Chapter 7

Confessions, Impressions, and Incandescence

It is amazing what ten hours of sleep will do for you.  Add a wake-up blowjob from a plasticized geisha and you would have the first ten minutes of my morning.

There was no crying and no mini-dramas; there was just the feeling of soft latex lips sliding over my johnson, long silky hair tickling my thighs, and a pair of almond eyes looking over my chest at me, as my obsessed wife slowly bobbed up and down on my prick.  I came quickly, my balls having recuperated from their use and abuse of the previous evening.  She swallowed it all, it being easy to scoop up any overspray due to the smoothness of her pseudo-skin.  Her task completed, she came around and knelt by my side of the bed.

“Roddy…” she started, her voice ever so slightly tremulous.

I quickly put a finger to the lips that had just brought me such pleasure.  “I love you, Yvette,” I said, not sternly, and with no hint of reproach; I simply wanted her to know that beyond all else.  As those church-goin’ folks say, ‘Love the addict but hate the addiction.’

She gave me a wan smile, which turned into a tender kiss, which eventually led to me banging her sweet Asian ass like a taiko drum.  I’m sure there are more than a few cultures that frown upon anal sex before breakfast, I’m just glad I don’t belong to one of them.

But that wan smile was the last I saw of Yvette for the remainder of the weekend, for it was Yumi’s turn to quite literally shine.  “Would you like me to bathe you, Roddy-sama?” she asked, her voice light and breathy.

“I, uh…” I began, but then my brain pretty much locked up.  I gave her my hand, and she led me to the bathroom, where began the first or many hours of complete and total debauchery.  I was bathed, kissed, shaved, licked, fed, teabagged, massaged, sucked on, and in general treated better than any emperor that has ever lived.  At no point did I request this treatment, but never did I refuse it either.  I wasn’t sure if my ‘vette was behaving this way because she thought I wanted the lord and master treatment, or if she was trying to show me the kind of life I would be missing out on if I failed to make 16/2 happen, or because she actually wanted to be Yumi, with at that that entailed.  I was inclined to think it was the latter, and that if it really was her fantasy it were best she indulged it now because at some point it would have to stop (which was the same reason I chose to indulge it – because I, too, was having the time of my life).

Yumi, as was Yvette’s custom, remained nude at all times, not even wearing one of her kimonos (she owned several, made with her own two capable hands) because she could not bear to have her reflective body hidden away.  I had originally planned to spend the weekend figuring out how to present my ‘findings’ to Don Carlos, but Yumi seemed to be of the opinion that my mind needed to rest, and that this was best accomplished by keeping the blood flow to my brain at the bare minimum to sustain life.  The weekend passed in a haze of sexual delight, my cock spending more time inside my geisha than out, even after having worn her artificial pussy clean through. When the sun rose on Monday morning it was with much regret that I dismounted from her wonderfully buoyant body, swam a few laps, showered, and went to work.

All that morning I went through my usual routine of project meetings, solving the usual problems, correcting other people’s mistakes, etc.  But while my fellow employees were in their cubes, busily playing sudoku, I was trying to discover a way to make my failed polymer potentially marketable, or at least feasible enough to allow me to make more of it on the company dime.

It is said that Thomas Edison invented inventing, and that the first thing he did when fleshing out an idea was to see if it was commercially viable, and it is thanks to this mindset that we can blast Def Leppard into the furthest reaches of space, and have instant tiramisu in a cup.  So what were the possible commercial uses of a weak-ass polymer that requires constant upkeep?  The first thing that came to mind was that it could be a new form of wetsuit, but I shit-canned that idea, as wetsuits are made for diving beneath the water rather than bobbing about on top of it.  But that idea led to the possibility of a new kind of life jacket, which would work well, provided one had the time to apply an all-over coat to one’s body, heat it up to activate the polymer, and then be rescued before the saltwater corroded it.

I racked my brains all morning, coming up with one stupid idea after another, unable to think of any application that didn’t have to do with ultra-hot fetish wear.  Yvette called at lunchtime to ask how things were going, which was code for ‘have you got my fix for me?’  I told her I would take care of it straight away, went down to chemical storage and signed out another three liters of my miracle sex-toy-in-a-can, and took it out to my truck, hoping a little fresh air might help my brain focus.

The combined scents of cucumber, wasabi, and cocoa butter hit me the second I opened the camper shell door, and I was happily surprised to find Yumi inside, her soft body lying on an air mattress, her long shiny legs opened wide in welcome, and several rolls of sushi laid out upon her flat belly.  “Konnichiha, Roddy-sama,” she said in her breathy voice, her almond eyes peering at me through the gap in her oh-so round boobies.  “Which would you like to eat first: the raw fish, or the freshly prepared pussy?”

Suffice it say I was glad that I’d recently installed new shocks on my truck.

*    *    *    *    *    *

After fucking and sucking for precisely fifty-one minutes, I gobbled down the sushi and went back to work, my addicted bride gleefully on her way home with my polymer on the seat next to her.  I was glad one of us was happy, because I sure wasn’t.  I had three days, less than that, really, to come up with an idea.  I sat in my cube, staring at nothing for the longest time, my screensaver starting up after ten minutes of inactivity, my bosomy bride fading in and out every five seconds; if there were ever any complaints about my screensaver I’d never heard them, but then who would complain when the president of the company’s wife looked like a Vegas showgirl?

I watched distractedly as picture after picture came and went: my bitchin’ ‘vette leaning against Justine, her beautiful boobs barely covered in a string bikini; another of her in the same outfit, washing my truck, her sleek body shiny with suds, taken just a year ago on my twenty-ninth birthday; and another, taken at last year’s company picnic, beer in hand, her long dark hair in a ponytail escaping out of the back of her baseball cap, giving me a good luck kiss at home plate, which really was lucky considering the screaming line drive I hit into right-center field immediately afterward.

I smiled, remembering that day.  It was hot, as so many late June days are in Phoenix, and Yvette wore the traditional next-to-nothing: a bikini top and shorts.  The beer was free, the pit beef was excellent, and the salsa was muy caliente.  Practically all of my co-workers were there, as were their wives or girlfriends, though no kids (as Don Carlos’s own little boys were not in attendance due to the presence of alcohol, everyone took the hint and left theirs at home).

It was the bottom of the ninth and we were behind by one run, with my patrón on second base waiting for me to bring him home.  Now, I am no Ty Cobb, but I know enough to keep my feet planted when I swing, and this usually results in a decent enough batting average.  The pitch was fast, but dead center over the plate, and I felt the unmistakable sensation of sweet contact when I connected, which meant I’d just hit the shit out of it.  I ran like a bat out of hell, rounding first, determined to get that elusive inside-the-park home run, and not just for the glory of doing it, but rather because the next batter in our line-up couldn’t hit a hippo’s backside with a pool skimmer – it was score or die.

For a portly man Don Carlos could move pretty quickly, and he crossed home plate just as I rounded second, his over-buxom wife jumping up and down happily on the sidelines, her yellow sundress straining to keep her melones grandes in check.  I rounded third, panting heavily, looking over my shoulder to see their second-baseman making the cutoff and sending the ball home with the speed of a bullet.  I dropped to the earth just as my old man had taught me, sliding in just as the ball hit the catcher’s mitt, a half-second after my foot had slid across the plate.

Yvette came up to hug me first, whooping proudly, her bodacious ta-tas wobbling dangerously in her bikini top, a spill imminent.  I grabbed hold of her, mostly to make sure her tits didn’t take the air, as everyone’s eyes seemed to be glued to them.  If it hadn’t been for my wife’s incredible bosom someone might have noticed the blood earlier.

“Holy shit, Rod!” someone shrieked.

It wasn’t as though I’d been in a knife fight, but the cut along my right forearm was long and bloody: a piece of glass at just the right angle had caught me as I’d slid to victory.  A company medic patched me up quickly, but I still had to go to the E.R, my patrón himself driving me in his fucking Aston Martin.  He and I laughed all the way there, his left hand clasped in fellowship upon my uninjured arm, me trying manfully not to bleed all over his upholstery, my worried wife in the back seat, holding hands with Doña Clara.

I was fine, only twenty-four stitches needed for this weekend warrior.  I looked at my scar now, a sacrifice made in a noble cause.  It was the only disfigurement I had, aside from a few banged up knuckles, got from rebuilding so many transmissions.  The image of my wife washing my truck appeared on the screen again, her big soapy boobs glistening, her sexy smile boring into my brain.  I looked back at my scar again, and then back to the monitor, and that was when the only word I know in Greek appeared in the cartoon bubble over my head.

Eureka.

*    *    *    *    *    *

I left work early, feigning a headache, managing to get home just ahead of rush hour traffic.  I tried calling Yvette, to tell her that I was coming home early and that I had a sure-fire solution to our problem.  She didn’t pick up, which wasn’t terribly surprising; I expected that she was likely in the shower with a bottle of vinegar, washing Yumi down the drain.  But when I got home I found myself locked out of my garage yet again, my bride ensconced within.

“I’m sorry, honey, I’ve begun working on a new project,” she said through the locked door, her slightly muffled voice no longer that of the submissive geisha.  “Give me fifteen minutes to clear everything away, okay?”

“All right, sweetie,” I said, slightly miffed, but nonetheless glad that she seemed to be on a fairly even keel.  I spent the time with a cold beer, wondering what this new project could be, and if my dick could possibly survive it.  She emerged from the garage after a bit, restored to her old self, or at least the shiny version of it, a big smile upon her reflective face.

“You just couldn’t wait to see me, could you?” she said, her voice husky, her lustrous body gliding into my arms, her tongue sliding into my mouth, one hand already snaking its way down the front of my pants to find my johnson already stiff, expectant.  She gave a small moan and then dropped to her knees, and began doing her utmost to siphon off what little sexual tension my body had recovered since lunch.  I leaned against the back of the couch, beer in hand, enjoying the feel of her rubbery lips.  But as my loving wife blew me, a strange feeling settled over me, a feeling I most assuredly did not like, but was unable to push away.

I missed Yumi.

I won’t say that my ‘vette gives the best head in the world, but in the almost three years of our marriage and courtship she had not once failed to complete what she’d started, whether it was a quick and dirty face-fucking, or a long and languorous hummer.  Yvette enjoyed sucking my dick almost as much as I loved her doing it, always swallowing my jizz with gusto, unless she wanted me to give her a facial, in which I would selflessly indulge her, allowing her to smear my sticky goo over her face until it positively shone.

But Yumi was different.  Her blowjobs packed a concentrated punch, and were given as though my prick was the be-all and the end-all of her world, the center of her fucking universe. She treated my dick reverentially, as though she were worshipping at some sacred shrine or fountain, and every time she brought me off with her mouth over the last weekend, which was often, her almond eyes looking deeply into mine as I fountained my spunk down her throat, I felt as if I had well and truly found Nirvana.

Yes, I missed Yumi, I thought sadly, taking a pull on my beer as my Barbie-doll bride continued expertly hobbing my knob, but the plasticized woman with my dick in her mouth was no less capable of miracles, and in short order she was guzzling my jizz , her shiny fist wrapped around my johnson, pumping it dry.

She rose in that majestic way they can, tossed her hair back over her shoulder, took my beer from me and chased my spuzz down with a hearty swig.  “Oh, Roddy,” she said, leaning in for a little post-blowjob cuddle, “I am just the happiest woman in the world.  Do you know that?”

If there was a man on this planet in a worse position than I was, I wouldn’t want to meet the sorry son of a bitch.  My life now was as close to perfection as could be dreamed of, but that perfection was based upon an illusion.  Thanks to 16/2 I was experiencing such ecstasy as most men are unaware exist, and my beautiful, loving wife had become everything she had ever wanted.  What would our lives be like once she was freed of her addiction, when my polymer was no longer accessible to her?  Could we go back to what we had before?

“I know you are, sweetie,” I said with a sigh, its melancholy sound camouflaged as post-orgasmic bliss.  “As I am the happiest man, and my cock is the happiest cock.”

She giggled, giving the satisfied lump in her hand a gentle squeeze.  “So did you come home early just so you could get your dick wet…or is something wrong?”

“No, nothing is wrong,” I lied.  “In fact, everything is pretty much right.”

She pulled out of the cuddle to look me in the face, and I told her of my plan.

“Oh, Roddy, you’re brilliant!” she said, giving my prick another squeeze, her smile wide.  “Can I help?”

“Absolutely, my love.  I very much need your eye for mixing and matching color.  Shall we?” I said, nodding toward the garage.

*    *    *    *    *    *

By 7:00 PM we were done.  I looked down at my right forearm, the scar now completely hidden under a layer of pseudo-skin.  Its coloration was perfect, the shininess completely muted due to the addition of makeup powder to my polymer (something Yvette had been experimenting with).  There was of course no hair there, having been entirely shaved off for the length of my scar and all the way around my arm, but other than that it looked absolutely real.  “What do you think, babe?”

“It looks good, Roddy,” she said distractedly, shutting off the digital camera and putting it on the workbench; that all-important documentation would be necessary to convince my employer to bankroll further production and test-studies.  “How does it feel?”

“Weird.  I can’t imagine wearing this stuff all over my body.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can.  If you could, well…”

“Well…what?” I prompted, trying to draw her out.

It is most unlike my ‘vette to be silent; when she has something to say, she says it.  “I love you, Rod,” she said finally, gently placing her rubber-coated fingers upon my synthetic arm.  “You do know that, don’t you?”

When a woman starts a sentence with those words the outcome is seldom good.  I leaned back against the workbench and took hold of my beer with my left hand; not stalling for time, just making sure not to say anything rash.  “I know that, babe.”

“I love you more than anything, more than I’ve ever loved anyone, but…you have no idea how good this feels.”  We had discussed all of this before, often chatting playfully during the scant few minutes we had between supplement-enhanced erections, about her experiences and feelings of being cocooned in latex, but her tone was now serious, having taken on a somber quality one usually only hears in church.

“Roddy,” she continued, pausing as though she was gathering the strength necessary to say important things, life changing things, “I-I’m not sure how to say it but your polymer…is now a part of me, as much me as my own flesh, my own blood.  I cannot remember what my life was like before you coated me…nor do I want to.”

Jesus, dude, my inner voice said, when you fuck somebody up, you don’t do it by halves, do you?

“‘vette…?”

“I-I know you’re worried about me, Roddy,” she said, almost in tears.  “I can see it in your eyes when you look at me.  You think I’m addicted to this rubber suit you’ve sprayed on me.”

I’ve heard it said that admitting your addiction is the first step to recovery.  Was she about to confess that she was aware of her problem?  If so, this whole intervention process was hopefully about to become easier.  “It isn’t about what I think, baby,” I said, my throat dry, but I wasn’t about to fuck up a breakthrough moment by taking a swig of beer, “but what you’ve just said about not remembering what you were like before, and not wanting to go back, well…you have to admit that sounds a little…”

“Don’t you think I know what it sounds like?” she said, her eyes flashing intensely, her grip tight upon my polymer-coated arm.  “I live in this shiny body!  I live within this synthetic skin, and I’ve had a lot of time to think it over!  So…so…” and now the tears did come, hot and fast.  “So what if I am addicted?  Who is it hurting?  I’m just having a little fun!  What is so wrong with that?”

I put my beer down and pulled her close, her rubbery skin warm and soft.  There was so much I wanted to say, but all I could think of was how my juvenile desire to merge my wife and my car was now leading to a complete nervous breakdown for the woman I loved.  I resisted the urge to talk, and let her cry it out, for one of the bits of fatherly advice my dad had given to me was this: ‘Women are like cars, Rod.  Some part of them is always in need of lubrication.’  An earthy sentiment perhaps, and one that I would certainly never utter in a woman’s presence, for fear of having my balls promptly excised.

“I-I’m sorry, Roddy,” she said finally, pulling away, sniffling, her eyes wet but the fake flesh around them betraying no sign that she had just suffered a mini-meltdown.  “I guess…”

“No, I’m sorry, ‘vette,” I cut across her.  “Look at what I’ve done to you.  All of this is my fault.”

“Yes, it is your fault,” she said, dabbing daintily at her blue eyes with a leather chamois, “but I’m not sorry.  All I want, Rod,” she continued, taking hold of my latex-covered forearm and placing my hand upon her rubbery tit, “all I have ever wanted is for us to be happy.  Well, I am happy, happier than I have ever been.  Happier, I think, than any woman has ever been.  But you’re not happy, are you?”

I stared into her eyes for the longest time, wondering how to say what was on my mind without causing her further grief.  No, I’m not happy, ‘vette,” I said finally.  I’m worried.”

She squeezed the hand that was on her tit, a tacit signal that she wasn’t angry or hurt, and gave me a small smile.  “And what are you worried about, my love?  That my love for my showroom finish might someday outweigh my love for you?”

I wasn’t exactly worried about that, but hearing her put it into those words did fill me with a certain unease.  “I guess that’s a part of it, yeah,” I said.

“Roddy, do you trust me?” she said simply, her large breast warm beneath my hand.

What else do you answer when a junkie asks you that question?  “Of course I trust you, my love.”

“Then there really is nothing to worry about.”  She took my hand from her tit and kissed my fingers lightly, her eyes locked upon mine.  “I just need for you to know,” she continued in a whisper, “that your happiness is every bit as important to me as mine is.”  She moved in close, clasping both of her slender arms about my waist, pressing her soft bosom into me.  “Now let’s go to bed so I can fuck your worries away, and when you wake up in the morning, I think you’ll discover just how true that statement is.”

*    *    *    *    *    *

My cock finally called it quits about midnight.  Red ginseng or no, nothing short of divine intervention was going to get it stiff again. I awoke at 4:00 AM to find Yvette’s side of the bed deserted, the mattress where her rubberized body should be laying cool to the touch.  I looked around blearily, expecting to see her standing before her floor mirror, frigging herself stupid, but the room was deserted.

“‘vette?” I called out.  There was no response.  I got up and put on my hapi, my morning wood softening in my unease, and went to find my errant bride.

It took me all of a minute, the telltale strip of light showing underneath the door to the garage telling me all I needed to know.  I carefully approached the door, feeling like a complete idiot for sneaking around my own house.  It sounded as though she was talking to someone, which was absurd, considering the time; probably just the radio.  I put my hand up to knock on the door, when I heard the sound of the blow dryer starting, and thought better of it.  How many times had I been up late, or gotten up early, so that I could work on Justine?  More than a few.  And how many times had she bitched?  Not once.  Whatever she was doing it was her business, and presumably had to do with some demonstration of her desire for my happiness.  Besides, after Friday things would begin to change.

They would have to.

*    *    *    *    *    *

I awoke to the feeling of a heavy pair of tits on my face, a warm weight sitting atop me.  I reflexively brought my hands to caress them, and knew at once by their weight and size that they did not belong to my bride.

“Buenos dias, Rodrigo.”

It can’t be! I thought, my mind racing.  It can’t possibly be…!  But it could possibly be, for I knew the weight of my wife’s boobs to the gram, and these were decidedly not hers.  Add to that the unmistakable scent of rose water, a fragrance I had come to associate with her, it was no wonder that my dick was giving itself a hernia, trying to poke its way through the thin cotton sheet that separated it from her hot Latin poon above it.

The room was somewhat dark, predawn light filtering feebly through the windows, and even more feebly around the latex-coated juggs sitting upon my face.  “Your beautiful Yvette tells me you think that I am a prude,” she said with a throaty laugh.  “Tell me, Rodrigo, does this pussy feel like it belongs to a prude?”  I felt the sheet swiftly drawn back, my excited prick pulled with it until it popped back, smacking soft flesh, and then finding softer, hotter tissue moments later as capable hands guided it effortlessly inside what can only be described as, despite the claims of our neighbors to the east, the true land of enchantment.

“Ohh,” I moaned into the rubbery titflesh, as my angry prick was sucked into her slippery depths.

“Oh, si, Rodrigo,” she hissed, her fat juggs on the brink of smothering me, “I have wanted to do this so often, to feel you inside me, fucking me!”

I must be dreaming, I thought, and if I was dreaming, it was the kind of dream you hope and pray doesn’t end with the woman you’re putting the wood to morphing into your mom.  But dreams have a feeling to them, as does reality, and the reality was that this dream was riding me with a feverish, grunting intensity that was every bit as overwhelming as the gargantuan boobs that threatened to suffocate me.

A thumb-sized nipple was forced into my mouth, and I sucked at it greedily, barely hearing an unaccustomed squeal of appreciation above my head as I hoovered as much of the fat tit into my mouth as I could.  It can’t be her, the little voice said, it just can’t be.

I knew deep down that it wasn’t really her, but I so wanted it to be!  This was all a trick, as Yumi had been a trick.  But as tricks go, Yvette had cooked up a pretty damn good one, and I certainly wasn’t going to get sore about it.  Hell, I would even congratulate her for fooling me, and insist that she do this weekly, until I heard laughter – from the other side of the room!

“Oh, come on, Roddy,” I heard my wife say, barely able to keep the giggling from her voice, “put your back into it!  Fuck that hot Mexican pussy like you mean it!”

“Oh, God,” I screamed into weighty jugg that ballooned over my face, unable to suppress my utter euphoria.  The voices in the garage!  Her certainty that Clara was not a prude, and her admission that she too loved those giant boobs!  Yvette had somehow coated my boss’s wife!

A very small part of me screamed inside my head to stop, to think about what I was doing, that fucking the wife of my patrón was probably not a good idea.  But a larger, erect and pulsating part of me told the voice to shut the fuck up, and bang this Mexican honey pot for all I was worth.

Ecstatic I tried to push her upward, to take in her lush beauty, but she wasn’t having any.  “Fuck…first, caballero,” she said in hoarse, rasping grunts, her passion very like Yvette’s had been that first day, fucking with abandon on my Justine’s rear end.  “We can…kiss later.”

When one of the hottest women in the world is riding you like there’s no tomorrow, and your wife is in the same room cheering you on, exhorting you to nail her like a two-by-four, you don’t argue; you just pound that pussy like there’s no fucking tomorrow.  Which I did.

I’d like to say that I lasted for an unknown time; that I was borne away upon the feelings of unbridled ecstasy, but in all truth I think I lasted for about another fifteen seconds.  I came like a madman, screaming in unrestrained rapturous joy as I released my hot seed into Doña Clara, my face buried in her newly coated bosom.

Whether she came or not I didn’t know, so absorbed in my own pleasure that pretty much everything else had been blotted out.  She lay atop me, breathing heavily, her lovely scent invading my nostrils, clouding my brain all the more.  With a throaty giggle she rose up and stretched, her massive cans jutting outward, wobbling stiffly, so large that I could see little else, save for her dark, wavy hair cascading down alongside them.  I reached up and hefted them, testing their weight and admiring their glorious, faultless symmetry.  She finished her stretch, her puma-like body now fully relaxed, and looked downward.  I parted her overripe melons so that I could drink in her beauty, and found myself looking into the bright blue eyes of my wife!

“Oh, you fucking bitch!”

I bucked her off of me, and she landed beside me with a soft bounce and a yelp.  I bolted upwards and spun around, kneeling beside her on the bed, her body bathed in the sepia tones of the newly risen sun.  There were so many thoughts racing through my shell-shocked brain I couldn’t think straight.  Add to that the incredible bosom that was now heaving upon her torso, and it was a wonder I could think at all.

“Are you fucking crazy?”

She laughed, and it was so weird to her laugh coming from this darker-skinned, breast-expanded version of her.  “Oh, Roddy,” she said, bringing her hands up to her face, trying to keep her giggling under control, “you…are so funny sometimes.  You’re not really…mad at me, are you?”

Looking at her lying there, I didn’t know what I was: embarrassed, turned-on, angry; take your pick.  But with her massive fake cans, and her hands covering her face she looked almost exactly like Doña Clara – only her eyes gave her away.  But as the seconds wore on and my breathing slowed, my shock gradually gave way to amazement, and I found myself, as I so often was nowadays, shaking my head in wonder of her.  “No, I’m not mad,” I said finally, “but Jesus God, ‘vette, how…?”

She took her hands away from her face, revealing a broad smile, and brought them down to her giant fake juggs, pushing them together to form a line of cleavage as awe-inspiring as the Amazon.  “I take it that you mean my tetas, mi amor?” she said playfully, her voice husky again.

“Among other things,” I said, my head nodding, but my gaze never wavering from her wondrous rack.

“It’s simple, sweetie,” she said.  “Birdseed.”

“Birdseed?” I echoed stupidly.

“Uh-huh.  It’s how you make fake boobs on the cheap, and fairly quickly, too.  It’s an old makeup artist’s trick.”

“And you made these,” I said, giving her left breast a little prod with an extended knuckle, “from birdseed?”

“I did.”  And here she rolled off of her side of the bed and gained her feet, and began pacing the room animatedly, modeling them for me, turning this way and that so that I could get the full effect.  “You see,” she said, looking for all the world like a shiny Latina spokesmodel demonstrating a food processor, “a lot of people, crossdressers mostly, will make fake boobies from pantyhose filled with birdseed, which makes for the right amount of weight and squishiness.  Here, feel.”  She reached out and grabbed my arms, pulling me forward to the edge of the bed so that she could place my hands on her almost volleyball-sized juggs.

I gulped as she pressed my hands into their immensity, amazed at how real they felt and how they differed from the tits I’d played with the previous evening only by their size.  They were not cold, as one might assume, and I expected that this was due to the efficiency of the carbon elastomer strands when it came to heat conduction, which was pretty good thinking on my part considering that ‘Ol Sparky was now sitting up, begging for attention.

“But sacks of birdseed can never look real, Rod,” she continued, massaging her juggs with my hands, moaning slightly as she orated.  “Your polymer changes all that.  Women all over the country, all over the world, are always curious about what it might be like to be a little bigger, or maybe even a lot bigger.  That’s why I made these: to see how I’ll look with my new tits.”

“But they have those fake boobs you can put in your bra…?”

“It isn’t the same thing, sweetie, not even close.  But imagine it, Rod,” she said, her eyes closed, apparently imagining it, “thousands upon thousands of women, perhaps even millions, having casts made of their breasts, trying a pair on for size at a store like they would a dress, maybe even having different sizes in their closets, picking out the right set of boobs for a night on the town!”

It was something to imagine, but everything I had ever imagined was standing in this room groping her shining fake funbags.  But she did have a point.  Her shiny new boobs looked every bit as real as they normally did, and had certainly performed that way in the kip.  A woman could simply put on a powder-coated pair of them, specifically matched to her skin tone, and no one would ever know.

“So what do you think?” she asked, her moans gaining strength as she continued massaging her techno-boobs, squeezing them roughly, pressing them into one another, her hands tiny in comparison, and even though they weren’t real she reacted as if they were, a guttural moan escaping her throat.

What I thought was that it was funny how rapidly the situation had changed.  Only weeks ago I had sat in this very bed and explained the properties of my accidental polymer to my newly coated bride, and now here she stood, the tables turned, explaining to me things which I had never considered (but in all fairness it’s hard to think analytically when your dick is constantly being ministered to by a latex-coated nympho).  “I think,” I said, as she continued mauling her heavy hangers, “that I would dearly like to take these puppies for a test drive.”

“Oh, Rodrigo,” she said, her voice dripping with animal lust, “I thought you’d never ask.”  She then dropped to her knees and placed her massive milkers in my lap, giving ‘Little Rod’ the comfort of her synthetic cleavage.

But as she proceeded to jerk me off with her immense tits, another question sprang to mind.  “But how did you…?”

Unsurprisingly she had anticipated this question, and without missing a beat she reached down to the floor and grabbed a little something beside my foot, and pointed it at the corner of the room.

“That’s it, Roddy,” came her pre-recorded voice from my boombox, which I had failed to notice due to her weapons of mass distraction, “fuck those big ol’ titties!  Fuck ‘em like you love it!”

Suffice it to say I did.

*    *    *    *    *    *

It was all I could do not to call in sick, but since my thoroughly obsessed bride had gone without sleep in order to prepare her surprise, there was little point in me hanging around the house, waiting to nail my latex Latina when she woke up.

But despite my outwardly chipper attitude I drove to work in virtual silence, that AM morning zoo shit a distraction I could do without.  In four days I would tell him.  I would tell him, and everything would change.  But in all truth I didn’t want things to change.  If only things could stay as they were – that was my fantasy.  But change, so sayeth the scholars, is inevitable.

All that day I went through the routine of work, my latex-covered forearm hidden away under my shirtsleeve.  It did indeed feel strange; neither pleasant, nor unpleasant, but never did I forget it was there, which was probably why my ‘vette loved it so much.  We would take more pictures of it when I got home; a twenty-four hour test sufficient to document my findings for Don Carlos.

I saw him a few times that day, always bustling from here to there, his cell phone in his ear, nodding happily to me as he passed.  I was glad that he lacked the time to stop by for a chat, as I felt it unlikely that I could refrain from blurting out, ‘Hey, I kinda sorta fucked your wife’s tits before work.’

As I drove home I couldn’t help but feel the guilt.  Much like the second skin covering my scar it was a palpable thing to me, though quite invisible to others.  Duplicity may come easy to some but it doesn’t sit so easily with me.  Here I was, about to defraud my employer by getting him to back an experimental polymer whose failure was a sure thing.  And what of my bride?  Designing applications for a product that would never exist, hopeful of getting whacking huge breast implants, and treating my dick as if it were the Holy-fucking-Grail.  Yeah, I was feeling like a real prince.

I arrived home to find dinner on the table: grilled chicken Caesar salad, and a freshly poured glass of beer.  She was still Mexican, still quite shiny, and her boobs still so big that they actually rested on the table in front of her as she ate.  She smiled often, laughing happily at my impression of Les, the guy who sits in the cube adjacent to mine, and who is forever sneaking glances of the PG-13 pics that adorn my space.  After dinner we took pictures of my forearm and uploaded them onto my laptop, after which I removed the polymer coating, my arm feeling strangely vulnerable without it.  We went to bed, the room lit with multitudinous candles, the flickering light distinctly visible upon her glossy, rubberized body.  After the usual Bacchanalian sex I slept, but it was not the sleep of the righteous, nor of the just.  I dreamt.

I suppose most people in the industrialized world can point to one perfect day in their lives: mine was Saturday, November 24^th, 2007.  It was the last day of our honeymoon, two weeks in a sleepy little town a bit north of Mazatlán, on Mexico’s west coast.  We made love in the morning, shopped and ate breakfast at the local plaza, toured ruins, danced at a fiesta, went for a drive up the coast, and at midnight we made love again, this time on a deserted beach, under the light of the full moon.  No two people were ever happier.

And as I slept I experienced it all again; her carefree smile as she modeled the flowing, off-the-shoulder peasant dress I’d bought her that day, the taste of the fresh caught lobster we’d had for lunch, the softness of her skin as we fucked.

The light of the bonfire I’d built radiated off of her newly gotten tan as she bounced up and down on top of me, her moans soft upon the still air.  But as we neared our simultaneous orgasms, the dull firelight playing off her skin began to sharpen, her surface becoming glassy and smooth.  I lay upon the sand in stunned horror, unable to speak, as her moans turned to shrieks of ecstasy, her shining body now fully reflecting the dancing flames.  She gyrated wildly, her soft brown hair turning vividest red, flailing as she writhed on the very edge of the ultimate orgasm, her body no longer reflecting the fire – it had become the fire!

But though I reeled in fear of her, my body had its own agenda, and I found myself unable to stop humping her fiery body.  Her heat was intense, and the pressure building in my balls, my jizz boiling, seeking release, shot suddenly upward.  Yvette screamed as the flames doubled and redoubled, my orgasm acting like a blast of oxygen, and I closed my eyes against the blast of searing heat that I knew would consume us both utterly.

But I was not burned.  I opened my eyes to find her looking down upon me, her body now a smoldering pyre impaled upon my still stiff prick.  “I’m sorry, Roddy,” she said simply, but with awful finality. 

“Yvette…?” I heard myself say, my voice weak.

“I know you want to put out the fire,” she said, her soft voice oddly incongruous of the flames licking her glowing form.  “I can’t let you do that, my love.”  She gave me a final, sad look, rose to her feet, turned, and began walking toward the shore.

“Yvette!” I screamed.  I tried to get up, but the sand all about me had turned to molten glass, and I found myself encased within it, unable to move, my enraged prick sticking upwards like an obscene mockery of a sundial.  “Yvette, you can’t go!”

Halfway to the waterline she turned, and for the briefest moment I saw in her blazing visage the likeness of Yumi, followed quickly by Clara, and then that of my beloved bride.  “I’m sorry, my darling,” she said, the regret distinctly audible in her tone, “but you cannot contain the fire.  I must…evolve.”

She turned back again and continued striding toward the shore.  And as she neared the lapping waves, the Moon descended upon her, as though speeded up by time-lapse photography, until it lay upon the horizon, bloated and bright, her marvelous body silhouetted within the whitish disc.  At the water’s edge she turned to look at me, the wet sand all around her reflecting her flickering, burning form.  “I love you, Roddy.  Remember that always.”

I screamed her name yet again, but as I did so she turned back and extended her arms, and the Moon became as pure silver, a dazzling, intensifying orb, my Yvette fully inside its perimeter, her arms stretched out to it like a lover.  The light continued to grow, her figure diminishing as it did so.  I screamed her name again and again, to no avail, squinting my eyes against the all-consuming radiance, until all I could make out was a thin, vertical line bisecting the brightness.  The light doubled, and I heard her scream, a high-pitched keening wail that shattered the crystal prison holding me in place, and I raised my arms to shield my eyes, not from the flying shards, but against the terrible light that threatened to blind me.

I awoke, panting, my heart pounding in my chest, my breath coming rapidly, but the dazzling light remained, and like my dream self I squinted my eyes against the brightness.

“Roddy?”

I slowly opened my eyes, my breath no longer coming quickly because I had stopped breathing altogether.  The woman standing at the foot of the bed, calling my name, did not look like my wife.  She stood there, in all her shining glory, no longer Mexican, nor Asian, nor any other ethnicity that has ever walked this earth, for she had evolved.

She was chrome.

To Be Continued…

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

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