A Capital Affair Ch. 02

We got home late because our friends made a barbecue dinner. Being Shabat, I left my phone turned off all day. Finally, I had the chance to check messages when Barry sneaked off to check his own phone. Isn't it interesting how we were both playing the same cheating game now. The difference was that I'm positive Barry was getting "luv u" texts from his little piece of pussy but I couldn't connect with Damien at all. In bed that night, Barry couldn't be put off any longer so I got one of his, by the book, missionary jobs. A faked orgasm got him off me as quickly as possible.

Sunday, I managed to sleep in a bit but I woke up unbelievably horny, thanks to my unsatisfactory fuck last night. I got up, dressed and made brunch to stay out of Barry's way. I needed my privacy so, to get everyone out of the house, I asked Barry to take Michelle and Ethan to the latest animated kid flick. My excuse for staying at home was to catch up on laundry. When they were gone, I rushed back to the bedroom to check my smartphone. There still wasn't anything from Damien and I was getting worried. Nothing was going right for me today.

Well, I did need to wash the clothes I wore while in Ottawa. Mindless household tasks like doing the laundry always provides me with quiet time to work through my problems. Did I misread Damien? Some of my single friends complain that all men are pigs who never call the morning after. Could Damien be a pig? I took my time to get to know him before I set up our first date. After meeting him in person, I was positive that he was sincere about having a relationship. My husband and my lover both betrayed me and I needed to punish them both.

As I was sorting the week's laundry, to my horror, I noticed that my dildo was poking out from a collection of panties. My first thoughts were, what if Dolores or the children or, even worse, Barry discovered it? Too many explanations. As I searched for the suction cup that came with the dildo, it occurred to me that my toy might be the means of punishing both Barry and Damien. If I had fantasy sex with another man, it would serve them both right for not treating me right. But I also needed to punish myself for being such a naive woman who threw away her marriage on a one-night fling. I wanted rough, abusive sex at that moment. Yes, I said I don't like it rough but a lot of things changed in my life since I met Damien.

And I knew who the right man was. When I was a cheerleader in high school, I had this fantasy about having sex with a football player on the school team. Not just any football player but the big, dumb fullback on our team, Jerome Molnar. He was an animal on the field, the kind of player you needed to hang a pork chop from the uprights to motivate properly and in the right direction. Watching Jerome climb bull his way through all those linemen while I was shaking my pom-poms on the sidelines made me so horny. In the classroom, Jerome displayed all the IQ of a Pet Rock. But teenage girls are more impressed with aggressiveness in a man than refinement and I wasn't any different.

Not that I ever made it with Jerome and I'm glad I never did. Like most Hungarians, he was an anti-Semite and I am more than just a little bit Jewish. Since most anti-Semites are also misogynists, I suspect that Jerome treated women, at best, like sex machines, at worst, like opposing linebackers. The only proof I have is that the cheerleaders he dated (all blonde shikses) would show up for cheerleading practice with bruises in the oddest places on their bodies. At the time, I wasn't into rough sex at the time but times do change and I needed someone abusive like Jerome to do me today.

I immediately identified a problem with my plan. Jerome was definitely white while my toy shlong was black. My father always said that "When God gives a Jew lemons in life, they start a business selling lemonade." I don't think that's a word of my people but it described my situation. Sean Michaels would need to stand in for my fantasy about a white boy. After all, where can you buy a new dildo in suburban Toronto on a Sunday afternoon?

I put on a load of laundry to wash, then I listened outside the door to make sure that Barry and the kids hadn't come home early. I closed the laundry room door, wishing it had a lock, and started my fantasy. In my head, I was a teenager again dressed in my cheerleader uniform. I walked into the men's locker room as Jerome was stepping out of the shower. I thought, where was the rest of the football team or the cheerleading squad and what was I doing in the boys' locker room?

I had to stop and refocus myself because those questions were really irrelevant. The purpose of a fantasy is to create a situation and imagine how it would play out, not fill in all the holes in the logic. I started over again. I was a cheerleader in the boy's locker room as Jerome stepped naked out of the shower. His big shlong jiggled and swung from side to side from the heat as he walked. I didn't need to ask Jerome to fuck me because his stiffening shmuck told me everything I needed to know.

"So the Jew-girl wants some Hungarian sausage? Come here and I'll give it to you, bitch."

He slammed me against a locker (the laundry room door) and I fondled and pinched my breasts under my bra trying to simulate what would pass for foreplay in the mind of a moron like Jerome. Jerome made me kneel and growled:

"Lick my dick like a lollypop, bitch."

So I stuck the dildo in my mouth to lubricate it and warm it up. It tasted like plastic so I pretended it was soap from the shower. I looked around for a smooth surface to attach the suction cup but the best I could do was the side of the washing machine. I got on my hands and knees, pretending the basement floor was the locker room concrete. I lined up the dildo with my vagina and pulled down my jeans and panties roughly the way I thought Jerome would pull off my miniskirt and bloomers. He yelled at me.

"Spread your pussy and show me your fuck-hole, bitch. OK, get ready for the lay."

Spreading my pussy lips apart, I pushed back onto the dildo in the way I imagined Jerome would try and take me from behind. I was too dry, Jerome was too big to penetrate me and the angle wasn't right. I spat on my hand and rubbed it on the dildo and placed it a bit lower on the washing machine. I pushed back with both hands and the dildo hurt as it penetrated, simulating the pain of a big shlong entering my virgin folds of flesh for the first time. I screamed:

"Stop, Jerome! You're hurting me!"

Jerome ignored my protests and thrust even harder into me.

"Shut up bitch. You're a tight piece of cunt, so let me enjoy myself. Jerome's about to give you the best fucking you'll ever get."

I slapped my tuches the way I imagined Jerome giving me a slap to keep quiet. I pushed the dildo back into my pussy, a little past the head. Finally, I my yanked my hair with one hand and simultaneously pushed myself back onto the dildo. Without proper lubricant, this was hurting quite a bit but that's what I wanted today. Jerome never impressed me as the kind of guy who would take a girl's lack of experience into consideration. As if he could read my thoughts - well they WERE my thoughts after all - Jerome growled:

"Now I'm going in deep, baby."

I pushed the dildo as deep as I dared, feeling all its thick head and prominent veins along the walls of my vagina. I rocked back and forth, making the head go up in my pussy and then dip down. Then I swivelled my hips to move the dildo in a circular motion deep inside me. The motion of the agitator had a nice rhythm that matched mine. It began to feel quite pleasant when the washing machine shifted into its spin cycle, kicking the rhythm up several notches. The load went slightly out of balance, creating the world's biggest vibrator in my hoo-hoo.

Spasms shook my whole body, radiating out from my pussy to the tips of my toes and fingers. I trembled and I screamed, growling and roaring like a beast. I hardly knew where I was, what I was or what was going on. I felt as if I were exploding or imploding, my feelings were so mixed and intense. The world consisted of the inner parts` of me convulsing around the dildo. My legs snapped closed, I squeezed my thighs together, locking the black object inside me. Finally the spin cycle stopped and I flopped forward onto the cold, hard floor, yanking the suction cup off the washing machine.

For how long I just lay exhausted on the concrete floor, I'm not sure. I don't know if it was the best fuck of my life but it had to be the wildest. When my head cleared, I realized that my kids shouldn't find their mother on the laundry room floor with her panties around her ankles and something black poking out her nether regions. I did another two loads and hid my dildo in the laundry basket in case they came home while I was carrying my laundry upstairs. I was packing for my return to Ottawa when I heard the garage door opening. I quickly checked my cell phone again but there was still nothing from Damien. I never felt so lonely in my life.

As I prepared supper for the family, I felt quite depressed, despite my intense experience while doing laundry. Like the good hypocrite I had become, I put on a false smile and kept up the pretense of the perfect wife and mother through dinner. After dinner, I loaded the dishwasher so that Dolores wouldn't need to clean the kitchen on Monday morning. I wasn't expecting much from Barry in the housework department. I made sure that the kids had had done their homework. Barry half-heartedly offered to take me to the airport but I said that the kids needed supervision plus the company would pick up the taxi.

I was an hour early for my flight so I had a bit of quiet time to think. I ordered a glass of white wine at the overpriced bar past security near the gate for my flight. I knew that I wouldn't have an opportunity for a decent drink on the crummy Bombardier jet that Air Canada uses on the flight to Ottawa. Those must be the worst airliners to lift wheels off the ground. The seats are thin and narrow, the luggage bins are tiny, there's no business class to allow someone to stretch out and every wine on the galley cart should be wrapped in a brown paper bag and drunk in an alley.

My smartphone buzzed as the glass arrived but it was just Barry asking where I had put his clean shirts. There still wasn't anything from Damien. Had I trusted another man too much and been burned again? Barry screwed me with the pre-nuptial agreement he drew up. I thought Damien was the man for me but he turned out to be a one-night stand who didn't call the next day. Either I was naive beyond belief or else I became what I despised: a woman who only finds happiness in a relationship. I ordered a second glass of overpriced wine and, of course, that's when they called my flight.

The Bombardier jet didn't have any on-board entertainment so I had ample time for introspection on the way to Ottawa. My stay in Ottawa looked very lonely now. My only comfort would be Seam Michaels stowed safely in my luggage. Nobody loved me. Men really are pigs.