Chapter 3

El Patrón

Going to work the next morning, all things considered, was probably about the stupidest thing I have ever done, because only an idiot would leave the bed of a fantastic plastic woman, when he could brave morning traffic to go do titrations and plot fucking endpoints.  All during my commute I sat in my little Dodge Dakota pickup, cursing the insane work ethic that had been instilled in me, but at the same time casting back over an idyllic morning of which no man can claim to have enjoyed better.

I had awakened to a breathtaking sunrise, my dick having somehow found its way back inside my fuckable pool toy.  She was awake and had been for some time, so she had told me, thinking about how wonderful she felt.  We went right back at it again, our frenzied lovemaking sending waves lapping over the sides of the pool.  I got up and made coffee; my fingers, knees, elbows, and toes pruney from having spent the night sleeping upon the most perfect raft ever devised.  We showered together, the both of us giggling as we listened to the water drumming off of her false skin.

But I could hardly say that I was being fair to my employer, sitting at my desk, daydreaming of what awaited me at home.  I could still see her in my mind’s eye, my last image of her before I’d walked out the door, her back to her floor mirror, applying cocoa butter to her already shining rear end.

“I’m sorry?” I said stupidly.

“I said, ‘Buenos días, Rodrigo.’  ¿Cómo estás?”

“Muy bien, Don Carlos,” I answered, coming somewhat dazedly out of my reverie.  “¿Y tú?”

“Igualmente,” he replied amiably.  “Ay Dios mio, Rodrigo,” his crisp Mexican accent belying the fact that he was, like me, a native Angeleno, “you do know that beds can also be used for sleeping, sí?”

I smiled, as I’m sure did everyone else in their neighboring cubicles – everybody in the office had seen my ‘vette, or at least they had before I’d turned her into a walking mannequin.  Her picture, one where she was posed in a pair of cutoffs and a bikini top leaning against Justine, was among many that adorned my cube.  The president of AZ-TECH was looking at it, as he always did when he came by to chat, and I waited patiently for the question that I knew he would ask.  “So how is she?”

“She is well, Don Carlos.  Never better.”

“I still want her, you know,” he said, lightly tracing a chubby finger across her image in the photo.  “I must have her.”

“Lo siento, but I’m not ready to give her up quite yet.”

He whipped his checkbook from his western-cut suit jacket, his turquoise-inlaid bolo tie catching the light, “Three thousand dollars, Rodrigo,” he teased.  “Does anyone want to make a better offer?” he said, looking around the office space.

As usual, no one took the bait.  “There you go, mi amigo.  Since no one wishes to outbid me…”

“Lo siento, Don Carlos,” I repeated, smiling despite my fatigue from having behaved like a porn star the previous day, “but three thousand dollars is hardly enough to break up true love.  She is priceless, my Justine.”  It was our weekly game, one we’d started playing once we’d discovered our mutual love of classic cars.

He smiled his benevolent smile back, his black eyes sparkling, “Ah, so you do have a price, Rodrigo.  That is good to know.  Then perhaps some day I will drive off with her, si?” he asked, squeezing my shoulder affectionately.

“Perhaps, Don Carlos,” I said, “perhaps.”

He nodded and walked off, “Muchachos y muchachas,” he called out, “tamales in the conference room, courtesy of mi esposa.”

Everyone cheered; his wife, Clara, really did make the best tamales.  As I made my way to the conference room, I considered the portly man ahead of me.  Carlos Lopez was perhaps the strangest man I’d ever met, who wasn’t under medication.  Affable, charming, and certainly eccentric (although Yvette described him as being ‘psychotically Mexican’), he was the sole owner of AZ-TECH, and rumors about him abounded, none of which he went to any trouble to dispel: that he was the illegitimate half-brother of the present President of Mexico (doubtful); that he flew his private plane down to Hermosillo most weekends to buy and sell horses, and to do the books for his string of bordellos (highly unlikely), and that he’d won the company in a card game (which might well be true since he appeared to know nothing whatsoever about chemistry, physics, or higher math).

But he did know people.  AZ-TECH had roughly two hundred employees, and Don Carlos, (which is how HR instructed me to refer to him the day I was hired) knew the name of every last one of them, as well as their wives, their kids, and their hobbies.  It was the most amazing thing, watching him work a room, gliding from person to person with a seemingly boundless energy that is rare for a man approaching middle age, speaking with everyone from directors to janitors as if they had been friends since childhood.

Yvette remarked upon his talent when she’d met him at the first Christmas party we’d attended after I had come to work there.  It was at his home (an actual fucking hacienda) on the far north side of the Phoenix metro.  My patrón and his wife stood at one end of their enormous ballroom, receiving guests in a manner not unlike royalty, my wife looking around as though she expected Zorro to swoop in at any moment.  We waited in line to pay our respects, last due to Yvette’s insistence that we arrive late, for her knowledge of Mexican culture and customs, ingrained in her as a native Arizonan, is considerable and infallible.  Don Carlos greeted his guests warmly, resplendent in a formal caballero-cut suit trimmed with silver and turquoise accents, but it was his wife, Clara, at whom both Yvette and I gasped.

Make no mistake, Yvette is the most beautiful woman in the world as far as I am concerned, and what she is doing with a guy like me I will never know (even my own mother has described me as looking like Waldo, but without the snazzy red and white shirt), but the wife of my patrón was drop-dead gorgeous in a way that Catherine Zeta-Jones could only wish to be: wavy hair of spun gold; clear, unblemished skin that must have had only passing acquaintance with the sun; a generous mouth with lips that looked as though Goya must have painted them on; and violet eyes (no kidding, man, fucking violet) that danced with quiet mirth but that nonetheless peered into your very soul.

We approached with great trepidation, for there were two additional things that set our hostess apart from mortal women, and they were both planted squarely upon her chest.  “My God, Rod,” Yvette whispered into my ear as we moved further down the line, “make sure you keep one hand around my waist.  I might fall in!”

I could easily sympathize with my amazed wife, for the breasts that waited to greet us were phenomenal to the point of being mythic.  Yes, they were huge, easily the size of her head, and she appeared to carry them with a grace and gentility one associates with a ballet dancer.  Of course they weren’t real.  In the North Metro it is impossible to swing a dead gato without hitting a half-dozen blonde, Mexican trophy wives who haven’t been lipo’ed, tucked, implanted, injected, or botoxed.

I shook hands with Don Carlos, and squeezed the proffered hand of his taller, superbuxom wife, manfully maintaining eye contact despite the vertiginous display before me.  Her stupendous breasts were beautifully presented within a red and green strapless bodice that pushed them up and out, and I had to actively stop myself from making motorboat sounds with my lips as I stood there.  She appeared to be quite a bit younger than he was, and I mentally judged her to be about twenty-five to thirty years of age, though her grace and maturity befitted a much older woman.  Doña Clara was every bit as charming as her husband, and I found that up close her bosom was not imposing, but rather welcoming.  She smiled with warm pleasantness upon meeting Yvette, patting her on her right forearm, her stupendous boobs almost brushing my wife’s merely wonderful ones, and her smile broadened further still when Don Carlos informed her that I was ‘a car guy’.

“Oh, how wonderful for you, Carlos,” she said, her husky, accented voice musical, “you have a new friend, I think?  I suppose you are going to show him the stables and disappear for the rest of the evening?”

“I suppose I shall, mi amor,” he said, his eyes sparkling, and then he turned to us, “but not before I have had one dance with your bella esposa, Rodrigo.  ¿Con su permiso…?” he trailed off, holding an impeccably manicured hand out to Yvette, wordlessly requesting the honor of the first dance.  I watched them go, noting the envious expressions of my fellow workers as my employer favored my wife, and by extension myself, with his attentions.

“Do not worry,” came the dulcet tones of our hostess, putting a hand upon my arm as we watched them waltz about the floor, my much taller wife in her high heels expertly following the shorter man’s fluid, graceful lead.  “I do not think that he will steal her from you, at least not tonight.”  I laughed at her joke, for I found it unlikely in the extreme that my patrón would do anything in public that would show disrespect to his wife, who, judging by the slack and drooling expressions of the assembled male partygoers, brought him much honor.  She turned and walked off to attend her guests, for which I was inwardly grateful; I didn’t know how much longer I could refrain from sticking my head into her cleavage.

Yvette returned, breathless after her turn about the richly tiled dance floor.  “Goodness, Rod,” she said, taking an elegant swig from the champagne I’d secured for her, “but that man can dance!  He’s like a Mexican Fred Astaire.”  She didn’t stay long though; my coworkers, emboldened by my employer’s example, and desiring to be seen doing as he had done, were also eager to dance with her, practically all of them taking my ‘vette out for a spin.

Of course her big chest, barely contained within her sparkling white, spaghetti-strap dress, played a part in her being the belle of the ball, but I had no need to be jealous, and wasn’t; for one, Yvette loved to dance and it was not a passion in which I could indulge her owing to my utter lack of rhythm; and two, only a fool would make a pass at my bride under Don Carlos’s roof.  There was a slow number that allowed someone of my movement-challenged abilities to dance with her, and it was near the end of the tune when I felt a hand at my back.

“May I cut in?” my patrón asked.

“Certainly, Don Carlos,” I said, offering up my ‘vette.

“Perdóneme, lovely Yvette,” he said with a little bow, “but may I borrow your esposo for a little while?”

“Certainly, Don Carlos,” she said.  “It will give me the opportunity to sample your wonderful table.”

“Oh, you must do so.  Clara is most proud of her enchiladas suizas and tamales dulces,” he said expansively, and she certainly had reason to be.  I had already paid a visit to the banquet table, and any woman who possessed her degree of culinary skill and planning could take her pick of kings and sheiks, be she as stacked as she was or as flat as a tortilla (though in truth I would not trade my ‘vette for love or money).  “Would you care to see the stables, Rodrigo?”

He escorted me down a hallway as large as a courtyard, its walls adorned with pictures that told me a good deal about him: a round, young boy standing next to a woman I took to be his mother, in front of a bungalow in Los Angeles; wearing a straw hat, standing in front of a thoroughbred horse, his arms around two small boys (“my niños,” he said proudly, “spending the evening with their abuela,”); and dominating the rest, a massive oil painting of him and his wife, the lord of the hacienda seated importantly upon a chair of red velvet, Clara standing beside him wearing an immodestly modest powder-blue evening gown, her stupendous breasts on a line with his head, an unsubtle testament to his superiority.

If I were good at analyzing people I would have said that my patrón was compensating for something: an impoverished childhood, an ignoble lineage, or perhaps a dick the size of a raisin, but when he opened the huge, highly polished oak door directly underneath the big portrait and switched on the lights in the room beyond, I realized that my first impression was entirely incorrect: he wasn’t compensating for something – he was overcompensating.

I had figured at the outset that ‘stable’ was their euphemism for garage, and I was right, but it was a garage in much the same way that the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground.  There were ten cars in that cathedral-like space, ten of the most impressive cars I had ever laid eyes on: a red 1959 Jaguar MkII with right-hand drive, a gunmetal gray 1964 Aston Martin DB5 (yes, James Bond’s wheels), a cream colored 1965 Alfa Romeo Spider, a Ferrari, a Bugatti, a Stutz, a 1935 Dusenberg Phaeton, and to top it all off, a racing-green 1966 AC Shelby Cobra, her hood already open, her immaculate 427 cubic-inch engine displayed before me.

“So what do you think, Rodrigo?” he asked, his head cocked, a wry smile on his broad face.

What I thought was that that bordello rumor might indeed be true.  “I think,” I said, my voice a hoarse rasp, “that I don’t ever want to leave this place, patrón.”

He laughed heartily, and offered me an expensive cigarro that I was certainly not foolish enough to refuse.  We opened hoods, boots, and bonnets, took off our coats and crawled underneath his beauties (the garage floor being only slightly cleaner than your standard hospital operating room), and in general had a fine time acting like eighteen-year olds.

He poured us some ludicrously expensive tequila, taken from a cabinet perched over an anally displayed set of shining Snap-on combination wrenches.  “To the three T’s, Roderigo,” he said, holding up his glass, “without which life on this planet is but a misery: Tits, tamales, and tequila!”

Even if he hadn’t been my employer I would have drunk to that toast.  The light amber liquid coursed down my throat like liquid fire, and he clapped me on the back when I damn near choked on it.

“Ah, Rodrigo,” he sighed, a friendly arm on my shoulder, “are we not the luckiest of men, you and I?”

Looking over the array of machinery before me I was on the verge of pointing out that luck is a relative thing, but only a fool disagrees with his employer when alcohol is involved.

“To have such beauty in our lives,” he continued with a slightly drunken slur, and I couldn’t help but notice that his carefully cultivated accent was beginning to slip a little, we are blessed.”  He didn’t look exactly blessed, though.  There was a sheen of sweat surrounding his pencil-thin moustache, and he had a faraway look in his eyes, a wistful, longing sort of look.  Not knowing what to say I took another careful sip of my tequila in the pregnant silence.

“I envy you, Rodrigo,” he said finally.

He envied me?  With my mortgaged house and my comparatively flat-chested wife?  I have read about how wealthy people are seldom satisfied with their lives and are always restless to acquire more, but to want less?  “Don Carlos?”

“Perdóneme, I should have said, I envy you your relationship with her – with your Justine.”

“My…?”

“Oh, si,” he said, his normally whimsical face now oddly serious.  “These cars,” he said, waving a chubby hand, “these beautiful expressions of man’s ingenuity.  I love them, I truly do, but I cannot justly say that they are mine.”

I cocked my head quizzically; I find this works when you have absolutely no idea what to say to someone.

“You are confused?”  He put his glass down on the workbench and put his hands out so that I could see all ten fingers.  “Look at these hands, Rodrigo,” he said, the slur in his voice becoming more pronounced.  “Note how clean they are.  Do they look like they have ever greased a bearing?  Or rebuilt a transmission?  Or even changed the fucking oil?”

“Don Car…” I started, but he waved me off a little blearily, and I was not so stupid as to try and cajole him.  I read once that ‘there is nothing sadder than a sad Mexican’, and having a sad, drunken Mexican on my hands was certainly no picnic.  So this captain of industry envied my mechanical skills.  It was a nice compliment, and with all humility a deserved one.  I had found Justine behind a bar in Gila Bend and it was love at first sight.  She’d had a long and useful life, and for all she’d been put through her body was in amazing shape; a few dings, yes, but overall cherry.  Her interior was shot, as was the tranny, and she bled oil like no one’s business.  I got her for a couple grand, and it was a labor of love restoring her: I spent whole nights and weekends under her (in the days before my ‘vette had come along), and blew an unthinkable amount of money on her, but she was worth it.

Two months after I’d begun at AZ-TECH, they had their annual car show.  A few guys sniggered at her license plate, which bore her name proudly, asking me if people ever thought the name referred to me, but their jeers turned to admiration once El Presidente turned up, for it was obvious he had the hots for my ride.  He lavished praise upon her, and was even more impressed when I showed him the pictures of her before and during her restoration.  I won, of course, and he took me and a few other car guys out to dinner at his favorite restaurant, which made it a double victory, for that was the night that I found my lovely ’vette.

“I have never been inside them, Rodrigo, like you have been inside her,” he said sadly.  “You have created her, won her by virtue of your skill and talent.  But I have only purchased them.  I own them, yes; I have bought them…but they are not mine.”

This conversation was getting just a little too weird, even for me, but I was rescued at that moment by a vision: Doña Clara, flanked by my wife, was standing at the door, a bemused look upon her lovely face; the red, green, and white of their dresses making up the colors of the flag of Mexico.

“What do you think we should do with these two boys, Yvette?” she asked my amused looking wife, her hands on her hips.

“I think, Doña Clara,” replied Yvette, giving a somewhat extended glance at the red Ferarri a few feet to my right as she sidled up to me and put an arm about my waist, “that I will take this one home and put him to bed.”

Our hostess walked with a slow grace up to her husband, a queen no matter where she might be, and put a hand up to his cheek.  “Oh, Carlos,” she said with an indulgent smile.  “A little too much tequila, I think?”

He nodded drowsily, his chin upon his chest, looking down into a cleavage that to him must have appeared infinite.

They were quite the pair, the portly, drunken Mexican and his regal wife.  The harsh light of the garage did nothing to diminish her beauty, but standing as she was, in the center of such automotive magnificence, I found myself wondering how much of that beauty was man-made, and if whether, like his fine cars, he felt he truly owned her as well.

Our hostess laughed sweetly, and lightly chucked her husband under the chin.  She effortlessly guided him out of the garage, Yvette and I following at a respectful distance.  That was two and one-half years ago, and though I’d partied with him since, I had never seen him in such a state again.

‘You’re going to be a rich man,’ Yvette had said, not quite twenty-four hours ago, but I was not so sure of that.  Sure, I had been to his home, met his wife, drunk with him, and broken bread with him, and while I couldn’t exactly say that I knew what kind of man he was, I was pretty sure that I knew what kind of man he wasn’t.  What would he say, this good man, this family man, this man who I was sure had kept me from being fired only a few months past, if I told him that I had invented something that would make his name synonymous with the dildo?

It was as I got into line to get some of Clara’s homemade tamales, which really are amongst the finer things in all creation, that my cell phone rang.

“Roddy…” a hoarse rasp, “…come home.  I need…you…”

“Yvette?” I said into the phone, but all I heard was her hoarse breathing, which was followed by silence.  “Yvette!” I said urgently, but the line had gone dead.  I quickly called her cell phone but there was no answer.  What the fuck was happening?

“Rodrigo?” my patrón asked tentatively, his eyes searching mine.

“I’ve, uh…I’ve got to go, Don Carlos,” I said dazedly, wondering what could be wrong, and what I could do from thirty miles away.  “It’s Yvette…my wife.  She’s…ill, I think.”

“Then you must go,” he said urgently, his normally jovial face quite serious.  “Familia always comes first.  Go now!”

I didn’t need his blessing but I was nonetheless glad to have it.  I made it down to the parking lot and into my truck in seconds flat, and was on the freeway in good time, considering lunch traffic.  I dialed and redialed her phone, the goddamn dial tone a palpable wall between my bride and me.  What have I done to her? I thought, my mind racing.  Was she now dying from skin suffocation because I wanted her to match my car’s upholstery, and had trusted her health and safety to fucking Wikipedia?

I raced home as quickly as traffic would allow, fearful that any delay caused in my getting a ticket might mean the difference between life and death.  I considered calling an ambulance, but the mental picture of some paramedics tramping through my house, ignoring the dead mannequin on the floor, was too ridiculous to contemplate.  My truck pulled to a screeching stop in front of our Pueblo Revival home, and I raced across our rocky landscaping and up the steps, damn near twisting my ankle on a loose brick, and threw open the door, thankful that it wasn’t locked.  “Yvette!”

“Roddy!” she screamed, which was as much as I heard before I felt her body slam into me, knocking me against the wall and down onto the hall floor.  She was on top of me in a trice, her hands scrabbling at my belt buckle, her face frantic with a fevered desire that I had not seen since the time she had gone a full three hours in her vacuum bed, and had come out it ready to fuck the whole of the US Navy.

“Oh, God…Roddy,” she panted, the afternoon sun streaming through the windows glinting off her surface, “I’ve needed your dick all morning!”

She had my cock inside her sweet cunt within another five seconds, and had brought my hands up to squeeze her fat, fake tits.  She rode me like she was the queen of the goddamn rodeo, moaning and grunting feverishly.  She came in less than a minute, and a second time a minute later, screaming like a banshee and slamming her pelvis onto mine with such force that I thought she might shatter, until we came together – her third and my first.

She lay atop me, breathing heavily, her synthetic skin smelling of cocoa butter, not unlike a car deodorizer.  “How are you feeling…‘vette?” I asked, trying to keep things light, pleased at how I’d been received, though still a little irked at the way she’d scared me half to death.

“Much better, now that you’re home and inside me.”  She paused, and I could tell by her breathing that it was not out of fatigue; she was nervous.  “Are you angry with me?”  She always could read between the lines.

“It’s difficult to be angry with a woman, my love, who has just fucked the life out of you, but why didn’t you answer the phone when I called you back?”

“Oh, Roddy, you called me back?”  She pushed herself up to a sitting position, her bountiful bosom wobbling stiffly.  “I’m so sorry, sweetie” she said, putting her fingers to her orchidaceous lips, “I guess I must have used up the battery.  You see, after you left, I decided I needed some stimulation, and…well…”

She didn’t have to spell out what had happened, as I’m not too bad with subtext either.  She had probably put the fucker on vibrate, and stuffed it down her panties while going about her morning routine.  “So why not use your little bullet, ‘vette?”

“I did,” she said simply.  “What can I say, I wore it out.”

I laughed, which while being inside her felt doubly nice.  “Oh, my poor, oversexed love,” I said, stroking her smooth thighs, “I think your showroom finish is going to your head, so to speak.”

“So you’re not angry with me?”

“Hardly, my shining sweetheart.  But I can’t skip out on work every day, you know.”

“I know.  It’s just this coating, Roddy.  It makes me feel so…you know?”

“I know.  So how do we solve this little problem?”

“Problem?” she said, getting quickly to her feet, leaving my sloppy johnson to flop against my thigh.  “There isn’t any problem.”  She was looking down upon me, her face a reflective mask of the utmost seriousness.  “There isn’t a problem, Rod,” she repeated firmly, “I’m just having a little fun, okay?”

“Okay, baby,” I said defensively, my palms open, my fingers spread wide.

She was silent for a few moments, just looking at me, apparently weighing her words.  “I-I’m sorry,” she said quietly.  “I guess I’m a little…overwhelmed.”  A few more moments of silence passed.  “I’m going to get cleaned up.”  She turned away and went down the hall to our bedroom.”

What the fuck was that? I wondered.  I spent a couple of minutes laying on the warm, hardwood floor of the hall, replaying that little scene over and over again in my head.  In the almost three years that I had known her I had never seen her act like that.  My beautiful bride, the most level headed (and thankfully, the most sexually adventurous) woman I had ever known seemed to be experiencing what could only be described as addictive behavior.

But LP_16/2 is inert, I told myself.  It does not interact with the human body.  So what was happening to her then?  She was different now, both physically and emotionally, about that there could be no argument.  Physically she was definitely improved, all her little imperfections smoothed out, but under the hood it appeared as though she wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

Dude, I told myself, you are thinking much too much.  She said it herself, she’s feeling overwhelmed.  For Christ’s sake she’s even fucking waterproof!  So let her have her fun and go along for the ride, and when the time is right talk her into the teal thing.  I saw her again, in my mind’s eye, sitting in the passenger seat, her latex body an outgrowth of my Justine, and found that my dick had gone as hard as a stick shift.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, dude,” I said under my breath.  “Go in there, give her a hug and tell her you love her, and see if maybe you can’t salvage a blowjob out of this.”  I have found that the advice I give myself is usually pretty good so I picked myself up off the floor, stuffed my dried salami back into my pants, and went into the bedroom.

I found her standing before her floor mirror, her head cocked slightly, examining her finish it seemed.  I came up behind her and slipped my hands about her trim waist, and rested my chin in the crook of her neck.  “I love you.”

She continued gazing at her reflection, her hands cradling her big boobs, supporting them.  “Do you know why I love you, Roddy?”

There are times when the smart thing to do is to shut up and listen.  I’m pretty smart.  She’d told me ‘why’ plenty of times before, usually while in the afterglow of some truly righteous loving, but I got the feeling that I was about to hear a different version.

“Do you remember the night we met?”

“Odd that you should bring that up, love.  I was thinking about that only an hour ago.”

“And do you remember the first thing you said to me?”

I shook my head, as the only thing I could clearly remember about that night were the large, round breasts that materialized out of thin air, less than a foot from my face, the erect nipples poking through the ribbed wife-beater t-shirt she wore, her areola distinctly visible beneath the weave.

Don Carlos’s favorite restaurant, which that night had become my favorite restaurant, was Headlights.  A Hooters knockoff, right down to the shiny pantyhose and chicken wings, it was far and away the most successful restaurant chain in the Southwest.  Yvette had appeared at our table to take our drink orders, and when those big boobs had suddenly appeared right next to my cheek, wobbling underneath the two round headlights the made up the restaurant’s oh-so familiar logo, the slogan underneath in classic script – our high beams are always on! – I damn near fainted.

“Pity,” she said, cocking her head again, the reflection of the bedroom window clearly visible upon her forehead, “I remember it as though it was yesterday.  You said ‘buh.’”

“‘Buh?’”

“‘Buh,’” she repeated, and even though a good bit of her expression was lost behind the mask I’d applied to her face, there was no mistaking how much the memory still pleased her.  “You saw me, Roddy,” she continued, her hands now lightly caressing her wonderful funbags, “and you couldn’t even say the word ‘boobs.’”

“And you fell in love with me because I was a complete goon?”

“I fell in love with you because you fell in love with my tits.”

“That, my love, is the weirdest thing I have ever heard.  Everybody loves your tits.”

“Not so,” she said with a subtle shake of the head.  “Roddy, I had seen men look at my boobs for years: lust after them, slaver over them, grab their dicks upon seeing them, but when I heard you say ‘buh’, and saw the look in your eyes, I knew.  I knew that you loved them, and that you would continue to love them, until death would we part.

“All that from ‘buh’?”

“Was I wrong?”

No, she had most certainly not been wrong, for from the moment I laid eyes on her round, soft, sweet bosom I was hooked.  I went back the following night, tipping the hostess a twenty to make sure that she seated me in Yvette’s section, and again the following evening.  She served me professionally, never overtly flirting, never leading me to believe that there might be something more to her smile than a working girl trying to get a fat tip.  I went back again the next evening, and was unhappy to find that it was her night off.  No, not unhappy – depressed.  I needed to see those oh-so perfect boobs, and without my fix I felt aimless, pointless.  I actually went out to a titty bar, to try and find a substitute pair of knockers I could gaze at for a while, but what was on display was either too little, too big, too droopy, too perky (there is such a thing), or to put it simply, they were not hers.

I went back the following night, my mouth dry, my very happiness dependent on her fucking chest.  She was there, all right, and I was so overjoyed to see those big, beautiful cans I tipped her fifty percent, and was never so surprised as when I got the receipt back, to find my tip crossed out and a note in her handwriting next to it saying, ‘I think you’re cute.’

We went for a walk in the moonlight after her shift.  She was easy to talk to, and I was actually able to focus on what she was saying despite the fulsome cleavage barely contained within the tank top she was wearing.  She talked about her day job in the theatre, and I talked about cars.  We kissed under the stars, and when she took my hand and placed it upon her breast, I knew at once that I could not bear to ever be separated from her.

“Roddy,” she said, her voice earnest, “I know you love my tits, and I love you because you do, but I also know that you are addicted to them.  And because I love you I will go on feeding your addiction, every day, every night, for as you long as you wish.”

I looked into her eyes, and even though they were only two-dimensional reflections rebounding off of silvered glass, they were the only things that looked remotely human about her, and in their simulated depths I saw not only the woman I had fallen in love with, but the woman who had always dressed to please me, dressed to honor me, and who had never failed to undress for my pleasure when asked.

“I understand,” I said simply.

“I knew that you would,” she said softly.  She then took my hand from her waist and placed it upon the very same tit as the night we first kissed.  “Please don’t worry, baby.  I’m just having a little fun.  I promise not to let it come between us.”  But when she squeezed my hand, which in turn squeezed her firm, latex-covered dug, I couldn’t help but feel that something already had.

“Have your fun, ‘vette,” I said finally.  “By all means make yourself drunk on it.  But I can’t ditch work like this, not every day.”

“I know, sweetie,” she said, her eyes moist, her face lit up with a big smile that was completely devoid of creases or dimples, “and I have a plan to take care of that.”

“And what,” I said, bringing my other hand up so that I could do a proper job of fondling her addictive juggs, “do you propose to do?”

“Oh, it’s very simple,” she replied, wiggling her smooth fanny against the stiff lump in my pants, “and it begins…” she continued, drawing both of her hands down so that she could finger her rubbery pussy, “…at the mall.”

To Be Continued…

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

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