The Dildo that Erased Claire Bonneville's Memory

Lubrican

The Dildo That Erased Claire Bonneville's Memory

by Robert Lubrican

zbookstore.com Edition

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to zbookstore.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All characters in this book are fictional and are at least eighteen years of age.

Rights to use cover art purchased at istock.com

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Table of Contents

Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty-one | Epilogue | Afterword

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Foreword

This is in the "lost memory" series of books I've written. "Series" probably isn't the best word to link them, because all are independent works, with different characters. Only the plot device of someone losing their memory is the common denominator.

Whenever someone loses their past, it can be dark, and that darkness is scattered throughout the other books in this series, as well as this one. But losing your past also means that you get to start fresh, and that means you can leave your mistakes behind you. So don't give up after only reading one or two chapters. Stay with our heroine for five or six chapters, and you'll begin to feel a lot better about her.

Bob

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter One

Claire Bonneville had never had a panic attack, but she felt a kinship with those thusly afflicted as she stared through the windshield of her car at the establishment called "Christie's Toy Box."

She'd never done anything like this. In her opinion, had someone looked up the entry for "good girl" in the dictionary, her picture might be there. Not that she was completely innocent. She'd giggled with her friends as they watched the occasional porn video, but that had been years ago, decades, in fact.

And while she'd heard quite a bit about sex toys, she'd never owned one. The very idea of going into an adult entertainment store seemed so foreign to her that she couldn't believe she was actually in the parking lot of one. The same frustration that had driven her to get this far made her open the door and place one foot onto the ground.

Christie's was located about fifteen miles outside of town, just off the interstate. It stood alone, the only building in sight, perched next to pasture dotted with cow pies, as befitted a place that was a social pariah. But that was good, because Claire couldn't have gotten up the courage to go there if it had been in town, where anybody might have seen her going inside. As she scurried toward the entrance she had a brief but hilarious fantasy that, when she entered, she'd find Jennifer, the neighborhood gossip, inside buying all sorts of perverted things.

A bell dinged as she opened the door. She expected everyone in the place to turn and stare at her, but forged ahead. She'd assumed it would be a dark, sleazy kind of place. That it wasn't was her first surprise.

There was a woman behind a counter, hunched over a Sudoku book.

Nobody looked at her. The place was well lit and, other than the actual contents, looked like any other store she'd ever been in.

There were half a dozen people browsing around and none of them gave her so much as a glance. She suddenly felt silly in her floppy hat and big sunglasses she'd chosen to make her incognito. Upon impulse, she removed them. She was surprised at how liberated that made her feel.

Now the woman looked up at her.

"If you need any help finding anything, let me know," she said.

"Okay," said Claire, gratified that her voice sounded firm.

She moved then, looking first at the wall on her left. It was literally covered with things packaged in plastic. She hit the jackpot within twenty or so feet, where she saw penis-shaped objects of every size and color. It was like being in that candy store in the mall, where it would take hours just to examine everything they offered.

She stifled a giggle as the word "flavored" leapt off one plastic container at her.

Her mood turned from apprehensive to fascinated. All the objects arrayed in front of her were phallic shaped but there the similarity ended. The variety was astonishing. They went from things that were slim and smooth, to those that had ridges, and even spikes. She winced as she looked at one monstrosity that was double ended, with protrusions on the shaft, a veritable Swiss army knife of dildos.

She arrived at the section where things looked lifelike. This was more like it. Her eyes wandered over the different colors and sizes. Some had testicles attached, and looked so real she had a short, uncomfortable fantasy that involved a knife and some unfortunate man.

She leaned forward. How on earth did they make these things? Did someone model for them? Were they copies made with casting materials?

She did let out a giggle as she saw one called, simply, "Lenny". Only then did she take in the plethora of names some advertising agency had come up with, all of which meant "artificial penis."

She looked at her watch. She needed to hurry.

She picked the most lifelike one that matched her own coloring. She was conscious of the fact that it was bigger than her husband's.

At least she could depend on this one to be firm and ready when she needed it.

The clerk looked put her Sudoku book aside and used a hand-held scanner to ring up the sale.

"Good choice," she said."You'll like this one, but we're having a special on Wascally Rabbits. Forty percent off. And they vibrate too. They're amazing."

Claire swallowed. This was a transaction just like any other she'd ever made, but it still felt surreal.

"No thanks," she said. "Just this one."

The woman lowered her voice, conspiratorially.

"I'll give you a card good for forty percent off any item. It's good for sixty days, okay?"

"Sure," breathed Claire.

Five minutes later she was back on the interstate, headed east.

The dildo was in the bag in the back seat, the one that held all the other birthday presents she'd gotten at the party her best friend had thrown for her, earlier that day.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"You won't believe what I got for my birthday," said Claire as she set the bag down on the dining room table.

"Try me," said John, whose eyes remained on the TV screen.

She took a deep breath and reached into the bag. She pulled out the dildo, which she'd removed from the packaging. It felt firm, astonishingly lifelike, except it was cold.

"This," she said.

He finally looked, and she wiggled her hand. The silicone masterpiece in her hand swayed.

"You're shitting me!"

She finally had his full attention.

"Who the hell gave you that?"

"Cindy. She said it was for when I wore you out and needed more."

He stood, and approached. There was an odd look on his face.

"You're not going to ... um ... actually use it ... are you?"

"You haven't paid any attention to me in months, John."

"You know how tired I am when I get home from work."

"I know how late you stay up and watch TV," she countered.

He stared at his potential replacement, gripped in her manicured fingers. His face smoothed.

"You won't use that," he said, firmly. "You're not that kind of girl."

"I'm the kind of girl who has needs," she said, her voice level.

He grinned. "You won't use it. And you don't need to. I'm your husband. I'll take care of you."

"You haven't been," she reminded him, anger simmering under the smooth features of her face.

"I've just been tired. Everything will be fine, Claire. You don't need that."

"Whatever," she said, suddenly unwilling to extend whatever this was. She turned on her heel and took the bag with her presents in the bedroom.

He didn't follow. She was pretty sure he'd gone back to sit down in front of that thrice-damned TV again.

She sat on the edge of the bed and lifted her hand to look curiously at her brand new dildo. She'd taken it out of the plastic packaging hastily and hadn't taken the time to examine it. That would be all she needed ... for Mrs. Hopkins, next door, to look out her window and see her, sitting in her car, fondling a rubber penis.

It seemed heavier, now that it was out of the packaging. It was both more flexible than she'd expected it to be, and amazingly firm at the same time. It was a permanent erection.

It was her permanent erection.

Her nipples tingled inside the sensible bra she was wearing.

She had no idea what to do now. She'd bought the damn thing. Her plan had been to show it to John, and she'd expected him to perceive this actually quite lovely thing as a threat. She'd hoped he would show her that she didn't need something like that. But all he'd done was tell her she didn't need it.

He did that a lot ... telling her what to believe ... what to think ... what to do ... what she did and did not need.

She wrapped her hand around the dildo and, tentatively, stroked it. It wasn't like John's. Nothing moved on it. It was lifeless.

She tried to imagine using it, and felt frustrated that she wasn't sure she'd know how. Did you just stick it in? Did you move it in and out? How deep should you go? This thing was almost twice as long as John was. It would touch her in places she'd never been touched before.

If she used it.

He still hadn't come to bed. She'd gotten home late, hoping he'd already be in bed, so she could show him the toy then.

No such luck.

With a sigh, she removed her other presents from the bag and sorted through them. Some went on the dresser, some on the vanity, and a couple in the chest of drawers. They were typical kinds of presents from people she worked with ... a scarf ... a tube of fancy bubble bath crystals ... a pair of ankle high insulated slippers, for wintertime. Cindy had actually given her a very nice silk blouse. She admired it again as she hung it in the closet. She'd have to make sure John didn't talk to Cindy about the dildo. She didn't think he would. Cindy intimidated him. She was beautiful, out of John's league, and he knew it. She also exuded self confidence. Cindy knew men like John lusted after her, and undressed her with their eyes, but she ignored them. She had better things to do than lower herself to their level.

She was suddenly tired. Her plan had failed. Now she owned a dildo which was useless to her. He was right. She wouldn't use it. She couldn't. She'd be too embarrassed.

She opened the drawer in the night stand and dropped the long, pink, astonishingly realistic faux penis inside. It thumped heavily.

Feeling drained, she undressed, performed her nightly rituals in the bathroom, and put on her pajamas.

Crawling into bed, she put on her sleep mask, leaving the light on. If she turned it off, he'd just turn it on when he came to bed anyway. Sometimes he was so thoughtless.

As she drifted off to sleep, "sometimes" in her previous thought became "most of the time."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She didn't think about the dildo until she got to work the next morning. She wouldn't have thought about it then, except Cindy sauntered into her office and leaned against the door frame.

"You'll never guess where Janet said she saw your car parked last night," she said, without preamble.

Claire froze. She'd left the party and driven straight to Christie's. Then she'd gone home. There was only one place Janet could have seen her car that she would comment to anyone about. She thought furiously. It would do no good to deny it. And there was no way in the world she was going to confess to Cindy Richardson why she'd actually been there. Better to try to play it off.

"Christie's? I was looking for something to use as a gag gift for a friend of mine," she said, trying to keep her voice calm.

"No problem there," said Cindy, as if this were the most normal conversation in the world. "I could spend hours in that place."

"Really?" She couldn't keep the surprise from her voice. This was astonishing!

"What? You think there's some reason why I wouldn't be seen in there? They don't exactly know me by name, but I've dropped a pretty penny in that place."

"I am astonished," said Claire, deciding to just be truthful.

"Don't be," said Cindy, grinning. "What'd you get? Anything interesting?"

Claire tried to suppress her amazement at Cindy's casual acceptance that a woman like Claire might visit a place like Christie's Toy Box. She thought about the plethora of things she'd seen, and tried to remember one of them that was more innocuous than a ten inch rubber dildo.

"I was just getting some ideas," she said. "I was looking for something silly. Like they have something they call 'Instant Pussy'." It was out of her mouth before she realized she'd actually said it. She blushed furiously.

"Somehow I thought you didn't swing that way," said Cindy, arching one eyebrow.

"No, no!" gasped Claire. "You drop this in water ... it's a capsule ... and when it melts, it turns into a little sponge, shaped like a cat."

"Oh yeah," said Cindy. "Good grief. I remember one of my boyfriends in high school buying something like that from a vending machine in the toilet of a filling station. For some reason he thought that would get me to let him play with mine."

Claire was suddenly worried.

"Do you think Janet will spread it around I was there?"

"What if she does?" said Cindy. "You're an adult. It's a store for adults. There's nothing wrong with patronizing it."

"Yes, but people will talk."

"Fuck'em if they can't take a joke," said Cindy.

Cindy was like that. She was so unafraid, so sure of her own identity, so willing to be herself, even if other people disapproved.

"I don't need the grief," said Claire.

"Then ignore any drama that develops," counseled Cindy. "You're good at your job. It's nobody's business where you go or what you buy on your own time. By the way, did you get anything for yourself?"

"Like what?" asked Claire, carefully.

"Like something to liven up your sex life, of course," said Cindy, completely unashamed.

"What makes you think there's anything wrong with my sex life?" asked Claire, a little offended.

"Because you're normal," said Cindy. "So am I. So are our husbands. I've been married ten years. I know the deal. It happens to pretty much everybody. There's no shame in taking matters into our own hands - pun intended - when life lets us down now and then."

"Oh?" Claire felt prickly with anger at Cindy's blithe assumption that Claire and John were having problems of some kind. Almost immediately, though, she admitted to herself that, whether it was rude or not, Cindy was right on the money. In fact, Cindy's allusion to the concept that she, too, got less attention from her husband than she wanted, made her feel a little better somehow. That feeling transposed into bravado. "What do you use, then?"

"Me? I'm a Rabbit fan, tried and true," said Cindy, shamelessly. "I've worn out two of them. When I had to buy the third one, I decided to spend a little more and get a better quality one."

"Oh," said Claire, helplessly. She hadn't expected the woman to actually answer her.

Suddenly she remembered Sudoku woman saying they were having a special on "Rabbits." Claire had no idea what a rabbit was, other than a long-eared, fluffy animal. And she didn't think they were selling bunnies at an adult toy store.

"They were having a special on those last night," she said, more to herself than to be heard.

She was, of course, heard.

"Did you get one?" asked Cindy, once again making Claire feel a bit breathless at how bold this woman could be. "What brand? I know almost all of the brands, and which ones are good and bad. Have you opened it? You can't return it if you've opened it."

"I didn't get one of those," said Claire, holding up her hand to stop the woman. For some reason, she felt compelled to say more, and was astonished to hear her voice add, "I just got one of the regular ones."

"To each, her own," said Cindy, shrugging. "Have you ever tried a Rabbit?"

By now Claire had decided that, as far as Cindy was concerned, this really was a normal, casual conversation. Somehow that made all this less surreal.

"Actually," she said, her voice low, "I don't even know what a rabbit is."

"Oh you poor girl," said Cindy, sounding like she was actually sad. "We must discuss this further. But not now. I need to get some actual work done. Tell you what. Tomorrow I'll bring mine and show it to you. That's the easiest way to describe it."

"You can't bring something ... like that ... to work," moaned Claire.

"I can if it's in my purse and nobody can see it," said Cindy, confidently. "In fact, let's both be a little naughty. You bring yours and I'll bring mine. It will be our little private show and tell. How about it?"

"That's crazy," said Claire.

"That's what makes it fun!" grinned Cindy.

And then she was gone, leaving Claire to get a very late, very slow start on her work. Even after she got going, she had a hard time concentrating on her duties. Twice she made a simple mistake and had to start over.

She was just lucky that her workload was light that day.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Claire almost always got home from work before John did, and this day was no exception.

She fixed herself a light meal, knowing that if she prepared something for both of them, John would more than likely ignore that and make his own dinner. Their tastes had always been different, when it came to food. She tried to eat healthy. She got plenty of exercise, and had no trouble staying in her current size clothes. John liked fatty, prepared foods, and didn't seem to care that he had developed a paunch.

Claire didn't delude herself. While she was in pretty good shape, she didn't have Cindy's looks, or even the kind of looks that made men notice her. Her hair was auburn and long, but even at five feet eleven, she felt like she blended into a crowd of other women so that she felt invisible. Her breasts were still firm, and sagged only a little. Standing in front of the mirror naked, she saw the lean runner's body she'd always wanted, but felt most men didn't appreciate. Then there were her shoulders, which looked too wide, and muscled. To her, they looked manly. The manly look was from her workouts in mixed martial arts, something she'd picked up in college.

But she just felt better, knowing that she was taking care of herself. She ran three times a week, though lately she'd been running shorter distances. Life intruded, preventing her from running for the hours that she'd spent doing that in both high school and college, and for the distances she'd commonly run back then. Back then she'd had aspirations to be a marathoner, but she'd only run in one of those since she got married. As she thought about that, she decided to go for a run that night. John would most likely come in, get a plate, and sit in front of the TV with it. What he watched didn't interest her, so she might as well go get a little exercise.

She was dressed in knee length spandex shorts and a loose tank top when John came through the door. She was bent over, tying her shoes.

He slapped her on the ass with one hand.

"There's my girl," he said. "Nice ass."

"Thank you so much," she said, looking over her shoulder at him. "You make me feel so lovely."

"Because you are," he said, missing the sarcasm in her voice. His response sounded canned, automatic. "I'm starved."

With that he seemed to forget her, ass and all.

She sighed, opened the door, and went for a little run.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When she got back she was sweating and breathing hard. She'd pushed herself, working off the feelings of aggression she felt. John was, as she expected, sitting in his recliner, the remote under one hand and his dirty dishes sitting on the floor beside the chair. Usually, she picked them up and took them to the kitchen.

Not tonight.

She leaned against the matching recliner and stretched her calves.

"What's on?" she asked, just to make conversation.

"Bones," he said, without looking at her.

"Ugh," she said, wrinkling her nose. They were more graphic on that show than was necessary, in her opinion. "I'm going to take a shower."

A commercial came on as she walked away.

"Hey!" he called.

She turned to look at him.

"Did you use it?"

"Did I use what?" she asked.

"You know," he said, a sly look on his face. "The rubber cock. Did you use it?"

She felt the anger bloom in her belly again. She didn't want to admit he was right.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she said, instead.

"Did you?"

"Maybe if you'd have come to bed, instead of sitting in front of that idiot box all night ... you'd know," she said.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said, grinning.

She turned away and went, somewhat stiffly, to find refuge in the bedroom.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The water felt good, pummeling her body. It was good to get the sweat off.

Fondling the bar of Irish Spring, she soaped up her hands and then spread the suds over her arms and upper torso. As her hands slid over her breasts, she was more aware of them than usual. She let her fingers linger and tease her nipples.

She'd masturbated before, of course. It had taken her years to get to a place where she didn't feel guilty about doing it. But in her case, it seemed to take forever to bring herself to completion. She usually did that in the shower. If she did it in bed she was always worried that John would come in and catch her. But it took so long that she got pruney skin if she stayed in the shower.

She abandoned her breasts to wash the rest of her body. She gave her groin some extra attention too, stroking. Her pubic hair felt coarse. She only trimmed it minimally, even though she didn't particularly like the feel of it under her fingers. She'd thought about shaving, but John had to shave every day to remove his stubble, and she didn't want to have to shave every day. She didn't actually know how often she'd have to do "maintenance". For all she knew it might be the same as shaving her legs and under her arms, which was only every other week. She just didn't think about things in that manner.

When she got in bed she tried to read, but she was vaguely uneasy. It took reading the same paragraph four times before she realized she was horny.

Her head rolled on the pillow to look at the night stand, where her brand new, still unused sex toy was hiding.

No. She couldn't do that.

She slid one hand into the waistband of her pajamas, her fingers seeking in the familiar, habitual way.

She had done this when she was younger, but it had seemed more experimental back then, as compared to the more frequent ... more required sense in which she engaged in this activity these days.

She looked at the door, automatically worried that John might come in, and her free hand pulled the sheet over her lower body.

Then some slightly angry, slightly pessimistic part of her mind assured her that would not be the case. He never came to bed early. He almost never came to bed while she was still awake.

Something new, unfamiliar, coursed through her body and she threw the sheet back, spreading her legs. Her fingers delved more firmly, rubbing, pinching, massaging, as her hips gave a little involuntary lurch. She slipped a finger within, hooking it so the pad would apply pressure to her bud.

It felt delicious. It wasn't as good as having a good, stiff penis inside her, but it still felt luscious. She'd read someplace that women had two kinds of orgasms, one centered on the clitoris, and the other associated with penetration and the walls of the vagina. She was pretty sure the orgasms she'd had - and they were few and far between - were of the second kind. She liked rubbing her little nubbin, but she really craved something stiff inside her, moving around.

Again, her head lolled and her eyes fixed on the night stand. Was that why she'd chosen something so outlandishly oversized? She'd only seen three cocks in her life and all were about the same in overall appearance, nowhere near as impressive as the thing she'd purchased. Had her subconscious chosen something larger than life in some attempt to satisfy her? As she rubbed, not actually trying to coax an orgasm from her body, she thought back to the time, almost twenty-four hours before, that she'd stood in front of that wall, adorned with an astonishing variety of phallic shapes.

She tried to remember why she'd picked the one she'd taken to the register. All she could remember was being nervous and embarrassed. She did remember choosing one that was Caucasian, as opposed to one of the black ones. She hadn't given any consideration at all to a garishly colored one, such as blue, pink, purple, or bone white. She'd chosen something that looked as lifelike as possible. Was that because she wanted the real thing so badly?

The zings coursing through her loins distracted her. She didn't think about the irony of the situation. What she needed was within arm's reach. But the pressures of culture, society and upbringing prevented her from stepping across the arbitrary line of becoming a woman who used sex toys to achieve satisfaction.

She just wasn't that kind of woman.

And so, as she had in the past, she worked at it until, with a luscious little shudder, she got some relief.

She wasn't aware of any change in her life.

She didn't think about the fact that, for the first time, she hadn't cared whether John walked in on her or not while she masturbated.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That tiny change, of deciding that her own pleasure was more important than keeping her husband from knowing how she got it, was also responsible for the fact that before she left for work the next morning, she retrieved her new dildo, wrapped it in two paper towels, and stuffed it deep in her purse. She actually giggled as she started the car and glanced at her purse, sitting on the passenger seat.

As she entered the glass door of her office building she was convinced that, somehow, someone would know what was in her purse. She expected, at any minute, for someone to call out her name and announce that she was a pervert.

But no one did.

On the elevator, someone bumped up against her purse, but neither looked at her nor said anything.

In her office, she put her purse in the bottom right drawer, just as she always did, and then sat back in her desk chair. She looked around. Everything was as it always was. Jimmy, the building courier, went past the glass partition beside her door and waved. She was startled to see her hand up, fingers wagging back at him, as he disappeared.

Something she'd never felt blossomed in her chest. It was a kind of excitement. She took the time to examine it, and realized it wasn't new after all. It was just like what she'd felt as a girl, when she got away with taking her bra off in the girls bathroom at school and going all day without it. She'd been sure that somebody would castigate her for that, but she'd gotten away with it.

Now she felt that again. It was the thrill of being a little naughty ... of knowing you were being naughty ... but also knowing that you were going to get away with it.

She felt agitated. It was insane, but suddenly she wanted to tell somebody what she'd done. She wanted to expose her bawdy behavior and get some kind of approval.

She clamped down on that impulse, sobering instantly. It was enough that she'd done this crazy thing. Now it was time to get to work and ensure that her secret remained just that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Claire was just finishing up a file when Cindy popped her head in the door.

"We going to lunch?" she asked.

"Where?" asked Claire.

"Giovanni's?" suggested Cindy.

"Too rich," said Claire.

"They have salads."

"Okay, then. Giovanni's," said Claire.

"Did you bring it?" Cindy grinned, conspiratorially.

What Claire felt, just then, was something close to admiration, based on the fact that Cindy didn't look furtively to the sides, or come in and close the door before asking the question. Claire knew exactly what Cindy was referring to, and she recognized her impulse to assume others would also know what Cindy was asking about. But common sense told her that nobody could really infer from that question what "it" might pertain to.

That feeling returned to her chest as she looked at her friend and said, "I did." Her heart lurched as she admitted it.

"Me too," said Cindy, still grinning. "We can show and tell at lunch."

"In Giovanni's?" gasped Claire. She had a mental image of the cool, dark interior of the Italian restaurant, with its upscale clientele, erupting into chaos as she walked through the dining room waving a big, flesh-toned dildo around in her hand, like an old time beat cop threatening someone with a billy club.

"We'll ask for a booth in one of the alcoves," said Cindy. "It will be nice and private."

Claire looked at her friend.

"You know this is insane."

"Not at all. It's just a couple of working girls discussing recreational possibilities. Nothing strange about that."

"Until the waiter sees what we mean when we say 'recreation'."

Cindy laughed.

"Guys love the idea of us girls using vibrators. It drives them goofy."

"You think so?"

"I know Danny does," said Cindy, referring to her husband. "He begs me to let him watch."

"You're lying!" gasped Claire.

"If I'm lyin' I'm dyin'," said Cindy, crossing her index finger over one of her impressive breasts. "I can get him to do just about anything I want by teasing him with my little friend."

"You actually let him watch?" Claire was trying to imagine that scene, and she felt the heat of a blush blossom on her cheeks.

"Only sometimes. I make him beg, but I only let him watch every once in a while. That way it's something special."

"Ohhhhh," moaned Claire.

"We'll talk about it at lunch," said Claire, airily. "See you then!"

She disappeared, leaving Claire to lean back in her chair, stunned. It was hard enough for her to imagine how mortified she'd be if John even found out she diddled herself, much less form the concept in her mind of him standing there, actually watching her do it. She felt weak, as if she were struck with a bout of hopelessness.

Slowly she gathered her strength. She fiddled with papers on her desk as she tried to come to grips with this new world in which she found herself. She'd seen Danny Richardson at parties. He seemed like a nice guy, normal in every way. He was polite, and didn't look at her breasts when he talked to her, like many other men did. Now, the image of him standing there, excited, leaning over his wife while she put something in her vagina, and watched ... it was just insane.

But she could imagine it.

And that was another step along the pathway that was steadily leading Claire Bonneville to new and interesting places she had never been before.

Chapter Two

By the time she got to the restaurant, Claire was no longer constantly conscious of the fact that she had a dildo in her purse. Part of that might have been because as they walked to the restaurant she knew that Cindy had something similar in her purse too, and even though she knew that, Claire couldn't see any hint of it.

Cindy chatted about other things as they walked. She did not, in fact, bring up the subject of tools for helping females gain sexual satisfaction until after the waiter had brought them their drinks and taken their order.

Then, without preface, she reached into her purse and extracted a bluish, translucent object which she held up for Claire - and anybody else in view - to see.

"This is a Rabbit," she said.

Claire jerked her eyes all around, and realized they really were shielded from the view of other customers by the walls of the alcove they had been seated in. Her eyes finally landed on the thing in Cindy's hand and stayed there.

It was bizarre looking. She could see through the exterior to the workings inside. And there were definitely workings inside. Some were vague, and of unknown purpose, but she could see wires and batteries.

It was shaped less like a penis than it was a ginseng root, or something similar. It did have the penile projection, rising from a round battery case. But it also had an offshoot, like a misshapen branch that looked stunted, and came to a sharp tip.

"That looks like it would hurt," she said, doubtfully.

Cindy did something to the bottom, and with a humming, mechanical noise, the device came to life. Claire watched in awe as the long penis part began to turn in asymmetrical circles, like some kind of strange drill with no flutes.

"While this part makes you happy inside," said Cindy, putting one slim, manicured finger on the tip of the rotating shaft, "this other part makes your clitty sing." She moved her finger to the branch. Claire could see that the sharp tip was actually soft material of some kind. It was also split at the end, like a snake's tongue. Cindy flexed the two little tips with a finger."And these are the rabbit's ears. It's hilarious, but believe me, it works."

Understanding burst into Claire's mind, as she recognized the efficacy of the design. The one she'd bought could only be inserted in one's vaginal canal. True, it had balls attached, which could, she supposed, be pressed against her clit, but the thought of that seemed odd, since the balls would be in the "wrong" orientation. At least in her experience.

"Where's yours?" asked Cindy, turning the motor of her sex toy off.

"In here," said Claire, faintly, touching her purse. Her eyes followed as Cindy lowered the Rabbit, holding it between her body and the edge of the table.

"Well, let me see it!" said Cindy.

"It's not like yours," said Claire, reaching in her purse. When she pulled it out, it was still securely wrapped up in the paper towel.

"Good idea," said Cindy, nodding in approval.

"What?" asked Claire, confused.

"The paper towels," she said. "I like that idea. That way you can clean up with them."

"Clean up?"

"I don't know about you, but I get all wet and juicy. Danny says I'm a squirter, but I don't think I actually do that."

"Oh," said Claire, breathlessly. She was being exposed to so many new concepts she was having a hard time keeping up. "I don't think I do either."

"Well, it's brilliant to have the paper towels to tidy up. That way you can use it anywhere you want."

She reached for the tube and unrolled it, letting the flesh-colored dildo land on her palm.

"Ooooo, it's a nice one," she said. "A little bigger around than I prefer, but I like it when I can push something way up in there, nice and deep." She turned it over and examined it, squeezing the balls and bending it. "Nice and firm. Lots of ridges and texture. I like the foreskin. I don't think I've ever seen one that wasn't circumcised. It's a good choice."

"Thank you," said Claire, unable to think of anything else to say.

"It doesn't vibrate, though," said Cindy. "That's the only drawback I see."

"No," said Claire, her voice faint.

"Well, that's no problem," said Cindy, grinning happily."You can always get another one that does."

"Have ... more than one?" In Claire's mind, that seemed like having two cars for one driver.

"Oh, Honey," laughed Cindy. "I have five, one for each day."

Claire's job involved numbers, and math. What popped into her head at that moment was probably explained by that.

"But there are seven days in a week," she said.

Cindy's grin didn't fade, but her voice lowered and she leaned towards Claire, conspiratorially.

"Danny can still take care of me twice a week," she whispered.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was a good thing there wasn't all that much to do that afternoon, because Claire had a hard time concentrating on work. All she seemed to be able to think about was the fact that Cindy Richardson, who was the same age as her and had been married for three years longer than her, got a real, live penis inside her twice a week.

And Claire was depressed that she was lucky to feel that once a month.

It wasn't fair!

She worked through a long list of her self-perceived faults before she decided, angrily, that there wasn't anything wrong with her, at least nothing wrong enough that it justified John neglecting her like he did.

That led to thinking of possible reasons why he seemed so uninterested. The dozen or so articles she'd read in magazines about "spicing up" married life had all seemed so complicated. She'd tried having a good meal, with candles on the table, ready for him when he got home. His comment had been, "Electricity out?" And when he'd found out that wasn't the problem, he'd picked up his plate off the table and taken it to sit in his recliner, eating it while he watched the news.

It wasn't that all those spice-up-your-sex-life schemes were complicated.

It was that they all required two people to make them work.

These thoughts consumed most of her attention all afternoon, and even during the drive home. As she pulled into the garage that night, she was astonished to find that her hand was on her purse ... squeezing the outline of her dildo.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She prepared meatloaf for supper and put some potatoes in the pressure cooker so they'd mash up perfectly. She knew this was one of John's favorite meals but she didn't make it for that reason.

It was one of her own favorite meals, too.

John came in as everything was ready to put on the table. She didn't do that, though. She left everything on the counter, and served herself. John got a beer from the fridge and opened it while he went, inevitably, toward the room that had the 50" flat screen TV. And his recliner.

She ate quickly and put her dishes in the sink. Then, she went to the bedroom and changed into running shorts and the powder blue sports bra she had purchased on impulse one day. She lifted a tank top out of the drawer, but then hesitated. She always wore a shirt over her sports bras when she ran. Now, she imagined herself running in only the shorts and bra. She knew her breasts bounced, even in the confines of the bra. For years she'd been ashamed of them, thinking they were grotesque, huge, ungainly. She'd gotten over that when all her boyfriends seemed to love them. John had lavished attention on them when they first met.

She examined the bra. It was called a "bra" but it didn't look like one. Not really. It was more of a spandex top. The seams were finely finished. It could even be considered modest, insofar as it was thick enough that her unruly nipples couldn't announce they were excited.

Her nipples always got excited on a good run. All of her did, for that matter. Feeling the wind in her face, and knowing that she was moving faster than almost everyone around her made her feel powerful, agile, capable.

She tossed the tank top on the bed, bent to tie her shoes, and left the bedroom.

"Going for a run!" she yelled.

"'kay," came the distant, uninterested voice of her husband.

She stopped at the gate to do her stretching. She usually stretched inside, but today she wanted to get away from the house. She grasped a picket and bent to apply pressure to various muscles, holding each pose until she felt the muscles release and stretch. As she did so, she took in the picture of the front yard, with its carefully clipped hedges and perfectly shaped flower beds. The picket fence was blindingly white, as was the paint on the house, with its forest green trim and shutters. John spent thousands making his house look like the perfect fairytale place to live.

As she stood, aware that the spandex covering her body also accentuated her curves, and the flat stomach she knew many women would be unduly jealous of, it occurred to her that John probably thought of her that way too. She was the perfect wife, pretty, shapely, talented. She fit the house to a tee.

But, just as John spent money on the house, but used only a tiny fraction of it, he also spent money on her, and used only a tiny fraction of her as well.

Angrily, she started into a stride that was much too fast to sustain for long.

Two miles later, she had calmed down, and reduced her pace to a ground-eating lope. The run had already done its job of calming her. The endorphins she depended on had been produced, and she felt wonderful, alive, if not fulfilled, at least content with life.

She sensed, more than saw someone ease up from behind her, also running, to fall in step with her. She glanced over to see a young man, his face placid, looking ahead. He said nothing, but in this situation, nothing was required. They ran together in companionable silence, their breath hissing in and out of their lungs.

Something made her lean forward just a fraction more, which required her to lengthen her stride to compensate, and she pulled ahead of her impromptu running partner fractionally.

He caught up within seconds, and matched her stride. He obviously wanted to run with her, despite the fact they were total strangers.

She'd only gone three miles by then, and had intended to run at least eight, so she maintained the pace, not wanting to wear herself out before she got the miles in. When she passed the five mile mark, though, and her partner was still breathing more or less easily, something in her demanded that he be tested.

When the eighth mile was behind her, she decided she wasn't stopping. Not until he did. At ten miles he was still with her. Not a word had been said. He was breathing harder, though. Claire had done a marathon before, though she wasn't in shape for one now. She could feel the burn that had replaced the feeling of invincibility in her muscles. Her body was telling her she was, after all, human, and that she was stressing things too much.

The desire to be better than this young man overcame her common sense, and she lengthened her stride again, running what she considered to be "fast" now, to leave him behind.

But he stayed right with her.

Now she abandoned even caution, running as fast as she could, a dead sprint, with no finish line in sight. Elation surged through her and gave her strength as he disappeared from her peripheral vision. She imagined him staggering to a stop, his lungs heaving, a look of disbelief on his face, that he had been bested by a woman. And not only a woman, but a woman at least five years older than him.

Then, astonishingly, he passed her, moving ahead, not exactly leaving her in the dust, but establishing his dominance beyond argument.

She was the one who staggered to a gasping stop, and she did it all wrong.

She felt something in her right thigh give, and the sudden pain announced that either her Sartorius or one of the adductor muscles there had been stretched too far, or too many times. Her stagger turned into a controlled limp as she tried to give that muscle some rest.

The young man looked over his shoulder and then slowed, turning to run back toward her.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice deep and resonant, even though he was breathing hard.

"Pulled my Sartorius," she gasped.

"There's a bench over there," he said, pointing.

He came to help her, touching her as if this were completely normal, pulling her arm over his shoulders and providing lift for her right side, so she didn't have to put her full weight on that leg.

"I'm fine," she panted, aware of his sweaty skin against hers. He was strong. He radiated strength and vitality.

"You can rest while you sit," he said, ignoring her protestations.

She felt his hand on the skin of her side, below the sports bra. It was close to her breast. She wondered if he was going to try to cop a feel.

Then, as they reached the bench, and he helped her sit, she berated herself for thinking about those things. She must be out of her mind to think that someone who she had met by chance, and run with for a paltry five or six miles, was interested in anything other than running.

"Thank you," she said, slowing her breathing intentionally, trying to take deeper breaths. She didn't think about the fact that as her lungs inflated more, her chest arched more too.

"You're good," said the man, sitting down beside her.

"I'm what?" She reached to massage her thigh.

"You're a good runner. I haven't met anybody recently who can keep up with me," he said.

"I didn't. You left me like I was an old lady," she muttered.

"You're no old lady," he laughed.

She looked to find his eyes ranging all over her. She felt a sudden flush at his frank interest, and her nipples misbehaved. She looked down and, with horror, saw dents had formed in the tips of her sports bra.

"I'm Chad," he said. "Chad Morgan."

"Claire," she replied, carefully. She didn't give him her last name.

He finally looked at her face. His eyes were blue. He was, she suddenly realized ... gorgeous.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

"Why would you ask that?" she responded, nervousness erupting in her stomach.

"Can you get home okay with that leg?" he explained. "Do I need to help you?"

She looked around. After the fourth or fifth mile she'd stopped paying attention to where she was going, and had just run for the joy of running with someone. As she examined her surroundings, she realized she was still miles away from home. Normally, that wouldn't have mattered. She'd have just run or jogged back home.

But she couldn't do that now.

She was startled when a city bus appeared, as if from nowhere, and sighed to a stop in front of them. The doors opened and a girl, about eighteen or so got off. The driver looked at Chad and her, hesitating. She shook her head and he closed the door. Seconds later the monster was gone.

"I don't have bus fare," she said, faintly. She looked at Chad. "I don't bring money with me when I run."

"Neither do I," he said, smiling. "I can help you walk, though. And if it's too far, I can run home and get my car."

"I'm guessing it's three or four miles," she said, reluctantly.

"So how bad is the pain?" he asked.

"Right now, not so bad," she said, automatically.

"You said it was your Sartorius?" he asked.

"I think so. Or one of the adductors."

"Maybe a little massage therapy would help," he suggested.

She looked around. "I don't see any massage parlors around here," she said, sarcasm creeping into her voice.

"I know a little about it," he offered. "I coach football at Millvale High."

As if it were perfectly normal for a man who had just met a woman to reach and massage her thigh, he did so. He moved to stand, bending over, and applied both hands before she could object.

"Is the pain here?" he asked, depressing her skin with a finger.

She jumped, but more from the contact than any sensation it caused.

"No ... further in," she heard her voice say.

His fingers moved further inside, toward the adductor muscles. He pressed again.

"Here?"

He was close, but not on target yet. The whole scene was bizarre to her, and yet everything she'd seen of this man made him seem completely normal. She tried to "become" normal too.

"It's further in still, and a little higher," she said, leaning back on her hands.

"Here?" He pushed.

"Ohhh," she groaned, as pain blossomed.

"Might be the Gracilis," he said, and began to knead her firm thigh.

It was incredible. There was pain. There was relief at the realization that no serious damage had been done, because of the kind of pain she felt, mixed with how good what he was doing felt.

And then there was just the simple fact of human contact. A man's hands were mauling her flesh ... and caressing her flesh ... and those hands were only inches away from her sexual core.

She changed the focus of her eyes, to her breasts, which she'd been looking past, to watch what he was doing. Those dents were much more pronounced now.

It was crazy. She had to admit she was turned on. It felt like she was cheating on John.

"That's probably enough," she said, a little light-headed.

He abandoned his ministrations immediately, and stood up.

"Try walking on it," he said. It was a coach's voice, and it was an order.

She pushed herself off the bench with her hands and stood. His hand came to her elbow, to stabilize her.

She walked in a small circle, like she was trying the fit of a pair of shoes.

"It's better," she said.

"Better enough to walk three or four miles?"

"Better enough to start," she said. "I should start bringing my cell phone on these runs."

"Running is the only time I get to abandon mine," he said.

She started to ask him if he ran a lot, but stopped herself. He obviously ran a lot.

"Come on," he said. "Let's see if we can get you home, or if I need to go get my chariot."

Again, he became her crutch, pulling her arm over his shoulder and putting his warm hand on the skin just below her sports bra. Their hips bumped, until he altered his steps to match hers. Then their hips seemed welded together. They were the same height, which meant he was taller than usual. She was usually an inch or two taller than the men she met.

They talked as they hobbled along. Her attention was on other things, though. The feel of his body was something that intruded on her thoughts constantly. That hand, moving slightly on her flesh, so close to her breast, teased her consciousness. At one point she wished he would slip, and cup her breast. She chastised herself immediately.

The thigh was much better. What he had done had helped a lot. She realized she could actually, probably, make it the rest of the way on her own.

And all this time they chatted, exchanging information about each other.

When they got to the gate of her picket fence, though, she couldn't have told you a single thing they talked about.

"This is it," she said, reclaiming her arm and pulling away from him. She restrained herself from looking at the house, to see if John saw her with this disturbing man. She was late, much later than she usually was. The added miles, and the down time from the injury, had added two hours to her usual routine.

"Nice place," he said, taking in the yard.

"My husband has this thing about The American Dream," she said, feeling she needed to explain. She wondered why she felt that way.

"Ah, the husband enters the picture," said Chad. "Curses."

She stared at him and he grinned.

"I don't have a girlfriend at the moment. I thought maybe I had lucked into both a running partner and a possible romantic interest."

She didn't have time to think about it first, but what burst from her lips was, "Running partner."

His grin didn't change.

"I'll take what I can get. I haven't had a running partner like you for a long time. I'm looking forward to it. But not until that Gracilis heals up. Give me your number and I'll call you in a week or so."

It had been years since a man had asked for her number. It shocked her. And yet, it was a perfectly reasonable thing for him to do.

As she was thinking about it, he intruded on her thoughts.

"What was I thinking? You just met me. I could be a serial killer, for all you know." He grinned. "I'm not, by the way. But how about I give you my number, and if you feel like running sometime you can give me a call."

"Okay," she said, immediately feeling better.

"Can you just remember it, or do you need to go get a piece of paper to write it down?"

She imagined him telling her the number, and her repeating it by rote, under her breath, as she went inside and found something to write it down on. Then her imagination added John, pacing, worried, jumping right on her, saying things like, "Where the hell have you been? I was worried sick! I almost called the police!" If he did that, she'd forget the number.

And she didn't want to forget the number.

"Be right back," she said.

She started into a trot automatically, and then slowed as her injury barked at her. At a more sedate pace, she walked across the flagstones that led to the front door, and went inside.

John wasn't pacing. He wasn't agitated.

He was sitting in his chair, watching the tube, drinking his third beer.

"I'm home," she called out.

"'kay," he responded, not looking her way.

She got the pen and pad they used to make a grocery list on and took it outside. She handed it to him without comment.

He wrote, and when he returned it, she saw he'd put his address on it too.

"If you're out for a run some day, and want to swing by my place, just knock on the door. I'm always ready for a run."

"Okay," she said.

"I hope to see you," he added. His voice was transparent. He meant it.

"Thank you," she said.

She watched as his eyes slid all over her body again. The stopped on her breasts more often than anywhere else. It was unreal. He was ogling her! Finally his eyes came up to her face. He was entirely unashamed at what he'd just done. And he was entirely cognizant that she was aware of what he had just done.

"Give that leg some rest," he advised.

"I will," she whispered, wondering why she wasn't outraged at his behavior.

Then he turned and was loping away from her, disappearing from her life just as quickly as he had appeared in it.

As she returned to the house, she felt guilty about wishing he hadn't gone.

Maybe that was why she hid the slip of paper with Chad's name on it in a pair of shoes she didn't wear anymore.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Her shower seemed hurried. She didn't want to think about it too much, because if she thought about it, she'd have to admit that, as she plundered her pussy with her fingers, the image of Chad's face kept slipping into her mind.

She turned off the water without achieving release. It took too long for her to get what she wanted, and she didn't want to prune up.

She toweled off and stood naked, looking at the bedroom door.

He wouldn't come in.

Five minutes later, writhing on her bed, her head turned once more to the nightstand ... where something long and hard ... something almost real ... something she needed badly, rested, hidden from sight.

She sensed something release inside her, a subtle shift. It was very much like when her muscle had given out during the run. She had known something had changed before she felt the pain that announced what it was.

She rolled over and reached to slide the drawer open.

There it lay, long, rigid, tempting.

It wasn't John.

But John wasn't here.

It was what she needed.

Without further reflection, she reached, grasped, and rolled. She was on autopilot now, trying not to think about what she was doing. Muscle memory she didn't even know she had helped her introduce the thing to stretch her yearning pussy lips.

She eased it in.

There was no discomfort whatsoever.

In fact, quite the opposite occurred.

As she was delightfully stretched and filled, her hips lurched up off the bed. Her hand turned the device, causing the ridges on it to stroke her insides and she moaned. All thoughts of "wrong orientation" vanished as she brought the balls to rub against her clit. In doing so, the length of the thing announced its unwillingness to give, and the tip abused the end of her tunnel. She could feel the crown rubbing against her cervix.

And then, with a few more twists of her dildo, the balls rubbing across her clit, she had an orgasm that just had to be classified as the best one she'd ever had in her life.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She lay, conflicted. She was relaxed ... more relaxed than she'd felt in ages. She felt wonderful, in fact. It was undeniable.

She'd just had some of the best sex in her life.

And it had been with something inanimate ... something cold and lifeless ... a tool!

But that wasn't what made her feel a guilt that filled her just as much as that relaxation. Something else was undeniable.

And that was the fact that, in the midst of that incredible, bone-wrenching orgasm, the face that had filled her mind ... was Chad's.

She hadn't been able to help it. The fantasy had overwhelmed her, as if she was being taken against her will ... almost raped! And yet, as that fantasy had flashed through her confused mind, she had welcomed it.

She closed her eyes. The memory - the false memory, she insisted - of Chad's body being over hers, his hands touching her everywhere, and ... him ... penetrating her, was as clear now as it had been while she writhed through that astonishing climax.

She reminded herself that it was her own hand that had mauled her breasts, pinching and pulling her turgid nipples, as her other hand manipulated the device that had actually filled her so delightfully.

But she had to admit that part of the ecstasy had been tied into the fantasy that he had been there with her, in person.

Suddenly, the pressure inside her bloomed into her consciousness, and she jerked the dildo from within her. It was too fast. It seemed to want to stay there, clinging, glued inside her by her own fluids. She winced, and then felt empty. She threw the thing, and it bounced off of her vanity chair, landing on the carpet, where it lay, inert.

She stared at it for long seconds, before rising off the bed, limping slightly, to arrange herself in front of the mirror.

Her self-examination in the mirror lasted a long time. She looked at every inch of her exposed skin. Her vaginal muscles reminded her ... taunted her ... with the residual memory of having been locked around the thing lying at her feet. She couldn't see her labia, hidden as they were by the fluffy hair on her mons, but she knew they were flushed, and dark.

She felt dirty, but nothing she saw in the mirror looked any different than it had the last time she'd stood like this, looking at her image.

Intentionally, she thought of Cindy, and imagined that Cindy was lying on her bed, with that bizarre thing implanted in her, making a whirring noise as it moved, deep inside her friend.

That helped. Cindy was normal. She felt better.

Her imagination supplied an unwanted detail. It was Danny, standing at the footboard of that bed. He was naked. His penis was hard. He was stroking it slowly, watching his wife pleasure herself ... waiting for his turn to pleasure her.

And that led to the also unwanted images that replaced Cindy with herself, and Danny with Chad.

She looked down at the latex penis lying on the floor, ever ready to do its job.

A barking sob burst from her lips as she realized she wanted to pick it up ... and use it again.

Chapter Three

When she finally emerged from the bedroom, clad in a long robe, her hair was still wet from her second shower.

She had resisted the urge to fuck herself again by force of will alone. She'd picked up the dildo, which had lint adhering to it from the carpet, announcing it was past time for her to vacuum the carpets. She washed it off in the sink and put it back in the drawer. She didn't cover it up this time.

She felt tired. John was still in the chair, but the dishes he'd eaten out of were now on the coffee table, along with four empty beer bottles.

Anger replaced her weariness and she went to sit in her own recliner.

"I used it," she said, tersely.

"Used what?" asked her husband, only glancing at her.

"I used the sex toy I got for my birthday," she said.

Suddenly, the TV was forgotten. It was like magic. His eyes, as they focused on her were bright, and a smile formed on his lips.

"Really?" There was excitement in his voice.

She was disgusted.

"I had to. All you do is sit in front of this fucking TV and drink beer," she said, her voice hard.

"Hey, come on," he said, still ignoring the TV. He was clearly trying to mollify her. "You know how hard I work. When I get home I'm exhausted."

"You're exhausted because you sit on your ass all evening," she said. "Do you know how far I ran tonight?"

"Ran?" He looked confused.

She realized he hadn't paid any attention to her at all since he got home.

"Never mind," she said. "I used it, and I'm going to keep using it until you start acting like a fucking husband again."

He blinked, but she saw his chest rising and falling faster.

"When did you start talking like that? You don't use that gutter language."

"I do now. While you've been watching reality shows, I've been living reality. And I've changed."

"Why?" he asked. "I don't want you to change."

"I don't think you want me at all," she said, the anger now bubbling out, almost beyond control. A thought struck her. Could there be somebody else? Was he expending his passion on some other woman? Then she realized that was impossible. He spent every spare moment outside of work in front of the TV.

Unless he was expending that passion at work. He was a supervisor. He made his own schedule. And he had a score of pretty, young women working for him.

"Are you having an affair?" she asked, suddenly.

"What?" He was obviously shocked. "Of course not! Where would you get an idea like that?"

"Most men like to have sex," she said. Her inference was obvious.

"Come on, Honey. I like sex. I just don't feel like it as often as I used to. That's normal. A man's sex drive diminishes as he gets older."

"Well mine hasn't," she said. "I have needs. You aren't tending to them. I had to use a rubber penis to have an orgasm!" It came out as a shout. She hadn't meant to shout. She got up in frustration and went to assuage the hunger pangs that were annoying her.

"Honey! Wait! Don't be like that," he called. "I get it. It's okay. I don't mind if you do things that way."

She might have given him a chance.

Except that he stayed in that fucking chair as he said it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She was reading in bed when the door opened and he surprised her by slinking into the bedroom. He stopped, just inside.

"You're ... um ... not using it right now ... are you?"

She looked down at the bedspread that covered her body. She was holding the book with both hands.

"It doesn't do anything by itself," she said, sarcastically.

"You're mad," he said, as if that were a surprise announcement. "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" she asked. "Sorry you didn't get to see me doing that? I hear men like to watch."

He blinked.

"Of course not." He looked around for some reason. "I mean, sure, that would be interesting, but that's not why I'm here."

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"Why do you think?" he asked."I'm your husband."

"You want to have sex?" Her astonishment was tempered by the realization that she had goaded him into this. She said it again. "You want to have sex?" putting the emphasis on a different word.

"Of course I do," he said, looking slightly offended. "You're my wife. You just said you need me."

She almost said he'd missed his chance, but bit her tongue.

"Besides," he said, beginning to disrobe, "everybody knows that make-up sex is the best kind."

"And you think we're making up," she said.

"I hope so," he replied. "I have neglected you. I'm sorry about that. I'll try to do better from now on."

He stood, naked before her. She examined him. He was thicker, heavier than when they'd met. She'd been aware of that, but hadn't really paid attention to it before now. He had love handles. And a paunch. She doubted he could run more than a mile without collapsing.

He was also soft. He said he wanted to make love, but his body suggested otherwise.

"You can't have makeup sex with that," she said, feeling a little cruel.

"That will take care of itself," he said, confidently. "Can I come to bed?"

"It's your bed," she replied.

She realized she was being pernicious. She took a deep breath. He was being conciliatory. He was trying to do what she'd said he was supposed to be doing.

"I'm sorry," she said. She pulled the bedspread over, inviting him into the bed. "I didn't like having to use that thing."

He got into bed and scooted over to lie next to her. His hand went to her breast.

"Was it that bad?" he asked.

"It was supposed to be you," she said.

"I'm here now."

He did get erect, as he got her pajamas off.

He mounted her, just like he always did.

It even felt good, until he whispered into her ear.

"Was it as good as this?"

He thrust, thinking he was being forceful ... manly.

And then, before she could get anywhere close to an orgasm, he groaned and spurted.

As he rolled off of her, thinking he'd done his duty, she wanted to cry.

The dildo had been much better.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was Wednesday, hump day, but her dissatisfaction with events the previous night followed her like the cloud around Pigpen in the Peanuts cartoons. What did she have to look forward to at the end of the week? Nothing she could think of. Even the file she was working on was boring. Movement at her office door caused her to look up.

"Hey girl," said Cindy, in her usual cheery voice. "Lunch again today?"

"I'm not in a very good mood," said Claire. "I wouldn't be much for company."

"Then we'll hit a street vendor and do some window shopping," said Cindy, undaunted. "You can tell me all about it."

"Maybe," sighed Claire.

"Get your work done," said her friend. "I'll see you then."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They ate hotdogs from one vendor, and shared a bowl of cheese fries at another.

"I'm going to have to work out extra tonight," said Cindy. "But it's worth it. I feel so decadent."

"I pulled a muscle yesterday, so I can't run tonight," said Claire. "I'll probably swell up like a balloon."

"I doubt it," laughed Cindy. "You're in great shape. I'm so jealous of you sometimes."

"Get out!" said Claire, but a surge of something happy went through her.

"Really. Everybody's jealous of you. The guys all look at you."

"They do not," she said.

"Yes they do. If you weren't married, your dance card would be full every weekend."

"Stop it! You're embarrassing me."

"No I'm not. You love it. Now, you look like you lost your last friend, which is impossible, since I'm right here. So ... what's bothering you?"

"Everything," groaned Claire.

"Oh, come on. It can't be that bad."

She suddenly went very still, and her face sobered.

"It's not John ... is it? He isn't having ..."

"An affair?" Claire finished the sentence for her, but kept it as a question with her tone.

"Claire?" Cindy's voice was soft. Gone was all trace of jocularity. "Baby?" When Claire didn't respond, she asked again. "Is he cheating on you?"

What had been the wonderful, rich taste of cheese in her mouth seemed to turn to ashes as she prepared to answer.

"No," she said, listlessly. "It's the other way around."

If she had been still before, Cindy's body was like a statue now, as people swirled all around them. Then that illusion crumbled as she reacted.

"No!" she gasped. "What? You? Sweet little Claire Bonneville?!" She leaned, as if she might be in the act of falling over because paralysis had gripped her shapely body. Then control returned and she leaned close to her friend. "With who?" she gasped.

"It's not like that," groaned Claire. "Not like you think, anyway."

"Don't you dare tell me you cheated on your husband and then tell me it's not what I think!" said Cindy, who seemed to be trying to frown and grin at the same time. "Come on. Give. Shit! We're almost out of time. Wait! I want to hear everything. We have to go out for drinks after work."

"I can't go out drinking after work," said Claire.

"Why? Do you have a date with your boyfriend, or something?" The words were tinted with impatience.

Claire wanted to set her straight, but she was right. It would take too long. Besides, she didn't really want to talk about it. She didn't want to have to admit the things that were true, which she would have to do if she corrected the conclusions Cindy had jumped to. But she also couldn't let Cindy keep thinking what she was thinking.

"I've never gone out for drinks after work ... with anyone." She hoped that would get Cindy's mind off of the imaginary man she had cuckolded her husband with.

"Why not? You're free, white and over twenty-one," said Cindy. "You can do anything you want."

"That's a horrible thing to say!" gasped Claire, who was suddenly aware of a number of black people around them, some of them within earshot.

"It's just a saying," said Cindy, impatiently. "We're going out for drinks after work. I'm calling Danny as soon as we get back to work and telling him I'll be late. What excuse will you make to John?" She blinked. "What excuse do you usually make to John when you ... you know ... get away to be with him?"

It was too much. Something snapped inside her. Claire's response was instant, unplanned, and quite possibly ten or twenty times louder than she would have made it, had she taken time to think.

"I didn't cheat on my husband with a man! I fucked myself with that stupid dildo and thought about another man while I was doing it!"

Her breath froze in her throat as her mind caught up with what she'd just screamed. As a confession, it was cathartic. Unfortunately, people all around her had stopped, and were staring at her. Cindy was too, a shocked look on her face. There seemed to be a zone around them that was free of both movement and noise. Then, slowly at first, movement began again.

Then there was the noise of people exclaiming about what they had just heard that crazy woman yelling.

The fight or flight syndrome is very real. And Claire's only option was to run. She did that, blinded by her sobbing tears that made everything look like it was being viewed through wavy glass. She didn't see the light pole in her path. She only felt it when she ran into it.

There was a split second where she felt pain in her unhealed gracilis, and then a surreal explosion of pain in her face as she ran straight into the light pole she couldn't see. Her nose crushed and blood spurted wildly from the misshapen nostrils that resulted. She rebounded, staggering like a cartoon character and lost her balance. She was still staggering to regain it when she heard a bloodcurdling scream and the screech of tires on pavement.

There was something like being cuffed by a giant, followed by the feeling that she was weightless, until another giant smacked her. And then ... nothing.

Everything went instantly, and magically, black.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She woke feeling groggy. It was hard to see anything, and she worked her eyes, thinking they were caked with crust from sleep. There was something in the way. Something close to her face. She brought a hand up to investigate and the movement of that hand released the throbbing pain in her head that she suddenly knew had already been there, like a lion, waiting to leap out of hiding onto its prey.

She groaned. That didn't help the pain in her head.

"Claire?"

The voice came from her left. She turned her head carefully, slowly, and tried to focus. Whatever it was that was blocking part of her vision stayed there as her head turned. Her brain identified the voice as being female.

She tried to gather information. It came out as, "Whaa happan?" Her mouth was dry.

"Claire! You're awake! Thank God!"

The name Claire didn't ring a bell. She gave a few neurons a workout as she tried to remember what name did ring a bell. She had decided that no name rang a bell when there was another voice.

"Honey Bunny?"

That voice came from her other side, which meant she'd have to turn her head all the way over in that direction. Her brain also provided her with the information that she hated that name. She didn't know why. She just hated it. The fragments of her memories also alerted her that, whoever this was, she had told him not to call her that before.

"Don't call me that," she groaned. Even in such pain, and even so confused, she appreciated the irony of the fact that, while she didn't know what her name actually was, she was willing to reject that one out of hand.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I don't feel okay," she said, quite truthfully. "Why can't I see right?"

"There are bandages across your face," said the woman. "And you might have a concussion. You were hit by a car."

That made no sense. She always paid very close attention to traffic around her when she ran. There's no way she'd have let herself get into that situation.

It occurred to her that, while she knew she was a runner, and knew what kind of habits she had as a runner, she still couldn't remember her name.

"You're in the hospital," the woman added. "I'll go get the doctor."

If she was in a hospital, shouldn't the doctor already be there?

Someone took her hand on the side where the man was. Obviously he wasn't the doctor. Slowly she turned her head. His grip on her hand was very possessive. She squinted, blinking her eyes, and his face came into fuzzy focus. She lifted her free hand to pluck at the bit of bandage that was blocking her view out of one eye.

"Who are you?" she asked, staring up into the male face hovering over her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"No bones were broken. Physically, she'll be fine in a few weeks. We hope the amnesia is retrograde, a product of the accident and that, with time and rest, her memories will return."

Claire - that was apparently her name - lay there looking up at the man who claimed to be her husband, and the woman who claimed to be her best friend. The doctor was talking to them. He had come in and checked her over, shining a light in each eye and asking her how many fingers he was holding up. Then he had ignored her and started talking to the man and woman. Why wasn't he talking to her? She was the one in the hospital bed.

"Excuse me!" she said, as loudly as she could. Three heads turned her way. "I'm over here," she said.

The woman grinned. "Well, that sounds like you. Welcome back."

"You're talking about me to them. Please talk to me, doctor," said Claire, ignoring the blond woman who was so perky Claire wanted to throttle her. She couldn't throttle anybody at the moment. She doubted she could squeeze a marshmallow right now.

"All right," said the doctor, with what Claire recognized as exaggerated patience. "You were involved in an accident, hit by a car. Just before that, apparently, you had run into a power pole, damaging your nose. Your friend, here, says you staggered in front of the car. When that happened, you were lucky. You were knocked some ten or so feet, whereupon your body impacted another car. Your head hit something, we're not exactly sure what, and you lost consciousness. You were still unconscious when you arrived at the emergency room, and still unconscious when I went to work on you, cleaning you up and examining you. You regained consciousness, during which I observed you were disoriented and might have swelling on the brain. We gave you a sedative and prepared to go into your skull to release the pressure, but an MRI showed that it wasn't as bad as we'd feared."

He smiled, like that last little snippet of speech had undone all the problems he'd described before that.

"Physically you're in good condition. You'll be sore for a while, and bruised up, but that will pass too. You have exhibited symptoms of something we call retrograde amnesia. That means there will be holes in your memory. We have since concluded that your loss of short term memory was likely caused by the trauma to the head, and that if you take it easy, it will probably clear up in time."

"How much time?" asked Claire.

"Hopefully, within a few weeks," he responded. "I recommend complete rest."

"I have a job," she said. Then she frowned. "Don't I? I can't just take weeks off from work."

"What do you remember about your job?" asked the doctor, leaning toward her with interest.

"It has something to do with numbers," she said. She blinked. "That's about it."

"You can take all the time you need," said the woman, who had identified herself as Cindy. She'd also said more than once that she was Claire's best friend, which Claire doubted. The woman was clearly a bimbo, one of those blond airheads.

"And you know this because ...?" Claire asked.

"I talked to our boss," said Cindy. "Since this happened to you while you were at lunch, and since we're required to stay within six blocks of the office during lunch, somebody decided that workman's comp applies."

"I work for a company that makes me stay within six blocks of the office during lunch?" Claire's voice was skeptical.

"Well, she may get all the time off she wants," said the man who was named John, "but I don't. I have to get back to work. They gave me time off, but I have to make it up."

He came towards her and leaned down, obviously intending to kiss her. She leaned away, frowning.

He stopped. A look of stark aggravation came over his face.

"You say you don't know who I am, but you still remember you're mad at me?" he whispered, sarcastically.

"I just don't like strange men trying to kiss me," she said, somewhat astonished at the vitriol in his voice.

He stood back up. "I have to go. I'm glad you're okay."

And then he was gone.

The bimbo, as it turned out, probably deserved more credit than the one who claimed to be her husband.

"When can she leave?" asked Cindy.

"That's the kind of question he's supposed to ask," said the doctor, who looked toward John's retreating back.

"I'm the patient," said Claire. "When can I leave?"

The doctor smiled. "Well, under ordinary circumstances, I'd recommend you stay here overnight for observation. But your obvious lucidity about who is and is not the patient encourages me. Unfortunately, we had to cut most of your clothing off of you while we were treating your injuries."

"I'll go get her something to wear and come back," said Cindy.

"I'll have the charge nurse start getting her discharge papers ready," said the doctor.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Claire took stock while Cindy was gone. She was sore everywhere. It occurred to her that, since she didn't remember where home was, or what it was like, it made no difference if she stayed in the hospital or not. But her "best friend" was already gone, and the wheels of bureaucracy had been set into motion. She got out of bed and hobbled around a bit. There was a mirror over the sink against one wall and she went to look into it, wondering what she looked like.

She was a mess. The bandages were extensive enough that she couldn't see anything of her normal features, with the exception of a body she recognized immediately as being in good shape. She remembered she was a runner. Even in the shapeless hospital gown, she could tell she had large breasts. She turned sideways.

"Hmmm. Not bad," she mused.

She thought about the man. What was his name? John? He'd left without so much as a how do you do. Well, that wasn't true. Not really. But while she couldn't remember anything about being married, she was pretty sure that in most marriages, a situation like she was in trumped work. And, he had called her that name. She wondered what that was all about, but couldn't remember. All she knew was that she hated that name. And she felt like she'd probably hated it the first time he'd ever used it.

She went closer to the mirror and leaned in to see what she could see. There was dried blood on her throat. The doctor said they'd cleaned her up, but it hadn't amounted to a sponge bath.

She sat in the visitor's chair, rather than getting back in bed. Beds were for sick people.

She didn't want to be a sick person.

What she wanted was a nice, long soak in a hot tub.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Claire tried to look over at the driver. She had to turn her whole upper body to avoid causing pain in her neck.

"So ... we're friends," she said. The woman was obviously going out of her way for her. She seemed to care more than the husband did.

"The best," said Cindy. "And we work together. Well, not together exactly. At the same place."

"And where is that?"

"Martin Aerospace Industries," said the woman. "You're an accountant."

"And what are you?"

"I'm the executive secretary to Mr. Zimmerman, the big boss."

"Ahhh. You have access to the brass. That wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that I have as much time off as I need, would it?"

Cindy's smile was brilliant. "Maybe a little. But only a little. You handle the hush hush accounts. You have a top secret security clearance. They don't want to lose you."

"Who is handling all my top secret stuff while I'm gone?"

"There are two of you who handle the, 'I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you' stuff. You and Margie Hopkins. Neither of you is super busy. Margie said she could handle most of your load for a while. And some of your work isn't classified. They're going to farm that out to various other people."

"And I assume that has something to do with the 'can't be gone more than six blocks' rule you mentioned."

"Exactly. You have valuable information our competitors might want to have, not to mention foreign governments. For me it's not that dramatic. Mr. Zimmerman just can't do without me for very long."

"Your part in this cloak and dagger business I get," said Claire. "But what does people wanting to bribe me have to do with six blocks?"

"That's not it," laughed Cindy. "They're not worried about someone bribing you. You're paid very well. They're more worried about somebody kidnapping you and torturing you."

"You're shitting me!" said Claire.

"Nope. And nobody's supposed to know it, but your watch contains a tracker. If it goes beyond a certain distance from the office during work hours, they go looking for you."

"What about when I'm home?"

"The circle is larger. You have to have permission to travel up to thirty miles from home without notifying anybody. And really, it's not as bad as it sounds. You can go anywhere you want. You just have to tell them where you're going."

"They'd better be paying me a hell of a lot," grumbled Claire.

"They are. Trust me."

"How much?"

"Actually, that's classified," said Cindy. "All I know is that one day you told me you planned on retiring when you're forty, and traveling the world."

"How old am I now?"

"Twenty-eight."

"So ... twelve more years to go," said Claire.

Cindy looked over at her.

"I'm not joking. Actually, I'm really jealous. I'm thinking about going back to college to get a degree in accounting, just so I can take your place when you retire."

"And we're best friends?"

"Honest. I'm not lying."

"So ... what kind of things do we talk about?"

Chapter Four

The fact that Cindy felt like a best friend was obvious. She knew very intimate details about Claire's life. And, when they got home, Cindy knew where everything was inside. Of course she'd recently been in the house, getting Claire some clothes, which meant she had a key. Her purse, watch and shoes were the only things that had been salvaged after the accident.

The Dildo that Erased Claire Bonneville's Memory

Lubrican

That was a preview of The Dildo that Erased Claire Bonneville's Memory. To read the rest purchase the book.

Add «The Dildo that Erased Claire Bonneville's Memory» to Cart