs bound in the stirrups, the hulking dildo remained out of sight, blocked by her own body and awkward angle. Her expression was a mix of apprehension and anticipation, but beneath it all was a glimmer of determination, the same look she always had when confronting a challenge she was resolved to overcome.
She glanced up at me once more, her faint smile laced with mischief as she flicked her skirt back, letting it fall neatly against the edge of her golf shirt. The motion revealed, yet again, the sharp tan lines that marked the middle of her thighs. With her legs resting in the stirrups, their toned definition was impossible to miss, unexpected for her size, but undeniably the source of the power behind her impressive long drives.
Once hidden beneath her skirt, the giant contraption was fully exposed, suspended between the stirrups with unyielding precision. It hung rigid, perfectly parallel to the floor, its gigantic helmet aimed directly between her legs. Only four inches separated it from Denise’s neglected vagina, crowned by an unkempt bush, a dense patch of dark curls that hadn’t seen a razor since our last attempt at intimacy months ago. Alcohol had transformed her into someone entirely different, a free spirit unburdened by the insecurities that would have consumed her in a sober state. She seemed a little too comfortable, spread out wider than I had ever seen, almost oblivious to what was about to happen.
"I think I’m ready," she said, glancing up at me through her glasses with a wry grin. Her eyes carried a mix of quiet confidence and subtle dominance, unsympathetic to any hesitation or uncertainty I might have felt. Her calm composure left no room for doubt. My angle behind the machine felt clinical, like a doctor on the verge of performing an intimate examination. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat loud and deliberate, while uncertainty coiled tightly in my gut. My finger hovered over the red switch, uncertain of what our marriage would look like once this cruel machine was finished with my wife.
I took a deep breath, still struggling to reconcile Denise’s insatiable infatuation with a device I knew would be impossible for her to handle. Intoxicated and headstrong, she was determined to see it through, her resolve unshaken by reason or doubt. My role had shifted from passive observer to someone forced to be complicit in a moment that felt far larger than either of us had anticipated. My heart pounded as my finger hovered over the red switch, every nerve in my body urging me to pull away. I knew the moment I flipped it, there would be no turning back, no undoing what would be set in motion.
