Chapter 12

Of Headlights and High Beams

The line to the closed double-doors of the restaurant started a couple of hundred feet in front of us, and continued for possibly several miles behind; thousands of people, milling about on a Friday night in a mall parking lot, waiting excitedly but patiently under a darkened sky, on little more than a rumor.

It was my first date in three months, if you could call it a date.  In truth I wasn’t looking to score with Minnie, though considering the raging hard-on I'd had since seeing my 'vette again, I certainly wouldn't be so stupid as to rule it out.  She was here as my guest, and I really had no desire to see, what I thought we were about to see, alone.  Besides, if Yvette did show up, I would need all the emotional support I could get, support which Minnie's beautifully rounded sweater pillows could easily provide.

I felt the backs of her fingers against my cheek.  “You look much better without the beard, luv.  You scrub up quite nice.”

I smiled down at her, a smile that for the first time in a long time wasn’t rueful.  But I was by no means happy either.  “How are your feet?” I asked.  “Standing in line for almost ninety minutes, those heels must be killing you.”

“Oh, don’t fret, luv.  I can go all day on these things, plus dancing – that’s a hint,” she said, digging an elbow into my ribs.  “But I still wish you’d tell me what’s going on,” and here she stamped her foot lightly in mock consternation, causing her big funbags to jiggle enticingly.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Minnie.  But you’ll find out when those doors up ahead open in fifteen minutes.”  She looked up at me with an excited smile, expectant, her attitude precisely the same as everyone else in that long, long line.

It was while en route that my suspicions were confirmed, when an investigative reporter had finally put two and two together, and reported that the Headlights restaurant chain, which had gone quietly defunct two months ago, had done so after being quietly purchased by an unnamed consortium.  That same consortium, it turned out, had also purchased and closed down several other franchises, blanketing the entire country, as well as a few units scattered among Mexico, Canada, Great Britain, and Australia.

There was still no official word from anyone at Custom Rod magazine about Blaze, but commercials for it were still being broadcast, each concluding with the countdown timer that was responsible for a growing national hysteria not seen since Orson Welles’s 1953 radio broadcast of ‘The War of the Worlds’.

We had found out all of this on the drive over, listening to the news on the stereo in Minnie’s Mini.  Now, being the man, I would ordinarily have driven us in my truck, but this was not an ordinary situation.  I did drive, though, but at Minnie’s request we took her car, for despite the fact that she was quite attractive, and knew she was quite attractive, the fact remained that she was seventeen years older than me, which only served to increase her anxiety that her date might run out on her in favor of some younger piece of tail, and thus leave her without transportation.  But driving her little car was no hardship for me, especially considering that it had once belonged to me, and was also responsible for the life I was leading now.

It is a commonly held belief that the best place to forget the loss of one woman is between the thighs of another.  Good counsel for some, maybe, but as I have never been terribly good with women I had to pursue other options in the days immediately following my unexpected divorce, lest I find myself having another ‘accident’, possibly involving something more substantial than a sardine can.

The ’63 Mini I’d had my eye on had still been for sale.  She was in reasonably good shape, in view of her age.  The old fucker who owned her wanted six grand, which was far too much, considering the state of her upholstery – trashed would be putting it mildly.  He mentioned that he had other buyers on the hook, but I sweetened the deal by adding five hundred bucks to his asking price.  Fuck the money, I needed her.

For five days straight I worked like a madman, existing on nothing more than coffee and junk food, using my new car to help me cope with the loss of my Justine.  I also took up smoking, which helped me to cope with the loss of my ‘vette.

She rolled out of my garage looking like a dream: engine purring, new tires, new brakes, reupholstered seats, and even a new stereo.  I’d painted her royal blue, and for good measure painted the Union Jack on her roof, as well.  I waxed her to a high shine and then took her out for a spin so that I could get a feel for her, and also to get some booze and cigarettes.

It was as I was about to back out of the liquor store’s parking space, a case of Jack Daniels and a couple cartons of smokes on the seat next to me, that I made two important discoveries: that while clothes may make the man, the lack of them certainly makes the woman; and that the British flag can make even a Yank stand stiffly at attention.

She stood outside my car, knocking on the window, bouncing animatedly, huge breasts barely contained within a Union Jack bikini top, and white pants so tight they looked as though they’d been sprayed on her.  She bent at the waist and peered in at me, a red-tressed twenty-something babe, her big boobs wobbling beneath her, swaying hypnotically.  If my dick could talk it would have been singing ‘Rule, Brittania’.

“Is this a ’63?” she asked excitedly, her Cockney accent causing my prick to swell even more, further robbing my brain of much-needed blood.

I rolled down my window, panting like a coyote on the hottest day of the summer.  She looked to be about 5-foot 3-inches tall; the kind of woman you just want to pick up and polish your prick with.  “I…uh…” I started, unable to wrest my eyes from her wondrous, bobbing melons, “…what?”

“Is this a ’63 Mini Cooper?” she asked again, looking longingly at my recently completed work, or so I thought, it being difficult to tell owing to the sizable sunglasses she was wearing.  “It is, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, my throat dry, as though I’d been wandering the desert for days, only to come upon this oasis of boobage, “she’s a ’63.”

She clapped her hands together, causing her incredible juggs to bounce about even more on her tiny frame, then actually began jumping up and down in her excitement, making me all the more thankful that I’d parked in the shade, for I probably would have fainted dead away at the extraordinary display she provided.  “Well, so am I, luv!” she said excitedly.

I got out of the car, also thankful that my painter’s pants were loose enough to camouflage the cannon that was already primed and ready to fire.  She tottered about, cooing, admiring my car, her hands trailing gently over her royal blue body.  When she had made one complete revolution around it she stopped and held out a beautifully manicured hand to me.  “Please forgive me,” she said, somewhat breathless, which only heightened the incredible mammalian magnificence before me, “for behavin’ like a silly schoolgirl.  You see, my name is Minnie Cooper, and I was born in 1963, too.”

I could see my look of disbelief reflected in her overlarge sunglasses, and she smiled at my unintended flattery (I could believe her funny name…but pushing fifty?  Pull the other one, why don’t you?)  Laughing, she gracefully reached up and removed her shades, her crow’s feet and laugh lines wordlessly confirming that she was not the twenty-ish I had originally taken her for.  “M-my name’s Rod,” I stammered.  “Rod Wright.”

She gave a pleased little smirk, something I receive from so many women once they hear my name, and I uttered yet another silent thank-you to my dad for having talked my mom into it.  “So how long have you had her, Roddy?  Where did you get her?” she asked excitedly.  “I’ve been looking for one for years.”

I smiled, despite my heartache and despite her years, for her bubbly nature and wondrous rack acted like a tonic, making me feel at least a little less miserable.  “Five days ago,” I said, stroking her roof above the driver’s side door.  “I bought her from this old guy, south of town.”

Her eyes widened.  “Salt and pepper hair?  Big nose?  Always lookin’ always at yer chest?”

I laughed.  “That’s him,” I said.  “That old fart never did look me in the eyes.”

She laughed back, and then sighed.  “Oh, I was goin’ to buy her, but I guess you made a better offer, dint’cha?  I guess I should’ve thrown in that lap dance, eh?  That’s a joke, luv.”  She said this last quickly, perhaps fearing that I might hyperventilate, which I was about to.  “But you’ve already had her restored.  Must ‘ave cost a bundle, that,” she said appreciatively, bending over to look in through the open driver window, giving me an opportunity to appreciate her stunning rear end.

“N-no,” I stammered, lucky to get that much out, “I restored her.”

She straightened back up and whipped around, her lovely rack coming to rest somewhat later.  “You did all this, luv?  In five days?”  Her look of amazement was probably on a par with how I was looking at her.  She pressed her full lips together, a mannerism reminiscent of my former bride.  “Look, luv, I know this is terribly forward of me, but would you be interested in sellin’ ‘er?”

“I, uh…I don’t know,” I said, surprised I was able to string together that many words.  Her eyes were wide in anticipation, her glossy lips slightly parted.  “I, uh…”

“I’ve put you on the spot, ‘aven’t I?” she said, shifting her hips slightly, bringing all of her considerable ammo to bear.  “Tell you what, luv,” and here she reached smoothly into her purse and withdrew a card, which she then pressed to my fluttering chest, “here’s my number.  If you ever decide to sell her, ring me up.  I’ll beat anyone else’s offer, and I’ll give yer a lap dance, to boot.”  She then moved in ever so slightly, giving a quick look down the front of my body, and adding a lascivious smile for good measure.  “I might even throw even throw in a pole dance, as well…Rod.”

She turned and walked away, leaving me to stare at her undulating ass; sun and shadow caressing it in very much the same way as I would like to.  “Minnie?” I said, surprised that I had spoken, and even further surprised by what I was thinking.

She stopped and half-turned, throwing her perfect bosom into profile, knowing precisely the effect it would have on this poor, dumb male, which it of course did.  “Yes, luv?”

“Will you love her?” I said simply.

She hooked a finger over her sunglasses and slid them down a bit, her expression momentarily curious.  Comprehension quickly dawned on her, and her eyes widened as she realized what I was saying.  “I-I already love her,” she said, slowly nodding her head with the utmost seriousness.  “I mean, we’re practically twins, ain’t we?”

That was enough for me.  I tossed the keys to her.  She caught them, bobbling them a bit in her surprise.  “Y-your selling ‘er to me?” she stammered.

“That I am, luv,” I said, enjoying her naked emotion.  “She needs a good home, and someone to love her.  Two things I can’t give her at the moment.”

She gave me a quizzical look, wordlessly inviting me to continue.

“Let’s just say I’m between employers at the moment.”  I told her I’d recently lost my job and was soon to lose my house.  With so many Americans in the same metaphorical boat, I didn’t need to include the destruction of my marriage.

Her arms were around me before I knew it, her body pressed to mine, a faint scent of jasmine invading my nostrils.  “I promise I’ll take care of her for you,” she said, her voice choked with emotion.  She pulled away slightly, looking up at me, happy tears streaming from her eyes.  “But what about you?  Who’s taking care of you, Roddy?”

I could have done it right there; said a few honeyed words that would have had her on her back counting Yvette’s mirrored ceiling tiles before the hour was out.  But I would have made for a truly lousy fuck at that moment, and besides, I’d already had the Mini I’d needed, and she had gotten me through the worst of it.  Anything more would have been greedy, and it was greed that had brought me to ruin.

She wanted to pay me an obscene amount of money for her adopted twin, but I wouldn’t allow it: what I paid, plus parts and paint.  But I did end up getting more from her, though.  The following day she called me with a job offer, as well as the offer of the loft above the shop.  Having no desire to return to the world of precipitates and solutions, I accepted.

And then there was the final offer, found tacked to the door of the loft the day I moved in.  A pink envelope, scented with her perfume, and inside was a picture of her, an artfully grainy black and white photograph of her wearing a skimpy polka-dot bikini, sitting back against the hood of her Mini, one enameled fingernail pressed provocatively to her lower lip, her shapely legs spread just wide enough to reveal her car’s new license plate: 63 MINI.  On the back of the photograph were written two words:

Anytime.  Anywhere.

“There will be other women, Rod…better women…” my teal-colored wife had said, but I did not partake.  I had thought about Minnie, more than once in the days that followed.  Had more than once jerked off to the photo she had left for me.  But never did I take her up on her offer, and now that I was possibly about to see the ‘vette I used to have, I found myself wishing that I had.

“You loved her very much, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry?” I said, a trifle bewildered at being called out of my reverie to find Minnie looking up at me, her startlingly green eyes peering into the depths of me.

“Y’know, I’ve noticed you sometimes, luv.  Standing at your workbench, your mind a million miles away.  A bloke only does that when he’s thinking of two things: love, or shagging.  And if you were thinking about shagging, you needn’t have gone to the trouble of asking me to dinner.  I think you know that.”

I smiled again.  “You’re a rare find, Min.”

She smiled back, a little ruefully.  “Can I ask you something terribly personal, Roddy?”

“Sure,” I said, resolved to have it out now.  It was time.

“You were married once before, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” I replied simply, and found that it didn’t hurt quite so much as I thought it would.

“And she hurt you terribly, didn’t she?”

“It shows?” I asked.

“Only to someone who’s been there before.”

“You mean your husband…” I started, a little surprised at the turn of the conversation, “…he left you?”

“That he did, the right bastard.  Traded me in on a newer model, didn't he?  That's all right, though.  I got the last laugh on him."  She smiled broadly, hoisting up the straps of her dress, joggling her sizeable cans.  "This Minnie had a little work done on her, didn't she?”  She looked back up at me, enjoying my shocked expression.  “Well, you didn't think these babies came standard, did you, hot rod?”

I laughed.  The first real laugh I’d had in longer than I could remember.  But no one heard it, for at that moment a cannon went off.  People spun about, many of them pointing upwards to the single flare shooting into the darkened sky.  Seconds later it detonated with a bang that would be heard around the world, shattering the darkness, sending millions of crackling sparks blazing into every corner of the night, a symbolic defiance of nature.

People ooh’ed and ahh’ed the spectacular explosion above us, but that was nothing compared to the extended ‘ohhh’ that began rolling over the crowd, as everyone began to realize that the doors to the restaurant had opened, a pair of mini-spotlights illuminating a gleaming, large-bosomed figure standing in the entrance, her wondrous, bikini-clad body the color of spun gold, her lithe arms outstretched in a gesture of welcome.

Willy Wonka couldn’t have done it better.

*    *    *    *    *    *

The golden girl was not Yvette, though.

She made an elegant turn and sauntered into a large foyer that I had been through many times in the restaurant’s previous incarnation, the line of awed patrons following at her silent beckoning with a docility that was truly bizarre.  I followed too, Minnie pressed against me, holding my hand anxiously.

We found more smiling girls arrayed against the walls of the foyer, the light glinting off their showroom finishes dazzling to the eye, their fiber-optic hair glowing softly.  None of them were gold, but all of them were coated in various colors and buffed to a high shine (it didn’t escape my notice that none of them were Barbie dolls).  Their heights ranged from petite to Amazonian, and their breasts, which may or may not have been made from birdseed, jutted out prominently.  They stood there, some with eyes closed, some languidly open, apparently waiting to be called into service.

Goldie took up a spot behind a low pedestal, and I watched, fascinated, as girl after girl peeled away from the wall, approached the hostess’s station, and wordlessly escorted her party into the restaurant.  They did not appear to do this in any order, and it was Minnie’s stifled gasp that clued me in to their method of silent communication, as one girl’s fiber-optic hair glowed slightly brighter a second before being remotely activated.

Minnie and I were escorted into the restaurant proper by our waitress, a candy-apple red job, whose name, painted above the curve of her left breast, was Jetta.  Minnie remained silent, but her grip upon my hand could have crushed a lump of carbon into a diamond.  I ignored the pain by concentrating on the sparkling ass undulating ahead of us, remembering the words spoken by my former employer at a Christmas party almost three years earlier, ‘these beautiful expressions of man’s ingenuity.’

So this is why the fat cocksucker gave up the governorship, I thought, shaking my head, somewhat hypnotized by Jetta’s iridescent posterior, her chrome bikini winking as it caught the light, and the spidery black detail lines painted down her supple back setting off her metal flake finish perfectly.  The place looked much the same as the last time I’d been there, the only real changes being that the lighting was brighter, so as to better highlight the sparkling wait staff, and the addition of pictures of various glossy women now hanging alongside those of classic cars.

Jetta seated us in a booth, which just happened to be under a massive portrait of my ex-wife, her wonderfully curvy body painted a lustrous smoky gray.  Our dazzling waitress never spoke, but merely handed me a tablet computer, which was displaying a page devoted to drinks.  I had enough common sense to punch in an order for a club soda, knowing full well that one beer would lead to me ending up in detox before the night was out.  Minnie stammered out a request for a margarita, her gaze never wavering from Jetta’s glistening belly.  I punched her order in and gave the computer back to our waitress, who turned smartly and ambled away.

Minnie watched her every movement with wide eyes, right up until Jetta turned a corner and disappeared from view.  She turned back to me, the expression on her face priceless, and said just one word, “How?”

“It’s a polymer,” I replied, and then told her what it was, and what its properties were.  I of course left out it that it also happened to be my invention, telling her instead that I had worked for the company that makes it, and that I had been intimately involved in its creation.

“She’s so beautiful,” she said finally.  “They’re all so beautiful.”  She, like every other patron we could see, was transfixed upon the multi-colored and multitudinous girls with a fascination bordering on reverence.  I, however, was not.  I had my eye out for one in particular, one that I so wanted to see, yet at the same time dreading the moment when I would.

Our glossy waitress returned with our drinks, my date absorbed by the visual of the sparkling girl setting our sparkling drinks before us, the condensation from the glasses sheeting off of her polymer-coated fingers like rain off a car door.  “You’re so beautiful,” Minnie blurted out when Jetta straightened up.  “Can…can I talk to you?”

Jetta smiled; a smile like I had seen so often from the woman I had loved.  “Of course you may, madam.”  Her voice was quieter than a normal waitress’s, which she could get away with in this place, its atmosphere more like an art gallery than a restaurant.  It also had a very relaxed quality to it, almost a purr.

“Is it…are you…comfortable, luv?  Aren’t you hot in that?”

“Oh, no, madam.  I was a little warm, at first, but you get used to it.”

“Used to it?  How long have you been wearing it?”

“Six days, madam.”

“Six days…” Minnie repeated, lost in thought, but she came back to herself quickly.  “Could I…” she started, biting her lower lip anxiously, “…I mean…I hate to ask, luv…”

But Jetta already knew what my date was having difficulty getting at.  She sidled over to Minnie’s end of the booth and placed a lustrous hip within easy reach.  I watched, my fully enraged hard-on practically thumping the underside of the table, as Minnie reached a shy hand out to the glossy, sparkly body in front of her, and began softly stroking it.

“Well, I’ll be buggered,” she whispered, awestruck.  “Roddy, you’ve got to try this!  She feels just like rubber!”

“I know, Min,” I said, noting the rock hard nipples of my date, and hoping that a little buggery might actually be in the offing.  “She feels smooth and sleek, and not quite real.  In short she feels absolutely wonderful.  Do you feel wonderful, Jetta?”  Judging by her closed eyes and her pursed lips I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.

She responded by way of a deep, soulful moan, apparently unable to stop herself.  A second later her eyes snapped open.  “Please forgive me,” she said quietly, apparently mortified, and quickly backed away from Minnie’s roaming hand.  “I, um…have to check on another customer.”  She was gone in a flash.

Minnie watched her go, looking a little worried.  “Did I…did I upset her?”

“No,” I said, suppressing a laugh, “quite the opposite in fact.  I expect she’s off giving herself a quick one, so to speak.

She looked at me, shocked, but not angry.  “Roddy, if you were a woman I’d say you were being catty.

“Not at all.  The poor girl can’t help herself.  She’s been cocooned in that second skin for almost a week now; every movement she makes, every touch of her skin drives her wild.  I bet you she’s in the back right now, rubbing one out.  Have a look at her when she comes back.  Five’ll get you ten she’ll be in a slightly more relaxed frame of mind.

“Roddy, you’re just being dreadful.”  She stood up, her bounteous bosom wobbling ever so nicely as she did so.  “I’m going to find her and apologize.”  And with that she quickly turned and left, leaving me alone to consider that which I had indirectly brought about.

I watched the glittery waitresses move about for a while, noted the appreciative stares of the men, and the awestruck and envious stares of the women.  ‘You’re going to be a rich man,’ Yvette had said to me that first day.  But she had been wrong – it was Don Carlos, an already rich man who was about to become that much richer, judging by how well he was marketing his (my!) invention.

But it wasn’t about the money; it had never been that, ‘I already am a rich man,’ I’d told her.  ‘I have you.’  But that was the past.  Someone else had her now, and for him it was about the money, and as I sat there, watching others as they gawped and gaped upon the fruits of my accidental technology, a thought trickled into my brain – my polymer is no longer a secret!  It is no longer a controlled substance, subject to the whims of one man!

But just as quickly another thought followed, a bucket of cold water thrown on my burgeoning hopes of reconciliation – she left you.

I sat there, her smoky gray image looking down upon me.  My inner voice was right; she had chosen to leave me.  I had loved the addict, but when it came right down to it she had loved the addiction more.  I found myself looking around, wondering if she would appear at any moment, ready to apologize, ready to beg and plead with me to take her back, and what would I do if she did?

I whipped my iPod out of my shirt pocket, hoping this new iteration of Headlights was a wi-fi hotspot.  It was, and thanks to the world’s fascination with ‘vette and Blaze (which I presumed was the trade name of LP_16/2) I quickly discovered that my former wife was miles away, with Don Carlos, personally opening the Headlights in Mexico City.

She left you, my inner voice repeated, quietly berating me for even thinking about being depressed.  But there is a hot, busty divorcee who has essentially told you that you can park your Buick in her garage whenever you like.  So quit being a sad sack, and take your little British import home and give her a proper fucking.

I looked up to find my date returning, her expression resolute, her big boobs jouncing wildly, which sadly attracted zero attention due to the metallic babes parked here and there.  “Minnie…” I started, ready to take her up on her offer of a lap dance, a pole dance, and whatever else she might be up for, but found it difficult to speak, what with her tongue having taken up residence in my mouth.

She threw herself on top of me, uncaring that we were in a public place, and kissed me so passionately that I felt as weak as a romance novel heroine.  “Take me home, Roddy!” she whispered hotly in my ear.  “I need you to make me a new woman, tonight!”

“Sure…” I began, but she shoved her tongue down my throat again, apparently trying to impress upon me how serious she was, something that the hand caressing the bulge in my pants was already doing an effective job of.  She got up off of me, allowing me to get dazedly to my feet.  There was a plastic bag in her hand, one I recognized as being from the restaurant’s gift shop, and it dawned on me what she must have meant when she’d said ‘a new woman’.  “Is that…?”

“Yes, luv, it is.  Everything we need.”

She pulled my head back down to her level, plastering her mouth onto mine again, apparently feeling that inducing hypoxia would help to keep me docile, which although unnecessary was nonetheless effective.  She pulled away again after a minute, and as I took a much-needed breath of air, I smelled a mixture of faint but unmistakable scents upon her lips – that combination of latex and pussy that can only mean one thing.  “I see you’ve already tipped our waitress,” I said, giving her lips a quick lick, so that I could take another taste of Jetta.

“That I did, Roddy,” she whispered.  “Does that surprise you?”

“No, I suppose not,” I sighed.  “You British babes are supposed to comfortable driving on either side of the road, aint’cha?”

*    *    *    *    *    *

Two and one half hours later I clicked off the blow dryer, my throat dry, my heart thumping madly.

“Roddy?”

That was exactly what she had said, that very first time, once I’d completed the initial coat, so many months ago.  Was history about to repeat itself?  “You can open your eyes, Min.”

She did, and it was as though I was looking at Yvette all over again.  “Oh…my…God,” she whispered, pointing at the mirror I’d thoughtfully placed for her on the shop floor.  I joined her moments later, her spontaneous orgasm claiming her precisely as ‘vette’s had.  I held her and rocked her, and got her through it, making sure to cop a few quick feels as I did so.  She felt glorious, wonderful, fake.

Scants seconds later I threw her onto one of my workbenches, and slipped inside her thoroughly lubricated cunt.  She howled and moaned and cried in all the same places as had Yvette, as I plowed into her again and again, until we both came, our screams echoing off the concrete walls.  When we had recovered I pulled her off of the workbench, her legs still wrapped around my waist, turned, and laid her on the hood of her car so that I could better judge the work I had done.  “A perfect match,” I said.

She didn’t say a word, she just laid there, crying in beatific ecstasy as the polymer began doing its work, making the skin she was born in hateful to her, something to be covered, as though shameful.  She didn’t know this, of course.  I figured she had about a day, perhaps less, until the addiction would take hold.  “How do you feel?” I said.

“Blimey, luv,” she said, softly gasping, placing a hand on each breast, pressing them together, “I feel…I feel beautiful.”

“I know you do, Min.  Would you like to see yourself again?”

“Oh, yes, Roddy!” she said breathlessly.  “Please!  But I want to see both of us!”

“Oh, Minnie,” I said, shaking my head slowly, looking down at her beautifully restored body, my long disused prick already growing hard within her, “you are a classic.  Do you know that?”  I pulled slowly out of her, and wiped off my shaft with a clean shop rag, which I then pressed to the mouth of her dripping snatch.  I quickly moved the mirror so that she could see the two of them together, her adopted twin and herself.

She knelt in front of her sister, her sizable headlights precisely level with the slightly smaller ones belonging to the car I had restored months ago.  She was no longer crying, simply looking at herself with an unmistakable hunger that her polymer coating couldn’t disguise.  “Look at us,” she said hoarsely.  “We’re beautiful.”

“That you are, Min,” I said, pleased at how well I’d been able to match the color, but wondering how long it would be before she would elect to chop off her smoky red hair in favor of a fiber-optic replacement.  “But you’re not quite finished.”

“Oh, no, Roddy,” she said.  “Please don’t ask me to put that chrome bikini on.  You can’t cover up such beauty.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.  No, there’s something else I need to do.  One more thing, to make you perfect.”

“What?” she said excitedly, the kind of ‘excitedly’ that is exclusive to coated women.

“Trust me,” I said.

*    *    *    *    *    *

“Ohhh…yes!” she moaned as I bottomed out in her hot ass.  She might have been an older model than my ‘vette, but she was certainly no less responsive.  I took my time, employing slow, measured strokes.  There was no need to hurry.  I just wanted to enjoy the feeling of being inside my little British import for as long as I could.

I traced the lines of the Union Jack down her back with two fingers, causing her to giggle, which with having my cock in her backside felt doubly nice.  I had done a good job, keeping the lines straight and true, and she had rewarded my craftsmanship with a truly heart-stopping blowjob.

I bottomed out again, reveling in the feel of her cushiony bum as I slammed into it, the ripe globes of her ass now every bit as firm as a college girl’s, thanks to my polymer.  I ran my fingers lightly over the license plate I had painted on the small of her back, ’63 MINI’, pleased that I had got it just right.  I had considered painting ‘GR8SHAG’, but the last thing I wanted was to get sued for copyright infringement.

“Oh, God, yes, Roddy!” she cried as I continued pumping away, her eyes on Yvette’s floor mirror, the only thing I had to remind me of her (I was surprised that she’d left it behind, but it had been part of the settlement).  It was one of many I had ringing the creaking bed upon which we had spent the last few hours fucking, once I’d put the finishing touches on her paint job.  Minnie straightened up a bit, placing her gleaming forearms on brass bed’s weathered frame, moaning while I buggered her.

But I knew her cries of pleasure were not entirely caused by my dick repeatedly invading her tail end.  She was getting off on her shiny image.  I reached around and cupped her breasts, marveling at their youthful firmness.  Anyone looking at her would be unable to tell her age.  She could be sixteen, or sixty.

She reached down and began fingering herself, moaning and gasping, her eyes constantly on her reflection, until we both came, our cries of pleasure only slightly louder than the squeaks of the ancient bed.  I held onto her for a while, enjoying her warmth, as well as the latex perfume emanating from her second skin.

“Crikey, Roddy,” she said finally, “but that’s the most thorough lube job this Minnie has ever got, and that’s no mistake.”

I laughed, which had the unfortunate side effect of causing my dick to plop out of her royal blue bottom.  I held her a while longer, looking over her shoulder at her reflection, enjoying the look and feel of her rejuvenated boobs.  “You’re beautiful,” I said.

She looked back at me, but stayed silent, then closed her eyes, probably taking as much pleasure in the feeling of being cocooned as she had from her butt fucking, enjoying the second-by-second takeover of her body as Blaze inexorably claimed ownership of her.  I watched her as she began feeling herself up, behavior I had expected, having grown used to it with the last model I’d had.  She opened her eyes again, languidly, relaxed but hardly sated, it seemed.  “Thank you for this, Roddy.”

“I believe you already have, my sweet Minnie.  Several times.  How are you feeling?

“Like I want to fuck.  And you, big boy?”

“Minnie, I would love nothing more than to discover whole new ways of doing you, but if I don’t get some sleep I’m going to die.”

She giggled.  “Poor exhausted soldier,” she said.  “I could go all night.  So what’s a girl to do then?”

I looked back at her, fully knowledgeable of her plight, and how best to deal with it.  “Minnie, do you ever carry any, um, toys in your purse?”  Ten minutes later found us laying down on the ancient bed, me halfway off to dreamland, Minnie next to me, laying on her side, her vibrator buzzing merrily away as she stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror I’d lain sideways on two chairs next to the bed.

*    *    *    *    *    *

I half-awoke to the muffled whine of a blow dryer.  “‘vette?” I said stupidly, half-dreaming that I was lying in our old waterbed in our Pueblo Revival house.  But then the gossamer veil of sleep lifted fully, the morning sun streaming through my dusty windows, the smell of her on my well-used sheets.

“There will be other women, Rod…better women…” Yvette had said.  Well, there was another woman, wasn’t there?  But was she better?  I figured I’d let the jury deliberate on that for a few months or so.  But there was certainly no denying that my Minnie was one fuck of a sweet ride.  I was a little sad that my hot British import was already up, rather than lying next to me, ready for a one-gun salute, but maintaining one’s finish is top priority for a glossy woman.

She emerged from my bathroom a minute later, happy and humming, and walked directly over to Yvette’s floor mirror, needing to see the full package, it seemed.  She was already dressed, if you can a call a chrome bikini clothing.  She inspected her full lips closely, followed by the exposed portions of her boobs, the light glinting off her ass cheeks blinding me momentarily.  She then turned around to examine her back, to make sure her flag hadn’t sustained any damage during our frenetic passion.  She saw me looking at her and winked.  “Crikey, luv,” she said, shaking her head softly, “but you certainly can put some mileage on a girl, you know that?”

I snorted.  “Well, we did go halfway around the world last night, didn’t we, Min?  How are you feeling?”

“Grand, Roddy.  It’s the best I’ve felt in the longest time.”  She leaned her forearms against the upper rail of the bed, her lips pressed together, already adopting the mannerisms that a coated woman must in order to protect her finish.  “It really was a lovely evening, pet.  But I have to go.”

“Dressed like that?”  I wasn’t surprised she was leaving, but she wouldn’t get ten feet looking as she was.  “Minnie…”

“You’re cute when you fret, luv.”  She came around and sat on the edge of the bed, and fixed me with a lustful stare that made my morning wood as hard as Brazilian Walnut, which did not escape her notice.  “Roddy,” she said, taking hold of my enraged prick and softly stroking it, the feel of her second skin heavenly, “you were right – everything will change.”

I started to speak, but she began caressing my johnson in a way that plainly told me to shut up and listen – there is no better way of communicating than via handjob.  “You don’t have to worry about me, pet,” she said, her voice low and calming.  “I don’t think you’ll ever have to worry about any woman ever again.”

“But…”

“Roddy, listen to me…” and here she bent down and put her freshly waxed lips to the head of my cock, and began to work.  She sucked me, not forcefully, but slowly and with such confidence that by the time I shot my load into her hot mouth, I was left in no doubt that at least she had changed.

Okay, so maybe there is a better way of communicating than via handjob

“I’ll be fine, luv,” she said, once she’d finished wiping my scum from her lips with a shop towel.  “We’re all going to be fine.  Your Minnie has to go now, but she’ll be back.”  I opened my mouth to protest, but she put a finger to my lips.  “I promise, Roddy,” she added solemnly.  She got up from the bed and gave me a quick peck on the lips, looking soulfully into my eyes.  “You restored me, luv.  That means I belong to you.”  And with that she straightened up and strode to the door, her every movement dripping with poise and self-assurance.

She walked out of my loft a blissfully happy woman.  She would by no means be the last.

To Be Continued…

Comments, feedback, or pictures of really big boobies always appreciated.

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