Chapter 2

Rubber Maid

Three hours later found us lying on our bed, my vinyl fucktoy and me.  We had fucked in literally every room in the house, including the linen closet – twice.  I couldn’t keep my hands off of her, and neither could she.  But now we were finally resting, the frenetic passion caused by Yvette’s transformation not so much waning, but ebbing, due to the biological need to conserve energy or die.

But my birthday present was not terribly interested in resting; the idea of discovering what she had become was of far greater importance.  She got up from the bed and stood in front of her Shaker floor mirror, her image in the glass almost as shiny as the highly polished cherry frame surrounding it.  “What…is this, Roddy?”

I chuckled weakly at her wide-eyed amazement, watching her play with her big, rubbery tits.  It was the strangest damn thing, watching her face.  When people talk, or listen, their faces crack, flex, and wrinkle.  Not so Yvette, as practically all of her human expressiveness was lost, hidden away behind the flexible mask she now wore.  “It is a failure, my latex lady love,” I said with a sigh.  “It is what happens when one forgets to carry the two.”

“Huh?”

“Do you remember, a few months ago, that week when my mood was decidedly dim?”

She gave a small smile.  “I should hope I do.  My jaw was so sore from adjusting your attitude five times a day I thought I’d never be able to close my mouth again.”

I smiled back, blissfully recalling the selflessly given blowjobs I’d received during that awful week.  Fuckups in the chem lab are usually no big deal – in school – but making a mistake in the corporate world can cost you your job and damage your rep for years to come.  All that week I was on tenterhooks, wondering if the high mucky-mucks were actually going to adios me over twenty-thousand bucks worth of useless polymer, a very real possibility considering the state of the economy and AZ-TECH’s bottom line.  Thankfully they didn’t sack me, but I was told in no uncertain terms that any more dumbshit mistakes would result in me being walked out the front door, very likely with a few boot prints on my butt for good measure.

She turned back to the mirror, my smile more than enough answer for her.  “God, Rod, you are just the most amazing man; even when you screw up, you score big time.”  She continued fondling her boobs, running her hands up and down her flat belly.  “It’s just so weird.  Watch!”  She shimmied her shoulders and watched in fascination as her big boobies came to rest, so very much quicker than they used to.  “Why do they do that?” she asked my reflection breathlessly.

I explained how what was on her skin was neither a coating nor a paint, but rather a chemical mesh thirty times denser than panty hose, and correspondingly stronger.

“Is that why they feel so light?” she persisted, now jumping up and down, watching them as bounced stiffly.  “It feels like I’m wearing an invisible bra.”

“That’s a pretty apt analogy,” I replied with an almost obscene contentment, “but it’s more like a full-body corset.  Every part of your delicious body is being supported by the mesh: your butt, your boobs…”

“But why do I shine so?”

“When heated, the elastomer strands flatten out, providing greater surface area and creating a shell not unlike chain mail, though not nearly so tough.  When light hits the strands it ricochets everywhere, giving you a luminescent glow.”

“A shell?  But what about my skin?  Won’t it suffocate?  I remember in…”

“Goldfinger?” I prompted, having expected the question.  We both knew the Connery ‘007’s’ backwards and forwards.

“Mm-hm,” she replied, sliding her hands down her glossy hips, reveling in the feeling despite the seriousness of her inquiry.  “That girl died...”

“…‘It’s all right so long as you leave a small bare patch at the base of the spine to allow the skin to breathe,’" I quoted.  “Urban myth, Moneypenny.  Us mammals don’t breathe through our skin.  But how do you feel, by the way?”

“Like a beach ball with boobs,” she joked.

“Seriously, sweetie…” I pressed, but her flippant answer appeared to have pumped some life back into ‘Little Rod’.

“I feel great.  A bit warm, but not uncomfortably so.”

“Good,” I replied, pleased that this experimental finish wasn’t harming my bitchin’ ‘vette.  “Come here, baby.  Let me look at you.”  She undulated over to me, not out of a desire to fulfill my request, but rather because she liked moving so much.  With every movement of her unreal body she could feel the mesh sliding ever so slightly over her skin, a constant reminder her of her newly synthetic state.  She stood next to the bed, looking down at me, her wondrous bosom heaving, her perfectly circular nipples reinforcing her artificiality, and I ran my hand up her unnaturally smooth thigh.

“Mmm…” she moaned, biting her lip.  “God, Rod, this stuff is such a turn on.  You’re going to be a rich man.  You know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, I am a rich man, baby,” I sighed.  “I’ve got you,” and with that I pulled her over on top of me so that she lay across my lap, her shining butt in the air.  I slid my hands over her glossy fundament, her moans helping ‘Little Rod’, trapped as he was, to attain his full height.  Her skin was just so amazing, the rubbery feel to it.  But it wasn’t just that.  The polymer shell encasing my lovely bride really did give the illusion that she was made of plastic.  Whenever she moved, it constricted or stretched to accommodate her, without so much as a wrinkle or disturbance.

I grinned to myself as an idea formed.  I reached over and opened the drawer of my nightstand and pulled out the mini-maglite I keep there for emergencies.  “Check this out, baby.”  I rolled her onto her side, fighting giggling as her boobs rolled with her, sagging only very slightly, supported as they were by the mesh, and shone the light on her flat belly.

She ooh’ed upon seeing the light reflected off of her and onto the headboard behind me, and this time I actually did giggle as she began playing her fingers in front of the beam, sending shafts of light in all directions, like a living disco ball.  “God, that is so cool, Rod,” she breathed, “But how could this honestly be considered a failure?”

“Well, my radiant bride,” I sighed, “I didn’t design it to be fetish wear.  It was supposed to be used on leather, as an agent to help keep it waterproof.”

“And it doesn’t?”

“No,” I replied wistfully, “it does, for about three days.  Let’s face it, people don’t want to buy a leather protectant to protect their leather protectant.”

“Oh, no, Roddy,” she gasped, getting up onto one elbow, her voice exhibiting her shock more than her face could, “you mean my beautiful body is only going to last for three days?”

I chuckled, warmly pleased that my bitchin’ ‘vette was digging this every bit as much as I was.  “Yup, pretty much.  You can extend the life of your finish, though, if you want to, with routine maintenance.”

“Maintenance?” she perked up.

“Sure,” I replied.  “With proper care it could last for weeks, months even.”

“And you’re going to tell me how, right?” she pressed, her voice determined, a delicately arched eyebrow raised, as her left hand moved smoothly downward and found ‘Little Rod’, and began lightly caressing him.

“Oh, I suppose I could,” I mock-sighed, “but seeing as it’s my birthday do I really want to spend it dealing with such mundane matters?”

She gave me a crooked smile, its meaning so obvious that even her polymer-coated exterior couldn’t quite conceal it, and began inching her way down my body, her destination a fait accompli.  My cock disappeared between her smooth, scarlet lips without the slightest hesitation, its length completely swallowed on the first downstroke.  “Fuck!” I moaned, grasping the sheets, fearful that I might rip them to shreds.

“Talk,” she said simply, my glistening dick now standing upright against her cheek, and looking at the two of them like that it really struck home how real it looked, and how real she didn’t.  She rose up a bit and began licking its bulbous head like an ice-cream cone; a move she knew drove me crazy.  “Well…?” she prompted, licking her lips.

“Well,” I grunted, for she had returned to the licking technique, “licking your lips is probably… the worst thing you can do.  Saliva…I suspect, hastens the deterioration…of the polymer.”

“You mean,” she started, her blue eyes wide, “I can’t blow you?”  And here she looked hurt, as though she were now faced with having to make a choice she would rather not make.

“Oh, no,” I breathed, “you can…and better, blow me.  It just means you need to add a coat of wax.  Lip gloss will do just fine.”

She bounded quickly up from the bed, my stiff meat audibly slapping my stomach, and dashed to her dresser, returning scant moments later, her already glossy lips shining all the more.  ‘Little Rod’ disappeared again, but this time his passage down Yvette’s throat was eased greatly by the additional coat of wax, and I found myself actually ripping up the sheets a bit.  As nice as her uncoated lips had felt on my cock, and they surely had felt nice, her freshly waxed, slippery smooth lips quickly turned ‘nice’ into mind-shattering ecstasy.

“Mmm…?” she prompted, reminding me that there was supposed to be some give and take here.

“Oh, yeah…sorry,” I gasped.  “Where were we?”

“Mmm…maintenance,” she hummed, causing my toes to curl up well beyond what should be considered healthy.

“Oh, yeah,” I repeated.  “Well, for starters, a good washing…every day…will help.”

“Mmm-hmm?” she continued, inviting me to carry on.

“Plus…a good coating of moisturizer will also help.  Cocoa butter…something like that.”

“Oh,” she said simply, after releasing my crazed dick from her mouth with a wet ‘pop’.  “You mean like this?”  And she bounded up again, causing me to moan in frustration as she went to her bureau and grabbed her bottle of cocoa butter moisturizer.  She depressed the plunger, dispensing a sizeable glob of the pleasant-smelling goo into her left hand, whereupon she began smearing it all over her already glowing tits.  My shining bride returned to our bed, but rather than lay upon it she bent over and grabbed me by my hips and roughly turned me sideways so that my legs hung off of the edge of the bed, my feet upon the floor.  She then knelt in the ‘V’ of my thighs and gave my poor, sensitized prick the loving embrace of her rubbery juggs, and began giving it a massage that can only be described as divine multiplied by heavenly.

“Is there anything else, Roddy?” she whispered, gently working my beleaguered prick into a near-spitting frenzy.

“Not…that I…can think of,” I panted, my balls on the very edge of going thermonuclear.

“Excellent,” she breathed calmly.  “I love you, Rod.”  And with that sweet pronouncement I came.  So violently that I thought my balls might actually shoot out through dick as well.  I fountained my jizz over her shining chest and throat, giving her yet another coating on this oh-so-fine afternoon.

“Goodness, Roddy,” she giggled, once my impression of Mount Vesuvius had ceased, her lithe plastic arms held up and away from her, “look at me.  How am I supposed to keep my showroom finish if you do a one-man bukkake show on me?”

“Not to worry…‘vette,” I said, gasping only slightly now that I’d recovered somewhat.  “Just give me one minute.”  I slid sideways off the bed, narrowly avoiding smearing some of that shit on me, and made for the bathroom.  She was still in that same position when I returned a few seconds later, and laughed with delight as I sponged my scum from her glistening body as easily as if she’d been fucking Scotchgarded.

*    *    *    *    *    *

Though we are both good cooks we ordered in, since neither one of us felt it would be possible to toast a bagel without burning the house down.  Over fettuccine alfredo and garlic breadsticks she quizzed me some more about my polymer’s properties, and I told her everything I knew, keeping it in layman’s territory because as bright as Yvette is, chemistry is one of those things that normal people should never discuss.  This is proved by the following pun: Remember, if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the precipitate.  With that kind of mindset, it is surprising that anyone in my profession ever gets laid, much less actually manages to procreate.

“Why are my nipples still hard?” she inquired, sponging a piece of fettuccine off of her left tit – she was still getting used to the polymer mesh covering her body and had had to relearn the art of eating, which was part of the reason she was still nude (the other part being that she loved her new body too much to allow it to be covered up).

“Because they were hard when I sprayed on the polymer.  Surface tension is keeping them that way,” I replied.

“And what will cause the most damage to my finish?” she queried.

“Salts, alkaline cleaning solutions, and strong acids,” I responded, “but it is the ever-present ones you should worry about, vinegar and lemon juice, for example.  If you wanted to remove the polymer from your body completely, spraying yourself off with vinegar would do it pretty quickly, although you might smell like a salad for several hours.”

“Is it…harmful?” she asked.  I had been waiting for the longest for this question.

“Not at all, my love,” I answered in my most reassuring tones.  “It is one hundred percent inert.  As though you were wearing a full-body pair of pantyhose.”

She sighed, obviously pleased that there were no risks associated to something she so very much enjoyed.  “But what do I do if it gets damaged, or starts to deteriorate?”

“Put on more.  It takes multiple coats very well and patches seamlessly.  I brought home a liter of the stuff; four times more than we used.  And if, and when, it does begin to deteriorate, simply let it do so.  It’ll peel off like dead skin after a bad sunburn.  After that, simply clean off your surface and start again.”

“‘Start again…’” she repeated, looking over my shoulder at her image reflected in the antique sideboard behind me.  She had been doing this a lot during the course of our dinner, consistently checking out her image in the mirror, for which I certainly could not blame her; I couldn’t take my eyes off of her either.  But now she sat across from me, unmoving, examining her reflection in minute detail, and I couldn’t help but think that if a peeping tom were to look through our dining room window, he’d think I was having dinner with a mannequin.

Finally she said, “Roddy, will you excuse me?  I’m quite done with dinner.”  And so saying she rose from her seat and went into the kitchen.

“Yvette?” I ventured, bewildered by her sudden departure.  I heard the refrigerator door open and close, and she strode back out into the dining room and on into the hallway, a bottle of lemon juice in her hand.  I got up to follow her, wondering what was afoot, when I heard the bathroom door close.  She didn’t seem upset or anything, but she did seem to have a most un-Yvette-like determination about her.

“Baby?” I said to the closed door.  “Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine, Roddy,” came her slightly muffled voice.  I just want to try something.  Would you mind clearing away dinner?”

I smiled.  Most men might be a little miffed, having to do the dishes on their birthday, but I found myself inordinately pleased, wondering what the rest of my Sunday evening beheld.

By the time I had cleared everything away, Yvette had vacated the bathroom, and I found a hastily scrawled note taped to the door to the garage telling me to  ‘watch some porn or something’.  A thoughtful suggestion, I had to admit, but truly it was the last thing I needed since I was pretty much living a porn movie right now.  I opted instead to pop in ‘Die Hard’, even though it was nowhere near Christmas, and settled down in my recliner to wait for my bride.  It was at that point in the film where Bruce Willis says ‘fuck’ for about the four-hundredth time, that I felt her rubber hands cover my eyes.

“Close your eyes, sweetie,” she said, her voice husky, definitely turned on.

“All right,” I replied, no less excited than she, anxiously wondering what she might have done in so short a time.  “They’re closed.”

Her hands slid away from my face, and I sensed by the shifting of light on my eyelids that she was moving around to face me, preparing for the grand unveiling.  She paused the movie, and said, her voice nervous, “Okay, you can open them.”

I did, and counted myself lucky that I was still sitting down.  Now I am a good painter, but I have seen Yvette paint whole frescoes in the time it takes me to open the damn can.  She hadn’t done much, but what she had done took my breath away.  I got up off my chair (with some difficulty owing to the stiffness in my pants) to examine her more closely.

Her eyebrows, that I had taken such care to avoid when sponging on the polymer, were gone – shaved off! – so that her forehead was now a completely smooth and unbroken surface, with thin, high arches painted in their place.  Her eyes now looked somehow wider, rounder, and using skills gained as a scenic artist and makeup artist, she had done some truly magnificent layering and shading on her eye shadow, stripping away the cotton candy coloring I’d applied, and replacing it with a more dramatic electric teal (was it coincidence? homage? competition?), to which she must have added powdered mica, because they positively sparkled.

She had also added a blush coat to her cheekbones so that they now looked incredibly high, much more prominent with the addition of a rose hue, and shadows added underneath brought them out that much more.  But more than anything it was her lips that literally outshone everything else.  She had ditched the scarlet, and had applied a deep, saturated orchid; a color of such purity and intensity that it made you instantly want to stick something between them.  They looked so smooth and plump, and glowed so warmly that one could stare at them for days, lost in their perfection.

And lastly there were her nipples, still quite erect, still unnaturally round.  They were now also the same color as her lips, though not quite so intense.  It was incredible how unreal they looked, how plastic; the way her breast flesh abruptly shifted color from her unnatural pinkish flesh tone to her artificially orchidaceous areolas without any change of texture whatsoever, all the little bumps smoothed out, thus completing the illusion that she was wholly synthetic.

She had outdone herself, had outdone me, looking even more intoxicating than she had in my dream.  She had, in less than an hour, transformed herself from an animated mannequin into a life-sized Barbie doll.  I stood there; acutely conscious of my breathing, or rather the lack of it, of the suffocating silence of the room, and of how our air conditioning was obviously failing to keep up with the summer heat.

My unblushing bride smiled, obviously pleased by my stunned expression, and sidled up to me, placing her imitation hand upon my pulsing meat.  “I was going to ask you what you thought, but this,” she breathed, giving ‘Little Rod’ a squeeze, ‘tells me all I need to know.  God, Rod,” she giggled, “you look as though you’re about to go supernova.”

“You have no idea, baby,” I replied, actually panting, gazing at her reflective cheek, marveling at its smoothness, its permanence.

“Well, let’s cool you off then,” she said, as her hand slid upward and began unbuckling my belt.  She got my pants off with only moderate difficulty, the obstruction caused by my rampant prick slowing her down a bit.  I shucked my t-shirt off, ripping it in my haste, and looked into her radiant face, her eyes the only things about her that betrayed her humanity.  I leaned in to kiss those luscious lips – and missed.

“Nuh-uh, big boy,” she teased, turning away, my throbbing dick in her hand, pulling me onward.  “It’s a hot night, and I think we can both do with a swim.”

“Lead on, MacBabe,” I laughed lightly, allowing myself to be tugged along by my short leash out to our patio, raptly watching the shining globes of her ass the whole way.

I graciously helped her up onto the diving board, the dying rays of the Arizona sun reflecting off of her unblemished body, creating a once in a lifetime masterpiece.  “Oh, God, hold it right there, baby,” I cried, awestruck.  “Let me get the camera.”  I dashed back through the house, my boner flapping about comically, and grabbed my cell phone.  She was still there when I returned, waiting patiently, looking like a flesh-colored statue.  I snapped a dozen pictures of her in various cheesecake poses, our adobe privacy walls making a splendid backdrop.

“Thank you, my beloved odalisque,” I said, putting the phone on the tile-topped patio table, still marveling in her beauty, “you are free.”

“Gee, thanks, o engorged one,” she said sarcastically, then stepped forward and bounced hard on the edge of the diving board, sending her body high into the air, the setting sun flashing majestically upon her as she executed a perfect forward pike.  She sliced into the water with a bizarre silence, her streamlined body making just the tiniest splash.

“Roddy!”

If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it.  She had been under the water for barely a second, when she came bobbing back up to the surface, shooting upward completely out of the water like a cork, coming to rest atop the water, drops sheeting off of her as she lay floating on her back.

“R-Roddy…?” she repeated, her voice quavering, “w-what…?

I couldn’t help it, bursting into raucous laughter as I watched her bob upon the water like a child’s sailboat, her wide eyes expressing her rising panic.  I jumped in and took her by the hand, and floated her to the shallow end of the pool, alternately giggling and snorting in maniacal glee.

“Roddy…?” she whined, still in shock over her unexpected expulsion from the water, and the sudden realization that treading water had just become a thing of the past.

“Air…bubbles,” I managed to gasp, letting go of her and allowing her to come about.  “Air bubbles!”

“Air…?” she repeated dumbly.

“Oh, yes, my buoyant bride,” I replied, grasping her gently by her pretty foot and pushing her away, then grabbing it again just before getting out of reach and pulling her back to me.  “The mesh covers approximately seventy-five percent of your skin; the rest is just empty squares, millions of tiny grids in which there are trapped air bubbles, making you, in essence, a fucking personal flotation device!”

She laughed at my crazed exuberance.  “Oh, Rod, this is just too much,” she said breathlessly, dipping her hands into the water and pushing them forward like oars, sending her bobbing body back toward the deep end.  “How long will I stay afloat?”

“Well, let’s test it, shall we?”  And so saying I dove for her, grasping both of her slim ankles, and pulled her yelping body quickly into me, propelling my body forward to slide on top of hers.  We lay like that for a full minute, as quiet as the stars that began appearing overhead.  She had dropped about another inch or so in the water, the air trapped in the pockets of her pseudo-skin easily able to bear our combined weights.

“Oh m-my God, Rod,” she cried beneath me, holding me tight, her voice tremulous again, euphoric, “this is…so…”

“That it is, my wonderful waterproof woman, that it certainly is.”  Perfectly at home upon my busty pool toy I kissed her, enjoying the feel of her, and the feeling of weightlessness she imparted.  Supporting my weight was not a problem for her, as there was only water beneath her, therefore no crushing.  I lay upon her for what seemed an endless time, a timeless time.  And when I slipped inside her wetness, her pussy seizing upon my intrusive meat and pulling it into her boiling depths, I felt as though I was lost in a dream, a dream from which I would violently fight to keep from waking.

She cried out as she came, not once, but repeatedly, my every thrust eliciting an ecstatic howl that I’m sure our neighbors probably thought were coyotes.

And afterwards, as we lay there floating upon the still water, the full moon reflected in the shining tit next to the one upon which my head rested, I drifted gently off into a sleep more peaceful than any I had ever known.

To Be Continued…

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

big_kahuna_69@yahoo.com