Chapter 2

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.