Not the Cheating Kind


Author’s note: This story is based on a scene from the 2014 movie An Eye for Beauty. I’ve altered the scenario for my purposes.


Tom sits across from Roberta Palmer—Dr. Bobbie to her patients and friends—in the exam room. He’s nervous but ready to be forthright. The only way to be in front of your doctor, really. But Tom is not here for medical care, per say. He’s here out of guilt, and if he could admit it to himself, out of a desire for revenge.

“What brings you in today, Tom? Becky said you were vague on the phone,” she asks. Dr. Bobbie is a plain, tall woman, mid-30s, with a blonde ponytail pulled tightly back. She wears a formless white lab coat over blue scrubs. Tom told the receptionist it was just a check-up when he booked the appointment. He must have let on there was more to it, somehow.

“Uh, well, I have something to confess, actually,” Tom begins trepidatiously. “Last week, on my trip to New York…I cheated on Stella.”

“With a prostitute?” There’s no recrimination in her voice. Dr. Bobbie doesn’t say anything like “Oh, Tom, how could you?” though she and his wife Stella are old college friends. She asks clinically, as is appropriate for a general practitioner.

“No, just a girl,” Tom lies. In fact, it was a prostitute.

“You’re worried about an STD, then?” She cuts to the chase. “Did you use protection?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Are you experiencing any burning or itching?”


“Pain with urination?”


“Any spots or discoloration on your genitals?”

“I don’t think so,” says Tom. “Genitals.” Tom wonders if she picks that words and says it with such detachment because she’s a doctor or because she’s bisexual. He knows Dr. Bobbie swings both ways because over the years she’s brought dates of both sexes to get-togethers with the wife. Right now Dr. Bobbie happens to be dating the receptionist, Becky. Tom is unsure of the sexual politics involved. The firm at which he worked wouldn’t approve of relationships between employees with a power imbalance. Of course, Dr. Bobbie is her own boss.

“Is there discharge?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“I wouldn’t be overly concerned, then, Tom. We’ll run the tests. Best not to sleep with Stella in the meantime, even if you have already.”

“No, we haven’t much lately.” Tom intends to launch into a prepared speech on what he considers his wife’s neglect, but Dr. Bobbie cuts him off.

“Okay, why don’t I have a look? Take off your pants.” She wheels her chair over to pick up disposable gloves. Tom must appear unsure, for Dr. Bobbie adds immediately, “It’s okay, I see them all the time.” Not Sonoma many lately, unless Becky’s hiding something, Tom jokes to himself.

As he unbuckles his belt, his mind drifts back to what brought him here today.


From across the court through the chain-link fence, he spied them. Sharing a secret, maybe, like little girls. Only they were not girls. One was Stella, a statuesque blonde, broad of shoulder, narrow of the waist, and medium of breast. Her tennis game was twice that of her husband’s. Not surprising, considering she played at the club five times as often. Usually with her girlfriends, a lesbian couple. Half of which swam with her in college before becoming a physician. Stella didn’t follow Dr. Bobbie to med school but rather married Tom, graphic artist and future tennis outing tag-along.

The other half of the couple was a lipstick lesbian about whom Tom had countless naughty thoughts. Becky wasn’t a lesbian for lack of choice, as Tom secretly assumed in other cases. Dr. Bobbie obviously wasn’t, either; how could she be, when Becky was preceded by Michael and Troy? Becky possessed a certain coldness that outside of her professional duties was utterly lacking in the warm, affectionate Bobbie. Tom associated this coldness with the femdom fetish he adopted back in high school.

In the ninth grade, a girl-bully teased Tom non-stop for a month. This was not your typical bruiser. She was a hot Mean Girl who called him “babydick”–she merely guessed, never actually seeing the goods–and otherwise sexually humiliated him. One time, she had her friends hold his arms as she crept up behind him, licked his ear, and whispered, “You’ll never have me.” He almost could’ve believed she was into him, and on some level she probably was, but then she landed a jock boyfriend, interrupting her reign of terror. Obviously, Tom wasn’t her type. He wasn’t a geek, exactly, but he would go on to be a graphic artist. Meantime, he was too humiliated to contemplate her psycho-sexual motives.

All through high school and until he dated Stella at 27, Tom abused himself to thoughts of his girl-bully. His humiliation became fuel for pleasure. Stella had simple desires, far as he knew, and didn’t initiate any special play. Tom was content with that, and his fetish waned.

Around the time Dr. Bobbie hired and fell for Becky, Stella entered a depression. Unable to conceive a child thus far into their marriage, and unwilling or unable to find work, she had for years lost interest in most things besides tennis. Tom suggested she visit a therapist, but she refused. Stella’s malady went undiagnosed, but the signs were there. She got progressively worse. Didn’t eat or go out much, slept all day while Tom worked, and allowed him sex only grudgingly. He resorted to masturbation, and the old fantasies were reborn, mainly featuring Becky.

Nothing he witnessed in Becky caused him to suspect femdom tendencies, aside from her cold demeanor and lesbianism. She was if anything sickeningly lovey-dovey with her partner. However, Becky appeared to take the lead in their relationship, despite Dr. Bobbie more resembling the male (relatively speaking), and the fact that she was Becky’s superior. More importantly for his dirty purposes, Tom thought Becky was gorgeous. He didn’t usually care for the skinny type. Though Stella was athletic, she was also womanly, with generous tits and ass. Becky, on the other hand, was tall and slim, with little, perky breasts, a flat ass, and straight hips. Her face was so, so cute: almond eyes, puffy cheekbones, and a button nose. Slick brunette hair, like a girl from a Robert Palmer video. The brightest, clearest complexion of any human being Tom had ever seen, outside of infants.


Next to a large oak, Tom saw Becky and Stella talking closely. He had moved beyond the fence, and his vantage was clear across the green. There was something suspicious about the scene. He considered calling out, but before he came to the point of decision, Becky pushed Stella against a tree and violently shoved her hand up Stella’s skirt. Stella didn’t fight back. She just leaned there. They didn’t kiss or touch in any way, except through Becky’s hand. Stella appeared afraid from a distance. Becky’s hand wiggled back and forth, and from what Tom could see her face was devoid of emotion. Creeping closer, he saw Stella frowning, looking like she was about to cry.

But it wasn’t fear or sadness. It was intensity. Stella cried out in short breaths “oo, oh,” before Becky leaned in to kiss her. Maybe just to shut her up. Tom could tell an orgasm was approaching. Stella put her “O-face” on and shook in that familiar way. When it subsided, the two of them made out and groped each other, Becky’s left leg up straddling Stella’s waist. Then they collected themselves and moved on.

Lunch followed directly after. Tom sat quietly with Dr. Bobbie for a bit. Stella and Becky caught up, neither of them showing any sign that minutes ago Becky’s hand was inside Stella, holding her in rapture. Tom wondered how they could appear so calm, lie so convincingly to their partners. It was almost sociopathic. Stella, he could excuse for being temporarily depressed. But Becky, she was some piece of work. His masturbatory fantasies sold her short. No clue she was capable of seducing his mentally ill wife and immediately sitting down to iced tea like it was nothing.

This was after he cheated on Stella with the prostitute. Tom felt terrible about it but justified his behavior to himself because she wasn’t holding up her end of the marriage bargain. The revelation that she was a cheater, too, didn’t assuage his guilt, however. Somehow he felt responsible for emotionally abandoning her, leaving her open to lesbian predators. That made him angry, in a mood to seek revenge. But how?

Ratting Becky out to Dr. Bobbie would reveal himself as a cuckold. If that’s the proper terminology when the affair is with a woman. Furthermore, he’d hurt his wife’s reputation. Which he didn’t want, regardless of his anger. Then it hit him: if Becky can seduce the previously straight-as-an-arrow Stella, why couldn’t Tom seduce the bisexual Bobbie? She wasn’t particularly attractive to him, but she wasn’t butch, and he was fairly sure the two of them flirted on occasion. He was ignorant of the fact that Bobbie talked down to him, commonly adopting an auntish tone. She would be far more likely to try and finish off what she started when she met Stella on the swim team. Not that Tom, or Stella for that matter, were aware of her initial attraction to his wife.


Tom tenses in his tighty-whities, jeans down to his knees, while Dr. Bobbie wheels over to shine a light on his crotch. In the stupidest, least thought-through seduction ever, Tom is about to show himself off to a doctor in a lesbian relationship. What is the plan, exactly? There’s no plan. “Here, enjoy my ‘genitals.'” He had prepared to tell her about his dalliance in New York, delving into his wife’s psychological problems, try to invoke sympathy. Maybe they could grab a coffee and proceed from there. Instead, here he was, about to show his limp, probably shrunken cock to his wife’s bi-buddy.

Dr. Bobbie silently pulls down the front of Tom’s underwear, his turtle-shelled member and shaved crotch exposed to her view. He looks at her face for a reaction and sees a reflection of himself in her glasses. She’s very professional and intent on her business. Inside her head, where Tom can’t see, she thinks about the renovation she and Becky were planning for the kitchenette. She notices Tom’s undersized penis but doesn’t think anything of it.

Her free hand manipulates him, and he grows, little by little. At first, he’s embarrassed, but then it occurs to him here is his chance to shift the mood, which at the moment resembles that you’d find in a library. “You’re making me hard,” he says.

“Pfft. Tom, please,” she replies, still about her business. He doesn’t grow much, notes Dr. Bobbie. No more than 4 inches, and more like 3.5. Her last male lover was 6 and thick. If Tom hoped to impress her, he was out of luck.

Stella never complained. Aside from his girl-bully, who never actually saw it, no female had ever denigrated his size to his face. Therefore, Tom assumed he was average. Dr. Bobbie knows better, but only holds the issue of his size in her mind for a second. It’s not important to her.

Just then, Becky bursts through the door, knocking mid-swing. She must have assumed it was okay given their familiarity (intimacy, you might say, since she and Tom shared Stella). “Bobbie, the Fowlers, need to reschedule…oh,” says Becky. Peeping on Tom was far from her expectations. But she sees everything.

Tom stands stock-still. Dr. Bobbie has turned her head, but her hands remain near his pathetic boner and tight sack. Becky’s eyes are aimed squarely at his midsection. She pauses at the door, with her slick hair, and boy, can she wear scrubs better than Bobbie can. “Never mind, I’ll tell you later.”

An undeniable smirk crosses her face before she closes the door. Tom is more humiliated than he can remember being since high school. The woman who seduced his wife just saw him nude from the waist down and smirked. His bully’s term, “baby-dick,” flashes through his mind.

The remainder of the session is perfunctory. Dr. Bobbie doesn’t act as if anything unusual took place. He pulls his pants back up and buckles his belt. She crosses the room and sits at her desk. The library mood reasserts itself, but he’s different. Dr. Bobbie recognizes that he’s dazed, and chalks it up to guilt over his infidelity. “You know, Tom, maybe casual sex in strange cities isn’t for you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Stella is a great girl. I know she’s blue, but hang in there. And again, just to be safe, don’t sleep with her until the test results come in.”

“Of course.”

Tom leaves the office, walking past Becky at the front desk who’s too busy with her computer to smirk at him a second time. He drives home, past his initial shock and certain in the knowledge that he would masturbate about the day’s events for the rest of his life.

The End.


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