Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The Sacrifice

“Oh…my…fucking…God.”

Hardly the most original reaction, I know, but being all witty and urbane wasn’t exactly uppermost in my mind at that moment. Yvette stood at the foot of the bed, her arms held slightly away from her sides, our mini Klieg lights focused directly on her, her metallic silver body gleaming as though freshly polished.

“Do you like it?”

“Jesus God, ‘vette,” I whispered, the speech center of my brain doing all it could, what with it having been partially fused by the radiance from the rounded chrome breasts that wobbled before my disbelieving eyes, “what…what have you done?”

She gave a little giggle, then quickly turned and glided toward her floor mirror. It was the strangest thing, watching her move, as though someone had poured mercury into a mold of the perfect woman, and then granted it the gift of life. The light undulated fluidly over her shining form as she moved; wave upon wave rippling over her smooth, curving surface.

Still sitting up in bed, my arms weakly supporting me, I watched, open-mouthed, as my bedazzling bride considered the image looking back at her from its looking-glass world. She shifted her body from side to side, appraising herself, running her hands over her metal finish, checking for imperfections, it seemed.

“You don’t think it’s too much, do you?”

I slid off of the bed, conscious of my every movement, a bizarre buzzing noise reverberating through my skull, as though shock was settling in quite comfortably, perhaps to be followed by maniacal laughter, and a much needed lobotomy soon after. I joined her at the mirror, standing slightly behind and to the left of her so that I could look at her reflection (it seemed safest to do it this way, because if I looked directly at her I was going to start gibbering). I started at her feet, and scanned upward, slowly – to take in too much at once would be to risk sensory overload.

She was the damnedest thing I ever saw; she looked like a hood ornament come to life. As my eyes slowly made their way up her body I couldn’t help but be amazed at her perfect smoothness, now so much more apparent due to her gleaming surface: the curve of her thighs as they disappeared into her silvery cleft; her flat belly shining brightly, reflecting the light from the lamp that sat on her Mission dressing table; and her boobs, no longer the size of soccer balls, sat proudly upon her chest, looking like they had been dipped in chrome, a bluish tint added to her unnaturally round nipples, setting them off perfectly.

My shock having subsided somewhat, I put a hand on her hip, and she wordlessly rotated about to face me, the light playing across her body as she did so, shining in my eyes and blinding me briefly. She tilted her head back slightly, her eyes closed as though expecting a kiss, thus allowing me the opportunity to scrutinize her every detail without being obvious.

Whether as a doll or a mannequin, she had always retained some semblance of humanity, some little bit of the woman that I had married. But the face that I so loved was now more suited to that of a robot, a simulation fabricated to look like a woman, but not to be confused with one. It was an excellent illusion, given greater depth and realism by the fact that her silver face was not uniformly chrome: her eyelids were done in the same bluish hue as her nipples, shifting imperceptibly to gun-metal gray, which dissolved seamlessly into the chrome; her lashes were long, and every bit as artificial as the rest of her, made possible by a heavy application of silver mascara; and finally her lips, as full and smooth and plump as ever, were tinted slightly red, thus reinforcing the illusion that she was a robot designed to look human.

“Do you like what you see, big boy?”

I was so engrossed in examining her slightly parted lips that I had failed to notice that her eyes were now open, and that was when I gasped.

“Oh my God, ‘vette,” I said, grasping her shoulders, and though my voice was still hushed, the alarm was unmistakable, “your eyes! You didn’t…! You couldn’t…!”

“Relax, my husband,” she said in soothing tones, which sounded so very strange coming from the silver android I was holding, “they’re just contact lenses.” She smiled lazily and turned back to the mirror, drinking in the sight of her glorious body, her iridescent eyes wide. “I had them overnighted from L.A., and I’m glad I did. I just knew blue eyes would have spoiled the effect.” She turned her head slightly, her silver eyes reflected in the mirror blazing with an inhuman intensity as they locked upon mine. “But you surprise me, Roddy,” she said, and though her voice was light and teasing, I could have sworn it had a slightly tinny quality to it, which I was sure was my brain fucking with me, “I would’ve thought you’d have said something about my hair by now.”

Considering the totality of the rebuild that my ‘vette had undergone, I think I can be forgiven for having failed to notice her hair, or rather the complete lack of it. “Oh, my God, ‘vette,” I said as comprehension dawned upon my shell-shocked brain, “your hair…!” I whispered dryly. “Your beautiful, beautiful hair. What have you done? It’s just an appliance, right? A skullcap? Please tell me that it’s…”

“Roddy,” she said, cutting gently across my panicked gibbering with a calming voice that sounded as though she were trying to talk a jumper down from a tall building, “it’s all right.” She reached back and took my hand, and placed it upon her shaved head; the pseudo-skin covering her scalp was as smooth and warm as the rest of her body. “I know you love my hair, but it really had to go. A full head of hair would have spoiled the look, and a lumpy prosthetic just wasn’t going to cut it. It’ll grow back, my love, and I’ve already ordered a wig, three of them, actually: one for me, and two for your rubber mistresses.”

I was no longer conscious of my breathing. I was no longer conscious of anything except for the gleaming figure that stood before me, admiring herself in the mirror. She had begun unconsciously running her hands over her body, her reflective robot eyes fixed raptly upon her mirror image. “Look at me,” she said, the artificial sound gone, replaced by a hoarse, sexually charged voice that caused my prick to go as hard as concrete, “am I not the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?”

My nightmare had come true; Yvette had evolved into something beyond human. With the casting away of her hair, and the shiny lenses covering her eyes, the woman I loved was now completely hidden away from the world, sealed within in a shining cocoon from which I doubted she would ever want to break free. She was now, for all intents and purposes, a completely inorganic being, a synthetic organism whose sole function was pleasure: to give it, and to receive it.

But I could not deny the truth of her words – she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen!

I watched in rapt, dumbfounded, and fully tumescent fascination as she rolled those big, silver boobs across her glossy body with one arm, while with her free hand she stroked her glistening gash, moaning, pressing her lips together tightly as she softly frigged herself. A real woman would close her eyes while doing this, but not the new model ‘vette. Her eyes were wide open, as though recording every moment of her seemingly inordinate and boundless pleasure for playback at a later time.

“Oh, Roddy,” she said, her voice choked with emotion, practically sobbing, “I’m just so happy! She began crying, tears of ecstasy cascading down her shining face like drops of water off a freshly washed bumper. Joyfully she continued crying, all the while squeezing and fondling and groping her luminous body, moaning in beatific agony.

Watching her oddly fluid form I couldn’t help but be reminded of mercury, one of the stranger elements that lies on the periodic table. It, too, has a fascinating beauty to it, a solid liquid that will conform to any shape; its changeable and unpredictable nature a frighteningly accurate description of the woman I loved: mercurial.

Her moans switched gears, and I knew well enough that she was on the edge of a monumental orgasm. She spun away from the mirror and grabbed me, frantically shoving her slippery tongue down my throat and heatedly pressing her rubbery body into mine, her big boobs soft against my chest.

“God, Roddy,” she gasped, “if your dick isn’t inside me in the next five seconds I’m going to scream!” She pushed me roughly back onto the bed, my fully engorged prick slapping my belly audibly as I landed. She leaped upon the bed with a fluid, shimmering grace, and stood over my prone body, her chest heaving, her fingers splitting her nether lips wide, the gleam from within proof that the pussy that had brought me such joy over the years had been transformed into a silvery tunnel of love.

We fucked for hours, and though she was fully into it at all times, her eyes were always on her reflection, whether in the mirrored tiles behind the headboard, or the ones over the bed. Yvette was enamored of herself. Not that I could blame her. She moved with such a sinuous grace that, more than once, I became mesmerized by the beauty of her head as it bobbed back and forth, my mind lost in the splendor of a blowjob given by a silver girl.

We paused in our frenetic lovemaking only long enough for me to call in sick. I wasn’t exactly abusing my sick time. Hell, I hadn’t used a single day this year until I’d begun coating my wife with polymer. But I still hated calling in sick. Chalk it up to that fucking Calvinist work ethic that my dad had stuck me with.

We grabbed a quick breakfast (crappy dry cereal for me, Slim-fast for Yvette ), so that we wouldn’t fuck ourselves to death. She was unstoppable, insatiable, but in light of the fact that we didn’t have any Cialis handy, I eventually had to call a halt to our activities so that my poor, overwhelmed prick could take a breather.

We lay on the bed, we two – three if you count the gleaming, chrome dildo she’d got off the Internet, and which was now subbing for me while I remained on the sidelines. I watched her go at it awhile, enjoying the simple beauty of a shiny woman humping herself, her thoughts concerned only with pleasure. But I had so much more to think about. I was the happiest, most sexually fulfilled man in the world, and I was soon going to lose that. I was going to lose Yumi, the fake Doña Clara, and now the silver-skinned robot. I would lose it all because my poor bride was addicted, and needed help.

If only there was some middle ground, some way for her to enjoy my polymer recreationally. But that was a pipe dream. She was now fully in its grip, quite literally; the whole of her buried beneath layers of carbon-rubber elastomer that bound her tightly, and from which she had no desire to escape. There was simply no other course. Once Don Carlos became aware of the addictive, and less than savory, properties of my polymer he would shut it down and bury it. I would catch some heat, possibly even lose my job for ‘allowing’ my wife to experiment with an untried substance, but in the end things would return to normal.

But in the meantime I could enjoy it. We spent the whole of the rest of the day having fun together, although Yvette bemoaned that everything we did had to be so private. “Look at me, Roddy,” she’d said while floating in the in the shallow end of the pool, as I took picture after picture of her shimmering body for posterity, “doesn’t this beauty belong to the world? Doesn’t every woman deserve to be this beautiful?”

I made the comment that no amount of polymer could make a woman more beautiful than she, which resulted in a thank-you blowjob from my silvery pool toy that was so good I was surprised that the gods didn’t strike me dead on the spot. It was a wondrous, sex-filled day that I enjoyed to the fullest, my pangs of guilt pushed to the side for the nonce.

I went to work the following morning, and no one gave me the well-you-didn’t-look-sick-the-day-before look, due mostly, I was sure, to the fact that I looked like I hadn’t slept. In point of fact I hadn’t slept, the blame for that squarely upon me for I had desired to enjoy every last inch of my chrome bride. Despite my fatigue I got through all my work quickly, even working through lunch, to ensure that I would have enough time to prepare my initial draft presentation to Don Carlos, which I would present to him in just twenty-four hours.

I arrived home to find dinner on the table, my gleaming silver trophy wife sitting in her chair, drinking from a glass of beer with a straw (protecting and maintaining her showroom finish was ever her top priority). “I’m so excited about tomorrow,” she said, beaming, which is difficult to tell with a shiny gynoid. “Oh, I do wish I could go to the picnic looking as I am!” she said, half-frustrated, half-resentful, but at the same time giving me the up from under look, hopeful that I might perhaps change my mind.

“No, my love,” I said with a tired shake of the head, “we can’t chance it. The future rides on Don Carlos, which means that it rides on you, too. You have to look normal tomorrow.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, for the course of both our lives was entirely dependent upon my employer, but there was no denying that she and I were both thinking of vastly different futures: one with my polymer, and one without.

We made gentle love that night, our night table lamps focused upon my darling sex robot as she gyrated above me. She shone brighter than the moon at full, her big reflective boobs an awe-inspiring sight, the light shifting and playing off of them. Tomorrow it would all change: I would see the woman I loved in her skin again, and we would both be taking a step forward into a life free of addiction. A dull life, perhaps, but a stable one. A good one.

Little did I know how much that dull life would cost.

We made love again when we awoke, the morning sun streaming through the windows glinting off of her metallic surface. Afterwards we lay in each other’s arms, silent and pensive. I lightly nuzzled the reflective breast nearest me, as though saying goodbye, which I suppose I was; when I returned at noon to pick up my ‘vette, she would restored to her old self, albeit with a wig and fake eyebrows.

I kissed her goodbye at the front door, and she hugged me so tightly there was no mistaking her nervousness, her apprehension at being in skin again. “I know this will be difficult for you, ‘vette…” I started, but she cut me off with a touch of a chrome finger upon my lips.

“I love you, Rod,” she said, her voice so soft that I could barely hear her, her mirrored silver eyes flashing in the sunlight coming over my shoulder. “Nothing else matters.”

Traffic was light for a Friday, for which I was glad, as it left me more or less free to rehearse what I would say to Don Carlos. Going directly to him over the head of my department wasn’t exactly cricket, but I knew my patrón well enough that he would be receptive, especially with a few cervezas in him, and I certainly wasn’t about to leave the fate of my bride up to the whims of a middle manager.

I arrived at work to find that more than half the staff was taking the morning off, which was unsurprising. They would all show up at the park later, ready to kowtow and toady up to the big man, drink his beer, eat his food, and surreptitiously ogle his wife.

I spent the morning completing what little there was for me to do – there were no meetings to attend, what with no one there to attend them – and I managed to get all my performance data, pictures, and spreadsheets onto my laptop without interruption. I even remembered to grab a fresh battery, just in case.

I drove home, thinking about how the rest of the day would play out: I would pick her up, we would go to the park, we would be friendly and sociable, and when the time was right I would tell my employer about my prototype skin surrogate. Anything having to do with my life after that, was up to him.

But there was one thing I would do first: I would take Yvette in my arms. I would hold her. I would kiss her warm, uncoated lips, and I would tell her how much I loved her. She was right; nothing else mattered.

I entered the house, a little apprehensive at the prospect that she might still be silver, but when I saw her standing beside the dining room table, her blue eyes bright, her new wig precisely cut and styled to match her pre-polymer do, her purse clutched in her hand – her non-reflective hand – I was so delighted that I did the first two things on my list. I took her in my arms, and pressed my lips to hers.

“Are you fucking insane?”

“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, her voice cracking in anguish, tears beginning to form in the corners of her eyes, yet despite her obvious misery her skin remained radiant and even. “P-please don’t be mad at me, Roddy!” she wailed, hot tears cascading quickly down her cheeks as though they were made of plastic. She dropped her purse and brought her hands up to clutch weakly at her belly, sniffling, all the classic signs of distress, and all of them hidden away behind the powder coated, Barbie-doll mask she now wore. “I-I tried to do…what you w-wanted, but …”

“Jesus Christ!” I screamed, my anger and frustration overwhelming everything else. “What the fuck were you thinking? I need you in your fucking skin, goddammit!”

She dropped hard onto the dining room chair, her face in her hands, her tears now turned to sobs. “I c-can’t! I hate skin! It’s ugly ! I’m ugly! P-please…Roddy, let me go like this! No one…will know.” She took her shaking hands from her face so that she could look at me, but though her voice and manner suggested great agony, the sprayed-on mask betrayed no expression whatsoever.

I had never been so furious in all my life, and the placid look from the plastic doll seated before me caused my rage to double. In all our time together I had never laid an angry hand upon her, but before I knew it I found that I had pulled her up off of the chair, my hands gripping her upper arms tightly, shaking her back and forth as I screamed at her.

“Everything rides on today, Yvette! Everything! Our lives! Our futures! Don’t you understand? You’re fucking addicted, Yvette! You’re a fucking junkie!”

Her misery and fear evaporated instantly, to be replaced by a blazing fury every bit as ferocious as mine. “Well, if I am addicted, you selfish bastard, it’s your fault!”

The slap came from out of nowhere, but though it had been delivered by a rubber hand belonging to a synthetic woman, half out of her mind with grief, it felt as though I’d been hit by a semi-truck. She had wrested herself free of my grasp, and was at the door to the garage before I realized what had happened. “Yvette?” I said dumbly.

I had barely begun to move before she was through the door and had thrown the deadbolt, her sobbing now greater than ever. I made my way to the door as if in a dream, feeling as though I were underwater. “Yvette…?” I didn’t know what else to say.

Her sobbing continued, the echoes resounding off the bare walls of the garage accentuating her misery all the more.

“Yvette…?” I tried again, and I found that the underwater feeling had morphed into the memory from my dream: trapped in molten glass, unable to free myself, unable to prevent whatever future lay before me, suffocating in a crystal prison that I had brought about. “Yvette, I…”

“LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Her crying continued unabated. I stood there, looking at the white door to the garage, a layer of wood between us, one more fucking thing that kept us from touching one another. I could break it down fairly easily, but I had done more than enough damage for one day. Quite a bit longer than one day, when I stopped to think about it.

“I’m going to go, ‘vette,” I said finally, trying to say the words as softly as I could, but with enough volume to be heard over her crying. “I should be home in a few hours.” I thought about saying that I was sorry, but I could tell she didn’t want to hear it. She just wanted to be left alone. “I love you,” was all I could think to say, so I said it. It was at the very least true.

I got my baseball gear from the hall closet and hit the road, my mind abuzz. I would tell people that my wife couldn’t make the picnic, that she was unwell, which was a pretty succinct assessment. But all during my solitary trip to the park I kept hearing her words in my head, ‘Well, if I am addicted, you selfish bastard, it’s your fault!’ which I had to admit was a pretty succinct assessment, as well.

I’d had a great life until 16/2 had come along – more, really, than any man should expect: a good job, a nice house, and a lovely, stacked, sexually liberated wife who fucked like a porn star. I had had it all. But having it all was not enough for me, so I coated the woman I loved in an experimental polymer for the sole purpose of turning her into a fucking bucket seat, so that I could fulfill some depraved, juvenile fantasy. And I had known, almost from the start, that she was becoming addicted, but I had done nothing, preferring to enjoy the sexual benefits of her addiction rather than putting a stop to it.

‘Well, if I am addicted, you selfish bastard, it’s your fault!’ All true. She was addicted. I was selfish. It was my fault. Three very simple statements of fact. So what do you do now, bub? I asked myself.

You make it right, I answered myself. You do whatever it takes, whatever the cost.

I pulled into the parking lot amidst more trucks, mini-vans, and SUV’s than one can shake a stick at. It appeared as though practically everyone was there, everyone except the one I most wanted to be there, her absence causing a palpable ache in my gut. It also caused talk.

“Say, Rod, where’s that wife of yours?”

“Couldn’t make it, Les,” I said, trying to sound good ol’ boy nonchalant. “Ladies’ troubles.”

He nodded to show that he indeed did understand, which was utter bullshit; the closest Les ever gets to a woman requires an air pump, Swiffer Wets, and a rubber patching kit. I made my excuses to all, for my ‘vette was sorely missed, due mostly to her bountiful bosom being second only to Doña Clara’s, I’m sure.

Don Carlos served us himself: pit beef, beans, and salad. By no means terribly fancy (unlike Cinco de Mayo, which is mariachis, chicken mole, and margaritas by the bucketload), it was simple, honest food, without pretense or affectation, reflecting the simple, honest tastes of my employer. Doña Clara stood at his side, serving up rice and tortillas, in addition to double helpings of her inestimable beauty, the scoop necked coral sundress she was wearing causing my stupid prick to go as stiff as a board despite my heartache.

My patrón looked happy, his ever-present smile broader even than usual, as he ladled out beans onto my plate. “It is a pity your lovely ‘vette could not be here today, Rodrigo. I hope she will be well soon.”

“I expect so, Don Carlos,” I said, trying to sound confident. “A few days should put her to rights.”

“Can you make a plate for Rodrigo to take home to her, mi amor?” he asked, turning to his wife.

“Si, Carlos,” she said, cocking her head slightly, her sunny smile having turned to a sad moue at my plight. “Do not worry, Rodrigo,” she said, quickly ripping off a giant piece of aluminum foil and filling it with enough meat to feed a family of twelve, “I will take good care of her. Come back before you leave, and I will have something for her.”

My all-around shitty mood deepened even more as I looked into her dark eyes, my mind replaying words I had heard only days ago. ‘Fuck me, Rodrigo,’ ‘Make me yours.’ These were good people, honest people, and here I was on the verge of defrauding them, playing them for suckers so that I could ensure that Yvette would be well cared for. Yet for all that, I still saw her in my mind’s eye, sitting atop me, jouncing feverishly, my hands clutching at her giant, fake boobs as I came inside her. “Th-thank you, Doña Clara,” I stammered, “you are too kind.” I turned quickly and went to a nearby table, my plate strategically covering the bulge in my pants. Hell, thanks to the massive amounts of red ginseng I’d been taking, I could have balanced my plate on it.

I had as good a time as one can when one’s heart has been ripped out. I missed her so. I missed her smile, her laugh, her warm voice and gentle touch. ‘You do whatever it takes,’ the voice said, ‘whatever the cost.’

It was a reasonably cool day (a rarity in Phoenix), which meant that our friendly little baseball game shouldn’t be too life threatening. The luck of the draw put me on my patrón’s team again, which was good: if we won he would be in a great mood, if we lost we could commiserate together. My chances of selling him on my polymer were looking pretty decent.

It was a rousing game, the free beer helping to keep spirits high and the weather helping to keep tempers low. The ninth inning came quickly enough, and it was déjà vu all over again. It wasn’t quite the same as last year, though: we were tied 2-2, the bases were loaded, and my employer was stuck on third, again hoping for me to bring him home. There was also the matter of the pitcher, an engineer named Bob, who was a recent hire, and who, so rumor had it, had made it through college on a baseball scholarship. I’d gotten a few hits off of him, mostly by luck (although I suspected Don Carlos’s getting to base might possibly be due to some sandbagging on Bob’s part, rather than the athletic prowess of my employer).

Baseball is a relatively simple game, but there are times when it is infinitely complex. I was in all probability the last batter of the game. Striking out meant extra innings, which wasn’t necessarily bad, except that our next three batters were shit, and theirs good (I’d barely managed to snag a home run ball off the batter who was next in their lineup). If I could end it here I’d be the conquering hero, and my stock with Don Carlos would rise that much higher.

Bob would want to want to keep the ball low or high, giving me little that I could swing at. Sure enough, his first pitch was high and outside, a test to see how much I wanted to swing. I let it go by. His second pitch was fast, but low and outside, and I was here to play baseball, not dig for potatoes. I’ll never know how I knew what he was going to throw next; it was just some instantaneous flash of communication, something I’d seen in his eyes. I crowded the plate.

Whatever it takes, whatever the cost.

It came high and inside, as I knew it would, and I turned my shoulder into it, fully aware that it was going to hurt like a motherfucker. And I was right, only it wasn’t my shoulder that took the hit.

Pain like I never knew existed exploded inside my skull. We weren’t playing hardball, but even a softball hurled at Nolan Ryan speeds is going to hurt. I dropped to my knees, my hands coming up to cradle my injured melon. I dimly heard voices yelling, scuffling footsteps coming toward me. I opened my eyes just in time to see a pair of impossibly large breasts balloon into focus in front of me, felt the soft press of flesh against my face as I was smothered within their warm embrace, my lips barely able to mumble the only word that came to my concussed brain.

“Buh.”

“You know, Rodrigo,” said my patrón, the smoke from his cigarillo actually quite pleasant, “there are more important things than winning.”

“What can I say, Don Carlos,” I replied, the cold beer his wife was holding against my skull making semi-coherent thought possible, “it seemed like a good idea at the time.” Doña Clara and I were sitting on a picnic table, me having been half-walked, half-carried away from the ball field to a place that was relatively shady, her clucking over me like a massive-bosomed mother hen.

He chuckled warmly, pleased that I wasn’t badly hurt, but also pleased, I could tell, that we had won the game, even if it was only by a walk. “Are you sure you’re okay, Rodrigo? I can have an ambulance here in ten minutes.”

“No need, patrón,” I said, sounding stronger than I actually felt, “I never lost consciousness, which is a good sign. Besides, if I show up at urgent care two years running, I’m going to get a reputation.”

This time he laughed, and that made me happy, for the better his mood, the better were my chances of selling him on my bogus skin surrogate, and along with that a complete recovery for my addicted bride.

“Take care of him, mi dulce,” he said, patting me on the knee, then leaning in to kiss his giant-chested wife on the cheek, “I must go address the masses.” And with that he turned and strode purposefully back toward the baseball diamond, leaving me alone with a truly fine pair of masses that I dearly wanted to address.

“Look down, por favor,” she said with the authority that all women seem to have when playing nurse. I felt the beer can lift from the sizable lump on the back of my head, which was nothing compared to the lump in my Levis, for her blouse had fallen open, allowing me to gaze in awe upon the most majestic cleavage in Christendom. Perhaps I was being given a reward for taking one for the team, being allowed an extended viewing of that for which most men would sell their souls for a fleeting glimpse. She examined my injury carefully, giving me more than enough time to fully appreciate the splendor of her bosom.

She was braless, her immense knockers knocking about freely as she looked my skull over. They were simply perfect, and by perfect I mean the wonderfully full roundness of a pair of juggs that have been well looked after and beautifully maintained. But what also made them perfect was their imperfectness, which was something I had grown unused to, as Yvette’s reproduction tits were completely uniform. But apart from that they looked exactly like the fake boobies that I had only recently slid my dick between, and it was all I could do to keep my face from falling forward into those warm, rose water-scented flesh pillows.

She leaned back, which was my cue to raise my head up and away from her mammalian magnificence, which I did with the utmost reluctance. “I think that you are going to hurt even more in the morning, Rodrigo,” she said softly, pausing to take an elegant pull from her can of beer. “We can drive you home, if you like. I think your beautiful Yvette will be angry with me if I don’t take the best care of you.”

If I weren’t already half in love with her, I would love her anyway. She was more than beautiful, and more than sexy; she was nice, a combination that is truly rare, I have found. But I already had that combination at home, and I loved my ‘vette beyond all measure; I could only hope that she still loved me in return. “That is most kind of you, Doña Clara,” I said, wincing a bit as I raised my head up so that I could look into her violet eyes, “but I assure you…”

“Clara, please,” she said, shaking her blonde locks dismissively. “I get so tired of people deferring to me all the time. The ‘Lady of the Casa’ thing gets to be a little old. I wasn’t always wealthy, you know. In fact, I was once quite poor.” She paused, her mind apparently far away. “I envy you, Rodrigo,” she said finally.

Perhaps it was the head injury, but it sounded to me as though her words were slightly slurred. First Don Carlos envies me, and now his slightly drunk, ultra-hot wife was running the same number on me. If I didn’t know better, I could swear they were playing some kind of weird rich people game. “You envy me?”

“I do. What you and Yvette have, it is not the same with Carlos and me. I see the way you smile at one another, the way you hold hands when you are together. There is so much love there, so much beauty.” She was crying softly now, and I sat with her, feeling like a dumbass; thankful that Don Carlos was too busy getting ready to give his yearly speech to see us in this compromising position; concerned that someone else might come over and start screaming at me for making the boss’s wife cry; and fearful that she was going to notice the giant boner that was tenting my jeans. “I already have so much,” she continued, unashamedly wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, “but if I could have just one thing it would be that , the love that she...”

“Buenas tardes, muchachos y muchachas!” came the amplified voice of my employer over the park’s loudspeakers. Clara started guiltily, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t, and began drying her eyes as her husband spoke to his assembled minions. We both straightened up, and I put my beer can in my lap so as to camouflage the swelling down there. I put on a look of polite interest, looking as though I was listening, but inside my guts were roiling like snakes. Was the most desirable woman in the world saying that she wanted me?

No, I thought, and for two reasons: it is only Internet fiction when impossibly endowed women throw themselves at you after you’ve had a fight with the wife, and also because women rarely say what they actually mean. Perhaps it’s some sort of Darwinian stratagem, unconsciously setting up mental obstacle courses for us to run, testing whether or not we’re observant enough to pass our genes on.

I replayed the scene over and over in my mind, doing my best to filter out the incredible boobs I had narrowly avoided drooling upon. ‘I see the way you smile at one another, the way you hold hands when you are together’. What did that mean? Some women absolutely detest public displays of affection, but it has been my experience that practically all women want their men to wear their love for them on their sleeves. True, Yvette and I did often hold hands, and, at least until recently, had plenty to smile about.

I listened distractedly as my patrón spoke at length, thanking his people for another good year, and praising their team spirit. It was the same sort of speech he gave at every company function, (save for Christmas, where any discussion of work was expressly forbidden), and though he always kept things fresh by varying the words, the core meaning was always the same: teamwork, excellence, and above all things, familia .

As Don Carlos spoke, I watched his wife out of the corner of my eye, not her plenteous bosom, but rather her face. Yvette says I suck at reading people, and that is largely true, but there was no mistaking the expression of bitterness that she wore like a sprayed-on mask. And when her husband began expounding upon the importance of familia, I actually heard her snort. “He is in excellent form today, isn’t he?”

I may suck at reading people, but there is nothing wrong with my hearing. Yes, she was bitter, about what I didn’t know, and wasn’t so stupid as to hazard a guess. But he did sound good. There was a certain force to his words that I’d not heard from him before, as though he were addressing vast multitudes, rather than just a few hundred people. One minute he was inspirational, the next minute charming. His gestures were polished and poised, and he moved about gracefully as he spoke, one hand resting almost negligently on the microphone stand, as though he’d spent hours rehearsing for this speech. “Yes, he does,” I replied gently. “He sounds almost like he’s running for office.”

“You are very perceptive, Rodrigo. That is exactly what he’s doing.” She turned to me, her complete lack of expression reminding me eerily of Yvette. “It is all arranged. Next week he will announce that he is running for governor.”

“What?” I whipped my neck back in the direction of the ball field so fast I almost gave myself a whiplash to go with my head injury. Thankfully she was so self-absorbed in her own unhappiness that she couldn’t see my shock.

“Oh, yes,” she said with a sardonic laugh, “he has the endorsement of the outgoing governor, as well as the backing of the party machine. It is a done deal. You are talking to the next First Lady of the great state of Arizona, Rodrigo. Then I really will be Doña Clara…for the rest of my life!” Tears began to form again in the corners of those lovely violet eyes, and before I could say a word she was up off the picnic table and walking away in the direction of the beer tent, her head down, her arms clasped about her tiny waist, a lonely gesture of comfort being given by the only person who could understand the depths of her grief.

Governor? I thought, my mind awhirl, my breathing just this side of hyperventilating. No, no, no! What does this mean?

But my inner voice was apparently one step ahead of me. It means you’re fucked, pal, it replied. I sat there, my head still smarting, my beat-up brain trying to figure out how this would affect my plans. But deep down I already knew – my plans were toast. As a private citizen Don Carlos could back the production, trials, and ultimate failure of my polymer, with no one the wiser, and all he would stand to lose was money, which he could certainly write off.

But as a gubernatorial candidate every aspect of his life would come under close scrutiny, and if someone found out that an AZ-TECH product had this nasty penchant for turning women into shiny nymphomaniacs, he could well lose everything, and the fault would be all mine.

I could just confess to him what I’d done; bite the bullet and put the whole mess in his hands. But that was simply more selfishness on my part, shoving my bullshit off onto someone else in the hope that they could make everything all right. No, I couldn’t do that to him; if I did, he would feel honor bound to help Yvette, and no matter how private the arrangements might be, the word would ultimately get out – it always does.

No, this was my mess, and I would have to clean it up myself. Whatever it takes, whatever the cost.

“Hola, Rodrigo.” I felt his hand clap me on the shoulder before I registered his presence, so immersed in my own thoughts I was, trying to figure out what my options were. “¿Que paso?”

I looked up at him, my fingers clutching at my half-empty beer, and before I could stop myself the words were out of my mouth, irretrievable and irrevocable. “Do you still want her?” I blurted out.

He looked at me with a curious expression, as though he couldn’t believe his ears, which appeared to be something that had never happened to him before.

“I’ll sell her to you, if you still want her,” I said feverishly, my brain moving faster than my mouth. “She’s yours if you still want her.”

“Are you serious, “Rodrigo?” he said, still not daring to believe his ears. “No jokes this time?”

“No jokes, Don Carlos. My ‘vette…I mean, Justine. It’s-it’s for my ‘vette, you see. Anyway, she’s yours…if you want her.”

To Be Continued…

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

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