A Capital Affair

Author's Note: The first chapter of this story drew comments that religion has no place on Literotica. Obviously, I disagree. Religious people eat, laugh, cry, fuck and do bad things much like the unreligious. The difference is that their religion makes them approach life situations differently from the non-religious. That difference is interesting enough that religious people deserve to be portrayed in Literotica stories. My character, Regina Halevy struggles with a failing marriage and an elusive lover in the context of her religion. She knows that what she is doing is wrong but she can't stop herself. With that in mind, please enjoy more of Regina's story.

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I slept better than I had for months but, when I awoke, my you-know-what felt a little bit sore. That scared me. What if I caught something from Damien? How would I explain that to Barry and my kids? Being Jewish, I felt big-time guilt for committing adultery the previous night. I also felt guilty that I allowed Damien to forego a condom. When I went to pee, it didn't hurt but I still thought: I'm never going to do that again. I showered, had breakfast and walked across the mall to get Nerdstorm's new store ready for the opening.

As I worked through the morning, I was completely distracted by the events of the previous evening. I couldn't get the memory out of my head of Damien's big shmuck sliding in and out of me, stirring up my insides to orgasm after orgasm. French isn't my first language but I am fluent enough to get thing done at work. All day, I kept forgetting common words and colloquialisms. Nerdstorm's French employees must have thought I turned stupid overnight.

By the afternoon, the dull ache in my pussy turned into feeling more satisfied than I ever had in my life. I concluded that any discomfort I experienced in the morning was just from getting the best pounding of my life. By late afternoon, my satisfaction morphed into unbelievably horny. I went from "never want to do that again" to desperately wanting Damien again. That was my state of mind and body as I left work.

Nerdstorm's Ottawa staff all disappeared and went their separate ways home. That's Ottawa for you. People think the capital of Canada must be a great place to visit but the truth is that once you've seen Parliament and the Rideau Canal, Ottawa has little to offer a visitor. Ottawa is where you go to live when Hamilton becomes too exciting for you. The people who live in Ottawa don't help to make the city visitor-friendly either. If you don't belong to one of their cliques, you're nobody.

As I walked across the mall to my hotel, the lack of shoppers and mall rats only added to my feeling of loneliness. That's when I noticed that this mall had a love shop. It occurred to me that, if I couldn't have a real man tonight, perhaps a suitable sex toy inside me could substitute for Damien. I've never considered using sex toys until now. As you may have guessed from my pre-marital experiences and my adultery, I'm not someone who wouldn't preclude the use of auto-eroticism. On the other hand, the rebbutzin who taught Judaism to girls in the shul emphatically discouraged us from playing with ourselves. The example she used was that of Onan "spilling his seed on the ground" for which God zapped him dead as a result. The moral to Onan's story, according to the rebbutzin: do not masturbate, regardless of sex.

My conclusion is quite the opposite. Onan's sin was not doing Tamar properly, not masturbation. But even if spilling sperm is the sin that Torah cautions against, think about this: do women have the equipment to produce sperm and then spill it on the ground? I don't think so or else why would women need men to reproduce? Maybe the application of the Onan story to women is found somewhere in the Talmud. Since Orthodox Jews don't teach Talmud to women, I can't say for sure.

My father didn't rely on the Talmud to discourage masturbation. He warned my brothers with a straight face that they would grow hair on the palm of their hand should they masturbate even once. On the other hand, my mother never warned me or my sister that we would develop pimples on our fingertips if we played with ourselves. I never saw my brothers shave their hands and nothing ever happened to me from playing rub-a-nub regularly at night.

I hadn't played with myself since my first sexual experience with Barry. But now my marriage with Barry was essentially over except for the paperwork. Beginning with my first extra-marital experience the previous evening, I was on a course of sexual exploration. Trying some sort of sex toy would merely be the next stage. I looked around the mall and couldn't see anybody who might know me so I entered the love shop.

The saleslady was having an animated conversation in strong working class jouale with other customers. Since this was my first time in a place such as this, I decided to do a bit of browsing. On one side of the store, there was a wide assortment of sex manuals. I always considered myself an expert on sex so I was surprised to find that there were so many different positions for sex that I never knew about. It was so enlightening that I didn't notice the saleslady behind me. In far more cultured French than she spoke to customers she apparently knew, she asked:

"Puis-je vous aider, madame?"

I turned to answer and got a better look at the saleslady. She was an exact copy of my high school French teacher, Mme. Bâtarde, right down to the tight bun at the back of her head. She couldn't really be Mme. Bâtarde, of course, because she would be in an old folks home, not selling sex paraphernalia after all these years. Since the saleslady didn't have a name tag and she never introduced herself, I will call her Mme. Bâtarde for convenience. I didn't know the correct French words for the technology I was after so I answered her in English:

"Do you carry any dildos in stock?"

Like Mme. Bâtarde, her English was cultivated with only a slight accent.

"Please follow me to the other side of the store. We have the finest assortment of sex toys outside of Metro Montreal. In this case, we have our standard models moulded in soft but firm vinyl. Their resilient texture extends to the flexible plastic testicles for that realistic feeling when in use. Each dildo fits the optional suction cup that solidly grips any smooth, hard surface for those moments when the woman needs to be on the top.

In the next case, we have the more high-tech female sex toys. All our inflatable dildos are equipped with pressure relief valves so that the design specifications and the consequences of over-exuberant pumping can be avoided. The vibrating dildos have an analogue frequency control so that the user has an infinite number of choices to hit the right spot at just the right frequency. Myself, I'm particularly partial to the Squirmy model. Le Squirmy adds extra dimensions to sexual violation.

For the more adventurous and discriminating woman, I suggest some double-headed dildos for those occasions when that special girlfriend visits. For the woman struggling with an under-endowed husband or boyfriend, my recommendation would be a strap-on extension. I don't suppose your husband or lover comes up short in that department, does he? My husband uses the French Tickler extension most effectively."

I paid no attention to Mme. Bâtarde's sales pitch for her high-tech models. My eyes had already moved on to the next case, filled with huge black dildos, each one longer and thicker than the next one. My eyes were transfixed on the blister packs that seemed to stretch across the full width of the display case. Each black dildo had realistic veins molded prominently along the thick shaft. The heftiest models made my pussy tingle. I fantasized Damien's shlong inside of me right there in the middle of the store.

Mme. Bâtarde must have caught me gawking at her collection lustfully but with respectful awe. "I see our porn star collection interests you. Each model is an actual reproduction of the fascinating penis that appears in those movies. For example, closest to you, we have a 23 centimeters Sean Michaels reproduction. Above that is the Lexington Steel at 27 centimeters. I particularly admire the Black Thunder at 36 centimeters."

A dreamy look came across Mme. Bâtarde's face as she paused momentarily. "I don't recommend any of these heavy-duty models as they are sold without any warranty whatsoever. They should be used with caution and only after practice with less hefty models. Perhaps I could interest you in one of our Japanese imports. The Japanese are wonderfully fond of incorporating electronics in their products, which must be appealing to a modern woman like you. If you buy two at the regular price, we will include a free pair of Ben-Wa balls."

I was already set on the Sean Michaels as the closest to the length and shape of Damien's shlong, except for the foreskin of course. Since I was already telling little white lies to keep my affair secret, one more wouldn't hurt.

"Can I look again at the Sean Michaels replica? I want to buy a gift for a friend. I assure you that my friend has the requisite experience to use such a device."

Sean Michaels was too big to fit in my purse so the saleslady packed it in a plain plastic bag like the ones you get at small grocery stores. On the way back to the hotel, I picked up a sandwich at the food court and proceeded to settle in my room for the night like any other bored visitor to Ottawa. I called home and the baby sitter answered. That momser Barry was "working late" again. I left a message for Barry that I had a business meeting as well and asked to speak to Michelle and Ethan. After talking to the kids, I hung up in a vengeful mood. I felt totally justified for what I had done last night and what I was about to do tonight. I let my anger subside and made a report to head office on what was going right, what still needed to be done and what stock hadn't arrived as yet.

By the time I finished my sandwich and the report, it was 8:30. I was becoming unbelievably hot and bothered so I took my new purchase out of the blister pack, admiring every centimeter, even sniffing it but there was only a faint plastic smell. I got the lubricant from the cosmetic case and placed it and the dildo on the table beside the bed. I undressed myself except for my panties and wondered what to do next, never having used a dildo on myself. I didn't want to just jam this thing in. After a moment of thought, it occurred to me that, if I couldn't see Damien again tonight, I would create a dream date with him in my mind so I could get into the mood to do myself.

I closed my eyes and imagined that Damien and I weren't afraid to be seen in public at the Ottawa symphony. He was so proud as he showed me off to the crowd milling around the lobby. The piece the symphony played was by my favourite composer is Arvo Pärt, his beautiful Magnificat. Our hands entwined as Damien leaned over and whispered in my ear that I was going to bear his child after tonight. At that moment, my pussy started tingling. Skipping the rest of the performance, I imagined us smooching in the taxi ride to my hotel. Then we embraced inside my hotel room, our tongues slowly exploring each other's mouth. Damien slowly removed my clothing down to my panties, letting my dress fall to the floor. He carried me to the bed, letting me watch him and undress completely naked. Climbing into bed, Damien began making slow, passionate love to me.

I rubbed my bubbies and tummy the way I like to be stimulated, fantasizing that Damien was running his hands over me. Using my fertile imagination and memory skills, I smelled Damien's body next to mine. I rubbed my breasts and caressed my nipples, then moved my hands down my abdomen slowly. Taking my time to reach my mons venus, I rubbed my mound over my panties and gently down between my thighs to stimulate my clitoris. It worked as I felt my clitoris poke out of my pussy lips. My juices seeped through the fabric, coating my fingers as I continued rubbing the cotton gusset deeper into my pussy slit. I teased it, toyed with it, getting as close to orgasm as I could without losing all control. My imaginary Damien had worked me up to perfection. How could it be otherwise since he was doing exactly what I wanted done to me.

I was close to the edge so I decided that was the moment to insert the dildo if I wanted a vaginal orgasm. I arched my hips to pull off my by now soaked panties. Then I had a look at the size of the dildo and decided that I needed the help of some lubricant, no matter how wet I was. Spreading my legs wide, I spread my pussy lips and ran the tip up and down my slit just short of my clitoris. An orgasm started to build so I had to take the plunge. It was now or ever. Putting the tip of the dildo at the opening of my vagina, I pushed with just a little. Nothing happened. I was so tight that I couldn't force it in. Having this much trouble with a porn star's shlong made me appreciate how female porn stars earn their pay,

I placed a pillow under my tuches to get a better angle, breathing rhythmically to relax and not clench up. After relaxing for a moment with my pussy at a better angle, the dildo slipped in. Gripping the shaft in one hand, my other hand rubbed my swollen, erect clitoris lightly. I eased the dildo out just a little and made sure that it was coated with lubricant and my own juices. Then I eased backwards, starting a slight rocking motion, pulling the plastic shmuck out, then back in. With each stroke, the dildo sank a little deeper.

Faster and faster, I shagged myself, picturing my imaginary Damien plunging his black shmuck deeper and deeper into me. By the time I felt that most of the dildo was in and became quite comfortable with its size, I arched my back, raising my tuches from the pillow and gave one final thrust. I held my breath until I felt the tip of the dildo touch the top of my insides, then gasped in a combination of pain and lust. I just lay still for a minute with my eyes closed, gripping the shaft with my inner muscles, imagining having Damien between my legs again and enjoying the sensation of being absolutely and completely filled.

I discovered an angle to come in at that just drove me crazy - a delicious sweet spot deep inside, up near the top somewhere. That angle produced a feeling of nearly unbearable tightness and suspense. Sometimes when Barry was holding me bent over by the hips and thrusting into me doggie-style from behind like the animal he used to be, he found that spot. Unfortunately, he tended to change the angle just a bit too soon. Damien hit the spot several times last night but still not continuously at this delicious angle. By now Barry and Damien had vanished from my mind completely. I was in control and loving it. What I was doing was all about me, no man necessary.

The engorged tip of my clitoris was exposed just below the top of my open clam. I touched it ever so lightly and over the edge I went. As my orgasm subsided, I lay there with that huge thing mostly inside me, the hairs of my pussy wet and matted and the plastic balls scratching my thighs. My arms dropped to my sides, leaving quite a few centimeters of black plastic shlong protruding from my pussy. I wished I could keep going forever but my body was limp from the exertion.

Mme. Bâtarde insisted that the plastic in her dildos perfectly simulated shlong but I disagree. To me, a dildo is a much less than perfect substitute for a real man because it lacks the warmth of the real thing. I also missed that delicious feeling inside me as the man softens once he's fully satisfied. I pulled out my new toy and checked the time. It was past 9:30, over an hour of doing myself. I cleaned up my pussy and my toy, placing it in the luggage just in case Barry didn't fuck me this weekend. I was tired but it was too early to sleep so I turned on the 10:00 o'clock news.

Peter Mansbridge in all his bald glory told the usual dismal tale: terrorism, a falling Loonie droughts and floods in various parts of the planet. Finally, Peter delivered some good news. Canada had just signed a trade and cultural agreement with Xxxxxxx. After the Minister of Trade and Industry delivered some particularly boring platitudes for the occasion, he invited the ambassador of Xxxxxxx by name to the microphone. My ears perked up. That was Damien's real name! The camera turned to the ambassador completely shocking me. The ambassador of Xxxxxxx was none other than Damien.

Damien walked up to the microphone. Behind him were the two creepy dudes I met in the hotel lobby, decked out in shades and looking left and right for whatever. They had to be his bodyguards. That freaked me out again. Likely one or both of them were standing outside the door to my hotel room and listening to me moaning and screaming while their boss was doing me. I'm shy about my own kids hearing me make noise when Barry and I make love so you can imagine how I felt about one, possibly two, armed Africans listening at the door to my screams of passion. I was so distraught that I didn't listen to most of Damien's speech until he reached the conclusion:

"During my short time in your country, I have been particularly impressed by the warmth and kindness of the Canadian people to me personally. As our two countries are moving closer together, I am sure that all Xxxxxxxians look forward to developing intimate friendships with Canadians. In particular, I personally wish to further deepen my relations with those Canadians who recently have so patiently shown me Canadian customs and manners."

I was stunned by what I just heard. Last night I had my brains fucked out by the ambassador of an important African country. Tonight, he announced on national television, in his own diplomatic way, that

I,

an ordinary Canadian woman, gave

him

the good ride. It made me proud to have served my country so well. I texted him right away:

"saw u on tv 2nite ur secret safe w/me bt i need 2cu 2moro luv u regina"

His reply was a little wordier. I guess that older men aren't into talking in text.

"Dearest Regina. We need see each other again soon. I love you too. My time is not my own and we must be careful. I want to meet you next week if you are in Ottawa. Please say yes because we must talk."

I was disappointed with having to wait until next week before resolving matters but I replied with just "yes". I assumed that one word of text wouldn't get Damien into trouble. I finished early on Friday and took a flight back to Toronto that afternoon. Dolores gave me a quick report on Michelle and Ethan and left as quickly as politeness required. Barry wasn't home so I fed the kids early. When he finally got home, we ate supper in silence. Barry didn't ask how my work in Ottawa went and I certainly wasn't interested in the details of what he's been up to. When we went to bed that night, I managed to avoid having sex with Barry by saying that I was tired from my flight. He seemed OK with that and rolled over with his back to me.

I've always insisted that Barry and I spend all day Saturday with family instead of working. So we went to the morning service at the shul. We go to a Reform shul now that we moved away from our parents. In a Reform shul, I can sit with my husband. I'm considered a real person with opinions. I never bought into the way women are forced to sit in the bad seats in an Orthodox synagogue. Equality of the sexes just isn't something practiced in an Orthodox synagogue. The separate women's section always offended the feminist in me. Any religion that doesn't treat women as equals and use their talents wisely is wasting 50% of its human potential in my opinion.

After shul, Barry took us to a Chinese restaurant for lunch. OK already, I know Chinese food isn't kosher but how do you explain that to kids who are crazy about it? We spent the afternoon with Jewish friends with kids about the same age as Michelle and Ethan. The kids played by themselves and we chatted on the patio all afternoon. It was difficult to give our friends my whole attention when all I could think about was my sexual experiences over the past two days. It was doubly difficult when the conversation turned to my week in Ottawa. Still, I managed to make my week sound like all business.