The Dildo That Stole Claire Bonneville's Memory

by Lubrican

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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. You 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 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 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 marathons 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 a couple of 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.


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 two 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.

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