Chapter 6

The Four Yvettes

Half an hour later I met her back in our bedroom, her urgent need taken care of, and my belly full of Italian take-out.  Lasagne from Bruno’s is probably one of the ten best foods prepared on this planet but I hardly tasted it, as my sex-addled brain was far too preoccupied, rehashing the events of the last few hours.

‘I am an object now, she’d said.  ‘An object of pleasure, made for pleasure, for your pleasure, Roddy.”  I chewed over her words while mechanically chewing the crusty garlic bread, sitting alone at the dining room table, clothed only in the short cotton hapi that my sweet bride had made for me when we were just newly wed.

How do you reconcile thirty years of growing up in the post-modern world, where you are daily slapped upside the head with sensitivity awareness classes and sexual harassment lectures, only to come home to find that your wife has turned herself into a fucking geisha doll complete with blowjob mouth and a latex pussy?

I held my head in my hands for a good five minutes, trying to puzzle out my feelings.  I mean, shouldn’t I be happy?  My beautiful busty bride was giving me the best sex of my life, of anyone’s life, even to the point of turning herself into another person, another ethnicity, for God’s sake, and in return wanted nothing more than to provide me with as much pleasure as I could possibly stand.  I mean, Jesus, if that doesn’t make a guy happy one would have to admit that one’s standards might be a tad high.

But what about her happiness? my inner voice piped up.  Well that was the rub, wasn’t it?  Was she happy, or was she in fact addicted?  Since 16/2 did not interact with the body she couldn’t possibly develop a physical addiction to it, unlike smoking, booze, or pills.  But there are plenty of different kinds of psychological addictions from which many suffer, ranging from such things as sex and gambling to nail biting or hair twirling.  So was she addicted, and if so to what?

It was at that very moment that I felt extreme regret that I had avoided taking Psych 101 in favor of that fucking Cinema of the Forties class (though in all fairness the chicks in that class had been pretty good looking).  But despite my lack of clinical education in the subject I had gleaned some knowledge from years of watching television.  Firstly, she wasn’t using 16/2 to forget problems; she didn’t seem angry, or anxious, or depressed, and neither were there mood swings.  Yes, there had been that little outburst on the day I’d raced home from work because I thought she might be suffocating, and her crying on my shoulder the previous night, but those were pretty damn mild, all things considered.

I also didn’t think she was addicted to the sex, despite what she’d said, since she seemed to have some amount of control over it.  But when I entered our bedroom and saw her standing again before her mirror, it became readily apparent to me precisely what she was addicted to.  She had doffed what little had remained of her French maid costume and stood there in all her glory, every light in the room ablaze, including the miniature Klieg lights that we used as our bedside lamps.  They were now focused directly on her, adding a further dimension of glossiness to a body that already shone as brightly as a Broadway opening.  She stroked her sprayed-on pseudo-skin lightly, swaying softly and humming to herself, a slight smile on her lustrous lips, completely oblivious to my presence – a female Narcissus, enamored of her gleaming, radiant beauty, and addicted, not to the sex, nor to being a sex object, but to being a shining sex object.

“Yvette?”

She opened her almond eyes languidly and pivoted on the spot, her smile broadening, spreading slowly across her darker faux-Asian skin.  “Have you come to fuck me, Roddy?”

Jesus God, she was insatiable.  “Yes, my lovely little sex toy, (she positively cooed at my words), I have.  But I’d like to talk, too, if that’s all right.”

“Of course it’s all right, my love,” she said, a little giddy, gliding gracefully up to me and taking both of my hands in hers.  “In fact we very much need to talk.”

“We do?” I said dumbly.  Dumbly because my damn cock, inspired by her proximity and the striking power of her perfume, had managed to rise from the dead, and was now tenting the front of my hapi.

“Oh, yes,” she said, giggling at my discomfiture, taking her smooth hand from mine and grasping my hard-on, “we do.”  She maneuvered me onto the bed and climbed on top of me, settling herself upon my pole and slipping it effortlessly into her pre-lubricated latex cunt, stopping only when she was impaled upon my full length.  “Now,” she said, her breathing slow and steady, “what did you want to talk about?”

“Uh,” I began, “I, uh, I, um…”

“Perhaps I can help, darling,” she said, her breathing quite heavy, her exquisite body sliding up and down my shaft with excruciating slowness “Is it about Don Carlos?”

It was easier to nod than speak.  I nodded.

“I thought as much,” she said, sighing softly on the downstroke.  “Take your time and tell me, my very hot Rod.  We have all night, and I can’t think of a better way to hear bad news.”

So I did.  It took the better part of a half-hour to relate what had happened, though I did have to pause while she grunted her way through three mini-orgasms.  It appeared that she was right about having all night, her polymer pussy making it possible for her to fuck for God only knew how long without causing the slightest bit of chafing to her vaginal walls – a literal sex machine.  I, however, didn’t cum, for she humped at a pace to ensure her pleasure (I, after all, had used Yumi most selfishly for my own).

“Oh, Roddy,” she said, shaking her head and looking down upon me over the expanse of her bosom, smiling indulgently.  “I do love you so but you are a truly terrible judge of human nature.  Doña Clara is not a prude.”

“Unh?” I grunted, polysyllables being well beyond me at this stage of the game.  I desperately wanted to cum but my cock was in her hands, so to speak, and she appeared to want my full attention.

“Unh,” she replied with authority.  “She is not a prude, my love,” she repeated.  “A prude does not walk around with her boobs on display, whether her husband commands it or not.”

“Then why did she come over all prissy because of a little pat on the fanny?”

“I’m not sure, Rod.  Perhaps she was angry because he did it in front of the help, or because she was reminded of some abuse in her past.  Maybe they had a fight last night, or she’s on her period.  I don’t know why, exactly.  I just know she’s not a prude.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” I said, hoping she might begin setting a pace that would allow my balls the release they so needed.

“Yes, it is,” she said, smiling down upon me, my big-titted rubberized geisha.  “Now it’s my turn.  Do you love me, Roddy?”

“You know I do, baby-doll,” hoping my answer would encourage her to abandon her maddeningly slow tempo in favor of a speed more suitable to some real fucking.

“And do you want me to be happy?” she asked me sweetly, grinding her hips back and forth ever so slightly.

I nodded, my eyes closed now, the heat of her cunt passing easily through the polymer prosthetic surrounding my cock as she slowly worked my enraged prick, driving me wild.

“So then you won’t mind if I get breast implants?”

“What?”  I said, opening my eyes and whacking the back of my head painfully against the headboard, my mind snapping to coherence despite the pulsing pussy frenching my dick.

“I want a boob job, sweetie,” she said patiently, still softly humping herself.  “I don’t need your permission, of course, but…”

“You want bigger boobs?”

“Well, that is how it usually works, Roddy,” she said with a low giggle.

“But…” I started, my mind a complete blank, and like most men I didn’t allow that to keep me from arguing.  “But ‘vette, they’re plenty big now!”

“Correction, my love,” she said, moving her hips ever so slightly faster, “they were plenty big.  Roddy, my boobs have always been attention getters, but now that I’m shiny they seem, well, inadequate.”

“‘vette, your boobs are more than adequate…”

“And then there’s the weight,” she continued, rolling over my words as she rolled her pelvis across mine, grinding her pussy down upon me as hard as she could, making sure every last inch of me was inside her.

“What about the weight? I said, struggling to keep up as she fucked me.  “If anything they should be lighter on your frame, more comfortable for you.”

“That’s just the point, Rod,” she said, slowing back down again, working my prick as mercilessly as a machine.  “It’s like they’re not even there.  Here, feel!”  And so saying she grabbed my hands and placed them on her fat tits, squeezing my hands to make sure that I massaged her wondrous funbags as she wished.

“They feel pretty damn substantial to me.  Most chicks would kill to have your rack.”

“Yes, I know they would,” she said, now bringing all movement to a halt.  I whimpered slightly at the loss of friction from her sweet pussy, but then she began pulsing it, doing her level best to make sure she had my complete attention, which she did.  “Answer me truthfully, Rod.  Do you still love my tits?”

“Oh God, you know I do, baby.”

“More than anything else in the world?”  She pulsed her fake funbox again, this time for a deliciously longer period.

“More than anything ‘vette,” I replied desperately.

“Swear to God?” she said, looking into my eyes as though she were peering into the depths of my soul, and again she punctuated her question by another squeeze of her magical muff.

“I swear, baby.  Your boobs are all I could ever want!”

“So you’ve never jerked off to Doña Clara’s then?”

She stopped pulsing per snatch, looking at me expectantly, awaiting my answer with the patience of a Sphinx.  I looked back into her eyes, her black contact lenses creating the illusion of depth, and before I could stop myself I gulped, which was all the answer she needed.  “Is-is it too late for me to plead the fifth?” I asked.

She rose up; the satisfied smile on her face wordlessly signifying that argument was pretty much over.  Yvette was a gracious winner, though, I had to give her that.  She began humping me in earnest, gazing upward at her mirror image on the ceiling, smashing her tits together as she fucked me.  “Oh, Roddy, you don’t have to plead anything,” she said joyously.  “I know you love her tits.”  She looked down at me again, her face exultant.  “Would it surprise you to know that I do, too?”

My eyes widened in shock.  Was she saying what I thought she was saying?  Was my very own, formerly very hetero wife lusting after another woman’s boobs?

She laughed at my comic expression.  “Don’t you wish, Rod?  It’s not as though I want to lick her slit, or anything.  I’m just saying that I’d like to feel what it would be like to have them on my chest.”  And even though I suck when it comes to figuring human nature, I could have sworn that her cheek had twitched ever so slightly when she’d talked of eating Doña Clara’s snatch.

“But ‘vette…” I started gamely, but using the skills born of woman she headed off my incipient argument by leaning forward and resting her forearms on the upper rail of the headboard, effectively limiting my vision to her wonderful, natural funbags, and nothing more.

“Roddy, I want those tits,” I heard her say, her voice resolute, and she began rocking back and forth, her fiery cunt squeezing my overexcited cock for all it was worth.  “I want them more than you can possibly know.  I want their weight and their comfort, but more than that I want you to love them.  You’ve jerked off on them in your mind, how would you like to jerk off on them for real, every night, my love?  It’s what I want, and I know it’s what you want.”

“But…” I started, except my words were cut off as she thrust her chest forward, stuffing her melons fully into my face, making further argument impossible.

“Do you want to fuck my tetas, Rodrigo?” she said, only it wasn’t Yvette’s voice, but Doña Clara’s, or rather a perfect imitation of it, her rich contralto well within Yvette’s range.  “Fuck me, Rodrigo,” she said, moaning and whimpering so passionately that for a moment I could almost believe it was Clara.  She said it again, “Fuck me, Rodrigo,” repeating herself, over and over like a mantra, and all the while her blazing imitation poon continued mercilessly swallowing my length.  She was relentless, my bride, but in all truth she really wasn’t my ‘vette any more.  She was now a shining, polymer-coated sex object; a synthetic being grinding down upon my poor pecker with a ruthless precision that was guaranteed to draw forth the last ounce of my jizz into her simulated cunt, and with it any resistance to her will.  I came in nanoseconds, screaming in ecstasy, the sound absorbed by the fat juggs that more or less held me in place, until finally until I lay there, spent, empty, and defeated.

She rose upward again and sat atop me, the conquering heroine, supremely ready to take on whatever feeble resistance I might have to offer.  If my dick somehow came back to life, and I was placing long odds on that ever happening again, she was ready to meet hard opposition with sweet resistance.

“You…you’ve certainly thought this through, my love,” was all I could think to say.

“Yes, I have, Rod,” she replied, looking down upon me expectantly, her voice back to normal, her appearance still that of a geisha, but her haughty expression very much that of my patrón’s wife.  “As I said, I don’t need your permission, but I do want your blessing.  Do I have that?”

I thought of arguing, but Yvette’s pussy could prevent world wars if she ever decided to use it for the good of mankind, and I shuddered to think of what might happen if it fell into the wrong hands.  “You have it, my love,” I said resignedly.  “They are your boobs after all.”  What the hell, I thought.  There are plenty worse things in this world than nightly tit-jobs from a rubberized woman.  I supposed I could bear up.

“Thank you, my love,” she said, her dark, almond eyes brimming with tears.  She took my hand and placed it upon her left tit, squeezing it in a gesture of victory.  “Oh, Roddy, I just know you’ll love me all the more when my boobs are as big as my head.”

“I’ll love you regardless, babe,” I said, shaking my head in disbelieving amazement.  “But how will you function with boobs that big?  Their weight alone…”

“Your polymer will take care of that, sweetie.  I could probably go larger than that if I wanted to, without any back problems whatsoever.  Just imagine what the women of this country will do with your polymer supporting their tits, Rod.  It should make the ballet interesting, to say the least.”

“And if Don Carlos shoots us down, love?  Then you’ll be stuck with an inordinately heavy pair of boobs with no means of support.”

“Well then I guess I’ll just have to get used to wearing corsets for the rest of my life.  I think you could probably live with that.”

“But if he shoots us down we’ll have no means of support.  Not only would I lose my job, but nobody else in the Great State of Arizona would dare touch me, if Don Carlos decided to blackball me.

“Roddy, you’re worrying about…” she started, but I steamrollered on.

“And what about your job?  Do you think you’ll still be able to work in the University theatre with tits that big?”

“Perhaps not,” she said, her voice and manner indicating that she really couldn’t give two shits for such inconsequential matters.  “Sweetie, jobs come and jobs go, and you and I have ample skills.  If you get fired you can always get a job as a mechanic, or in a body shop somewhere.  And as for me, well, there are other kinds of theatres I can work in.  I think you know what I mean.”

I knew precisely what she meant, and while I found the idea of my wife working as a stripper in some sleazy dive abhorrent, one small part of me enjoyed the vision of her spinning about a gleaming metal pole, her giant fake funbags on display.  Suffice it to say, that small part of me began thickening up the more I thought about it.

“Mmm, that’s lovely,” she said, and began gyrating softly where she sat, looking very like the image in my mind.  “I guess all that red ginseng I’ve been feeding you is more than worth the money, huh?”  She smiled at her little joke, but that was just an opener for more serious words to follow.  “I understand your reservations, Roddy, I really do.  You’ve explained what we have to lose should you fail to convince Don Carlos that your invention will revolutionize the world.  Now let me show you what you have to gain.”  She swooped down upon me again, a synthetic succubus shoving her tongue deep into my mouth, moaning softly as my dick, God knows how, became fully erect inside her again.  She came back up moments later, but the expression on her face was not that of my loving bride, but rather that of an obsequious servant.

“Oh, Roddy-sama,” she said, her voice now soft and breathy, “I love how you fuck me.  I love your big cock.  Please to fuck Yumi’s hot pussy.”

She then arched her back and looked up at the ceiling, enjoying the view as she gave me the best of all possible lap dances.  After a few moments she looked down again, the servant was gone, replaced by the lady of the hacienda.  “Oh yes, Rodrigo,” she breathed, “I want you inside me, whenever you want.  Por favor, mi amor, make me yours.”

A second later Doña Clara was gone, her haughty attitude now that of the woman I married, “I love you, Rod,” she said heatedly, her face ablaze with sexual fire, “more than you can ever know, but think of all you have seen tonight, of all that you have done, and of all that lays before you.  Your polymer makes so many things possible, ‘but screw your courage to the sticking place…’” she said quoting the Scottish play, showing off her acumen while fucking me into submission, “and you can screw any and all of us whenever you want.  I’ll be whoever you want me to be.  I will be Yumi every day for the rest of my life, if that’s what you wish.  I’ll be Doña Clara, and jerk you off between my fat titties every morning.  I’ll wear my prosthetic pussy all day, every day, and you can fuck me to your heart’s content.  Convince Don Carlos and we are all yours.”

“I-I…” I started, and I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, our marathon fuck session taxing it well beyond what should be considered reasonable.  But if I thought she was done I was sorely mistaken, for Doña Clara’s velvet voice wafted over me again.  “I am yours if you want me badly enough, Rodrigo.  Do not fear rejection, do not fear…” she continued, moaning heavily, exhorting me to be brave, to risk everything, and all the while riding me as though I were the champion bull at the rodeo.  Yvette’s impression of her was perfect, but along with that came a vision, my mind playing tricks on me, attaching her image to that voice that so thrilled me right down to my upward-curling toes.  I could see her massive breasts rolling across her chest, my fingers buried in the soft, rubbery flesh, squeezing the big pink nipples I had seen only hours ago, and I screamed in ecstasy as the lovely latex she-devil above me rode me to a grunting, bucking, and gasping climax, my balls weakly giving up the last of their contents, and very likely my soul, as well.

“All-all right…my love,” I said, once my breathing had slowed enough to allow speech.  If I didn’t accede to her every wish she was going to fuck me to death.  “I will…I will dare all.  I’ll throw caution to the winds…and tell him next week.  The company picnic is next Friday.  He’ll be in a good mood; he might even have a little buzz on.  We’ll never have a better shot.”

She rose back up, having collapsed upon me after what must have been her twentieth orgasm of the evening, her eyes shining with happy tears.  “Oh, Roddy, thank you,” she said, her voice cracking out of sexual fatigue and raw emotion.  “I just know you’ll be able to convince him.”  Her eyes were on her reflection again, joyously enamored of the beauty looking back at her from the mirrored tiles.  “I can’t wait for people to see me, for our friends, and our…” she trailed off, her expression of happiness giving way to what appeared to be worry.

“‘vette?” I offered warily.

She pursed her full lips together, which showed me that she was indeed worried about something.  She used to bite her lower lip whenever something was wrong, but had since learned that that was bad for her finish.  “I’m sorry, Rod,” she said, her voice flat, “but there is just one more small problem.”

A small problem, perhaps, but if it involved my dick getting hard again I was surely going to die.  “Considering the number of large problems I’ve got going, my love,” I said with a relaxed sigh, “I would dearly love to hear about a small one.”

“I’m out of polymer.”

“You’re out of…?” I started.

“…polymer,” she finished for me.  “Yes, I’m sorry, Rod, but I used the last of it up creating Yumi,” and she spread her arms wide to further illustrate the point.  “I’ve got just enough left for patch jobs.  You…you can get more, right?”

I considered the geisha perched upon my pelvis, my softened prick still perpendicular within her.  If ever there was a time to break her addiction, it would be now.  I could simply say, ‘sorry, honey, but I think you need to take a little break’.  But I could still hear a faint echo of that voice inside my head.  ‘Fuck me, Rodrigo.’  If I didn’t score more polymer for Yvette, I wouldn’t get to score with the reproduction Clara.  Plus there was still that one little thing I wanted to do, the teal vision that had started this whole fooforaw.  With another eight liters of 16/2 sitting in chemical storage, she could do that one little thing for me, and with whatever was left over she could let her creative demon loose.

“Yes, my dove, I can get you more polymer.  But as chem storage is shut down this weekend for inventory I won’t be able to get to it until Monday.  Do you think you can wait that long?”

She squealed in delight and swooped down upon me again, driving her tongue so far down my throat I could swear she has half Gila Monster.  “Oh, Roddy,” she said upon coming back up for air, “you’re just the best husband there is.  Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, baby,” I said, smiling indulgently.  I figured she’d never be happier than she was at this moment.  It was time to spring it on her.  “I’ll bring you home another couple of liters, and you can experiment all you want.  You can be Doña Clara, or Yumi, or the Mona Lisa.  Hell, you can paint yourself candy-apple red, gun-metal gray, or even teal if you want.”

Her beaming smile turned ever so slightly sideways and her almond eyes narrowed, burrowing into me.  “Teal, huh?”  She let the silence hang there for a bit, and then pursed her lips.  “I suppose so, Roddy,” she said with a knowing look.  “I’d say you’ve earned that much at least.”

My heart danced a jig inside my chest as my mind replayed the scene of Justine’s upholstery coming to life; my plastic wife an outgrowth of my bitching wheels, fucking me as we raced at top speed across the desert floor.  “Thank you for understanding, ‘vette.  You are just the best wife that there is.”  She smiled down at me, a pleasant, relaxed, and genuinely happy smile.  I slid my hands up her flat belly so that I could heft her plenteous boobs, her big cans so out of place on her obviously Japanese body. “So until I get you more polymer, I guess you’re stuck in the body of a geisha, aren’t you?”

“I guess I am,” she said, her sex-charged voice flowing right through me.  “I daresay you could used to that, neh, Roddy-sama?”

“I daresay I could,” I replied, my prick miraculously stiffening up ever so slightly, coming back for more like some-punch-drunk fighter who doesn’t know enough to stay down when the referee has almost counted him out.  “But you don’t have to be Yumi on my account, babe.  You can go back to skin if…”

With the speed of a ninja she placed two beautifully manicured fingers on my lips, shushing me.  “Oh no, Roddy,” she said with a shake of the head, her almond eyes wide.  “I’m done with skin.  As long as we have your polymer, that is.  It makes me beautiful.  And I want to be beautiful – beautiful for you, yes, but beautiful for me, too.”

I gently removed her fingers from my lips, all my old worries about her mental heath resurfacing as my battered and beat up prick finally gave up the ghost and hit the canvas for the final time.  “But ‘vette, honey, you’ll need to be in your skin at the picnic.  I’ll need you there with me.  You can’t just show up looking like a fucking Barbie doll.”

“But if I’m wearing my showroom finish Don Carlos can see how beauti…”

“You don’t spring shit on a man like Don Carlos, my love, and you sure as hell don’t parade around looking like an inflatable fuck toy at a company gathering.  He’ll reject it out of hand, Yvette, you know he will.”

Her hands had found mine while I’d delivered that little speech, and were now squeezing them tightly.  She was no longer looking at me, but rather at her reflection over the headboard.  As happy as her face had been only a minute ago, it was now filled with sadness, and despite the fact that she was wearing a Japanese mask that had come from a test tube, I could swear that there was also just the slightest hint of revulsion.

“You’re right, Roddy,” she said finally.  She paused again, her anxiety so great that she began unconsciously biting her lower lip.  “But if you only knew how good it feels…I wish you could try it for yourself.  Then you would know.”

“We’ve been over that before, ‘vette,” I said, weary from argument and the Olympic-level fucking we’d been doing, my poor pecker already having dwindled away to practically nothing inside Yvette’s custom-made snatch.  “I’m too damn hairy.  Not to mention the small fact that 16/2 would inhibit my dick from getting fully hard, unless it was sprayed on while it was erect, in which case it wouldn’t get soft again, which as you know isn’t exactly healthy.”  Which was true; as weakly elastic as my polymer was its tensile strength could easily overcome the most enraged boner.  16/2 was a chicks-only kind of thing.

“I know, Roddy, I know,” she said, looking down at me anxiously, her hands again clutching at her big boobs.  “You’re right,” she said, and in her worried tones I could hear a most unaccustomed obsequiousness, but more than that there was fear, fear that I might change my mind about getting her more polymer.  “I’ll be a good girl and go to the picnic in my…in my skin.  But please let that be the last time, okay?”

And with that she rolled forward and lay on top of me, not speaking, not moving, but very definitely not headed towards sleep.  I listened to her breathing awhile, mechanically stroking her smooth, shiny back, my mind a complete jumble.  I had fucked three women this evening; all of them exciting, all of them more than most men could ever dream of: Yvette, Yumi, and the imitation Clara – a holy trinity of carnality.  But in addition to them there was another woman to whom I had put the metaphorical wood: Yvette the junkie.

It was official now, for her words had been the words of a woman out of control.  She was firmly in the grip of my polymer, both literally and figuratively; trapped within a cocoon of carbon/rubber elastomer.  I so wanted for her to be happy but as long as she remained enmeshed within its striated strands there could be no real joy, only a constant cycle of need and gratification, with a lot of depraved sex thrown in for kicks.

If I told Don Carlos, and 16/2 became a reality, Yvette would have ready access to it, with absolutely no restrictions on her creativity or on her now sexually insatiable behavior.  She would be ecstatic, over the moon, with a pair of shiny soccer ball-sized tits perched smartly on her chest, and a monkey on her back bigger than King Kong.

But if Don Carlos were to shoot me down on Friday, or even fire me, then the situation would worsen drastically, because you don’t abruptly cut off an addict’s supply.  With all future access to LP-16/2 barred to us I would have to cut her down slowly with whatever polymer I was going to bring home on Monday.

Wow, Doctor Phil, you’re pretty amazing, my inner voice said.  And what happens when you run out of polymer and she still craves more?  Do you think you can feed her addiction with latex catsuits?

She jerked lightly in my arms, sleep and exhaustion finally overtaking my poor, sweet, addicted bride.  I rolled her off of me and laid her on her side of the bed.  In repose she looked more like her old self, despite the fact that she was shiny and Japanese.

No, a couple more liters wasn’t going to get it done.  She would need professional help, and sufficient polymer to see her through her rehabilitation, and the only way that could happen would be for Don Carlos to approve of 16/2 and allow me to make as much as I needed.  Product testing would later uncover its addictive properties (if other women were as susceptible as my Yvette), the program would be scrapped, and she could get the help she needed.

Yes, that was the best scenario, all things considered.  The only person who stood to lose anything would be my patrón, and he could easily afford it.

I closed my eyes, inwardly pleased that there was a solution to that which I had precipitated.  Now all that remained was for me to find a way to sell Don Carlos on my botched leather protectant, and failure was not an option.

Because junkies will do anything to get their fix.

To Be Continued…

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

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