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Claire had been trying to have an orgasm since breakfast.
Night had already fallen and she remained completely frustrated and wholly unsatisfied. At this point, it had become less about pleasure and more about the principle of the matter.
The Clam Hammer had arrived two days earlier in packaging so aggressively discreet, it might as well have had “SEX TOY” stenciled across the side in bright red letters. Claire signed for it with flushed cheeks and a pounding heart, absolutely certain the Amazon driver knew what was in the box. The faint smirk on his lips had done nothing to convince her otherwise.
She immediately carried her illicit box to the laundry room and shoved it onto the highest shelf behind the container with the detergent pods. Her husband never did laundry, and her kids couldn’t reach it. She stepped back, made sure the box wasn’t visible, and nodded.
Perfect.
For the rest of the day, Claire went about her routine with a secret smile on her lips as she imagined the glorious moment when she’d finally have twenty uninterrupted minutes alone with the Clam Hammer.
She was still so naïve then.
* * * * *
At nine-seventeen the next morning, Claire saw her chance. The kids were already at school, her husband had gone to the office, and the dog was asleep. For the first time in two days, she was alone. Completely and gloriously alone.
After creeping through the house, making sure everybody was, in fact, gone, Claire darted into the laundry room. She retrieved the box from behind the detergent pods with the slow deliberateness of a bomb technician defusing a nuclear warhead.
She buried it in the bottom of a laundry basket and carried it to the bathroom upstairs. Once inside the bathroom, she locked the door. Then checked it.
And then checked it one more time.
Only then did she remove the Clam Hammer from its box and admire it for a moment.
“Good God,” she whispered reverently.
Claire pulled down her pajama bottoms, readying her mind and body for the torrent of ecstasy about to descend upon her when she noticed a small sticker affixed to the side: CHARGE FULLY BEFORE FIRST USE.
She stared at it for almost a full minute.
“Fuck.”
* * * * *
Sitting on the floor of the bathroom, Claire quickly thumbed through the instruction manual. Why the damned thing wasn’t as simple as plug-and-play was beyond her. After several frantic minutes, she found the charging instructions and her heart sank. The Clam Hammer would need four to six hours to fully charge.
“Goddammit.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. Nine-thirty. Did she really need a full six hours? If she used the low end, four hours, that meant it would be charged by one-thirty. Her kids didn’t usually get home from school until two. That gave her thirty glorious minutes.
More than enough.
That settled, she found the charging cable in the box and plugged it in. Still cursing under her breath, Claire set the device on the vanity to charge. But then she caught sight of it in the mirror and froze. She couldn’t leave it sitting there. What if somebody came over and had to use the bathroom? How exactly would she explain the long, girthy device plugged into the wall?
Scooping it all up, Claire streaked around the house, searching for somewhere discreet to plug it in. After rejecting the kitchen, the guest room, the garage, two closets, and the living room, she finally plugged it into the outlet beside her nightstand and stashed the Clam Hammer under her pillow.
Claire glanced at the clock.
“Four hours,” she said. “You and me at one-thirty.”
* * * * *
Claire sat in a chair on the other side of the room, staring at her pillow as if she could make the Clam Hammer charge faster with the power of her mind. She chewed on the side of her nail and tapped her foot on the floor. She checked her watch, dismayed to see only three minutes had passed since the last time she’d looked.
Time was clearly broken.
“Mooooooom? You home?”
She shot to her feet. No.
Not now.
Dear God, not now.
The front door slammed downstairs and Claire felt like her heart might actually explode in her chest.
“Moooom!”
Feet pounded up the stairs, and before she could move, her bedroom door flew open. Her son, Toby, stood in the doorway staring at her strangely.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“It’s only one-twenty. What are you doing here?” she croaked.
“I live here.”
Claire cleared her throat and tried to gather herself. “What are you doing home so early?”
“Practice was canceled today so Mrs. Weathers drove us home.”
“Oh,” Claire said through clenched teeth. “I’ll have to be sure to thank her.”
“Anyway, I’m going to go do my homework.”
“Okay. I’ll… I’ll make you a snack.”
“Okay.”
Toby disappeared into his room and slammed the door. Claire stared wistfully at her pillow. Half an hour. She’d only needed thirty minutes more. Thirty goddamn minutes. With a pained sigh from somewhere deep within her soul, she trudged downstairs to make Toby the snack she’d promised him.
* * * * *
Toby’s snack in hand, Claire slogged back upstairs. As she passed her bedroom door, she froze and nearly dropped the tray.
“Wh—what are you doing in my room?” she screeched.
“I was looking for a pen.”
“I don’t have any in here.”
“Yeah, I know. I couldn’t find one.”
“You shouldn’t be in mommy’s room without asking first.”
“I needed a pen.”
She glanced at her pillow, hands shaking so hard the plate was rattling on the tray.
“Well, ask first,” she said.
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Thank you. Now, here’s your snac—”
“What’s that under your pillow?”
Claire’s heart felt like it had seized up. Her eyes darted from her son to her pillow and back again. She swallowed hard.
“Wh—what?” she asked.
Toby pointed to the cord. “The cord. What’s plugged in under your pillow?”
“Oh. Uh. That’s mommy’s new… electric toothbrush.”
He pulled a face. “Why is it under your pillow?”
“Uhh… because I was hiding it from the dog,” she stammered. “You know Barley always runs off with things.”
He nodded. “That’s smart. He’ll never find it there.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought too.”
Toby took the tray from her hands and bounded out of the room. As his bedroom door slammed shut, Claire grabbed the doorframe and exhaled. That was far too close. She stared at the pillow and the painfully obvious cord sticking out from under it. She should move the Clam Hammer elsewhere. Before she could, though, her phone buzzed with an incoming text. She pulled it out of her pocket and quickly opened her messages.
Hey honey. Knocking off early today. Picking up dinner on my way home. Pizza?
Claire stared at the screen then up at the ceiling.
“Why?” she groaned. “Why do you hate me?”
* * * * *
By the time Thomas came home with the promised pizza in hand, Claire had accepted that her scheduled date with the Clam Hammer was going to have to wait. The hours passed by in a blur, absorbed by pizza that tasted like cardboard, homework, a minor incident involving Barley and a bag of flour, and Toby arguing with his sister about whose turn it was to choose what they watched after dinner.
Claire moved through it all in a stupor. Every now and then she glanced at the stairs longingly, knowing the Clam Hammer was up there. Waiting. She imagined she could hear it beckoning her. Mocking her.
“Babe, you okay?”
She turned to Thomas and nodded. “Just tired.”
“I hear that.”
Claire gave herself a shake and focused on keeping herself busy. Distracted. It was safer that way. But she couldn’t stop glancing at her watch.
By ten, the kids were in bed.
By ten-thirty, the kitchen and living room had been cleaned up.
By eleven, Barley had gotten over his flour-induced trauma and was snoring quietly on the couch.
At eleven-fifteen, her husband yawned. “I’m going to take a shower and turn in.”
Hope surged through Claire. Her husband never took less than twenty minutes in the shower. Sometimes longer. All she needed was ten minutes. Five if the Clam Hammer was as good as all the advertising said it was. She could do this while Thomas was in the shower. Her body tingled with excitement and anticipation.
She waited downstairs, pretending to be tidying something in the kitchen, while her husband walked up to their bedroom. When she heard the shower start up, Claire’s heart jumped into her throat. She ran upstairs as quickly and as quietly as she could, a grin on her lips and a giggle in her heart. She'd take the Clam Hammer into the laundry room and handle business there.
On tiptoes, Claire crept into the bedroom. Thomas was in the shower singing—badly. She dashed to the bed and slid her hand beneath the pillow. The moment her fingers grasped the long silicone device, a smile crept across her face.
“Hello, my friend.”
She unplugged it and bit her bottom lip, then pressed the button… and nothing.
“What the hell?”
She pressed the button again. And again, nothing.
“No, no, no, no. You can’t do this to me.”
Claire pressed the button half a dozen more times and still, nothing happened. No lights. No movement. No life whatsoever. It was as dead as her last device, except that one at least had the decency to die only after years of faithful service.
“Come. On. You stupid thing,” she growled as she stabbed the button.
“What was that, babe?”
Clutching the Clam Hammer like a priest holding a cross as he performed an exorcism, Claire froze. She’d been so caught up in the device not working, she hadn’t heard the shower turn off. She swallowed hard and stuffed the device back under her pillow just as Thomas leaned out of the bathroom.
“Did you say something, babe?”
“Oh. Um. Yeah,” she said. “I, uh, had my phone plugged into this outlet over here earlier but it, uh, didn’t charge.”
“Oh yeah, I guess I forgot to tell you. I installed energy-efficient timers on all the power strips in the house.”
“You did what?”
“Put timers on all the power strips,” he replied. “No sense in letting them sit there sucking electricity all day.”
She just stared at him.
“Vampire loads,” he said as if it explained everything. “Having them on timers is going to save us a fortune. Pretty smart, huh?”
As he ducked back into the bathroom, Claire stared at the cord then down at the power strip. The red indicator light was out. It was off. And had been off all goddamn day. She pulled the pillow back and stared at the dead, powerless, completely useless Clam Hammer.
“Fucking vampire loads,” she muttered to herself.
It was in that moment that Claire finally understood why women murdered their husbands.
Night had already fallen and she remained completely frustrated and wholly unsatisfied. At this point, it had become less about pleasure and more about the principle of the matter.
The Clam Hammer had arrived two days earlier in packaging so aggressively discreet, it might as well have had “SEX TOY” stenciled across the side in bright red letters. Claire signed for it with flushed cheeks and a pounding heart, absolutely certain the Amazon driver knew what was in the box. The faint smirk on his lips had done nothing to convince her otherwise.
She immediately carried her illicit box to the laundry room and shoved it onto the highest shelf behind the container with the detergent pods. Her husband never did laundry, and her kids couldn’t reach it. She stepped back, made sure the box wasn’t visible, and nodded.
Perfect.
For the rest of the day, Claire went about her routine with a secret smile on her lips as she imagined the glorious moment when she’d finally have twenty uninterrupted minutes alone with the Clam Hammer.
She was still so naïve then.
* * * * *
At nine-seventeen the next morning, Claire saw her chance. The kids were already at school, her husband had gone to the office, and the dog was asleep. For the first time in two days, she was alone. Completely and gloriously alone.
After creeping through the house, making sure everybody was, in fact, gone, Claire darted into the laundry room. She retrieved the box from behind the detergent pods with the slow deliberateness of a bomb technician defusing a nuclear warhead.
She buried it in the bottom of a laundry basket and carried it to the bathroom upstairs. Once inside the bathroom, she locked the door. Then checked it.
And then checked it one more time.
Only then did she remove the Clam Hammer from its box and admire it for a moment.
“Good God,” she whispered reverently.
Claire pulled down her pajama bottoms, readying her mind and body for the torrent of ecstasy about to descend upon her when she noticed a small sticker affixed to the side: CHARGE FULLY BEFORE FIRST USE.
She stared at it for almost a full minute.
“Fuck.”
* * * * *
Sitting on the floor of the bathroom, Claire quickly thumbed through the instruction manual. Why the damned thing wasn’t as simple as plug-and-play was beyond her. After several frantic minutes, she found the charging instructions and her heart sank. The Clam Hammer would need four to six hours to fully charge.
“Goddammit.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. Nine-thirty. Did she really need a full six hours? If she used the low end, four hours, that meant it would be charged by one-thirty. Her kids didn’t usually get home from school until two. That gave her thirty glorious minutes.
More than enough.
That settled, she found the charging cable in the box and plugged it in. Still cursing under her breath, Claire set the device on the vanity to charge. But then she caught sight of it in the mirror and froze. She couldn’t leave it sitting there. What if somebody came over and had to use the bathroom? How exactly would she explain the long, girthy device plugged into the wall?
Scooping it all up, Claire streaked around the house, searching for somewhere discreet to plug it in. After rejecting the kitchen, the guest room, the garage, two closets, and the living room, she finally plugged it into the outlet beside her nightstand and stashed the Clam Hammer under her pillow.
Claire glanced at the clock.
“Four hours,” she said. “You and me at one-thirty.”
* * * * *
Claire sat in a chair on the other side of the room, staring at her pillow as if she could make the Clam Hammer charge faster with the power of her mind. She chewed on the side of her nail and tapped her foot on the floor. She checked her watch, dismayed to see only three minutes had passed since the last time she’d looked.
Time was clearly broken.
“Mooooooom? You home?”
She shot to her feet. No.
Not now.
Dear God, not now.
The front door slammed downstairs and Claire felt like her heart might actually explode in her chest.
“Moooom!”
Feet pounded up the stairs, and before she could move, her bedroom door flew open. Her son, Toby, stood in the doorway staring at her strangely.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“It’s only one-twenty. What are you doing here?” she croaked.
“I live here.”
Claire cleared her throat and tried to gather herself. “What are you doing home so early?”
“Practice was canceled today so Mrs. Weathers drove us home.”
“Oh,” Claire said through clenched teeth. “I’ll have to be sure to thank her.”
“Anyway, I’m going to go do my homework.”
“Okay. I’ll… I’ll make you a snack.”
“Okay.”
Toby disappeared into his room and slammed the door. Claire stared wistfully at her pillow. Half an hour. She’d only needed thirty minutes more. Thirty goddamn minutes. With a pained sigh from somewhere deep within her soul, she trudged downstairs to make Toby the snack she’d promised him.
* * * * *
Toby’s snack in hand, Claire slogged back upstairs. As she passed her bedroom door, she froze and nearly dropped the tray.
“Wh—what are you doing in my room?” she screeched.
“I was looking for a pen.”
“I don’t have any in here.”
“Yeah, I know. I couldn’t find one.”
“You shouldn’t be in mommy’s room without asking first.”
“I needed a pen.”
She glanced at her pillow, hands shaking so hard the plate was rattling on the tray.
“Well, ask first,” she said.
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Thank you. Now, here’s your snac—”
“What’s that under your pillow?”
Claire’s heart felt like it had seized up. Her eyes darted from her son to her pillow and back again. She swallowed hard.
“Wh—what?” she asked.
Toby pointed to the cord. “The cord. What’s plugged in under your pillow?”
“Oh. Uh. That’s mommy’s new… electric toothbrush.”
He pulled a face. “Why is it under your pillow?”
“Uhh… because I was hiding it from the dog,” she stammered. “You know Barley always runs off with things.”
He nodded. “That’s smart. He’ll never find it there.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought too.”
Toby took the tray from her hands and bounded out of the room. As his bedroom door slammed shut, Claire grabbed the doorframe and exhaled. That was far too close. She stared at the pillow and the painfully obvious cord sticking out from under it. She should move the Clam Hammer elsewhere. Before she could, though, her phone buzzed with an incoming text. She pulled it out of her pocket and quickly opened her messages.
Hey honey. Knocking off early today. Picking up dinner on my way home. Pizza?
Claire stared at the screen then up at the ceiling.
“Why?” she groaned. “Why do you hate me?”
* * * * *
By the time Thomas came home with the promised pizza in hand, Claire had accepted that her scheduled date with the Clam Hammer was going to have to wait. The hours passed by in a blur, absorbed by pizza that tasted like cardboard, homework, a minor incident involving Barley and a bag of flour, and Toby arguing with his sister about whose turn it was to choose what they watched after dinner.
Claire moved through it all in a stupor. Every now and then she glanced at the stairs longingly, knowing the Clam Hammer was up there. Waiting. She imagined she could hear it beckoning her. Mocking her.
“Babe, you okay?”
She turned to Thomas and nodded. “Just tired.”
“I hear that.”
Claire gave herself a shake and focused on keeping herself busy. Distracted. It was safer that way. But she couldn’t stop glancing at her watch.
By ten, the kids were in bed.
By ten-thirty, the kitchen and living room had been cleaned up.
By eleven, Barley had gotten over his flour-induced trauma and was snoring quietly on the couch.
At eleven-fifteen, her husband yawned. “I’m going to take a shower and turn in.”
Hope surged through Claire. Her husband never took less than twenty minutes in the shower. Sometimes longer. All she needed was ten minutes. Five if the Clam Hammer was as good as all the advertising said it was. She could do this while Thomas was in the shower. Her body tingled with excitement and anticipation.
She waited downstairs, pretending to be tidying something in the kitchen, while her husband walked up to their bedroom. When she heard the shower start up, Claire’s heart jumped into her throat. She ran upstairs as quickly and as quietly as she could, a grin on her lips and a giggle in her heart. She'd take the Clam Hammer into the laundry room and handle business there.
On tiptoes, Claire crept into the bedroom. Thomas was in the shower singing—badly. She dashed to the bed and slid her hand beneath the pillow. The moment her fingers grasped the long silicone device, a smile crept across her face.
“Hello, my friend.”
She unplugged it and bit her bottom lip, then pressed the button… and nothing.
“What the hell?”
She pressed the button again. And again, nothing.
“No, no, no, no. You can’t do this to me.”
Claire pressed the button half a dozen more times and still, nothing happened. No lights. No movement. No life whatsoever. It was as dead as her last device, except that one at least had the decency to die only after years of faithful service.
“Come. On. You stupid thing,” she growled as she stabbed the button.
“What was that, babe?”
Clutching the Clam Hammer like a priest holding a cross as he performed an exorcism, Claire froze. She’d been so caught up in the device not working, she hadn’t heard the shower turn off. She swallowed hard and stuffed the device back under her pillow just as Thomas leaned out of the bathroom.
“Did you say something, babe?”
“Oh. Um. Yeah,” she said. “I, uh, had my phone plugged into this outlet over here earlier but it, uh, didn’t charge.”
“Oh yeah, I guess I forgot to tell you. I installed energy-efficient timers on all the power strips in the house.”
“You did what?”
“Put timers on all the power strips,” he replied. “No sense in letting them sit there sucking electricity all day.”
She just stared at him.
“Vampire loads,” he said as if it explained everything. “Having them on timers is going to save us a fortune. Pretty smart, huh?”
As he ducked back into the bathroom, Claire stared at the cord then down at the power strip. The red indicator light was out. It was off. And had been off all goddamn day. She pulled the pillow back and stared at the dead, powerless, completely useless Clam Hammer.
“Fucking vampire loads,” she muttered to herself.
It was in that moment that Claire finally understood why women murdered their husbands.
no subject
Date: 2026-10-05 11:37 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2026-10-06 12:11 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2026-10-06 01:36 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2026-10-06 04:21 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2026-10-06 04:24 am (UTC)From:And oh my god, do I feel this. Sounds like something my ex would have done to me, completely unintentionally, and completely oblivious.
That said, said ex is also the one who told the city councilman proudly about his wife's toy drawer. Basically told on himself, but didn't realise it and thought he was telling on me? Also sent said councilman on a ride-along with cops and told him to get in on the betting when they served a search warrant that included a bedroom. Councilman was up in arms about the adult toy stores in town - exH wanted him to see that every woman's bedroom had a toy drawer and he was going to get himself unelected real quick if he tried to close down the local toy source.
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Date: 2026-10-06 05:46 am (UTC)From:no subject
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Date: 2026-10-08 09:05 am (UTC)From:You have SUCH a knack for this style of writing, as well as for dialogue and stories that are catchy, strange, and yet, SO very real. Absolutely excellent work! <3
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Date: 2026-10-08 08:12 pm (UTC)From:Poor Claire!
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Date: 2026-10-08 11:00 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2026-10-09 10:07 am (UTC)From:no subject
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Date: 2026-10-11 11:22 pm (UTC)From: