The Dildo That Stole Claire Bonneville's Memory

by Lubrican

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Chapter Five

For all that her memory had huge gaps in it, Claire and John settled back into a lifestyle remarkably like that before the accident. It was easy for John to avoid further confrontation (or working on the problem) by simply going back to his TV shows. Claire didn't remember what she had done with her free time before the accident so, if she wasn't sleeping, she wandered around the house, trying to learn more about "herself."

That might sound fruitless. If you look around your own house, you might think nobody could tell much about you from the appearance of it. I'm not talking about the traditional, "My house is a mess! People will think I'm a slob!" Everybody fears that, but the truth is that the vast majority of us, if invited into a "messy" house, don't notice that at all. It just looks lived in, as opposed to the sterile habitats of the rich, who hire maids to keep everything ship shape so people will be impressed. Maybe people are impressed with the display of wealth, but those places don't look lived in. They look like what they are - showcases.

The fact is that you can tell a lot about the occupants by casually examining a given, average residence.

For example, when Claire explored the stairs that led down to the basement, she found a small, but efficient, home gym down there. The equipment wasn't dusty, but other surfaces were, suggesting the equipment was used on a fairly regular basis. The kind of equipment was interesting too. There was an 80 pound punching bag hanging from a rafter at one end of the room, and a speed bag mounted on the wall at the other end. In the middle was a kicking dummy, fastened to a stand bolted to the floor. A Karate gi hung on a peg beside the speed bag, with a black belt casually looped over a hook next to it. A pair of grappling gloves lay on the bench of a weight set against one wall. She wondered, briefly, why she remembered they were called grappling gloves.

An examination of the gi suggested it was her size, rather than John's. And the grappling gloves were partially pink. So she was the one who worked out down here.

That explained that kick. It had been instinctive, and executed with the exact amount of force to knock him senseless without breaking either his jaw or his neck. It was the kind of kick she had apparently practiced hundreds of times, maybe thousands.

As she picked up the gloves an image flashed through her mind. She recognized it as having been during college. She was in a room with others, all dressed in gi's, working out.

She slipped on the gloves and went to the bag. She gave it a few exploratory punches and realized she'd gone into a crouch without thinking about it.

"Humph," she thought to herself. "I'm dangerous when I want to be."

She remembered warning John away when he'd been drunk. Her subconscious must have been ready to defend herself, and issued those warnings.

In the kitchen, a cupboard stuffed with cook books suggested an omnivorous interest. There were books on vegetarian cooking, and others on how to prepare various meats. A bread machine stood on the counter, next to a toaster. Next to both of those was a Keurig machine, but all she could find to put in it were various kinds of tea and a box with three hot chocolate K cups in it, mixed in with three cups of spiced cider.

There was no other coffee maker, and there was no coffee.

"But I like coffee," she thought to herself, puzzled.

It was at times like that that she approached John, if he was home.

"Hey. Do I like coffee?"

"You did in college, but you gave up caffeine when we were trying to have a baby."

"We tried?"

"We didn't so much try to have a baby as we stopped trying to prevent it," he said. "That was a long time ago. I hadn't noticed that you never started drinking coffee again."

"Why weren't we successful?" she asked.

"At having a baby? I don't know," he said.

"Didn't we talk to a doctor about it?"

"You wanted to, but then you got a new job and I guess we had other things to think about."

In a sense, these little conversations were very positive, in terms of the tentative relationship they were having. They spoke with an easy familiarity, but it was more like people who have worked together for a long time, rather than a mating pair. He was always willing to talk, and didn't seem to mind imparting information about her past.

In other ways, it wasn't so good. Again and again, John made it clear that he was self absorbed, self centered, and self serving. It wasn't that he didn't care about anybody else, such as a sociopath might, but that he didn't seem to pay any attention to the needs of others, and therefore rarely did anything to make anyone else's life any better.

She didn't know if she'd ever studied psychology or not, but it seemed odd to her that she had ever been attracted to the man.

Still, he was harmless, insofar as being in the house with her. Not once did he approach her sexually. He didn't even offer any simple touches or phrases that suggested he missed any intimacy they'd lost. He never said he loved her, or hated her, for that matter, and he never again said he was glad she hadn't been injured worse than she was.

Cindy came over every night at first, to check on her. They sat in the breakfast nook, sipping tea, and talked. Claire wasn't comfortable at that point telling Cindy about what had happened with John. Instead, she tried to learn more about her life. Cindy gave her information about herself, and Martin Industries. She also told Claire things about herself and Danny. The third night she came over, she apologized for having to leave early, but said it was date night.

"We're going out to eat and then things might get kinky." She grinned.

"Do I want to know?" asked Claire.

"I'll tell you about it later if it works out," said Cindy.

"I'm doing fine. You don't need to come over as often as you have been. Don't get me wrong, having you here makes life a lot less boring, but you have your own life to live. Go get kinky. If I need something, I'll call you."

Cindy had made her promise that she'd call every few days, and then left. She hadn't been back since, but they were in regular contact on the phone.

It was during one of her exploratory wanderings one day that Claire investigated all the drawers in her bedroom. She already knew that she enjoyed wearing undergarments that were made of soft materials, rather than scratchy lace. Her former self had gone to the effort of finding panties and bras that were comfortable to wear, but which were also delicate, and sexy.

When it came to what she thought of as "work clothes" there was variety, but all of it was very tasteful and conservative.

The drawers she hadn't gone through entirely revealed a mixture of items that were of little interest, with two exceptions.

The first was an item that consisted of elastic straps, attached to a sheath, inside which rested what her mind casually identified as a push dagger. The blade looked to be between three and four inches long, and was made of stainless steel. She realized the sheath was designed to be worn on the upper thigh, under a skirt.

The second, she found in the nightstand.

It was the dildo.

When she saw it, she felt her eyes widen in interest, and a surge of something in her chest. She liked this thing. Claire liked this thing.

She picked it up, gingerly, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. It was heavier than she expected, and she had to depress the soft, yet firm, material it was made of, to keep control over it.

It looked harmless enough, but what she was feeling inside told her it wasn't harmless at all. Her body had a visceral connection to this thing.

Cindy had told her she'd used it the night before the accident. She tried to think back about either this item's use, or any other sexual experience this body she was in had engaged in.

Nothing. The errant thought came into her mind that, for all intents and purposes, she was a virgin. Again. Sort of. Psychologically, at least.

The inanimate nature of the device was comforting somehow. She reached with the other hand and, using both, rearranged her grip so that her fingers were wrapped around the shaft. She squeezed. Butterflies began dancing in her belly.

She lifted it to examine the balls, which were fascinatingly detailed. That was also true of the shaft, clear up to the tip, which had a permanent sort of hood that, if it were a real phallus, would be movable as the foreskin was shifted by pressure. She wondered why she'd chosen one with a foreskin. John was circumcised. She'd seen that when he was preparing to rape her.

She held it out. It was big. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did. Most men didn't sport this kind of attachment in real life. But it wasn't ridiculous, either.

Claire must have thought she needed something larger than life. Thinking about John made it understandable. Any woman would want more than John had to offer. Of course she wasn't thinking about John in physical terms, but maybe Claire had tried to compensate on a physical basis.

"I must have been an interesting woman," she mused, aloud. "I can kick butt, and run a marathon, and I like a big, hard dick inside me." She grinned. "I can get used to this."

Something popped into her mind, and she searched the rest of the drawer carefully. Then she went on to any other place people might store a condom. There was nothing. Nor were there any condoms in the bathroom. The few medicines in the cabinet used to store them didn't hold any birth control pills either.

She went to get her purse. She hadn't gone anywhere, and so hadn't needed to take it anywhere. She also hadn't dumped it to see what was in it. She did that now.

No birth control pills.

And only one tube of lipstick, in a clear color.

So Claire wasn't advertising anything, but she also still wasn't trying to avoid having a baby.

With John?

Claire shook her head. Something was wrong here. This woman had a lot to offer. All that was on hold at the moment, because of the circumstances. But she'd had a lot to offer both the world and her husband before the accident. Why had she put up with John's self absorption?

She remembered talking to Cindy and saying she had taken her marriage vows seriously. Where had that come from? She thought about it. That concept seemed comfortable ... normal. The fact that John had patronized a prostitute offended her. And not just because she'd been lying in a hospital bed when he did it. The whole concept of marital infidelity offended her.

So that must be something that was bone deep in her, both before the accident ... and now.

Except that now it was conditional. She didn't know how Claire would have felt about it before the accident, but now she knew that he had voided those vows.

From what she could deduce based on her explorations, Claire had been trapped in a loveless marriage, but had endured it because she thought that was what was required of her on a moral basis. She'd stretched the bonds of that morality by procuring something to deal with her physical needs, but that was as far as she was willing to go.

Hadn't Cindy said she'd only used that dildo once, before the accident?

She went back to the bedroom and stared at the artificial penis, lying inert on the bed. She tried to imagine how she'd feel if she used it.

There was nothing. No guilt. But also no particular drive to pick it up and put it to work. Those flutters in her belly only told her that, when she had used it, it must have been a positive experience.

She tried to think like she assumed the old Claire would have thought. She was a good girl. She suffered in silence the fact that her marriage had gone downhill. She had been driven to buy this thing. She had used it. The next day, while talking about that with Cindy, she had become so upset that she bolted.

Maybe it hadn't been so positive.

Then she remembered the wording Cindy had used. Claire had said that she thought about another man while she used it.

That was the problem. It wasn't the thing. It was her fantasy about cheating on John that had upset her.

Claire sat, trying to find some kind of guilt in her mind about such a fantasy. There was nothing. Of course it would help if she knew what man she'd thought about. Was it someone she knew? A friend's husband? A celebrity?

Nothing came to the surface, where she could see it.

She sat down on the bed, feeling helpless. Her hand landed on the dildo.

She looked down at it, and then picked it up again.

She thought about that flicker of memory that had returned down in the home gym, of her sparring with others in college.

She stared at the rubber penis in her hand.

"What the hell," she said, aloud. "Maybe trying you again will spark a memory too."

She took off her clothes, unashamed to be naked, and lay down on the bed.

She teased herself with the tip until she felt her natural lubrication appear.

Then she slid the thing inside her, to see what would happen.

Claire lay there exulting in the feelings of bliss that coursed from her pussy through her abdomen up to her breasts. It was the first time something other than pain had dominated her body.

At first, she just pushed it in and left it there, letting her internal tissues spread and become used to the intrusion. Without knowing she had done this before, she turned the mass until the balls became a tool to put pressure on her clit.

She relaxed. It felt like the first time she'd been able to relax since that bath. She wondered what doing this in a hot bath would feel like, and determined to find out. But not now. She didn't want to take it out so she could draw a bath.

She let her arms flop to her sides, lying with her legs spread, feeling like she was floating on top of a soft, salty sea.

She used internal muscles to squeeze the thing inside her, and her right hand came to grasp the balls and pull, twisting slightly. A groan of happiness escaped her lungs.

Eventually she began to experiment with moving it in and out, pushing and trying to apply more pressure to one side of the tip than the other. There was a place where, not fully inserted, the bulbous head rubbed a special place deep inside her. By moving only her wrist, she used that protuberant tip to massage that special place, and had her first orgasm.

The only external sign she was there was a drawn out, "Ohhhhh fuuuuck," as what felt like little fingers of some kind played inside her, tickling something that loved to be tickled. It was a small one, but she didn't know that yet.

She rested, leaving herself impaled, and then tried moving it a lot, in and out. That made her hips want to move and soon as she slammed it in, she raised her hips to meet the thrust. She went deep and used the balls to bump her clit, not rubbing it, but hammering it gently.

The orgasm she had while doing that was even better.

She lost track of time until she was just stroking, making herself feel good, not even trying to have another climax, and the bedroom door opened. She'd been so absorbed in the pleasure that she hadn't heard him come in from work. John stood, frozen, as he took in the scene.

She was unashamed. For some reason she was unafraid as well.

"Shit," he said, softly.

"Don't come any closer," she said, making that decision in a complicated kind of way. He was her husband. She didn't remember that ... but she knew it. She had denied him before this, something wives weren't supposed to do, at least in theory. And she wasn't interested in taking him into her bed now, either. But she also decided not to scream at him to leave.

"Can I watch?" he asked, already panting.

"Do you want to?"

"Fuck yes, I want to."

"You can't touch me," she warned.

"Okay." His face worked. "Can I touch ... myself?"

"I don't care, as long as you don't try to touch me."

"Shit! Okay. Okay."

He was eager now, but he didn't undress. Rather, he just unzipped and extracted his cock. She looked at it, but only out of mild curiosity. She'd seen it once before, that first night. It had been pitiful then.

Within a minute or so, though, he had an erection, and was pulling at it eagerly. In its rigid state it was a little more impressive, though nothing to write home about, like the one inside her. It was maybe three quarters of the length of the one pleasuring her, and smaller in diameter.

While she watched, he groaned, closed his eyes, and dribbled on the carpet.

"Fuck!" he whined. She didn't know whether he was unhappy that he'd cum so soon, apparently unable to make it last, or unhappy that he'd cum on the carpet, or not unhappy at all and just making noises.

She didn't really care. She'd thrown him a bone and let him gnaw on it.

He put another nail in his coffin when, without ceremony, he stuffed his penis back into his pants, and backed out the door. He said nothing.

She could have lived with that.

But he didn't clean up the carpet, and he left the fucking door open.

Dressed in her robe again, Claire exited the bedroom to get something to eat.

John was in his chair, the TV on, as usual. He was drinking a beer. For once, he looked over at her, and acknowledged her existence by raising the bottle, as if to toast her.

She went on into the kitchen, muttering, "What a putz," under her breath. What man treated his wife that way?

Then again, she wasn't being much of a wife to begin with.

She decided she wasn't going to sweat that. That ship had sailed before the accident and she had plenty to occupy her mind without trying to incorporate an artificial romance into things as well.

After she ate, she decided that she was tired of staying home. She knew she had a car. Cindy had driven it home from the parking garage. She'd gotten to meet Danny then, who winced when he saw her face, but said he was glad she was on the mend.

She'd been in bed when that happened, though, and John had received the keys.

She went to the doorway where she could see John.

"Hey. Where did you put the keys to my car?"

He looked over.

"Do you think you should drive?"

"Why not?"

"You're all broke up."

"I'm not all broken up," she said. "I'm bruised and battered, but my legs work fine, and so do my hands."

"I saw that for myself," he said, leering.

"Where are the keys?" she said, deciding not to kick his ass.

"They're hanging on a clip on the side of the refrigerator," he said. "That's where you keep them."

She located the keys, but left them there while she went to get dressed. When she came out she called out to John.

"I have cabin fever. I'm going for a drive. I don't know how long I'll be."

He waved, but didn't look at her this time. She thought about telling him she was going to stick that dildo up in her pussy while she went for the drive. If she did, she'd give even odds that he'd ask if he could go with her.

She decided not to, because if he did that, she might not be able to resist kicking his ass.

It felt good to be moving, in control of her immediate destiny. She hadn't even thought to look in her purse to see if she'd brought any money until she decided, on impulse, to get some ice cream. She parked in a stall at Sonic and opened her purse. Her wallet had a single dollar bill in it. She had three credit cards, though.

She ordered and when the shake came, she picked the wrong card, it being a debit card instead of a credit card. She had no idea what the pin number was, and had to give the kid another card. That one went through.

She made a mental note to go to her bank tomorrow and explain the circumstances, and get a new pin number. She examined the card, It was a Visa card, which had an American flag on the front and an 800 number on the back to report problems to. That was all, though.

As she left the drive in, sipping her delicious chocolate shake, she sighed.

Now all she had to do was figure out which bank she patronized.

She decided to drive around and see what looked familiar. It was odd that so many things did ... and so many other things did not. It was impossible to tell if she was in a part of town she'd never visited before, or she just couldn't remember it.

One of the things she noticed were all the couples. Some were walking together. Others sat, sharing a park bench, or at an outside table at a bistro. Once she saw two people seated, talking, waiting for a bus and something tugged at her memory, but not hard enough to reveal itself.

What she thought about was the fact that so many people felt the urge to share life with someone else. She felt that urge too, but also felt like the pursuit of that kind of happiness was being withheld from her. At least until her memory got straightened out. She felt like she was mired in mud, neck deep, and dry land was just out of reach.

She got home three hours later. John was still sitting in front of the glow of the TV. She wondered, idly, if he was awake, or dozing, but didn't care enough to actually find out.

Instead, she went into the bedroom to find out what using the dildo, while soaking in hot water, felt like.

It was even better than she'd anticipated it would be.

Not only was the weight of her body reduced, which led to a direct and corresponding reduction of her aches and pains, but the warmth of the water seemed, somehow, to increase the zings of pleasure that began zapping between the three points made up of her nipples and the spot just at the top of her sexual split. That split was stretched wide by the body of the dildo, but there was no discomfort in that whatsoever.

What seemed strange was that the hot water tended to render her nipples less than able to fully harden, making their erection only half of what it had been the last time she'd molested her vaginal tract with her new best friend. And that made it easier to squeeze them between her thumb and fingers without the traces of pain she'd felt before. Before, they had engorged almost painfully, and had complained when she pulled at them.

Now, though, in the hot water, they were pliable, almost elastic, and she could pull them hard enough to lift her entire breast mass away from her chest wall.

She didn't have enough hands.

She wanted the penetration, prodding deep, like it was, and moving as well. But both nipples wanted attention too. And she wished her lips were involved. She couldn't remember kissing anyone, or the feel of another body against hers, but some instinct told her that would be wonderful in this situation.

She needed a man.

That thought caused her consternation, not at the thought of being intimate with a man, but of trying to think of a man she'd be comfortable doing this with.

And there weren't any. Not in the tatters of her memory anyway.

Which led to her mind wandering to the other gender possible for this kind of fulfillment.

The only woman she really knew was Cindy. As she lay, feeling the water cooling, she let her mind flicker around a hazy image of there being two women in the tub, one of them Cindy. Her hips lifted as she pushed the dildo deep, and she snorted as her face came perilously close to being submerged. She liked Cindy.

But she was pretty sure she wanted a man.

That put her back to square one. It certainly wasn't going to be John. And the only other man she had any memories of at all was Danny, and she wasn't going to ask Cindy if she could borrow him. Some residual social memory warned her that wasn't how things worked.

She closed her eyes, trying to forget about men - and women - and get back to exploring her own body.

She finally found what would do the trick. It was a combination of pushing the dildo deep, using the balls for her grip, and then making the balls go in little circles. This made the tip go in little circles too, which made it massage something she couldn't remember the name of but knew was the mouth of her womb. Meanwhile, the fingers of her other hand flicked back and forth across her clit.

And it was during the orgasm she got from doing that, that a face appeared in her memory. It was just a face, a man with sandy hair and a smile. His head seemed to be hopping up and down for some reason. She didn't know who he was, but this memory felt real.

Which meant she would probably see him again.

Her exploration of the house had turned up nothing that suggested she had much of a social life. There were no appointment books, or pamphlets. She didn't appear to have joined any clubs. And that meant that the only place she could have met a man was probably at Martin. Her imagination, which was just about all she had to work with until some memories resurfaced, decided that the mystery man was an FBI agent who checked up on her occasionally, to make sure she wasn't selling secrets to whoever the government wasn't happy with at the moment. He was single, of course, and invading her privacy didn't bother him. Or her, in this flitting fantasy.

She was distracted, for a few moments, by wondering why she didn't feel guilty for imagining being with a man other than her husband. It occurred to her that John didn't act like a husband and so, therefore, some part of her considered him to be something else. He was a "not husband" in a very real sense because the ties between them were legal, rather than emotional. She was pretty sure "marriage" was supposed to be an emotional bond, rather than a legal one.

And in any case, he had voided their vows by fucking that hooker.

As she mopped up the water that had splashed over the edge of the tub during the orgasm which had left her internal muscles still feeling tight and happy, she tried to imagine what she'd do when she did see this mystery man again.

Maybe it was time to think about getting back to work.

The speed bag was beyond her. She couldn't even figure out the theory involved. It was fun to hit, but she had to wait until it slowed from its wild gyrations before she could hit it again. The 80 pound Everlast, however, was more cooperative. She didn't even have to think about it. Her body went into a crouch and her right arm shot out to make solid contact with the bag. Even before that hand was back close to her body, her other fist thudded into the bag and she was moving. She twisted sideways, bending at the waist, and her right foot came up to smash into the bag, a little higher than where she'd hit it with two fists.

She danced back, grinning. This was fun! Things still ached, around her body, but she ignored that and went back to work.

She found that, if she tried to think about what she was doing, it didn't work. She could complete the movements, but the grace and fluidity were gone. Her actions were mechanical and she felt off balance. It was when she was thinking about something else that her muscle memory was allowed to work.

She thought about her FBI agent, dreaming up different scenarios in which they met and, somehow, he ended up in that bathtub with her. While she thought of that, she practiced the kind of violence that other people might be dreaming to use against such a man, but missed the irony in that.

When she stopped it was because she was out of breath. Sweat was dripping off her body. She walked in little circles, just breathing, and ended up back in front of the speed bag. She gave it a tentative thump, just to stretch tight arm muscles. While she worked out on the punching bag, she'd built a complete image of her mystery man, her special agent. He was an inch taller than she was, and in excellent shape. For some reason he had to search her, every so often, and it was then that his hands wandered over her body in ways that went far beyond his actual job. He knew that. She knew that. He knew that she knew, and that she did nothing to prevent it. In her fantasy she had taken to hiding little objects around her body, things for him to find inside her bra, or panties. They were always innocent things, but finding them wasn't so innocent.

She was brought out of her reverie by the rhythmic thumping of the speed bag in front of her. Her hands were moving in an almost hypnotic, casual series of repetitive movements and the bag was moving so fast it was a blur.

With the realization that it was her hands that were making it do that, the rhythm faltered and the bag veered to swing and bounce wildly.

She dropped her hands, aware that she couldn't do that again if her life depended on it. It had all been muscle memory. She stepped back, breathing deeply and regularly. She lifted her arms and flexed the muscles in them. They felt dull, but she knew that feeling would give way to something she'd like a lot, later on.

She took inventory of the aches and pains. She'd given her upper body a pretty good workout, even if it had been a bit clumsy. She bounced on her toes. Now it was time to see what she could do with her legs. Cindy had said she was a runner.

It was time to find out if that was true.

"My name is Claire Bonneville and I am a runner," said Claire, out loud. There was no one around to hear her say it, at least not close enough to hear it, but this was the first thing she'd been able to say with conviction since she woke up in that hospital bed.

That she was a runner was beyond any doubt. She felt completely at home in her body as she loped along, her legs reaching to put another yard of ground behind her. Everything about it felt right. Her breathing progressed at a slow, even pace. Her legs felt like they could keep doing this forever. It was effortless. She felt free, almost able to fly.

She looked around, a little shocked that she had no idea where she was. She hadn't been paying any attention to where her legs carried her. Not only that, but she couldn't even remember whatever it was she'd been thinking about while she ran. It wasn't her fantasy lover. That much she knew. She'd started out daydreaming about him, but had been so surprised at how natural it felt to run that she'd given that all her attention for a while. Then, as she fell into a totally natural rhythm, her mind had gone on to something else. Hadn't it? It wasn't possible that she could have spent all this time actually not thinking. Was it?

She looked at her watch and goggled. She'd been running for a full hour!

Suddenly she felt the stress of that hour in her lower extremities. She didn't feel like stopping, but she did moderate her pace, slowing a bit. Something in her right thigh complained, but not too badly. She looked around her again, and recognized a strip mall she'd driven by on her exploration of the city.

She turned left and was on her way back home.

When she got there, she soaked once again in a tub full of hot water. It felt fabulous.

Even though the dildo was still in its drawer beside the bed while she did it.

As she drifted off to sleep, later, she wondered what her life was going to be like.

She couldn't imagine it at all.


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