Chapter 13

The Party

Change may have come slowly for the fictional residents of Hobbiton, but for the real world it came all too quickly.

I mean, with a war going on in Afghanistan, an economy that could tank at a nervous cough, and the growing threat of global warming, cooling, or staying the same-ing, and what did CNN spend two hours that Saturday morning reporting?  Why, the riot at the Hard Rock Casino in Las Vegas.

It had started simply enough.  Four showgirls had gotten hold of some Blaze, and had a couple of scenic artists spray them down.  Upon completion of their respective paint jobs, the new and improved super-hot babes fucked their painter friends into near-comas (behavior newly coated women seemed powerless to control), and then decided to take a little late night dip in the hotel's pool, where they discovered, as did quite a few of the hotel's guests, that glossy women float.  The four girls took on all comers, deliriously enjoying being used as floating sex toys, until hotel security busted up the waterborne orgy, which was what triggered the riot.

But that didn't surprise me nearly so much as the fact that this news had been delivered by a fucking Barbie doll.  Candy the CNN infobabe, in the American tradition of hard-hitting investigative journalism, had selflessly undergone her own metamorphosis, and was reporting the news looking as though she’d just come from her Malibu dream house.  It was truly surreal watching her.  She was dressed fairly conservatively, in a sweater and short skirt, but her exposed skin shone just like plastic.  Her voice seemed to have dropped about half an octave overnight, and her whole manner was much more relaxed than it had been yesterday, but was offset by an undercurrent of raw sexuality that made it impossible to watch her without developing a raging hard-on.  In despair I turned to Fox News, and discovered that they had pimped out their anchorette in metallic red.

Every channel I clicked on was more of the same: ESPN was showing a bunch of Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders getting ready to undergo the coating process in time for Sunday’s game, with much fuzzing and blurring of the good bits; the Sci-Fi channel demonstrated a hot, busty babe being transformed into shiny silver robot; even the Hunting channel showed a chick being painted camo.  I watched re-broadcasts of the openings of the Headlights in Perth and Sydney, Australia, as well as the ones in Hong Kong and Beijing, on the Travel Channel, all of which were even more hugely attended than the Manhattan opening, unsurprising considering all the attention the world media had lavished upon Don Carlos’s latex lovelies.  They switched to the growing mob scene in London’s Soho district, where their Headlights would be opening in just two hours, and I was willing to bet that ol’ Queen Liz was sitting on her throne, more than a little miffed that she had never inspired such crowds.

But the best TV had to be PBS.  It was your typical, boring panel show, featuring four erudite local bluebloods sitting on environmentally-friendly couches, frothing at the mouth about how these spray painted bimbos were going to undermine more than a century’s worth of progress for women, and how horrific it was that an enlightened society could allow this sort of public objectification.  Pretty inflammatory stuff, but what made it humorous to me was that it was also pledge week, and it didn’t escape my notice that the volunteer phone operators sitting on the raised dais behind those environmentally-friendly couches looked awful damned bored, seeing as how nobody was calling (I happened to tune in later to find them re-running a year-old Barbie doll documentary, now hosted by an actual clear-coated Barbie doll, which could account for all of their operators being busy, as well as their pledges being up over three hundred percent).

Channel after channel, Blaze was all anyone could talk about, and all anyone wanted to talk about: what it was, how it was applied, and was it safe?  A spokesman for AZ-TECH was interviewed, and he demonstrated, with the help of a curvaceous, bikini-clad volunteer, the proper use of Blaze, as well as its various qualities.  There were in actuality four different flavors of Blaze: there was the original, which I had used in coating Minnie, and could make a girl look like a mannequin or liquid metal, depending on the colorant used; there was Glaze, which imparted a slightly muted, syrupy sort of shine to a girl, a softer sort of gloss that was no less pleasing to the eye; there was Dazzle, which was what had been used on our waitress Jetta, to give that sparkly metal-flake look that would attract attention from several hundred yards; and lastly there was Amaze, the powder-coated version that lacked any form of shine, but that would cover small imperfections and make a girl’s body appear smooth and perfect.

He sprayed her down without an airbrush, using canned, pre-mixed versions of Blaze that I had briefly seen in the restaurant’s gift shop, prior to Minnie rushing us out to her car so that she jerk me off between her tits.  The bosomy babe having her arms and legs coated with the various kinds of Blaze was in seventh heaven, judging by her closed eyes, her pressed-together lips, and her constantly flexing fingers, something that both the spokesman and the interviewer appeared not to notice.  The spokesman then went on to show the vast array of colors manufactured by AZ-TECH, as well as safety tips for its application.

“But isn’t this a little difficult for a woman to apply to herself?” the interviewer asked.

“It is,” admitted the spokesman with a genial smile, “especially when dealing with the back, or the backs of the legs.  She could have a friend or loved one apply it to her, but for best results I would advise her to go to one of the several hundred Blaze Bodyshops that are opening around the country at this very moment.”

The interviewer looked nonplussed.  “Blaze…Bodyshops?”

“Yes, Jim,” he replied with a toothy smile, pleased with the bombshell he’d just dropped.  “Could you please roll that film clip I gave to your producer?”  They rolled it, and I was sure that for the next minute pretty much everything on good old planet Earth had ground to a halt.  Like everything coming out of AZ-TECH it was slickly done.  The scene opened with an average-looking woman staring at her bathroom mirror.  Perhaps she is getting ready for work, or to get the kids off to school.  Dull, nondescript music is playing in the background, and it is obvious at a glance that she is a bored, unhappy woman trapped in a humdrum life.  She examines her reflection and is clearly displeased with what she sees.  Her makeup-free face is pale and beginning to get a little pouchy, and incipient wrinkles appear to be gaining greater prominence.  She looks again at her reflection to find her younger self looking back at her; a happy, carefree, youthful woman.  She slowly reaches out to touch the image in the mirror, a deep longing for what she used to be.

The scene cut to a close-up of her fingers as they neared the glass, and when the reflection and the reality meet, there is an electric spark.  The music instantly shifts to Manfred Mann’s Blinded by the Light, and Blaze begins to do its work.  The fingertip touching the mirror instantly turns shiny, as Blaze, like mercury rising up a thermometer, begins flowing from the mirror and over her skin.  It coats her hand and begins moving up her wrist, toward her elbow, consuming her tired, worn out flesh and leaving supple, lustrous pseudo-skin in its place.  The camera pans around her as the polymer spreads over her body.  Flabby areas are pulled taut as Blaze acts like a corset, and cellulite-riddled thighs become smooth and glossy.  The camera moves back up her luminous, glowing body, careful to avoid any troublesome nudity, slowing to a crawl just as Blaze finishes its work, the coating finally settling over her now glistening pink lips.  The camera stops moving, and we are looking over the woman’s shoulder, and we see that she is no longer in her bathroom, but is now in a brightly lit space, akin to a spa or hairdresser’s, and she is surrounded by many smiling women: dazzling reds, glittering blues, and gleaming yellows.  Smiling and laughing they take her hands and pull her in close; a welcoming group hug, my beautiful Yvette at the back of them holding a blow dryer, a shiny mannequin with orchidaceous lips.  The camera zooms in on her, and she smiles mischievously, winks, and then whispers just two words.  “Get glossy!”  It would become the biggest catch phrase since Bart Simpson’s, ‘¡Ay, caramba!’

The film clip faded out to reveal the interviewer, his mouth slack, his expression slightly dazed.  “We’ll, uh…we’ll be back in a minute.”  They cut to a commercial, which just happened to feature an average-looking woman staring at her bathroom mirror.

“Oh…my…fucking…God,” I whispered to the empty loft as I watched it again.  I got up from the couch, courting a fainting spell what with most of my blood having gone south.  I shut off the TV.  I didn’t want to hear any more, and I for damn sure didn’t want to see any more.  What I needed at that moment was a little peace and quiet, a little tranquility, and the best place to get that was one floor above me.  Two minutes later found me leaning against the northwest corner of the roof, a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, taking in the view.

Phoenix doesn’t have what one would call a dramatic skyline, but it serves our simple purposes.  I said shaky good mornings to the Viad Tower, the Chase Tower, and to One and Two Renaissance Square, making sure to snub the monstrosity that is the Bank of America Tower.  Everything looked peaceful; a sleepy Saturday morning in the desert.  “You greedy fucking cocksucker,” I said to the view, and I wasn’t sure if I was pissed, envious, or just plain amazed.  “You don’t just want the hot ones, do you?  You want all of them.”

I remembered once thinking that Yvette was audacious, but she was nothing compared to Don Carlos.  That commercial made it plainly obvious to me that this was about more than a restaurant chain with smokin’ hot waitresses.  Don Carlos really did want to turn every last woman in America into a shiny nymphomaniac.

Oh, don’t be so hard on the fat bastard, bub, my inner voice taunted.  It isn’t as though you wasted any time turning your hot British import into the ultimate fucktoy.

I thought about arguing with myself, but I find it’s usually not a good idea to have serious discussions with invisible people while standing on a rooftop.  My inner voice was right, though.  I hadn’t even bothered to warn Minnie of Blaze’s addictive qualities.  Not that it would have mattered; she would have done it anyway, but I couldn’t exactly get up on my moral high horse, could I?

I wondered what was happening right now.  Were women by the thousands already lining up outside of Blaze Bodyshops, ready to plunk down their pin money in the hope they could be as beautiful as my ‘vette?  ‘There will be other women, Rod…’ she had said.  Had she known then that this was going to happen?  Had she known that it was that fat cocksucker’s intention to create veritable legions of glossy, animated sex toys?  And what had he offered her to not only sell me out, but to sell out the whole of her gender?  Had he taken her up on that high mountain?  Offered her fame, fortune, and the adulation of millions, possibly billions?  She was now the international spokeswoman (or would spokesmodel be more accurate?) for a product that, judging by the media frenzy, was going to be bigger than sliced bread.  I suppose I could understand her having her head turned by all of that.  After all, Don Carlos could literally offer her the world; all I could have given her was love.

A familiar sight came rolling down the street below me, Minnie’s Mini.  It turned into the shop’s parking lot, the Union Jack I had painted upon her roof shining in the late morning sunlight.  ‘…there will be better women’, Yvette had also said on that fateful day, but was that true?  Minnie was older than my ‘vette, but she had also been assiduously maintained, and with her restoration was now at least aesthetically Yvette’s equal.  Add to that that my Minnie had a lighter frame and was vastly more maneuverable and responsive than my ‘vette, and it could be argued that she was in fact superior.  She was also here.

A pair of rubbery breasts pressed themselves against my back, followed quickly by a pair of rubbery hands over my eyes.  “Guess who, luv?”

“Volleyball salesman?”

She pulled her hands away and slapped my back playfully.  I turned to face her, and she lost no time in jumping up and wrapping her legs around my waist and thrusting her tongue deep into my mouth.  She had doffed her chrome bikini, and was quite uncaring that her more or less nude body was on display to whomever might be watching from one of the many neighboring buildings, and I found that I didn’t care either – they would probably all have their own models soon enough.

“Oh, Roddy,” she said, once our tongues had stopped Indian wrestling, “I don’t think there’s a woman alive who’s happier than I am at this moment,” 

“And I don’t think I could possibly be happier than I am at this moment, unless I were inside you.  That’s a hint, luv.”

She giggled, nuzzling my nose with her rubbery one.  “Oh, wouldn’t this Minnie love that?” she said, her voice husky with the promise of deliriously good sex.  “But I’m afraid I’ve got to ask you to put in a little overtime today.”

“You mean you want me to finish painting that Mercedes before I see to your maintenance?”

“Not exactly, luv,” she said, and gently turned my head leftward to face the street.  A car pulled up to the front of the shop, followed by another, and another still, female after female getting out of them.  Even from this distance I could tell they were all quite attractive.

“How…?”

“I called a friend of mine shortly after I left you this morning, and she’d got it from a friend of hers that Blaze was going to open up a shop over on Camelback Road, so I went down there to see for me’self.  Roddy, you should have seen it.  They were already queued up around the block when I got there.  Well, once they saw me, everybody wanted to know who did my bodywork, so…”

“So…?” I prompted.

“So I poached a few.”

“A few?  I’d say more like ten.”

“Actually more like a dozen, luv.  D’yer mind?”

I looked down at the gaggle of them.  They were already assembled in front of the locked front door, looking up to me, their expressions happy and hopeful.  “A little overtime, Minnie?” I said, my dick about to burst through my chinos.

“Don’t worry, Roddy.  No one expects you to do the, um, heavy lifting, all by yourself.  I’ve already called Vinny.  He’s on his way.”

I shook my head numbly; it seemed my Minnie was no less audacious than Don Carlos.  “Well, call him back and tell him to swing by Jack’s Paint Supply.  We’ll need a gallon each of red and blue, three new sets of G43 nozzles, and six rolls of one-inch tape.”

“Q.E.D, luv.  Anything else?”

“Yeah,” I said, looking back down at the excited babes below.  “Tell him to stop by the health food store and pick up a shitload of red ginseng.”

*    *    *    *    *    *

Three weeks later we were officially in business, and business was booming.

To say that Blaze was a hit would be the understatement of the millennium.  From that very first day I was either painting a chick or fucking one, and poor Vinny was running himself ragged between mixing color, cleaning equipment, and banging the ones I simply hadn’t the energy for.

Minnie and I were formally partners, having bought the business from Joe, who really wanted nothing more than to play golf.  Thanks to a surfeit of quasi-legal Mexicans who were willing to work at night, the shop had been turned from a garage into something resembling a spa in record time, and were now in the process of building a good-sized swimming pool in the back section of the parking lot, so that our clients could test their buoyancy on-site.

We were now an officially licensed reseller of Blaze, and Blaze products.  This was good for the business in many ways: it meant that we got a ten percent break on the price of the polymer I had created, a direct line to order the same fiber-optic wigs that Headlights was using (which Minnie now wore in favor of the smoky red hair I loved so much), as well as top priority service on specialized contact lenses.

The downside, however, was that AZ-TECH was very controlling when it came to everything to do with Blaze.  Firstly, we could not for any reason coat minors, or even sell to them.  To do so would put us in violation of our agreement, which would not only sever our relationship, but would also trigger a ten-year non-compete clause, effectively ending our ability to coat women for money.

Resellers also had to subscribe to AZ-TECH’s policies when it came to their image.  Most people, I expect, wouldn’t have a problem with this, but then none of them had to work surrounded by giant prints of their ex-wife, monitors constantly displaying her moving image, as well as her picture on every motherfucking can of the stuff.

But all in all it was a decent arrangement, and we were making money hand over fist, because being in partnership with AZ-TECH meant that we were listed on their website, which in turn meant that we never had an empty appointment slot, and that my dick was seldom dry.

There were six of us now: myself, Minnie, Vinny, two more painters named Al and Bobby, and Shelby, who was perhaps the busiest of us all, for she was in charge of prosthetics.  Shelby had been Yvette’s friend and co-worker at the University theatre, and we’d brought her on board because she knew as much, if not more, about makeup and latex appliances than Yvette.

I had known from the very first that we would ultimately need a prosthetics person (for Yvette had impressed upon me how wonderful it felt to be synthetic on the inside, as well), but even I was surprised at how quickly her skills and expertise would be an indispensable adjunct to our burgeoning business, which was entirely due to Hooters.

As Headlights restaurants continued to open all over the world, long time Hooters patrons were being drawn to Don Carlos’s glittery showpieces, which meant that for the first time in their history, the famed orange-and-white clad waitresses were finding themselves with empty tables.  Senior management scrambled as, night after night, they continued hemorrhaging customers, some market analysts reporting attendance being down by as much as ninety percent.  They rallied quickly, though, and within just five days of Shiny Friday debuted the Hooters Girls new uniform, which would not only save the company, but actually knocked Blaze off the front page for a day.

Like most folks I saw the unveiling of the Hooters Girl Mark II on TV.  It was at the end of a hard day, or the beginning of a hard night, depending on one’s point of view.  I was sitting on the couch, sort of watching CNN, or what I had lately begun referring to as the Blaze Channel, when Minnie, who was giving me a very thorough lap dance, had stopped bouncing up and down atop me.  Curious, I shifted my gaze from her sumptuous bottom, to see what she was looking at.

At first glance I thought the gleaming figure on the slowly spinning pedestal was some kind of trophy.  The shot was slightly blurred, making it impossible to see fine details, but standing in that classic Hooters pose, looking as though she were holding up an invisible platter of chicken wings, told you who she was well enough, and I would have thought it slightly comical, were it not for Richard Strauss’s iconic Also Sprach Zarathustra blasting through my surround sound’s speakers – about as subtle as a shovel to the back of the head.

The camera moved in closer and downward, sweeping around the glossy girl as she revolved.  Now in sharp focus it wove around her feet to show the familiar tennie-and-sock combo, but as it made its way upward it became apparent that any familiarity ended there.  Gone was the shiny pantyhose.  Ditto for the orange shorts and the white tank top, replaced by glossy orange and white pseudo-skin that would make even Hugh Hefner’s eyes bug out.  But it wasn’t the Hooters girl’s ultra-smooth finish that made Minnie gasp, but rather the fact that the she was absolutely stark raving nude.  No bikini, no chrome, no nothing.

Minnie’s sweet sex pulsed around my meat as we watched, but I didn’t need her ministrations to keep my dick hard; the shiny, busty babe on the screen was doing a good job of that all on her own.  Her nipples were completely hidden, taped over and painted over, giving no one anything they could really bitch about.  But when the camera came to rest, full frontal, you could also see that the girl’s crotch had been given the same treatment, and was now as flat and featureless as a doll’s.  There was no camel toe, or cleft, or indeed any hint of genitalia, just a smooth, sexless look that made my already hard dick throb with a definite need to cum ASAP.

Minnie was off of my pole in a heartbeat, kneeling before the TV so that she could get a close-up look at the Hooters girl’s nonexistent coochie.  Her fingers traced the smooth lines of the girl’s pelvic area, while a velvet voice announced that all of the Hooters girls in North America had been upgraded, and could be seen starting tonight.  The commercial faded out, leaving my Minnie kneeling there, one hand still on the glass screen as a sunny, yellow-skinned weatherbabe informed America that the Rockies were going to get some snow.

Minnie turned to me, her bosom heaving in the regulation way, her shiny, royal blue face looking puzzled.  “Roddy,” she said, almost whispering, “are they having us on?”

“No, my sweet Min, they’re dead serious.  It is only just beginning.”

“You mean that was for real?”  She stood up and looked sideways at Yvette’s floor mirror, apparently appraising her finish, and then looked back to me.  “I want it,” she said finally.

My dick was still hard, which was probably why I was so slow on the uptake.  “You want…you want to look like a Hooters girl?”

“No, silly bugger,” she said, and sauntered toward me, crawled gracefully onto the couch, threw her leg over me, and slid my throbbing prick into her hot and ready snatch.  “I want to be smooth,” she said, her voice husky with desire.  “I don’t want to have to wear that bikini.  I want to be free, truly free.  How did they do it, Roddy?  I know that you know.”

Even if she hadn’t been fucking the stuffing out of me I would have told her, which I did.  Blithering somewhat, I explained how they had made a cast of the girl’s pubes and anus, then built it up smooth, made a latex copy of it, applied that to the girl, and then patched it seamlessly with Blaze.  “But you can’t go around like that all the time, Min.  You would essentially be painted shut, sealed in latex polymer.  You would have to spray your crotch down with vinegar and remove the whole thing whenever you wanted to go to the bathroom, not to mention having sex.”

“I want to be beautiful, Roddy,” she hissed, pushing my shoulders into the back of the couch, and clenching her skilled love muscle around my innocently thrusting tool.  “I don’t care what it takes.”  So I brought in Shelby the next morning, and by lunchtime Minnie was completely smooth and as happy as could be.  Shelby was hired on the spot, which was a good thing, for we were already being inundated with phone calls asking if we could install Hooters Cooters.

Thanks to the upgraded Hooters Girls, the doomed restaurant chain was doing more business than ever.  Oh, various misguided souls picketed in front of the entrances, but they were usually jeered at, laughed at, and sometimes pelted with rotten fruit from passing cars.  Now, one would think that Headlights might somehow up the ante, and one would be wrong.  Hooters wasn’t stealing back any of their business; they were simply drawing in more customers.  Add to that, that Hooters was probably using, and therefore buying, more Blaze than anyone else, made them an excellent customer, and Don Carlos, despite being a cocksucking wife-stealer, was a smart businessman.

He also had guts.  In between restaurant openings he found the time to appear on an American daytime talk show, one that featured four shrews who would softball guests they liked, and verbally disembowel those they didn’t.  For forty minutes they laid into my former boss, about how he was responsible for quite literally objectifying women, all the while making snide asides about the size of his prick.

I had to hand it to him.  He sat there smiling his charming smile, taking every jab, laughing at their malicious humor until the show was almost over, and then he gave them the old rope-a-dope.  “Tell me, Madame,” he said to the round-bodied, henna-haired harpy who had suggested that if he liked shiny objects so much that he should spray his testicles gold and use them for Christmas ornaments, “do you paint your own fingernails, or does someone else do it for you?”

The screaming match ensued, but the venomous she-vipers were somewhat fatigued, and Don Carlos was more than ready for the fight.  He effectively argued that women had been objectifying themselves since the days of Cleopatra, even resorting to the use of lead-based products on their skin, or wearing corsets that were laced so tight that they caused internal organs to be horribly displaced.  The harpies countered, somewhat tiredly, that it was men who were responsible, to which Don Carlos riposted, politely asking them if it was a man who decided what makeup and perfume they were wearing now.

But he graciously conceded that while men had certainly played a role in the past, modern women could no longer make that argument.  “It is women who are buying the lingerie, it is women who are having their legs waxed, it is women who are having makeup tattooed on their faces, and yes, it is women who are having their breasts stuffed with plastic, not to please men, but rather to feel better about themselves!”

It was a masterful performance, and when it was over, it was obvious that Don Carlos had wiped the floor with them.  But he was not content with just besting them at debate; he went one step further and directly addressed the audience, who appeared as wiped out as the show’s hosts.  “Let me ask you a question,” he said with his ever-present smile.  “These four women are lovely, yes?  But do you not think there is a place for this kind of beauty as well?”  As he finished his question, the camera jerked quickly to the right, and another figure walked onto the set: the conservative member of the panel who had been fired only weeks before, and who was now a shiny Barbie-doll dressed in a burgundy blouse and a short white skirt.  Unsurprisingly she was re-signed to her own talk show by the end of the week, taking over the very time slot that had once belonged to her liberal antagonists.

Between Al, Bobby, and myself we were putting out fifteen full-body coats a day, and Shelby was casting almost that many smoothies.  There were no less than ten other bodywork joints in Phoenix doing the same thing we were, not to mention who knew how many tattoo shops that were applying Blaze on the side.  More and more the results of our labor could be seen on the streets, in the malls, on college campuses; shiny women everywhere.

At first all you saw were the Barbie dolls, who were often quite well dressed, though they never failed to show as much ‘skin’ as they could get away with.  But the rebels, the brave ones, my Minnie among them, had no desire to hide their light under a bushel, and so were often arrested for public nudity or indecent behavior.  But Don Carlos and AZ-TECH had been ready for this, providing lawyers where they could, and making sure that there was plenty of press for these poor, persecuted women, who were ‘guilty of nothing more than being the vanguards of fashion.’

They never lost a case.  Many people argued, but the simple and demonstrable fact was that my polymer was not a paint, but a chemical mesh, and was therefore clothing.  As long as a girl, or ‘glossy’ as the media now referred to them, kept her naughty bits covered, the law could not touch them.

Christmas came, and we were of course incredibly busy, as many of our clients wanted to have their finishes in tip-top shape for the holidays.  On Christmas morning my Minnie showered me with gifts, starting with a blowjob so wondrously good that I could swear I heard a heavenly choir singing ‘Hallelujah’ when I shot my load.  I gave her a tin of Hi-Finish body wax, a new product that really did bring out the luster of a glossy’s finish, as well as giving it improved protection from UV rays.

What I really wanted, though, was to give her a good Yuletide fucking, but had discovered to my dismay that she had already put on her cooter cover, so access to that particular bit of Christmas cheer was effectively blocked (this was often a consistent problem, not so much for me as I was getting at least as much pussy as I could handle, but for my poor, fashion-conscious concubine it meant that she often spent a good part of the day in a ‘delicious agony of sexual frustration’, which she sometimes alleviated, or enhanced, by blowing me or jerking me off between her tits, or by using a vibrator on her inaccessible clit).

With trembling fingers my shiny import pressed a small wrapped present into my hand, and said, “Happy Christmas, Roddy.  I love you.”  It was the first time she’d said it.

“I love you back, Min,” I said, which was not just reciprocation.  She had helped to bring me back from the depths of my despair, but more than that it was her sweet nature – it was impossible to know Minnie and not love her.  I ripped open the paper wrapping and found a small, pink remote control, about the size of a car key fob, its function I well knew, having once been married to a woman who’d owned a prodigious number of sex toys.

“Start me up, luv,” she said, her voice low and intense.  I looked at the remote and pressed the little ‘F’ button, whereupon she gripped my thigh, moaning through lips pressed tightly together as the little vibrator inside her did its work.  I cycled up through the speeds, stopping at ‘3’, because she jumped on me and started humping my already hard prick, gasping and bucking through what appeared to be a pretty monumental orgasm.  Suffice it to say it was a merry fucking Christmas.

With the arrival of the New Year we hired on two more painters, and in February we brought in another girl to handle prosthetics, for a new appliance had emerged on the scene, one that I knew intimately.  Muff-lers, the simulated vagina that I had first discovered inside a certain life-sized Oriental sex doll, became all the rage, and every glossy wanted to have one installed (massive-breasted porn goddess, Melony Cox-Zucker, who never missed an opportunity to market herself, mass-produced copies of her own much-loved vuhjayjay, available in two versions: one that came inside a cunningly disguised flashlight housing, and another that could be installed in a willing female’s coochie.  Tacky perhaps, but it is hard to argue with success when both styles of Melony’s cooter were in the top 100 on Amazon.com’s sales rankings).

I was surprised at first that AZ-TECH, or at least my incredibly creative and capable ex-wife, had not patented and marketed the application, but considering how much Don Carlos was already pushing the envelope, he probably felt it was prudent to let others take the heat (Blaze Bodyshops would not do castings or installs, but their authorized resellers could).

Studies of all kinds were done on the artificial vagina, the most influential having been conducted by the American Medical Association, which discovered that not only was a Muff-ler not harmful to a woman’s reproductive system, but furthermore was a more effective form of birth control than the Pill, and also provided better protection against STD’s than condoms.  That AMA report was responsible for breaking down much of the resistance that a great many women had against Blaze.

It was also responsible for the greatest realignment of the American economy since World War II.

It did not happen slowly.  After all, shockwaves had been felt almost from the day that Blaze had been introduced, but with the publication of the AMA’s report, millions of women decided it was time to ‘get glossy’, a movement that would send the country reeling.  

Many businesses fired their newly shiny female employees for not conforming to dress codes, which if they were Barbie dolls often ended up in court, because clear-coated glossies were almost always impeccably dressed.  But the heart of the matter was that for most businesses, having a glossy or two on the staff could almost always be traced to a drop in productivity, and quite often to a rise in workplace accidents.

Most glossies, however, withdrew from the workforce voluntarily.  It is difficult to teach students, compile studies, or run a division if you’re constantly looking in a mirror, and jumping on the first thing that has a penis.  That is not to say that glossies were not employable.  In a shockingly short time you couldn’t walk into a bar, restaurant, or hotel without having a shiny woman serve you.  If you walked into the lobby of a business, it was most likely a glossy that would direct you to the office you were looking for.

Feminists (some of whom no amount of my polymer could help) decried their spiritual sisters for leaving positions of responsibility and taking jobs as menials, but glossies neither listened nor cared.  It wasn’t as though the gleaming girls were relegated to being waitresses and the like – glossies wanted to be seen, and always undertook those jobs that would allow them a maximum amount of exposure.  It could also not be denied that a well-maintained paint job, coupled with the right amount of birdseed, could lead to tips that over the course of a year might well equate to the salaries of some Fortune 500 CEO’s.

But it was more than just the economy that underwent an upheaval; Americans themselves were forced to change.  Blaze could do a lot for a woman’s body, but fat is fat, and while my accidental polymer acted like a corset, it couldn’t work miracles.  Over the course of weeks, fitness centers for women sprang up, some of them offering massages, as well as waxing and buffing.

Men, too, felt the pinch.  With so many hot, damn near nude sexual dynamos walking the streets, sex was suddenly frightfully easy to get.  But a glossy, no matter how ready to take a spin she might be, still had standards.  Thanks to Blaze, more carbs than ever were being counted, and the general health of America was steadily improving.

Of course there was resistance.  Feminists continued to rail at AZ-TECH for their wholesale objectification of women.  Minnie and I saw a snippet of one talk show between fucks one night.  A pale, thin-lipped biddy was going on an extended tirade against another guest, a rather hot glossy decked out in a metallic green.  The coated girl, having learned from Don Carlos’s example, let the drab bitch vent her spleen, until the question she had been waiting for was asked, “How can you respect yourself?  You have allowed yourself to be turned into an object!”

“Yes, I have,” the green girl replied unabashedly, “and let me tell you, I have never been treated better.”  The audience applauded, but she went on.  “My husband used to tomcat around on me, or was always out with the guys.  The only time he ever paid any attention to me was during sex, which obviously wasn’t for very long.”  Knowing laughter came from the audience, but she wasn’t done.  “But now he comes straight home from work.  He waxes me every night, and touches up my finish without me having to ask.  I love being an object.  I love being his object.”

The studio audience went wild, women, coated und uncoated alike, tears streaming down their faces, got to their feet, showing their solidarity with the metallic girl.  I looked up at Minnie, to find her having the exact same reaction, but then she dried her eyes with a chamois and got back on my dick.

But it wasn’t all hearts and flowers.  There were reports of assaults on painters by jealous husbands, enraged by the behavior of wives who could not control themselves once freshly coated (we did not have this problem, as Vinny’s presence tended to discourage such aggression).  But attacks such as these were surprisingly few and far between.  Most men didn't mind so much what went on in the paint booth, because the difference between what came into our shop and what later rolled out of our doors made it more than worth it, or as one very relaxed husband put it, 'Hey, you wouldn't get pissed if your mechanic drove your car after he fixed it, would ya?'

Stories also abounded of women who were showing signs of addictive behavior, refusing to be seen in ‘skin’ even by their husbands.  Of course this was not so much a problem as Blaze was in essence cheaper than clothing.  A full body coat (one-color pre-mixed) went for $69.99, and with proper care could last up to three months – a fairly economical alternative to panties, pantyhose, skirts, blouses, dresses, and makeup.

But there were whispers of other behavior that many found troubling.  While it was arguable that Blaze turned normal women into glossy nymphos (researchers, very probably on Don Carlos’s payroll, asserted that Blaze simply allowed women to give vent to their natural sexual desires), it appeared that Blaze had a tendency to turn women bi.

Now while this might send a great many tight-assed people screaming into the night, it did not have an immediate effect on the populace, and for many reasons.  Firstly, it wasn’t as though coated women suddenly preferred chicks to dicks (far from it!), but research showed that a sizable amount of heterosexual women, once coated, found themselves engaging in sex with other women, but only with shiny women.  One glossy was quoted as saying, ‘It’s not like sex, not really.  It’s just that we glossies are beautiful, and beautiful things need to be loved.’  There were of course other reasons why society was more or less able to cope with this sudden epidemic of bisexual babes, but what it mostly came down to is that it is difficult to get het up about the sexual proclivities of glossy women when one just happens to be sucking you off.

It was in the spring that another trend began to emerge.  With sex becoming freely available, Internet porn was encountering a steep decline.  There were glossies on the ‘net, sure, but why bother going to a website to see a pair of babes licking each other up when you could see just as good, if not better, live at the corner bar?  The same problem held true for prostitution: how do you sell that which so many women are happily giving away?  The answer to both problems came from a most unexpected quarter: those crafty Japanese, and I had to admit that they surprised even me.

Long a mainstay of Internet porn, futanari, also known as dickgirls, became a reality.  It was ridiculously simple to do, and could be installed without a trip to the nearby bodyshop.  Simply take a specially-angled double-headed dildo, insert one end into a glossy, and one patch job later you have a fully functional dickgirl.  Blaze Bodyshops did not carry futanari kits, nor did any of their authorized resellers, but you could get them easily enough on the Internet, or at your local sex shop.  Dickgirls became all the rage on college campuses (though you would never see them in public), and you would often hear the most lurid tales of sorority house hi-jinx.

The first half of 2011 was indeed a crazy time.  Unemployment dropped to a record low in America, as men had to step into the jobs that had been vacated by the exiting glossies.  But that was only the half of it.  Businesses that had once spurned their glittering employees began hiring them back, even paying to have them coated, for nothing showed the health of a business more than having a few shining odalisques in the lobby.

You would also find glossies in the mall, but more often than not you would see them through a sheet of glass.  As Yvette had more than once played the part of a mannequin, it was becoming the norm to see shiny women standing in store windows, displaying a business’s wares.  American business had truly embraced the idea of glossy women.

And it wasn’t just America, for Blaze was conquering the world.  The UK, France, Germany, Italy, Greece, Japan, China were all mad for shiny females, and quite often you could guess a glossy’s nationality by her finish.  Brits generally favored a natural look, while Spaniards would go with a deeper, more intense shine.  Your Mediterranean types, who have always preferred their women statuesque, were turning their glossies into literal statues, sometimes with quite intricate marbling.  The French seemed to have a penchant for floral motifs, often painting the most elaborate vine work over a glossy’s body.  Japan, of course, a country long used to painting women, simply refined their art, employing Blaze instead of chalk-white, waxing and buffing their lustrous almond-eyed lovelies to a high shine; and Chinese women looked as though they’d been dipped in gold.  It was, as rocker Jeff Lynne had prophesied, ‘the party all over the world.’

Unsurprisingly the true glossy capital of the world was Las Vegas.  All of the larger hotels now offered female pool toys for a small fee (bouncers were usually employed poolside to help keep things reasonably PG-13).  At Caesar’s Palace you might be served drinks by a marble statue, or by a golden idol at the Luxor.  The Hard Rock offered candy-coated lovelies, often with the most outrageous proportions, and the Mirage had iridescent mermaids swimming in their famed aquarium.  One themed hotel and casino that was under construction, a futuristic monstrosity already seventy percent complete, had doubled the number of construction crews, pushing their grand opening forward to August, hoping to entice guests with their super-sexy, silver-skinned robots.

Playboy clubs, the symbol of ‘sixties freedom, began to reopen, but met with minimal success.  Like prostitution, they weren't offering anything that wasn't readily available elsewhere.  Faced with multi-million dollar losses and hordes of angry stockholders, management shifted to a new business model, one that not only turned the nightclubs around, but also became a runaway success.  What did they do?  Suffice it to say, the phrase, ‘fuck like bunnies’ didn't come from nowhere.

By June, fully thirty percent of American women between the ages of eighteen to fifty-four were regular users of Blaze.  Other companies attempted to put out their own versions of the famed pseudo-skin, all of them less than stellar.  Some got close, but none were able to get their chemical mesh to flatten out the way that my accidental polymer did, and therefore failed to achieve Blaze’s eye-catching glossiness.  I had heard through the grapevine that Don Carlos feared industrial espionage, and thus limited all production of Blaze to AZ-TECH’s Arizona factory, which was surrounded by more armed security than you could shake a stick at.  Paranoia perhaps, but no one had yet managed to steal the formula.

The pharmaceutical business was having its own ups and downs as America's health began improving: medications for high blood pressure, as well as for cholesterol and triglycerides, etc., were experiencing sharp drops, although this was offset by record numbers of prescriptions for Viagra and Cialis.  The health care industry also received a boost, due to the numbers of sprained backs suffered by sixty-year old men trying to behave as though they were twenty.

By and large America had recovered from the recession, and the economy was definitely booming.  Restaurants were doing banner business, and bars and nightclubs were recapturing business lost due to smoking bans, luring in patrons by advertising ‘Glossies drink free!’  With the improving job market, new home sales were up, and perhaps most telling of all, the construction of swimming pools had multiplied tenfold.

But not all businesses were not so fortunate.  Internet porn and prostitution had managed to survive the paradigm shift, but the women’s fashion industry was reeling from the widespread use of Blaze.  Women’s clothing stores were taking a beating, for glossies, with the exception of Barbies, hated clothing.  Rather than buck the trend, successful boutiques shifted their lines, moving toward tight, glittery clothing that would better set off a glossy’s paint job.

Brassiere manufacturers were also going bust as more and more women were turning to my polymer to support bosoms that, due to the use of birdseed, were becoming larger and larger.  Alternately, the cosmetic surgery business was experiencing a major resurgence as glossies sought to make those birdseed-enhanced boobies permanent.

Joe’s Garage was always busy, which meant that I was always busy, never doing fewer than six full body coats a day.  Now, you would think that a woman would get upset, having her man boffing clients right and left, but Minnie never batted a blue mascara’ed eye.  She understood better than most what my job entailed, she just made sure that I was supplied with plenty of red ginseng, and that Vinny would shoulder some of the load, so that I would be available to her in the evenings (and if Vinny was too knackered, which happened every so often, she would don her futanari gear and do the honors herself).

But it wasn’t all drudgery.  At the end of June, on my thirty-first birthday in fact, I was airlifted to the Grand Canyon, to do a full-body spraydown for a movie being shot there.  It was a very rush-rush affair, me having been bundled onto the helicopter without even knowing who I was supposed to be coating.  I almost dropped my airbrush when Angelina Jolie stepped into the makeup tent, smiling, without that haughtiness that she seems to project on screen.  She moaned audibly when the powder, matched to her exact coloration, hit her skin, and I was indeed thankful that the whine of the blow dryer masked me singing ‘Happy birthday to me’, under my breath.  Discretion prevents me from revealing what happened after I put down the blow dryer, but I will say that Brad Pitt is one lucky motherfucker (mind you, I suspect he must employ a full time chiropractor).

Life was pretty good, all things considered, but the constant grind of painting and fucking was wearing me down.  In mid-July, at Minnie’s suggestion, I drove up to L.A. to visit my mom and dad.  Between my divorce, recovery, and the wild success of the business, I hadn’t visited home in more than a year, and though I would have liked to bring Minnie along, the shop needed her, and I wasn’t quite ready to spring my royal blue import on my parents.  I felt an immediate sense of peace when I parked my truck in front of the 1920 Craftsman bungalow in which I’d grown up, a peace that was shattered when my mom came to the door, a clear-coated, big-bosomed Barbie doll.

“Oh, Roddy, dear,” she said through shiny, cotton-candy colored lips, tears cascading down her unnaturally smooth face, “we’re so glad you’re home!”  She threw her arms around me and hugged me, pressing her huge breasts into my stomach.

“Um,” I said, feverishly willing my dick into keeping a low profile, cursing the red ginseng that was still in my system, “it’s good to be home, um, Mom.”  I came into the house proper and hugged my dad, who appeared to have lost about twenty pounds and was looking pretty fit.  Despite having a sex object for a mom, I was glad to see them.

“Hey, little bro,” said a familiar voice behind me, “aren’t you going to say hello to me?”

“Sure, Lil,” I said, turning around to hug her too, but it wasn’t my sister Lillith, it was my mom again, or at least I thought so until she mock-punched me in the stomach, something that mothers just don’t do.  “Lil?” I said, barely able to keep the astonished gibbering from my voice.

“Kind of a shock, huh, little bro?  Mom wanted it to be a surprise.  What d’you think?”

She backed up and stood next to our mother.  They both wore matching white skirts and pink sleeveless blouses under frilly white aprons, and were identical in every detail.  “I, uh…”

“It’s a little game they like to play, Rod,” my dad said with mild exasperation, walking up to the woman I presumed was my mother, and giving her a peck on the lips and a pat on the fanny.  “Pay them no mind,” and with that he clapped me on the shoulder and steered me into the den, where an afternoon of baseball awaited.

Jesus fucking Christ, I thought, sitting in the comfort of one of the two leather recliners facing my dad’s 65-inch plasma TV, shaking my head in disbelief, my own mother and sister.  It shouldn’t have surprised me; it was becoming a trend.  As Yvette had once used my polymer to transform herself into a Japanese geisha and a super-busty Latina, so were the women of America using Blaze to do the same, and more.

There was a highly-rated game show, one that Minnie and I would sometimes watch while mauling the mattress, wherein a guy would have to pick his wife out of a group of ten identical glossies.  He would watch them walk back and forth across the stage, or listen to them talk about their lives together (after much coaching from the original wife).  The husband was allowed two ‘lifelines’, free passes that allowed him to actually take one of the girls backstage to test her in the rack, a titillating but pointless exercise as the ersatz wives all had copies of wife number one’s Muff-ler installed in them.  At the end of the show the guy would have to guess which one of them was really his wife, a task at which he usually failed.  A lot of people thought the show was rigged, considering that the men guessed right only thirty percent of the time, a statistic about which I’m sure none of the husbands gave a shit.

Dinner with my family that night was difficult affair, as the imposing melons of my mother and sister served as constant distractions.  They quizzed me endlessly about my work, how many glossies I did per day, my dad smiling proudly at the idea of how much nookie his son was getting.  Mom told me about how she and Lillith had decided to become identical, about their various surgeries to become so, going into much greater detail than I would have liked.  Lillith asked me if I’d seen Yvette since the divorce (my ex-wife was world-famous, but her identity was a closely held secret).  I lied and said that I hadn’t, and further lied by saying it didn’t make any difference.

Lillith patted my thigh in sympathy (she could always tell when I was bullshitting her), but when her hand pointedly squeezed my thigh, I began to feel a cold trickle of worry running down my back.  Lillith had been celibate since I’d walked in the door, at least five hours, which for a glossy was pushing it.  “Well, I’m sorry to be a party pooper,” I said, doing my best to simulate a yawn, “but I’ve been up since 5:00 AM.  Mind if I crash, Mom?”

I beat a hasty retreat to my old bedroom, where my posters of Salma Hayek and Uma Thurman still hung; goodness only knew how much jizz I’d spilled in their honor.  I got undressed, a little sick at the thought of what had become of my family, at what I had indirectly done to my family.  Oh sure, they were all happy, happier than I could ever remember.  Dad was a much jauntier, more relaxed version of the man who had taught me how to pull an engine; Mom, who almost always complained of tiredness or achy joints, now bustled about like a twenty-year old, ripe and ready.

Strangest of all was Lillith, who had always been fairly bitchy to me when we were younger, but who seemed to care about nothing more than where her next penis was coming from.  I lay down in my old bed, cursing that motherfucker Thomas Wolfe, not for his being right about not being able to go home again, but for his not mentioning the blue balls inherent in trying.  But I quickly put thoughts about my testicles aside, because I had felt my bed shift slightly, signifying that I wasn’t alone.  “Wha…?” I started, but was silenced as a rubbery pussy settled over my nose and mouth like an oxygen mask.

“Shut up and start licking, Rod,” came a hoarse, sex-drenched voice, muffled slightly by the thighs pressing against my ears.  I tried to get up, but a pair of slick, freshly glossed lips slid over the head of my herbal supplemented hard-on, ending any possibility of argument.

It was a night of slippery, grunting exercise that I tried to close my rational mind to, which was not helped by the screaming coming from the floor above, “GOD, YES!  SPRAY YOUR HOT WAX ON MY PLASTIC ASS, YOU BIG-BALLED BASTARD!”

Strangely enough, I received a phone call early the next morning, telling me that I was needed back in Phoenix.  I was on the freeway by eight o’clock, puffing on my tenth cigarette of the day, feeling guilty for having been gutless in lying to my parents about the bogus phone call, not to mention having spent the night fucking my sister.  At least, I think it was my sister.

I arrived in Phoenix where I buried myself in my strange work and even stranger pussy.  Early Monday I coated a nursing mother, who shoved her rubbery nipple into my mouth while we fucked sitting on a chair, so that I could test how well baby would be able to feed (an unnecessary ritual, as Underwriters Laboratories had already done exhaustive testing on Blaze, and had found that not only was there no difference between a coated nipple and a baby bottle, but also that mastitis was almost unheard of in nursing glossies).

Later in the day I did a candy coating of Glaze on a glossy that probably tipped the scales at about three hundred pounds.  Despite the general slimming down of the country, such immense girls were a common enough sight (I could usually count on doing two per week).  Considered a form of body dysmorphia, these girls could be seen eating constantly, often going on high fat, high carb diets so as to get as large and as round a figure as possible.  Desiring to appear proportional, or sometimes disproportional, they would often have their boobs inflated, often to absurd sizes, and though many decried their unhealthy lifestyles and fabricated funbags, I doubt a single one of them ever spent the night alone by choice.  These models, affectionately known as 'bed hogs', due to their ability to take up most a king-size mattress all by themselves, were especially prized by your typical flannel-shirted lesbians, who could often be heard openly boasting of having a 'gash-guzzler' at home.  Minnie hated having them as clients, because it took so much more time and Glaze to coat them, which negatively affected our bottom line, and if we charged extra, people would say that we were discriminating, which would negatively affect our bottom line.  It didn’t bother me, though.  Humping one of these double-wides felt rather like fucking a beanbag chair, which, though weird, did make for a refreshing change of pace.

My last client of the day was eight months gone.  She was beautiful, as all pregnant women are beautiful, and I delighted in her rounded contours as I coated her, her swollen body so reminiscent of a VW Bug.  She wanted to be sunny yellow (a popular choice for expectant mothers), and wanted the typical ‘Baby on Board’ placard painted on her vast belly.  I did not take her for a spin, though.  By custom, Minnie would always don her futanari gear and do the honors on the pregnant ones, for finishing them off required a gentle touch, a woman’s touch.

Resistance continued to mount against Blaze, and the apparently ceaseless objectification of women.  Religious types who railed against the painted harlots for their unnatural lifestyle would carry keys or other sharp objects, dragging them across a glossy’s finish.  Feminists were known to pack squirt guns filled with vinegar, and if they found a glossy that sufficiently offended their sensibilities, they would spray them with the corrosive liquid.  This happened a fair bit, until a group of pissed-off glossies fought back, dragging one trigger-happy bitch into the nearest ladies room, where she was summarily stripped, painted, and then donated to a nearby college fraternity (it is still the most downloaded video of all time).

Lawsuits were repeatedly filed against AZ-TECH by shiny, grieving widows who’d fucked their husbands to death, but none were successful, since the plaintiffs themselves could not claim that were harmed by the miracle polymer.  Ditto for statutory rape claims by parents whose sixteen-year old daughters had experimented with the addictive polymer, and then gone on depraved, sex-filled binges that would shock a Hollywood starlet.  AZ-TECH won case after case, having successfully indemnified themselves against such civil actions by diligent enforcement of sales to minors.  Don Carlos, it seemed, was untouchable.

At the close of 2011, AZ-TECH put all of the Headlights restaurants up for sale, raking in billions of dollars from private investors, and even more for developing franchise rights.  They did the same thing again at the beginning of 2012, selling off every last Blaze Bodyshop, all the while retaining the same strict control of their image as they did over their resellers.  And it was on May 5, Cinco de Mayo, that AZ-TECH became a publicly traded company; overnight Carlos Lopez became the richest man in the world.

Did it make me a little ill?  Yes, but not so much as one might expect, as things were breaking nicely for our little business, too.  In June I competed in the Indianapolis fashion show, the biggest in the US.  My creation, a stunning platinum blonde coated in black thigh-highs with glued on spike heels, sprayed-on black opera gloves, an acid-green latex minidress, and porcelain cleavage, shoulders and face, sauntered proudly down the Brickyard’s catwalk to an appropriately awed crowd.  I took best overall design, and was invited to compete at Le Mans, though I declined – it had already been reported that ‘vette would be there.

Minnie was understandably less than pleased that we would not be going to France (I still had not volunteered the identity of my former wife, and was not so stupid as to admit that I had once been married to the hottest woman on the planet – I loved Minnie, but I doubted that any woman could deal with that kind of competition), but I mollified her by promising to take her to Italy for a few weeks.  I’ve heard the Ferrari factory is quite lovely.

It was stupid of me to decline, though, because in reality I saw my ex-wife hundreds of times a day, not to mention fucking her at least five times a week.  Hers was the single most popular design among glossies, it being a fairly achievable look once women started having themselves surgically transformed (and it was no accident that I fucked each and every one of my clients who went that route, unable to let go and let Vinny do the honors).

As the months went by, more and more women wanted more and more bizarre things done to them in the name of beauty, and the world continued to get weirder and weirder.  It was estimated that just over fifty percent of the nubile women in America (and quite a bit older than nubile in some cases), were glossy on a full time basis, a figure easily borne out at the mall.  There you would find them in massive numbers, undulating hither and thither, breasts of varying sizes and manufacture wobbling stiffly (though never less than a C-cup, by my estimation), the air thick with the combined scents of coconut oil, flowery perfumes, and Turtle Wax.

I would sometimes go there by myself, to walk among glossies in their natural habitat, so to speak, to see what others had been doing, looking for ideas, things I could improve upon.  I went into my favorite computer store, under the pretext of wanting to look at a new laptop, but actually I just liked looking at their shiny sales staff.  Every last one of them was a translucent white, their bodies perfectly smooth and polished, looking exactly like the molded plastic that housed their high-end computers.  They were beautifully elegant, with no protrusions of any sort to mar their unnatural perfection, their eyes hidden behind gray, apple-shaped contact lenses.

In truth these sorts of alterations were decidedly normal nowadays, but being a technology company they had gone one step further, and had implanted state-of-the-art micro-USB thumb drives in the navels of their glossies, thus turning them into walking 64-gig iBods.

But they were not the only techno-glossies out there, as other bits of gadgetry were available to accessorize a girl to her fullest: tiny chirping alarms that fit inside the navel, so that with the press of a button a man could easily find his glossy in a crowded bar; or LED nipple lights that would come in handy if one needed to read a map in the dark.

It was in the fall of 2012 that I was requested to do a special commission.  Based upon my victory at Indianapolis, a new client sought us out, desiring to have her body done up in a black and white cow motif, including having an extra pair of breasts affixed beneath her own – breasts that could be milked – just as her own surgically enlarged and hormone enhanced udders were capable of.  Minnie cheerfully accepted the commission on my behalf, but accused me of being a trifle priggish when I told her to put on her dickgirl apparatus and meet us in the paint booth, insisting that she do the honors on the silly cow since I wasn’t into bestiality.

But that wasn’t exactly true, for hardly a day went by without some new, incredibly bizarre wrinkle.  In early 2013 catgirls became all the rage.  Summer came, and suddenly every glossy wanted to be a mermaid.  In the fall, I was turning the girl next door into a fucking anime cheerleader, complete with permanently dilated eyes and mouths so small that they could only be made by casting and molding.  Blue-skinned aliens, red-skinned devil babes, complete with horns and pointy tail, and I don't even want to go into the number of pumpkins I decorated for Halloween.

I think I could have handled all of that, but I couldn’t help but feel that things had begun turning slightly sinister.  Most everybody in the civilized world was happy that racial barriers were dropping, as no one could tell what color skin was under a glossy’s finish, except for the guy who did her bodywork.  But it wasn’t the skin I was seeing, so much as the scars.  With so many glossies wanting plastic surgery: nose jobs, chin lifts, cheek implants, cheek reductions, etc, cosmetic surgeons were turning over at least as many units per day as I was, and quite often had waiting lists of six months and even longer.  Due to the lack of skilled surgeons to handle the load, women were forced to turn to those less skilled with a scalpel; doctors who weren’t too persnickety about quality.  Judging by their finished work it seemed that they subscribed to the philosophy that, ‘Close is good enough’, leaving it to Blaze, and to craftsman such as myself, to even out the rough spots and cover up the scars and discolorations of these fashion conscious women, and roll them out looking showroom new.  If there's anything I hate, it's shoddy workmanship.

But it was more than just that.  In the fall of 2013 I saw my first ‘convertible’.  I’d heard about them at a glossy expo in Los Angeles, a working vacation that allowed me to see my parents, and to show off my hot little import without having to worry about my dad or my sister taking her out for a spin.  The guy who’d told me about it hadn’t seen one himself, but he knew somebody who knew somebody who had, which for me put it at the level of urban myth – it was frankly unbelievable to me that a woman would actually do something like that to herself for the sake of fashion.  But when I saw my first one two weeks later I damn near freaked.

Female circumcision, long thought to be a barbaric practice, was beginning to gain acceptance in the United States, because it allowed a glossy to get that truly streamlined look, but without having to use a cooter cover.  I was shocked at first when I saw it, on a client named Tempest.  Her clit was still there, a little bud hiding at the top of a lipless slit, her labia completely, and expertly, excised.  Once the polymer was sprayed over her flat gash it disappeared entirely, leaving a seamless, smooth valley, but one that was obviously bereft of any appliance.  It was a sexy look, granted, but the thought of it chilled me to my core.

“What did you think of Tempest, luv?” Minnie asked while straddling me later on that evening.  “I thought she looked nice.”

It was a good thing that Minnie’s artificial pussy was custom-made for my dick, otherwise my hard-on would have dwindled away to nothing inside her.  “Minnie, my love,” I replied, my heart pounding in dread apprehension, “please tell me you’re not thinking of having it done.”

“But Roddy, darling, I thought you liked convertibles,” she said coyly, but not so coyly that I thought she might be joking.

“Minnie, I love you,” I said, trying to inject as much seriousness in my tone as I could.  “I love every part of you, and I want every part of you to stay the way it is.”

She looked at me, and despite her shiny, royal blue coating I could tell she was vexed with me.  “I’m glad I didn’t know you before I got my boobs done, luv,” she said, her tone slightly icy.  “I wonder what you’d have said then.”

I started to speak, but she pulled my face into those big, rubbery breasts and began riding my pole again.  “I don’t want to fight, Roddy.  I want to fuck.”  But she stopped at the top of her stroke, my prick at the very entrance to her simulated cunt – a telling gesture.  “But this is still my body, luv, whether you restored it or not.  You do understand that.”

Even though it wasn’t a question, I felt compelled to answer.  “Mmph-mmph,” I said around a mouthful of tit.

“Oh, that’s cracking, my love.  Now fuck me like there’s no tomorrow.”

*    *    *    *    *    *

We closed at noon on Christmas Eve, and I used that time to do a bit of last minute shopping at the mall.  I took the shop vehicle, a 1965 Mini Cooper truck that Minnie had bought so that I could restore it, ‘because a bloke can’t shag all the time’, but whose restoration took more than a year, due to me shagging all the time.

The mall was packed, which was hardly a surprise.  Glossy women were everywhere: buying things, displaying things, or leading guys to the bathroom for a much-needed quickie.  Studies showed that approximately seventy-seven percent of target-age women in America were shiny full-time – a silly way of putting it, as I had never heard of a glossy who wasn’t coated 24/7.  They milled about me, excited and happy: scintillating greens, sparkling burgundies, and sunny yellows.  Suspended above me hung glossies that had been coated bright white, given angel’s wings, and holding long brass trumpets.

I stopped by Spencer Gifts and picked up a new vibrator for Minnie (she never seemed to get more than a month's use out of one before it bit the dust) as well as a pair of gold ben-wa balls that she could use when her new vibrator gave up the ghost.  She still had her labia, but it was odds on that those luscious pussy lips were not going to see Valentine’s Day.

I bought a latte and sat at a table for a bit, to admire the scenery; a seemingly endless procession of polymer-coated women.  No, not women, I reminded myself – glossies.  I remembered seeing some program on TV just the day before, where this pretentious designer was discussing his use of glossies in his latest work.  ‘It’s not like they’re really women anymore, are they?  They’ve gone beyond all that.  They’re art now, man.  They’re design elements, they’re a color on your palette or a tool in your toolbox.  They’re artistic fucking statements!  They are not women anymore, man.  Thanks to Blaze they have evolved.’

I shook my head, absently watching the artistic fucking statements tottering about in front of me: shiny, pretty, fake.  It was then that I realized that I was sitting across from Victoria’s Secret.  It had managed to survive, but only by offering some very exceptional latex nightwear.  I put down my latte and walked up to the big window, as I had done years before, remembering how my ‘vette had shocked me out of a year’s growth.  The glossy in the display was a superbly lacquered ebony, her smoky finish offset by long blonde hair that actually looked like it might be real.  It took me almost a full minute to realize that I’d seen her before – the bitchy blonde manager that my shiny bride had french-kissed the day she’d gotten her first taste of public exposure.  Her boobs were bigger, of course, and her black finish had a smoky quality to it, but there was no mistaking who she was, or at least who she had once been.

I looked up at the shiny woman in the pink latex g-string for a long while.  Congratulations, bub, my inner voice said sarcastically, you evolved this one into a mannequin.  I started to argue but thought better of it.  Don Carlos might have given Blaze to the world, but LP_16/2 was still my invention.  At the very heart of it all I was responsible for this woman’s synthetic state.  “Are you happy?” I whispered, looking at the ebony beauty on the other side of the glass.  “Is this what you wanted to be when you grew up?  Was it your life’s dream to become an inanimate object?  A goddamn store decoration?”

I knew she couldn’t hear me, but her fingers flexed slightly.  I looked up past her boobs to find that she was no longer looking out at the passing crowd, but rather down at me, her lips pressed together in that unmistakable ‘please fuck me now’ expression.  I sighed and walked into the store, took her proffered hand, and followed her into her office.  At the very heart of it all I was responsible.

The mannequin moaned loudly when I slipped into her pre-lubricated cunt, and my herbal-supplemented dick became that much harder in response.  She was like so many of them.  It was all a glossy wanted: to be fucked, and to be admired.  It was an addiction that they couldn’t break, and one that they didn’t want to break, and it was an addiction that no one else wanted them to break either. 

I continued plugging away at her, her latex pussy gripping my cock like a vise, and I pawed her fat tits savagely, lost in the wonder of her unreal body.  It was my turn to moan when she squeezed her rubbery cunt around my dick, and I heard myself gasp, “God, yes, ‘vette.  Do that again!”

She giggled and bore down.  “Sure, handsome,” she cooed.  “Call me ’vette and I’ll do anything you want.”

I started to pull away, realizing what had happened, but her pussy was just too compelling.  I let go and pumped her hard, moaning the name over and over again, “vette…‘vette…’vette…”

It was the fuck that changed everything.  It was as though the blonde mannequin was some sort of ebony Ghost of Christmas Past, and it was when I came inside her latex-coated hole, driving my dick as deeply into her as I could, that it finally struck me that it was over.  It was actually, utterly, irretrievably over.  Yvette was gone, and no matter how many times I shagged a glossy, even an exact reproduction of her, it was not going to bring her back to me.  And with that realization, I felt a great weight lift from my shoulders.

I was as giddy as a drunken man when I pulled out of her, the black plastic fuckdoll giggling along with me, believing that my great joy was due to my enjoyment of her sleek body, rather than the epiphany I’d just experienced.  I thanked her and raced from the store, as merry as a schoolboy, my cell phone to my ear.  It was Christmas Eve, and I only had a few hours in which to do it up right.

*    *    *    *    *    *

“What’s all this, Roddy?” Minnie asked, after I’d pulled my hands away from her eyes.  She looked with astonished disbelief at the three enormous glossies that floated in the shop’s swimming pool, lashed together at the arms and ankles with red and green pleather strips.  I’d gotten them from Nathan’s Party Rentals, having paid top dollar to have them finished off in pink (as I didn’t have time to do either the coating or the subsequent honors), and paying still more to have them working the holiday.

“It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time, my love.  Will you join me?”

She put both hands to her mouth and actually giggled, her eyes sparkling with incipient tears, perhaps knowing what must be coming.  She gingerly stepped onto the jumbo-sized flotation device, and lay herself down across the soft, warm bodies, resting her head upon one the of the many giant boobs.  Mist rose from the water’s surface, shrouding the scene in unearthly beauty.  I quickly shed my clothes and got upon the living raft, and paddled us out to the middle of the pool.  It was a quiet night, a perfect night; the kind of night you remember forever.  I started to speak, to say the words I’d been rehearsing once I’d pulled my dick from the ebony mannequin at the mall.  “Minnie, I…”

“Yes!” she screamed, bouncing up, happy tears already streaming from her eyes.  She quickly straddled me and slipped my already hard prick into her latex-coated depths.  “Yes,” she screamed again as I bottomed out inside her, “oh yes, Roddy, I will marry you!”

“Thank you, Min…” I started, but she swooped upon me, sucking my tongue as deeply into her mouth as she could.  We fucked for hours on the glossy pink raft, the immense breasts providing secure handholds and comfy cushions, and when it was over we lay adrift in a sea of bliss, as happy as it is humanly possible for two people to be.

We floated awhile, in a state of peace so perfect that it should be illegal.  We held hands, gazing up at the stars, into the infinite reaches of space, into a future that seemed as limitless as time itself.  It was the beginning of a new renaissance, made possible by my accidental polymer, and humankind was embracing it with gusto.  It was the best of times, without a worst of times in sight.  It was the party to end all parties.  The future was glossy and the road ahead was smooth, and we could all look forward to lives filled with good times, good sex, and nothing but fun, fun, fun.

…until Daddy took the T-bird away.

To Be Continued…

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

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