Chapter 4

A Trip to the Mall, et al

Phoenix suffers from an identity crisis.  Ask any American to name a major US city and they will invariably answer Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York City, Chicago, Miami, Minneapolis, Las Vegas, Seattle, Dallas, San Diego, Saint Louis, possibly getting to my beloved adopted home somewhere just below Nashville.  This despite being the fifth most populous city, despite being the twelfth largest metro, despite having won a World Series, and despite the fact that Alice Cooper lives here, most people still see it as a sleepy little town where tumbleweeds roll across Main Street and desperadoes shoot up the saloon on Saturday nights.

We have an international airport, an opera, a philharmonic orchestra, and world-class golf courses, not to mention more hot Latinas than one can shake a fuckstick at, but the image of us as a third-world backwater persists, from within and without.  Thankfully we have the one thing that links us to civilization: we’ve got malls.  Now one would think that a woman covered from soles to scalp in shining latex polymer would be unable to go shopping without attracting attention to herself, and one would be right – if that woman were any other than my Yvette.

“Don’t you think,” I sighed, lying beside her, distractedly batting a pencil eraser nipple back and forth with my thumb, still amazed at how much it behaved like rubber, “that you’re going to attract attention to yourself?”

“Oh, Roddy,” she sighed back, her mind and body in a warm and happy place after our makeup sex, “I told you I’ve got it covered, and I mean that, literally.”

And she was right.  Sixty minutes later had me standing next to the locked door of what I used to think of as my garage, waiting for Yvette to put the finishing touches on her appearance.  I had used the time wisely, scarfing down some leftover fettuccine alfredo and applying some of her cocoa butter moisturizer to my overworked johnson, thinking that perhaps a coating of polymer might be a good idea, to protect it from the wet conditions I was so often putting it under, but your dick is your dick – it is not something you experiment with.

I knocked on the door.  “How much longer, baby?”

“I’m almost done, sweetie.  I just had to touch up my lips and my nips.  Goodness, Rod, but you can be hell on a girl’s finish.”  And when she opened the door a minute later, with a cheery, “Here I come,” pronouncement, it was all I could do to keep from fainting dead away.

*    *    *    *    *    *

As we headed down the freeway in my truck, I cast about nervously, hoping that Allah really did forgive necessity.  “Will you relax, sweetie?” she said, giggling lightly and turning her head sideways in my lap so that she could kiss my stiff prick.  “No one will know.”

“Yvette, my love, I don’t doubt you for a moment.  It’s not so much discovery I’m worried about, but rather a crazy little thing called jihad.”

“Oh, Roddy,” she said, giggling again and nuzzling my johnson against her smooth cheek, “you really are cute when you fret.”

I shook my head in wonderment, amazed at her attitude, for what she called fretting was in actuality balls-out fear, which I think is a pretty reasonable response considering that my busty, shiny wife was now lying on the seat of my truck, dick in hand, her wondrous body swathed head to foot in a blue burqa.

Yvette, like most theater people, was a jack-of-all-trades, and in her case, a master of several (give Yvette a knife and fire and I swear she could rebuild civilization).  She’d learned sewing at her mother’s knee, prior to entering the glamorous world of acting, which she later gave up to enter the not so glamorous or well-paying world of the professional stagehand (it wasn’t that she wasn’t any good, it was that she found that she hated actors, and the stagehands always seemed to be having so much more fun).  There she learned painting, carpentry, electrical, makeup, and how to curse more colorfully than any five mechanics I knew.

What I had thought was a morning devoted to finding whole new ways of bringing herself off had in fact been spent making it possible for her to walk about undetected.  In between her many orgasms she’d found the time to fabricate an all-over garment for herself, using the blue sheets I’d ripped up during one our many tempestuous romps the previous day.  She modeled it for me upon her emergence from the garage, and I gaped at her, wide-eyed, amazed at her audacity, which was incredibly stupid on my part as Yvette is easily the most audacious person I’ve ever met.  I didn’t argue with her because I have learned in two and one-half years of marriage that winning an argument with her is a virtual impossibility, and I supposed that if anyone could pull it off it would be her; I expect she could waltz into Mecca without causing a fuss.

But it didn’t stop me from fretting.

I pulled in behind an eighteen-wheeler I could have passed, preferring not to have some good ol’ boy look down to find my burqa-clad wife lightly sucking my cock and fingering her box through her costume, which she had been doing ever since leaving the house.  We pulled off of the freeway just as a metro bus passed us on the left, and I uttered a silent, thankful prayer to the Man upstairs that no gunshots had erupted from it.

“Are you sure about this, ‘vette?” I said, looking around furtively as I pulled my truck into the parking lot of the biggest mall in the state.

“I’m sure, big boy,” she said, releasing my stiff prick from her mouth with a pop, the shadow cast from it now moving across her unnaturally smooth face as we turned a corner at the fourteen-plex theatre, “but find us a nice, secluded parking spot.  I want your taste in my mouth when we walk in.”  She resumed giving me head, no longer teasing me as she had been doing all journey.  I found us a spot underneath a parking ramp, well away from any other vehicles, where she quickly brought us both to gasping, grunting climaxes, which I have to admit puts a positive spin on the whole shopping experience.

Was she leading me along by my cock?  Hell, yes, she was, literally and figuratively, which is infinitely better than being pulled along by the nose or balls.

The coast clear, she sat up and pulled down her vanity mirror, and began repairing her lipgloss.  “I thought no one was going to see,” I said, putting my dick away, relaxed, but still hoping a holy war wasn’t in the offing.

“No one will, my love, but even a synthetic girl wants to look her best.”  She turned her head this way and that, adjusting her mussed headdress, the hijab.  “Now I’ll get out first.  Is anyone looking this way?  The last thing we need is for someone to think I’m a Muslim hooker.”

Visions of being stoned to death by hordes of dark-skinned men wearing fezzes raced through my head.  “No one is looking, ‘vette,” I said.  She blew me a kiss, her orchidaceous lips glinting just as she pulled the niqaab across her smooth brow, hiding her plastic face from the world.  She exited the truck and walked away, her image in the rear view mirror unremarkable.  When she cleared the parking structure, I made my move, getting out of the truck and closing the door, almost pissing my pants when my cell phone rang.

“Houston, we have a problem.”

There is nothing that bodes so much ill as a plan that dissolves within the first ten seconds.  “What do you mean, ‘problem’, ‘vette?  I thought you had this all worked out.”

“I did, baby, I do,” came her artificially reproduced voice, “it’s just I forgot about my hands.  I didn’t bring any gloves.”

Shit, I thought.  How would a cashier react upon seeing a plastic hand handing her a plastic card; I shuddered at the thought.  I gave a casual sweep of the courtyard that fronts the mall, easily picking out my be-robed wife from amongst the many happy shoppers.  “So what do we do now, turn around and go home?”  That sounded like a good option to me.

It is amazing how much can be communicated by a four-second silence and a simple question.  “Do you want to go home, Rod?”  This translates to, ‘I thought I married a man with balls.’

“Sorry, love,” I said, feeling sheepish.  “No, we’ve got to do this.  Let’s just get it done.  What do you want to do?”  We settled quickly on a new plan over the phone, the shiny woman hidden under the dull robe giving the orders.  “Very well,” I said, my voice and attitude a little stronger after my silent rebuke, “how much battery do you have left?”

“I’m full, sweetie,” her digital voice said.  “I swapped before we left.  Are you good?”

“I’m good.”  I entered the mall proper, noting by her reflection in various doors and windows that she was marking me, keeping a good fifty feet between us.  Per her instructions I hit The Body Shop first, where I picked up a metric tonne of cocoa butter skin moisturizer, more of the same in a white chocolate scent, plus three other forms of wax for her lips and nipples (all the attention I’d been paying to her nips over the last twenty-four hours definitely taking its toll).

I caught sight of her, or at least her reflection, while on the way into Spencer Gifts, where I picked up not one, but two new bullet vibrators, so that her interior would be as well cared for as her exterior.  I received more than my fair share of looks from some of the other shoppers, a woman in line behind me remarking to a friend of hers, “well someone’s certainly going to have a nice anniversary tonight.”

On to Radio Shack, where I picked up enough rechargeable AAA batteries to make her bullets hum until the fall of civilization, not to mention another phone battery with enough oomph to allow her to vibrate her oversexed pussy for a full four hours if need be.

It was of course at that point that I lost her signal.  “Yvette!” I whispered heatedly into my phone, but there was no response.  I redialed, but her voicemail picked up, and I found it a little odd, listening to her message, it having been recorded prior to her becoming a polymer-coated sex object.  There was no question about it; the new Yvette’s voice was lower, throatier, and far more intense.

I moved out into the mall proper, a cathedral to capitalism bustling with pilgrims, none of them wearing a burqa.  I scanned up and down the section of the mall we were both supposed to be in, unable to pick her out anywhere.  I looked up, frantic, hoping to find her on the second tier: nothing.  I walked out into the center of the floor, my heart threatening to burst from my chest, and that was when I found her, at which point my overtaxed heart almost stopped dead.

Gone was the burqa, but no one noticed her.  In front of God and everyone she stood, not bothering to hide, her shiny skin quite visible, yet no one saw her.  In plain view of hundreds of people, her lips fixed in a frozen smile, her sparkling eyes looking out over the unknowing masses, big boobs ready to burst out of a pleated, burgundy babydoll nightie, stood my Yvette, in the big window of Victoria’s Secret.

“You crazy bitch,” I whispered, my head spinning.  “You crazy, fucking bitch!”  She continued standing there, unmoving, just another part of a plastic tableau, her hands on her hips, her painted-on smile perfectly smooth and glossy.  On wobbly legs I approached her still form, a quarter-inch of glass separating us.  She gave me a sly wink, but apart from that she looked no different that any other mannequin in the window display.  Well, that wasn’t exactly true, she looked far superior, but you certainly wouldn’t mistake her for a living, breathing person.

The thing I love about human beings, that august collective of which I reluctantly count myself a member, is our ability to dismiss.  If something doesn't fit our particular paradigm we generally ignore it, deny it, or treat it as irrelevant.  My barely clothed wife stood there, people walking blandly by, some of them even looking right at her, yet not a single person noticed that the busty mannequin was anything more than that.

“Get out of there now, ‘vette!” I hissed at her, and though she couldn’t hear me through the glass I knew my meaning was clear as fucking crystal.  She continued standing there, our former bed sheets pooled about her feet, unnaturally still, her breathing imperceptible (you could see her chest rise and fall, if you were looking for it, and whoever looks to see if a mannequin is breathing?).

I looked her up and down, amazed at her effrontery, the needle of her audaciousness meter full well into the red.  It was obvious that she had planned this, right down to the tiniest detail: her long hair, no longer in a ponytail, cascaded halfway down her back; her long, smooth legs shone in the glare of the footlights; her posture stiff, no doubt being helped by the strength of my polymer.  God only knew what was going on inside her head, but I was sure that her pussy was practically dripping, standing there, displayed before hundreds of people, her erect nipples poking through the sheer material, yet only the two of us aware of what was going on.

“May I help you, sir?”

“No!” I said quickly, and I could swear my plastic bride was smirking ever so slightly, no doubt enjoying the scene of me being caught publicly ogling a stacked mannequin by a goddamned salesgirl.  “Uh, I’m sorry, you startled me,” I said to the pretty redhead.  “Um, no, I’m just looking…for my wife, you see.”

I doubt that I could have sounded any lamer, but it was the truth.  She sauntered away, in search of someone else to whom she could peddle her panties.  I turned my attention back to the smiling figure in the window display.  I really should have seen this coming, for if there was one thing Yvette loved to do it was playing games.  Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy them too, but this was way beyond ‘the Plumber and the Naughty Housewife’.  The microseconds continued ticking by in my beleaguered brain, and as people continued to walk past, all of them apparently none the wiser, I gradually came to the realization that they were not going to notice her – her polymer coating was just too perfect.

Fine, I thought, crossing my arms across my chest and looking up past her boobs to her smooth, shining face, I can wait you out.  But the idea of waiting for her to finish her little game on her terms felt unsatisfying, especially when I remembered how she’d scared the bejeebers out of me, and even before I was consciously aware of it, I felt a slow smile creep across my face.  “You want to play, ‘vette?” I whispered, gazing up at her as she continued staring fixedly out over the shoppers, her concentration perfect.  “All right, baby, let’s play.”

“Er, on second thought, miss,” I said, turning back to the pretty, spike-heeled saleslady, “yes, you can help me.”  Things must be slow if she was outside the store, huckstering passersby, and I could use that to my advantage.  “That outfit,” I said, pointing out my immobile inamorata, “the burgundy one.  How much is that?”

She looked up at the new addition to the window display, momentarily confused by what she probably could swear had not been there this morning.  “Um, I’m not sure, sir.  I’ll be happy to check.”

“Please do.”

She went back into the store, her sweet ass bustling nicely in her tight skirt.  I chuckled to myself, giving my wily opponent a wicked grin, for the nightie she was wearing, a Christmas gift purchased by yours truly, was not Victoria’s Secret but rather Fredericks of Hollywood, and there was no way that that redheaded salesbabe was going to be able to account for it.  Sure enough, moments later she, and an associate, appeared in the window behind the bogus mannequin, the two of them flipping up various parts of my Yvette’s scanty coverings, my plastic bride’s eyes staying resolutely still as they did so.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, sliding open the big window so that she could speak to me directly, “but there seems to be some mistake.”

Yeah, I thought, like having a competitor’s label on your merchandise?  I could feel a crowd gathering behind me, as people suddenly realized something out of the ordinary was going on, and I wondered how much Yvette was loving the game now, and how much more she could stand.  “Mistake?” I said coyly, not about to win any acting awards, but not giving two shits regardless; this was fun.  “What kind of mistake?”

“It-it seems we’re out of stock on this, um, set.  Can I interest you…?”

“Out of stock?” I repeated, doing my best to keep a straight face as the redhead’s associate, a nicely-chested blonde who I thought would make an attractive addition to the store display, looked with astonished eyes at the Fredericks tag on the back of Yvette’s lingerie.  “Well, when will you have more?”  I could tell by the sound that there were now probably a good twenty or so people watching the goings-on, and I wasn’t troubling to keep my voice low.

“Um, I’m sorry, sir,” the redhead replied, trying to downplay a situation that appeared to be getting out of hand, “this set appears…”

…“to have been discontinued,” her chesty friend finished for her.

The redhead’s hand was now unconsciously resting on Yvette’s lower back, and I wondered how my very heterosexual wife was feeling now, having another woman’s hand so close to her ass.  I knew how I felt, and it was a good thing I held that Spencer Gifts bag in front of my crotch, as my rampant dick was threatening to burst a seam.  “Discontinued?” I repeated, as though I didn’t quite get it, fighting laughing as I heard even more people stopping and milling about, not one of them noticing the occasional blink from my wife – even busty mannequins don’t get looked in the eyes, it seems.  “Well, that’s not a problem.  My wife and that mannequin are practically identical,” murmurs of disbelief behind me.  “I’ll just take that one.”

“Um, I’m sorry, sir,” the blonde said, cutting across the redhead, who it appeared was really her junior, “it’s against store policy to sell untagged merchandise.”  I had to give Yvette credit, even with all this scrutiny no one had yet twigged to her true nature, but she had started this game; it was up to me to finish it.

“Listen,” I said, consulting my watch, “I’m a busy man.  I’ll give you two hundred dollars if you have that nightie off of her and in a bag in two minutes.”

I didn’t have to make the offer twice.  Both women, knowing they could split a free hundred bucks apiece, began stripping my wife.  But if I thought that Yvette would be break character because of the threat of a little public nudity I was sadly mistaken.  No sooner had the blonde pulled the thin straps down over her shiny shoulders, baring her fantastic bosom to the assembled crowd, than Yvette whipped around, grabbed the blonde’s head with both hands, and shoved her tongue deep into her mouth.

The crowd behind me fell into a stunned silence, and the blonde, too surprised to resist, gave a muffled yelp as Yvette grabbed her ass and pulled her into her, kissing her so deeply I thought she might faint.  The tense silence quickly gave way to raucous laughter and cheering, and my topless wife, emboldened by the crowd’s reaction, grabbed the shocked redhead about the waist and planted a liplock on her, as well.

Yvette:1, Rod:0

*    *    *    *    *    *

“Penny for your thoughts, Roddy?”

I looked down at her, lying on her back, her head in my lap again, her left hand lightly squeezing my dick as we headed down the freeway for home and safety.  “This has certainly been a day, my love.”

“That it has, sweetie,” she agreed, moaning slightly as I idly squeezed a rubber tit, “and it is all thanks to you.”

I snorted lightly, replaying the scene in my head.  “Did you enjoy your little display?”

“God, Roddy,” she gasped, apparently reliving the moment as well, the dying sun reflecting off of her delicious body, “it was the most fun I’ve ever had.  Ever.  I’m surprised at you, though.  Letting a couple of girls strip your wife for the whole world to see.”

Wasn’t that the truth?  I honestly couldn’t say what had made me do it – perhaps her showroom finish was going to my head, too.  After Yvette’s R-rated sex show, security guards hustled us into the store and then down a back hallway, the blonde manager, her lipstick smeared, threatening to have us arrested, until I shot back that there was no law barring someone from impersonating a mannequin.  “And what about you, baby?  Tonguing not one, but two chicks?  Publicly?  Not exactly the strictly hetero behavior I’m used to from you, my love.”

It is amazing how much can be communicated by a ten-second silence and a sigh.  “Yes, it was strange,” she said finally, stroking my cock against her cheek, “but…I just had to do it, Roddy.  I had to kiss them.  And I enjoyed it.  Does that shock you?”

“Baby, I’m a twenty-first century male.  It’s bisexual chicks that have made the Internets what it is.”

She giggled, the image of an overpass reflecting off of her forehead.  “Okay, so maybe shock isn’t the right word.  Did you like it?”

I snorted again.  “What does the lie detector in your hand tell you, ‘vette?”

She gave the head of my dick a kiss, followed by a squeeze, and sighed again, replete with happiness.  “That’s good, Rod.  I’m glad you feel this way,” she said, giving ‘Little Rod’ another squeeze to emphasize the point, “because I want to do it again.”

“Again?” I said giddily.  “Jesus God, ‘vette, what have I created?”

She turned on her side, using her homemade burqa as a blanket, and began nuzzling my dick in earnest.  “I don’t know, Roddy,” she said, half-sighing, half-cooing.  “It’s like…your coating me in latex has somehow…freed me.  In becoming artificial…I’ve become more than I ever was.”  She stopped nuzzling my dick, her expression pensive.  Her glossy hand was wrapped tightly around the base of my stiff prick, and her shining lips were slightly open, as though she were about to speak into a microphone, “You’re not going to ask me to stop, are you?”

Only a deaf man could fail to hear the desperate entreaty in her tone, and there is nothing wrong with my ears.  Of course she wanted to continue playing – I did, too – but what I had just witnessed in that mall, and been party to, could only be described as attention-seeking behavior, and attention was the last thing I needed.  Some people, my synthetic-skinned wife among them, would say I was being a party pooper, a buzzkill, but some people were not guilty of embezzlement.  Oh yes, I was most certainly that; I had stolen from my employer, conducted unsanctioned, very likely illegal experimentation on a human subject, and was getting more hot sex in the last two days than most men get in a lifetime.

But it had been fun.  Lordy, it had been that.  Yes, camera phones had gone off, and very likely a camcorder or two, as well, but I had mentally shelved worries of discovery, and for one simple reason: the subject in their viewfinders, the animated mannequin who might at this very moment be being uploaded onto YouTube, had no identity.  Sure, a lot of people knew what Yvette looked like, but only I knew what the human mannequin looked like, and the two of them were not the same:  Yvette was a youngish twenty-six, the mannequin’s age was indeterminate, anywhere from eighteen to thirty; Yvette had normal, variable coloration, the mannequin was slightly darker-skinned, and uniform from head to foot, except where her painted-on makeup had been applied; Yvette was human, the mannequin was not.  If you didn’t know they were one and the same, there was no way to connect them.

“No, my love, I’m not going to ask you to stop; I had a good time, too, but we really must use good judgment if we’re going to do this again.”

She started to get up, presumably to thank me in a special way that is highly unsafe in twilight traffic, but I gently pushed her back down, as I didn’t want for people to think that I had a plastic love doll in the passenger seat so that I could use the diamond lane.  “Thank me when we get home, my vinyl vixen.  I’ve heard stories about what happens to mannequins in jail.”

“Oh, Roddy,” she said, sighing happily, “I love you so.  And trust me,” she continued, a mischievous gleam in her eye, “I will thank you.  I will thank you in such a way that you will never ever doubt my love for you.”

*    *    *    *    *    *

She didn’t thank me that night, as she had other things she wanted to do, namely redecorating.  Our three-car garage – your typical American consumerism at work – held three cars: Justine, on the far left; my truck, Chrissie, in the middle; and Yvette’s car, a white, 2007 Honda Accord that she was adamant would remain unnamed, but that I called Angela whenever she wasn’t in earshot.  Sadly, Chrissie was evicted that night, relegated to spending her nights and weekends parked in the driveway behind Justine’s door, for Yvette had invoked eminent domain – the center stall was to become hers.  We moved in an antique bureau she had been planning to refinish during her summer vacation, the full-length mirror we kept on our bedroom door, and various other things required for maintaining her glossy appearance.

That done, we feasted on Doña Clara’s homemade tamales and guacamole, an extremely thoughtful gift from my employer, left in a plastic cooler on our front step, a handwritten note in his florid handwriting tucked under the handle, expressing his concern for Yvette’s health.  His generosity touched me deeply.  I wouldn’t say that his relationship with me was any closer than with any of my other coworkers; he was like this with everybody, valuing his personal relationships above all else, and maintaining them with the same degree of care and commitment as I did with my vehicles.

The tamales were wonderful, though not without a certain bitterness, caused, I knew, by feelings of guilt over my recent actions.  How, I thought, watching my shiny wife sponging a dab of guacamole from her tit, can I possibly explain to him what I’ve done?  Will I lose my job?  Will I lose the respect and affection of a good man?

Yvette smiled at me, the lights of our Mission-style dining room chandelier reflecting off of her smooth cheekbones.  I could not remember ever seeing her happier, not even on our wedding day.  I decided then that I would do it.  I would tell Don Carlos and let the chips fall where they may.  Yes, all manner of hell might break loose, but in the end all that really mattered was her happiness.

That, and that there would still be enough polymer left over for me to paint her teal.

To Be Continued…

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

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