The dildo was in the bag
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The Dildo Was In The Bag -3 free porn video
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 floors. 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 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 u*********s when you arrived at the emergency room, and still u*********s 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 k**napping 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?"
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 floors. 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 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 u*********s when you arrived at the emergency room, and still u*********s 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 k**napping 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?"
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