Foreword
An old joke goes something like this:
Henry Ford dies and goes to Heaven. Upon arriving he immediately starts complaining about how inefficiently the place is being run. It gets so bad that God Himself intervenes, at which point Henry begins taking God to task over His design of woman. "Your invention is the most flawed work of engineering I ever saw. There is too much front end protrusion, the rear end wobbles too much, it chatters at high speeds, and the primary intake is too close to the exhaust."
"As may be, Mr. Ford," says God, wryly amused, "but more men are riding My product than ever rode yours."
Jokes often define our culture, and America?s culture is indisputably dominated by the automobile. We love our cars. We love them so much, in fact, that we often act as though they were alive. We talk to them, give them names, and assign feminine qualities to them, even to the point of referring to them as 'she'.
But as the above joke points out, we seem to blur the distinctions between our cars and our women, as so much of our speech bears out: ?Man, I?d like to take her for a spin?, or ?I bet she?s a great ride?, or, ?she?s too high-maintenance'. I even knew a guy who euphemistically referred to having sex with his wife as ?changing her oil?. It is a strange culture indeed, where a woman?s breasts are often called headlights and we put bras on our cars. This being the case, is the following cautionary tale of Rod and Yvette so very farfetched?
The Formula
"Honestly, Roddy, you spend more time with that car than you do with me!"
"Now, now, ‘vette," I crooned as I slipped into bed beside her, cupping a wonderfully full double-d and nuzzling her ear, the scent of her flowery perfume mingling with the fabric softener from the crisp, clean sheets, “you know I 'd much rather be in here, rubbing oil on your hot body instead of in the garage waxing Justine’s, but she needs it, baby."
"Justine needs it," she grumbled huffily, doing a good impression of my California surfer dude accent, though not pushing my hand from her tit, which meant that she wasn't really angry. "I sometimes think,” she continued with a most becoming petulance, “that if I had a shiny paint job, you might pay as much attention to me."
I silenced her with a kiss that she grudgingly accepted, which then went from 0 to 60 in 6.6 seconds. It is one of the things I love about my ‘vette – get her motor running and she’ll go all night. She quickly got on top of me and slipped ‘Little Rod’ inside of her moist quim, having already taken care of that pesky foreplay nonsense while I was out buffing my sweet Justine’s rear end. She rode me with a perfect rhythm, always pulsing her meat-grinder pussy whenever she reached bottom dead center, then sliding back upward, humming steadily all the while.
We finished at the same time – her doing, not mine – for my ‘vette is highly responsive. I fondled her heavy boobs while she softly whimpered, shaking in the throes of her climax, until she collapsed on top of me. We lay there like that, skin to skin, her luscious brunette locks pooled in the joint of my neck and shoulder, until we both fell asleep.
I dreamt of her, as I so often did, of my beautiful Justine. There are cars and there are cars, but my canary yellow, ’68 Pontiac GTO is a work of fucking art: the way her roof seamlessly flows into her rear quarter panel, the sinuous grace of her big front end, and the gentle curve of her hood, under which is nestled her 400 cubic inches of screaming Detroit iron, capable of pumping out 350 barely controlled horses. Together we drove into the blazing Arizona sunset, just the two of us, my heart hammering in tune with her motor as we easily tore up the desert highway. I sighed contentedly, reaching out and putting my hand on the back of the passenger seat headrest, marveling in its coolness despite the summer heat.
But under my hand the teal-colored vinyl began shifting, moving, and I looked quickly over to find the headrest taking the shape of a human head! I yanked my hand away just as gleaming, rounded shoulders began forming from the body of the seat, a pair of large, shining breasts emerged from the front side of the backrest, and two glossy thighs erupted upward from the seat. The headrest swiveled – flowed, more like – in my direction, the setting sun reflecting off of its smooth, featureless surface, which began rippling like a pool of still water into which a pebble has been dropped, gradually resolving into a polished blue simulacrum of my sweet Yvette.
An elegant, imitation hand reached out and began languidly stroking the back of my neck. “Yvette?” I heard myself say in that stupid slow motion that so often happens in dreams, but at that moment my teal companion quickly threw her leg over me, straddling me in my seat, and shoved a plasticky tongue down my throat.
“Mmph…!” I protested, but I wasn’t really fighting her. She felt so good in my arms, so smooth, so sleek, the vinyl skin of her big boobs cool against my bare chest. With a fluid grace she rose up and freed my stiff shaft from its denim confinement, and just as easily settled herself atop it, her hot, rubbery pussy embracing my turgid meat.
She pressed herself into me as we fucked at ninety miles per hour – I was in seventh heaven. Being inside my vinyl ‘vette as we drove was the most intense experience I had ever known: her slippery smooth cunt combined with the powerful rumbling of the GTO’s turbocharged engine was sending shockwaves through me, pushing my awareness into another dimension.
But some small part of me managed to stay tethered to my paradoxical dream-reality, and I began to notice that something was wrong. Whenever I thrust upward, trying to match her passion, she snapped quickly back, like a rubber band. I opened my eyes to find that her lower body, from her feet to her to knees, had melted into my seat, as had her arms up to the elbow, trapping me in her vinyl embrace. I tried to scream, but her mouth was firmly seated over mine, the smell of her ethylene perfume strong in my nostrils.
And just when I thought it couldn't get any more intense, the balloon-like walls of her latex pussy shifted into overdrive, rubbing my rock-hard meat in an indescribably delicious fashion. My screams doubled, not out of fear, but due to the glorious feeling of my jizz percolating upward from my balls, that impending sensation of release that almost distracted me from the sight of the giant rock formation that filled the whole of the windshield as we slammed into it.
“Unnh!” I screamed, as the shattering of glass and the twisting of metal gave way to a cataclysmic explosion as I erupted inside of my flesh and blood wife. Her body was still lying atop mine, her fevered grunting filling my ears while her slippery pussy clamped firmly around my spasming cock, which shot load after load of my creamy goo into her, until finally we both lay there, silent save for the sounds of our labored breathing.
After a bit she rose shakily up onto her elbows, my sweet ‘vette, and pressed her trembling lips to mine. “God…Rod…” she rasped, as though relearning speech, “you’re even a great fuck when you’re asleep.” She nuzzled me softly, her long lashes fluttering against my cheek like butterfly wings. “By the way,” she cooed, “it’s after midnight, birthday boy. Is there anything special your best girl can give you on the occasion of the big three-oh?”
“Well, actually…” I hesitated, the image of her shiny skin still fresh in my mind, “…there is one thing…”
Epiphanies, you gotta love ‘em.
* * * * * *
“Are you sure this is safe, Roddy?”
It wasn’t the first time she’d asked that question, nor did I expect that it would it be the last time I would answer it. “Yes, my love,” I replied in soothing tones, the half-mask respirator I was wearing probably not helping me to sound convincing in the slightest, “it is perfectly safe. You know that I would not endanger you, or your wondrous bosom for that matter, for love or money.”
I had to give Yvette credit; allowing me to spray paint her body for my enjoyment is about a hundred times further than most women would ever go for their men, but she has always had quite the adventurous streak. Whether it was bondage, spanking, anal sex, or home movies wherein she would stuff herself airtight with multiple sex toys while I watched, video camera in one hand, a Guinness in the other, she was game for it.
But there were things she wouldn’t do, however, the first being that she wasn’t into group sex, or swinging, which was no skin off my nose as I’m not into sharing. She also wouldn’t do girls, a real bummer, considering the first rate poon there is to be had in the University of Phoenix theatre department, where she works as a scenic artist/electrician/seamstress/utility infielder. And though she would – and often did – give me road head in my truck, she flatly refused to blow me when we were out in my GTO, citing that sex within spitting distance of Justine qualified as a ménage a trois.
Those few small things aside, there was one thing that added jalapeño jelly to an already spicy relationship: her vacuum bed, an insidious device that she’d bought off the Internets long before I’d met her. Usually once a week, or after an especially stressful day in the University theatre, she would climb in between the two sheets of 14-gauge medical latex. I would then close the zipper and pump out all of the air, leaving her encased in a rubber cocoon, her bullet vibrator invisibly scotched away inside her sweet pussy. For up to two hours she would endure this sensory deprivation (the unit ran virtually silently due to the heavy-duty vacuum pump she’d installed in her garage, ducted directly to her bedroom), unable to move, speak, or do anything other than concentrate on the heightened sensations coming from her inaccessible snatch.
I would often sit there, admiring her lustrous form as it writhed impotently within in its tube-steel frame like some shrink-wrapped sex toy, the overhead light reflecting off the clear plastic giving her wonderful body an unbroken sheen. I loved watching her big boobs swell outward as she took deep, gasping breaths, and her flat belly rippling in her solitary ecstasy, her pleasure literally in my hands, for I held the remote control that powered the little machine buzzing away inside her. Cycle after cycle I would take her up and bring her back down, driving her as close to the very edge as I could, but never, per her request, allowing her to cum. Sometimes I would run my hands over her smooth form, or if I was feeling especially naughty I might take a vibrator in each hand and work over her erect nipples or her clit for several long minutes (though she claimed it felt like hours), but mostly I would just watch her, vicariously enjoying her inordinate pleasure, my dick a throbbing lead pipe in my pants.
When she could take no more, which was usually signaled by frenzied screaming coming from her breathing tube, I would release her from her rubber confinement, whereupon she would invariably leap upon me, grunting like some preternatural beast whose sole reason for being was to have my stiff johnson inside her. We would spend the rest of the night fucking like minks, which would often result in my shambling into work the next morning looking as though I’d been run over by a semi-truck, and though my co-workers would rib me about it, their envy was unmistakable.
I think it was our vacuum bed antics that made me fall in love with her (although her stupendous boobage had certainly helped to seal the deal) and I asked her to marry me in only three short months. She accepted, the reason being that none of her previous paramours had shown such unerring skill at handling her body while encased between the glossy latex sheets. No man could possibly want more, and I didn’t, but that shiny teal vision of her was simply too erotic to let slip by, especially since I had the means to do it.
She now stood there with the patience of a saint, buck-naked, in the center stall of our three-car garage, her head poking up through a poly sheet, the four corners of which had been clamped to four stanchions, also at neck height. I didn’t strictly have to do it this way, but I wanted to take my time airbrushing my ‘vette’s body without her having to wear a respirator, and I also wanted to minimize the chances of her seeing what was going on and chickening out once I began applying the coating. It was a pain, working under the poly sheet, which forced me to work either hunched over, or on my knees – hell, it had been easier painting Justine.
All three garage doors were cracked to knee-level, with a few window fans blowing outward to ensure good ventilation. I was glad that we were able to get such an early start, as the day promised to be your typical early summer scorcher, and the relative coolness of the morning would make for a trouble-free application. The ‘paint’ I was using, a failed leather protectant that I had concocted (and for which I had been royally chewed out by my bosses at AZ-TECH for ‘wasting valuable company resources’ on poor science), tinted to Yvette’s overall flesh tone, went on smoothly when applied with an airbrush. She stood perfectly still while I worked, bending over when asked, raising this or lifting that, giggling sweetly when I parted her heavy boobs so that I could ensure complete coverage.
Formula LP_16/2 is a very forgiving polymer; I designed it to be. It is a ‘dry liquid’, very like mercury, and when sprayed on it forms a fine, even coating on whatever material to which it is applied. I’d retrieved a liter of it from chemical storage early this morning, lighting out for AZ-TECH only minutes after the cock crowed, so to speak, my rapidly recovering prick already threatening to burn a hole in my chinos, imagining how my ‘vette would look when we were done.
I airbrushed every last inch of Yvette’s tight young body, save for the bottoms of her feet, which could be done later if we chose to continue, and for her nipples, masked off with perfectly circular tape cutouts, which I would take care of once this basecoat was complete. Every other part of her body that I didn’t want coated, such as her sweet poon, rosebud, and belly button, was covered with K-Y jelly, thus preventing adhesion, for the forgiving nature of my polymer, a double-chain elastomer consisting of striated rubber and carbon, allows it to fill cracks and crevices, forming a tough yet flexible layer of pseudo-skin that even my enraged cock would be unable to penetrate.
With the body coat complete, I extracted a promise from my beloved that she keep her eyes closed until the grand unveiling (as an artist Yvette understands works-in-progress). I then pulled the tape that held together the poly paint booth under her chin, and got to work on her lovely face. She was makeup free and had applied astringent, thus ensuring a clean, paint-ready surface. The basecoat took only minutes to apply with a sponge, and was made easier by her having tied her long hair in a ponytail and pinning it up. I did her full lips in a deep scarlet (my polymer takes pigment exceedingly well), and her eyelids and nipples in a matching cotton candy pink. I could not do her cheekbones or any complicated blending, as my polymer doesn’t allow for that unless you apply coat-on-coat.
I stepped back and looked at her, and I have to say she looked truly strange, what with her unnatural uniformity of color, and the complete lack of moles, birthmarks, tan lines, or other distinctive features. Even her fashionably bald quim looked like little more than a camel toe in a flesh-colored leotard. The polymer had cracked in all the places that skin normally cracks, which was not unexpected, and it was behaving precisely as it had when I’d experimented on my various leather samples at work. All that was left was to apply heat, which would activate the polymer. “Are you ready, love?”
“Go ‘or it,” she replied, diligently avoiding pressing her lips together, and though her demeanor was casual, I could sense her nervousness. She was placing all her trust in me, for I had not told her precisely what the outcome of this little experiment, her gift to me, would be, only that I had wanted to paint her, using something that I had designed at work, and that I wanted to surprise her.
I switched on the video camera, hoping to preserve this memory for posterity (and also in case she might never want to do it again), and turned on the blow dryer. I started at her feet, gently, for I didn’t want to propel the coating off her body, thus leaving unsightly bare spots. It wasn’t that big of a concern, though, for although my polymer only adheres to the skin by means of static electricity, it is extremely sticky to itself.
I played the blow dryer on her feet, her scarlet toenails also protected with K-Y jelly, and gasped as the chemical reaction began. Once the heat hit her, her ‘skin’ rapidly transformed, its dry, almost powdery look turning glassy in the harsh overhead light.
“Oh…” Yvette moaned, and I looked up to find that her parted lips were now a distinct ‘O’ shape, and her magnificent bosom was rapidly rising and falling.
“Yvette…?”
“Kee’ go-een, Rah-dee,” she replied, determinedly not disturbing her ‘makeup’. “It ‘eels weird, ‘ut nice.”
She was holding her arms slightly out from her sides, and judging by the way her fingers trembled, her increased respirations, and the way her coated breasts heaved, it looked to my eyes as though it felt rather more than ‘nice’. I continued up her freshly-shaven legs, trying to keep from laughing giddily as they took on a reflective sheen, indistinguishable from plastic.
“Aaah…!” she moaned, and I could understand, at least academically, what she was feeling. As the polymer heated up, it instantly began forming a striated mesh, not unlike panty hose, though much, much smaller. This mesh was now contracting as it warmed, dragging literally millions of tiny squares across her skin, tantalizing every nerve ending.
I continued up her thighs, marveling at their glossy beauty, and my dick almost exploded in my pants as I watched the globes of her fine ass harden before my eyes, actually seeing my reflection in it! Upward I went, my own stifled moans competing with Yvette’s as I played the blow dryer on her rapidly perfecting body.
Holding my breath, I began working on her breasts, and now my moans began to outstrip hers as I watched them take on a lustrous, rubbery sheen, her nipples harder than I could ever remember seeing them, and I almost dropped the blow dryer from my shaking hands in my excitement. Finally I reached her face, thankful that she couldn’t hear my ragged breathing over the whine of the blow dryer. In scant moments my beautiful bride went from being a soft, human creature to a living, breathing mannequin. I turned off the dryer and stepped back, taking in the totality of her now flawless form.
“Oh…my…God,” I whispered through dry lips.
“Roddy…?” she ventured, a little unnerved, no doubt, by my awed silence. “Is it…do I look okay?”
“Jesus, ‘vette, you have no idea,” I rasped. “How do you feel?”
“I feel…warm, and a little tingly…all over. Can I…open my eyes now?”
“No,” I breathed, “give me a second. I want to do this right.” I hobbled out of the garage, my shaking legs barely able to support me, and made my way to the bedroom. A minute later I set the full-length mirror that normally hangs on the back of our bedroom door against one of the stanchions in front of her; I wanted to give her the full effect. “Okay,” I said, standing a little off to one side, unable to keep the apprehension from my voice, because if she didn’t like what I’d done our relationship was going to take a hit, for I would always want to do this again, “you can open them.”
She did so, and the look upon her plasticized face was priceless. She gazed at her reflective reflection for a full minute, not speaking, not making a sound, her bright, blue eyes wide in utter disbelief. She then slowly, gradually, opened her mouth, as though it felt foreign to her, “Oh…my…God,” she whispered, raising a shining arm to point at the image in the mirror. “Roddy…” she started, her breath coming fast, “I look so…fake! Unnh…!” at which point she fell to her knees and began shaking uncontrollably.
“Yvette…!” I cried, frightened. Panicking, I knelt down to take her in my arms, but she quickly grabbed a hold of me instead.
“God…unnh!…Rod…!” she panted, grasping at my shoulders. “I…!” and there was no mistaking what was happening to her – she was cumming! She bucked and twitched in my arms, gasping hoarsely, crying and shaking as she rode out her spontaneous climax. Clutching me as she was, my forearms pinned to her sides, I was robbed of the opportunity of joining in, of touching her shiny new body, and I certainly wasn’t about to do anything that might disturb what appeared to be an orgasm of biblical proportions. But though I couldn’t touch her, there was another sense available to me, and with my nose buried in the joint of her neck and shoulder I couldn’t help but take in her scent, and I, too, almost came in my chinos as her perfume entered my nostrils – new car smell!
But as I gloried in her heady fragrance, her hands quickly moved up and grabbed my head, and scant seconds later found her tongue sliding into my mouth. The feel of her lips upon mine was truly magical; they were so smooth, so unreal!
“Ohh…” I moaned, as my hands, freed from their constriction, found my ‘vette’s waist. Her skin felt like rubber, almost like she was wearing a wetsuit. I moved my hands up and down her body while her tongue continued assaulting my mouth. It just felt so wonderful I couldn’t believe it. I wasted no time sliding my hands up to her fantastic boobs, the warmth of her artificial skin more erotic than any sensation I had ever known. Her heavy juggs felt somehow lighter in my hands, which the reasoning, though rapidly dwindling, part of my mind told me was due to the mesh contracting as the weight on its structure shifted.
“Oh, God, yes, Rod!” she panted. “Squeeze my big, fake tits!”
They did feel fake, like warm, flesh-colored water balloons, and her hard, rubbery nipples were the exact consistency of pencil erasers. It was my birthday, and I had received, or given myself, the world’s first living latex love doll!
“Oh, R-Rod,” she moaned, pulling away from me, her voice tremulous, “please fuck me! I need your dick in me now!”
She was crying, but her tears were not born of sadness, or even joy, but rather of a beatific ecstasy, and I knelt there, transfixed, watching as her tears slid down her shining cheeks like drops of water on a shower tile. I picked her up off the garage floor, and she quickly leapt up, wrapping her legs around my waist. I started lumbering toward the door into the house, so that I could throw her onto the bed and do things to her body that were probably illegal in Amsterdam, but Yvette’s voice sang out, her tone desperate, “Oh, God, Roddy, I can’t wait! Fuck me in here! Fuck me now!”
Considering all that she had done for me this morning, I figured it would be the least I could do. I quickly turned and laid my rubberized bride on the back end of my bitchin’ wheels, onto my Justine. I shucked my pants to the floor and lost no time in shoving my raging prick into her, moaning loudly as her hot cunt swallowed my length whole. Though her body felt fake, her pussy felt all too real, and I dimly noted as I repeatedly rammed my dick into her, that her body didn’t slide or move up and down at all, her latex skin gripping the trunk of my car like a surgical glove.
I held off as long as I could, which wasn’t very, but what I lacked in porn star control I made up for in exuberance, pistoning in and out of my sweet ‘vette’s thoroughly lubricated cunt so fervently I thought we might both spontaneously combust.
When it was over I lay in her embrace, my left hand stroking her smooth rear end, my breathing just barely below the level at which paramedics will slap an oxygen mask on you. “Are…you…okay…’vette?” I managed to gasp. I was a little worried that I might have hurt her, so savage had been my thrusts, and I was also beginning to feel a little guilty, for having treated her so selfishly.
“Are… you…kidding…?” she gasped back, rubbery fingers stroking the back of my neck. “Roddy…look at me. I’m not…okay. I’m…beautiful!
And since I make it a habit never to contradict a woman into whom I’ve just emptied my balls, I kept my dissenting opinion to myself, happily thinking that she’d overshot beautiful by a country mile – she was fucking boss!
To Be Continued…
Comments, feedback, or pictures of really big boobies always appreciated.
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