Too Much of a Goodyear Thing ~ Part 2

While this story is intended as humorous some may find 

its coarse language & raunchy situations offensive...

by Laika Pupkino


========# .3
"Pretty snazzy, huh?" she grins when she notices me looming over her, examining her from this inappropriate distance as she loads her three machines...
"It’s a hell of an outfit!" I smile.
In truth, after the nightmare turn of that last fantasy I just trying to see whether this suit is something that she is wearing or is a physical part of her person. I am relieved to see how (in childlike concentration, as she gauges how much soap to use for this load of delicates...) her tongue dart from the corner of her mouth and hook itself there. Moist, knobby with tiny glands, and not just one shade of pink but with all the subtle varigation of the organic. She’s real, alright.  
"It’s so bright and cheerful! Where’d you get it?"
"Oh it’s not mine, it’s my roommate’s. I never should’ve let the wash go as long as I did. Couldn’t find a thing to wear! She saw me sniffing through my pile for something that wasn’t too stinky, and loaned me this to come down here in. Lori is a professional hero. But I’m sure you figured that out."
She taps the insignia that bulges and recedes with the red dunes of her chest. RM in bold blue letters with a glyphlike yellow lightning bolt between them. "Considering what this suit can do, loaning it to me shows a hell of a lot of trust..."  
This is a whole fictional world that I have never been to before. But with one of those sudden influxes of data I sometimes get in these, I know just what to say. And in the instant it takes to say it I am living it, believing it, at home in it... 
"Your roommate is RubberMaid?! Wow! I mean ............ I’m not one of these idiot fanboys you see at conventions, I do have other interests. But I’ll admit I have her poster up in my kitchen. I mean ........ I mean ........ We all owe her so much! Like how she stopped Dr. Killjoy’s attack on the Xanadutopia Mall!"
I’m surprised the outfit fits Rosalie. She’s big this time. Not fat but magnificently oversized, as if built to 1 : 1.25 scale. An inch taller than me now. And far taller than RubberMaid, who is actually fairly petit as superheroes go...
She grins, "Yeah, 'Dr. Killjoy and the Bummer Bomb'. Lori was real proud of that one! She has to act all modest about shit like that when she goes on the news, saying: ‘I am honored to be able to serve the public, but I regret that the need to do battle ever arose...' But when she got home she made us this huge beaker of Equa Libres and we yacked until 2 a.m.! Oh God I laughed. The way she described the look on old Sourpuss’s face when she booty bounced his ‘neural dehedonizer' up through the skylight and it went off over the East River! A lot of fish got very depressed..."
"That woman’s amazing," I sigh.
"She sure is! Still, it’s mostly just the suit that lets her do the physical stuff. Because I even beat her at racketball a few times when she was in street clothes. But when you put this thing on- Hey, check it out!"
She totters back on her heels and falls---her legs held out stiff---like someone dropping onto a couch that they don’t much care about.
There is a loud TWANG as her cheeks hit the linoleum and then she’s rising fast, until (catching herself less gracefully than her famous roommate would have done-) she is centered over the bodysuit’s built-in heels again!
"Damn that felt good," she laughs, seemingly energized by this stunt. As if she had not only absorbed the force of her impact with the floor but had metabolized it somehow, and now needs to go back for more! She leaps way up with just a flex of her calf muscles, grabs her knees as if doing a cannonball dive and starts to bounce, dribbling herself like a basketball. She grins ecstatically.
It’s not the most erotic thing she could be doing, and I’m still shaken by those disturbing contortions her last "self" had performed, so I watch her closely- make sure she doesn’t start turning into a ball or something. She seems to be getting really turned on, euphoric, stoned- each bounce taking her higher than the last!
And I’m becoming rather aroused myself---despite her embarrassing shouts of "Wheeeeeeeeee!!! " and "Boingy! Boingy! Boingy!"---as I watch the costume’s seat flatten then snap back into those enchanting twin hemispheres with each lift-off; the bright highlights on the glossy rubber flexing from circles into curved ovals and back. It’s good to sense real flesh jiggling in there- inside this miraculous suit that allows her to take such impact without being bruised.
"I feel so r-r-rubbery!" she growls, and recites in time to her bouncing:
"Oh for the love of Isis!" comes a voice from behind us.
Rosalie spreads her limbs out, bringing herself to a stop. All that bouncing seems to have done something to her brain- judging by the big old tipsy smile on her big beautiful mouth, and from the way she squeals "Lorrrriiieeeeeee!!" with such infantile glee.
"I didn’t loan you my extra suit so you could go bouncing on your butt like a ninny, showing off for Bruno! Somebody might think it’s ME inside there acting so strange!"
"This isn’t Bruno," says Rosalie.
RubberMaid eyes me neutrally, "Looks a lot like him though, don’t he? Or Brendan Fraser. But hey. Something has come up that may be a bit more than I can handle. And since you’ve got one of my uniforms on .............. I was wondering if you wanted to give me a hand with some bad guys."
Lori is very pretty, though there’s the same righteous determined quality to her dainty triangular chin as there is to Superman’s big stone block of a jaw. Seven inches shorter than Rosalie; compact and atheletic with nice full boobs. And shiny black collar-length hair that compliments Rosalie’s fluffy blondeness. And she’s wearing the suit. They’re both wearing the suit. This is gonna be great!
"But I’m no crime fighter," squeaks Rosalie.
"You always said that you wanted to be my sidekick, now’s your chance! I heard from Mitch the Snitch that The Tinkerer and his robots are on their way to rob the First Interzone Bank of Manhattan! We have to move quick! Brun- uh, your friend can come with us."
I couldn’t care less about some bank getting robbed in this nonexistant version of New York. I say, "I’ve got a far better idea. I have a chunk of green Morrocan hash the size of a walnut, a case of Saint Pauli Girl dark, and a new stereo that I absolutely guarantee will blow your minds! So why don’t we just tell the police about this, then all go up to my 'crib' and-"
"The cops have no finesse in these matters! Sure they might catch him, blast his robots all to hell and gas him out. But they would never outsmart him, and wouldn’t humble him the way this piece of garbage deserves! Did you know this fucking scumbag has his own fan club now? Man, that’s some twisted shit! So whoever catches The Tinkerer should have at least as much style as he does! Like when I fed that Boolean paradox-virus into his robot army’s mainbrain. Or the time I bounced up into the cab of that magnetic junk-yard crane and nabbed ‘em all up with it!" She raises an index finger and booms, playing the self-important superhero- "Now that’s crimefighting, RubberMaid style!"
"No, you two go ahead. Really. I’d probably just get in the way, and I have tons of wash to do," I say, even as it occurs to me that I hadn’t brought any along this time...
Because a young lady in a gray Harvard University T-shirt has entered the room (oblivious to this shouted conversation between costumed superheroes-) and has started seperating whites from colors on the folding counter. Frizzy, sandy-brown hair pulled haphazardly back into a velvet scrunchie tie. The planes of her cheeks welling into a slight overbite. Faint freckles. Sweet...
The lower half of her T-shirt has been torn off in a straight line, exposing her lithe midriff. Though it is neither red nor latex, I am intrigued by how it hangs down in front like a skimpy curtain- the gap between its ragged hem and her bare tummy drawing attention to her pert little breasts. Plain old skin is looking pretty damned good here all of a sudden.
And maybe a nice normal girl in ordinary clothes will go for some ///LIKE I DID BEFORE THIS LAST FEW YEARS \\\ nice normal sex. Because I’m starting to think all these rubber-loving women are trouble somehow. That it might be time to find a new kind of imaginary playmate...
<em>And what was that rhyme that Rosalie was chanting all about?! That she had split in two and created her friend by MITOSIS?! This is getting too weird!
RubberMaid spies what I am gazing at /// HER FAMOUS PRETERNATURAL INTUITION /// and smiles knowingly, "You can forget it, Pal ........... I saw you looking at my roomie as she was using herself for a trampoline! Worst case I ever saw. I hate to break itto you, but you won’t be going back to the likes of that one over there ever again."
"Ever? Isn’t that just a bit presumptuous? People do get tired of things..."
"They do. But not you, not in this life!  Sure she’s cute enough, might be okay for a quick poke or two. But then you start to notice how she is sweating all over. So animal, so mammalian ........... Soon those soft little hairs on her arms will start to seem as coarse as sandpaper .......... You’ll start to long for ‘that perfect finish’. Eventually you’ll confess your need to her, saying that---you know, just for kicks, ha ha!---she might try on a lil'something you picked up at the Exotica Boutique. Then she’ll say ‘Ewww git away, ya pervert!!' I can vibe from here that she just isn’t the type. Not like our Rosie Red, who’s already well on her way!"
Rosalie is suddenly suspicious, "What do you mean? On my way where?"
"Nowhere bad," murmers Lori soothingly.
Rosalie’s attention-span is shot to shit. She yawns in impatience and starts rebounding off the floor again, pouting like some {{ж RUBBER ж SEX ж BRAIN ж POISONING ж}}snotty 4-year-old. This activity is not nearly so alluring now, in spite of how that blue RM emblem on her chest hovers bouyantly for an instant at the peak of each bounce...
So maybe I really will give Ms. Harvard a shot. It’s not as if I’d have to (or would even be able to-) commit myself to any long term romance.
A muffled explosion rattles the doors of the dryers! Lori cries, "Damn! Looks like the fun is starting without us. Rosalie, you’ll have lots of time to play with your butt when we get back!"
"I can still wear this after we’re done doin'stuff? Goodie!" Rosalie gives one last powerful bounce and flies forward, landing in a wobbly surfer’s crouch.
"But you got to pay attention because we really, really have to catch this guy! And you- Tommy is it? You can play-" she clamps her mouth on mine and kisses me hard, her tongue probing with a masculine aggression that I normally wouldn’t like but from a genuine comic book hero it seems fitting "-with us!  Yeah, I thought you’d like that! Because after a hard day of rounding up criminals I’m sure Rosalie and I will both be ready for a nice extensive bout of ........... it will be extensive, won’t it?"
"It’s extending as I look at you."
"Such a charmer! And I suspect that your unique superpower will come in real handy when we’re catching this maniac!" {there’s another distant explosion} "Now let’s go kick this shithead’s ass..."
The MaidMobile is a 1965 XKE Jaguar with eyelashes painted around its headlights and a single huge fin angling backward and up along the middle of the roof and trunk. We tear down the Rockefeller Bridge’s central wooden bike path at 300 mph, a few meters above traffic. 
Bicyclists and runners skitter out of the way with emphatic gestures of disapproval (this must be what the antique locomotive cow catcher---jutting from the bumper like a comical fake nose---is for...). Leaning forward in the tiny rear seat I ask Lori, "What were you saying back there about my ‘superpower' being able to help? I don’t have any superpowers! I can’t fly, or bend steel beams, or even bounce like you do. And I’m not particularly brave!"
"One super-being can usually spot another. At least I can, with my..." she taps her temple significantly, "You have what is without a doubt the most awesome ability I’ve ever encountered. How you are able to bend not just steel (and there’s a simple trick to that, by the way!) but the very substance of reality. To change events, people’s actions, and even what they are thinking on a whim..."
"I don’t know what you’re talking about!"
"It’s no wonder you would hide it from yourself! I don’t know how much control you have over it, but it must be one motherfucker of a responsibility," she marvels, then intones with tongue-in-cheek staginess, "Heaven help us if you should ever decide to use your gift for eeeee-vil instead of good!"
But I would hate to disappoint her---and endanger us all---when she wants me to ALACAZAM some bad guy’s rifle into a mannequin’s leg or whatever. Because I’m starting to doubt whether I have ANY control over this reality! If I do, then why are the three of us rocketing down the sidewalk in this goofy car and not all piled on a sheetless waterbed with a giant can of non-stick cooking spray?!
Bent over her reflection in the radarscope (got to look good for the robots), Rosalie is putting on lipstick. Her face is lit green. "Bruno took over what now?"
"Not Bruno, you dope, the Tinkerer! He’s robbing a bank, remember?"
Lori sighs, then she calls back to me, "It’s the inertia suit ......... For some reason its effects on the kinesthetic senses, instead of just causing vertigo and nausea like weightlessness does, dramatically affect a person’s frontal lobes the first few times they start bouncing in it. Which Old Knucklehead here-" She tousles Rosalie’s hair with her fingers, and Rosalie puffs out her lower lip and smiles like a goon, "-promised she wouldn’t do. She was supposed to just put her wash in and stay out of sight! The effects aren’t permanent. Weren’t for me anyway..."
I nod along like I’ve been listening. WHO THE HELL IS THIS BRUNO?
"After that two month sex-and-vandalism rampage I went on (I’m still paying off the damages!) I just snapped out of it. I don’t know why, or even what causes it in the first place. I’m not a neurologist. I keep meaning to consult one, have tests run on it, on chimps and like that; but I’m always so busy! /// ~~BOUNCING RED RUBBER MONKEYS!~~ \\\ Would you mind not doing that when I’m talking, whatever that is? That’s just weird ............. There is always a new bunch of crooks, or some crazy asshole trying to conquer the world. I’m glad Rosalie’s here to help me now, even though she’s gonna be worse than useless for a few weeks. Eventually I’ll get her her own inertia suit. With a cute little mask, a rose or something on the front so they can tell us apart. Right, Super Sidekick?"
Rosalie is denting the suit in over her nipples with her index fingers until they poke up, tiny cones pushing valiantly against the rubber, "I hope they have coffee! And those good sugar cookies, like they do at my bank sometimes..."
"Well we’re about to find out. And if you don’t have your seatbelts on, you’d better do it now-" orders RubberMaid. She slides a cluster of small levers (I had assumed these were stereo equalizers but I see now that they are labelled CONTR./PILE ...) to the bottoms of their slots; then hits a fat knob that vents an impressive cloud of steam from the back. A boxy parachute billows from the trunk and we skid to a stop in front of a venerable old granite bank building with Roman friezes and stout columns. She flings her door open, "Okay, let’s go!"
Some guys in business suits are on the bank’s steps, one of them telling a story with zany hand gestures. The place doesn’t look like it’s under attack, but our villian has probably opted for some more theatrical entrance, in through the skylight or crashing up through the marble floor...
Rosalie struggles to unhook her shoulder strap, "Why doesn’t The Tinkerer just sell the designs for his robots? Wouldn’t he make a lot more dough doin'that?"
RubberMaid studies her carefully, "That’s a good question! I hope this means that you’re getting over the effects of- No dammit, you’re getting all tangled up! Quit fussing and let- Aw fer Pete’s sake! Hold on, you’re just making it worse!"
She zips around the car in a red blur, and helps Rosalie out of the ensnaring straps. Hand in hand, they run into the bank in three giant lunar-gravity steps. The massive revolving door spins violently from the impact!
Maybe they are in a hurry to catch this thief, but it’s still rude of them! They could at least have hit the lever that moves the seat forward, and not just be standing there, watching me from behind the tall windows with that whole crowd of people, as if my clambering clumsily past this head-rest and out of the Jag is some escape-artist stunt I am performing for their entertainment.
"WHAT’S THE DAMN DEAL HERE?!" I yell, and slam the door.
And what feels like a blunt nail enters my side! A harsh explosive report sends pigeons scattering. Fuck, that hurts! I twist to see a small feathered steel cylinder sticking from me, and WHOAH!
And now I'm walking like Ray Bolger off his post. And now the bilding are spinning around over me & this big bouncy dirtywhite bubblething bounding down the street gets in my face and then we're
SSSSSSSSSSscreaching thru city streets...
My ankles and left wrist cuffed to this steel-railed gurney. Windowless. Circle of lights blazing fiercely overhead. Faces look down at me, way too many to all fit in a van like this ........... Lab-coated scientists, FBI poops, military bigwigs looks like. And Lori. 
I say hoarsely, "Well this sure is some corny shit!"
"You see? You see?!" roars a ruddy faced general, "Nothing but contempt for our whole way of life! We must neutralize him while he’s still partly anesthetized!"
"And destroy our chances---his chance---to utilize his talent for all mankind?" snaps Lori. "I suspect he could cure global warming or unemployment or- well anything just by willing it."
"OR ENSLAVE US ALL! The risk is far too great. He’s capricious, infantile. There’s no telling what he might do!"
The one hand they’ve left free drifts unsteadily across miles of speckled air to grab hold of Lori’s wrist. "Where is she?"
"Rosalie? I had someone drive her home. The Tinkerer is still behind bars, where I put him four months ago. Sorry," she grimaces, then says to the others, "Gentlemen, Madame Professor. I didn’t notify you of his powers, or the threat they might pose, just so you could bump him off. He hasn’t done anything wrong. There are others in the profession with a frightening capacity for destruction .............Well maybe not on such a scale as this, but we let them walk around---fly around, whatever---because they’ve never shown any intent! We issue them licenses, cheer their heroics, drop their names every chance we get if we happen to know them at all. Collectively they have saved the world a hundred times over! I may have sent out a telepathic summons for this board of inquiry, but this young man is still an American citizen, and-"
"Is he?" barks a man from the NSA. "There’s no record on him anywhere! His wallet contained a perfectly forged driver’s licence from a nonexistant state, a library card from some imaginary city, and something called a Master Card, which may have some political significance. For all we know---and I would not summarily rule this out---he is from outer space! Which is why we’re taking him to Edgerton Air Force Base for further study! Herr Doktor Professor Von X?"
"Ahem, yes. Our preliminary profile, vhile admittedly based on very limited data, shows that der subject is a possible borderline schizophrenic and a definite aggressopath. Such people iss interested only in their own gratification ......... vitch in ziss case centers mostly on finding outlets for a certain---ahnnn---sexual fixation of a decidedly unwholesome nature. For some reason der subject needs to-"
It’s time to use these powers they’re all so worried about. I shuck off my restraints and sit up, "Look, I’m basically a decent guy ........ I mean, it may be nothing to brag about to such emminent types as yourselves, but I go to my job, recycle my cans and bottles, pay my rent on time most months, and generally try to mind my own business. But since all you walking hemorrhoids want to do is haul me off to some lab, that just don’t sound like a lot of fun to me. So to hell with it! RubberMaid, I understand that you were acting in what you saw as the interest of your civilization, so I forgive you. And I hope I see you again, you foxy thing! The rest of you aren’t even interesting enough to save. Good day!"
Dr. Von X. honks, "Ja, here again iss evidence of za classic sociopathic weltanschaaung. Unable to recognize za reality of anyone but himself! A dangerous enough trait in a person of normal means and abilities, but ven combined mitt zese incredible capabibibibibububuh-
WAS IST LOS!? URK-GACK!!  Oh Mutti, m-m-mmmr-r-r-r-rrrMein HEAD, it is-
Flattening. Losing details. Becoming a crudely drawn syndicated cartoon character.
That one was just vile! Rosalie’s increasing childishness was annoying and weird, and then that whole pantheon of villians leaning over me at the end...       
But what I really found unsettling was all the talk about my "cosmic powers"...
At this point it crossed the line from a simple masturbation fantasy, with the excuseable level of self-aggrandizement that this kind of daydream depends on (that all these insanely fine chicks would even have anything to do with you)...
-into the realm of those pathetic reveries that the REAL losers engage in. The one where you one day wake up to your true godhood and begin exacting your finger-snap revenge on anyone who ever spoke to you dismissively! It’s the sickest fantasy of all: imaginary compensation for all the inadequacies and degradations of your geeked-out wanker’s life.
I’m starting to think that Maybe my whole problem today is the New York setting. I’ve never been there after all. Perhaps if I met her in a place I actually knew about- like those big houses down on the bluffs in Costa Niguel where I used to wax cars! She could be a new client, with the usual luxury sedan & sports car combination; But also a classic 1970’s fuckmobile van (w/ mirrors + disco lights, astrology-sign kitsch, the bed with the shag-carpeted headboard filling the back-) that she wants me to do the inside of, but then...
No. No auto detailing! Don’t want to remind myself of how I lost that job...
But still, some door-to-door job is not out of the question for this. I could be a travelling salesmen, Rosalie as the old Swede’s big fine lusty apple-cheeked milkmaid of a daughter, in flaxen braids and a red rubber ("Durr cows, dey seemsh ter like it!") pinafore-
A delivery man then. The ultimate quickie. In and out. Working for Sears. Delivering a wa- [WHAT’S ALL THIS SHIT ABOUT WASHING MACHINES???]
A big color TV set. Okay...
========# .4
Damn, do I ever love this job! Makes me wonder why the hell I put up with that evil place /// THEME PARK, THEM PARK \\\ for as long as I did! And while I realise I am wearing something of a uniform, it has a certain blue-collar dignity about it. And I have never once had some yahoo in a mouse-eared beanie screaming "THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT!" at me, like this was some immutable law of nature, locked into the very structure of the universe in that defining first millisecond, and not one of the sickest falsehoods ever-
But hey, it’s too nice a day to dwell on things that are forever behind me. At this job they treat me like I’m some Great-Year-Round-Santa-Claus, their benefactor, he who wheels in all these nifty toys!
And even when Fat Eddie, our asshole of a manager is there at the warehouse I only have to deal with him briefly. The rest of the time I am out driving around, through clean streets, under clean south-county skies, with the radio up loud...
Out of these Santa Ana ticky-tacks, I buzz through El Toro and down Route 101 to Costa Niguel. Big houses lined up on the bluffs. Lots of pools and 4-car garages.
The old man at the guard gate is all smiles, lets me in with nothing like the hassles I got when I was just some longhair in a rusted Toyota, trying to get in to wax their cars. Must be this new van with SEARS angled jazzily across the side in huge letters. Instant credibility...
Rosalie Isopreni? That would be 137 Sea Breeze Lane. She’s expecting me, he winks lewdly, as if the woman has something delivered every day just so she can get herself fucked by some gum-chewing lout with callused palms.
Is this #137? That’s what’s on the mailbox, but from the crazy way this drive meaders up the hill it could be leading to the mammoth glass wedge in the middle, the "tudoresque" mansion on the left, or that walled complex (fake brick showing thru fake holes in fake plaster-  desperately trying to pass for a 300 year old Spanish mission...) on the right. So I am lucky that I’ve spotted her.
Kneeling at the base of the steeply-slanted front yard, a trowel in her hand. She’s wearing- It’s the dress this time! Same sleeves that turn right into gloves, but with a deep V-neck that displays the inner of each welling white melon as it pushes them cozily together. It narrows into a pinched corset, then slides down over the rest of her in a slim tube, like a mermaid costume. This doesn’t seem like the most practical clothing to be planting primroses in, but she looks comfortable in it.
It’s overcast out, a wet breeze slithers around us. Rosalie is twenty years older now but still a stone fox, and seems to have gotten her brain back. There is nothing giddy or girlish about her this time. She’s nodding, listening to something educational sounding on a portable cassette player. I approach with my clipboard.       
On the tape player a man with an odd clipped accent is saying: "I told the conductor that I was a respected lawyer in my own land, and I intend to ride to Pretoria in first class. The conductor said to me: You may be a barrister in India-"
"Is that the new John Grisham novel?"
"-but here in the Transvaal you are no better than any other coolie, and you must repair to the third class compartment or be removed at the next stop by the constabulary-"
She hits the stop button and looks up, wiping a blonde lock away from her eyes with the back of her gloved hand. It leaves a smudge of mud on her brow. She smiles, "You must be from Sears! Let me show you where to put it..."
A double entendre?
No. Despite what the old coot at the gate had hinted, she does not radiate the same smoldering libidinousness as Rosalies #1 or 2 or 3. She rocks back and rises smoothly to her feet. Pats her fingers across her shapely red hips. Grins like she's been caught at something. "I don’t usually listen to these books-on-tape, they abridge them ........ Sometimes all those ‘unneccesary’ descriptions they leave out, scenery and such, are where all the flavor< of a work is. Don’t you think? This way."
A trail of paving stones zigzags up the steep iceplant covered slope to a patio, half in the sun and then receding---cavelike---under the imposing glass flank of the house. She leads the way, talking over her shoulder as we climb, "You won’t have to lug the set up this way, of course. What I was listening to was Ben Kingsley reading Mohandas Gandhi’s autobiography. I won’t call him ‘Mahatma’. That puts him in an almost mythological realm- so that us regular people can feel exempt from even trying to explore his principals. His book was mostly his ideas on religion and politics, so if they did leave stuff out, at least you get an idea of what he was about..."
Only her feet protrude, but I’ll be she has on the same red thigh-boots that always accompany these dresses. Exquisite rubberized gams sliding snugly around under rubber. As she hops from stone to stone I notice how restricting the dress is, how it forces her to take tiny mincing geisha steps. Disquietingly close to all that bondage bullshit that I’ve always sworn I am not into, but it is such a HOT effect! And I wonder (as she enthuses about the ‘inner light'and ‘Noviolent Direct Action’) how she might feel about being strapped to the bedposts with bicycle inner tubes...
This high-flown pedantry of hers is a far cry from when she was bouncing on her ass and whinnying insanely. And while there’s much to be said for de-volving into a squirming instinct-driven mass of flesh while in the throes of pure passion (spread eagled helplessly, stretched + tied to the tumescent oaken knobs of her mammoth ornate four-poster!!), the rest of the time I appreciate a woman who can hold her own in a conversation...
But I fear our encounter here could easily go too far in this direction. To where we will be sipping oolong tea and discussing the anti-war politics of Arduous Huxley or whoever for the next hour. And I don’t HAVE an hour! 
Idly I muse that these waxy slick fingers of iceplant covering the slope would be an ideal surface for an outdoor rubber-fuck.
She calls back, "Most of us have our objections to pacifism. And on the surface these are far more reasonable than what the Gandhis of the world propose. But it’s the ‘reasonableness' of selfish souls. You say, well here’s an infantryman, he’s out in the mud, getting chewed up by lice, who stands a real chance of paying the ultimate price, just to protect a lot of people he doesn’t now. How could this be selfish? But in some ways it’s the easier course, easier than doing something so contrary to every normal impulse, all your emotions about justice, revenge...
"Something you’re stuck with, because you can’t escape the certainty that this is what God wants you to do. Even though you will be reviled, never able to prove your motive wasn’t cowardice; unless you live someplace where they take you out and shoot you for it! I'm not minimizing physical peril---the guts it takes to face it---but losing your place in your society, people fear that too, on a really deep level. They'll go to incredible lengths, compromise their real beliefs, a lot of the evil in the world comes from that, especially since it's so easy to do. Tweek this or that idea a little, tell yourself that God is a lot more flexible about violence than what it actually says in the Bible. We say: ‘Surely He can’t expect me to let some vicious hateful thug, who has no interest in being anyone’s brother, without even a vocabulary of kindness or mercy-' HOOOO!!! That was some climb!"
We’re at the top. She pops the latch on the low gate, turning toward me as she swings it open, her grave eyes scanning my face to see if I have any sympathy for such radical idealism, or if I’m just another knuckle-dragging nationalistic clod...
I tell her, "I like rubber. Let’s fuck!"
Her eyes widen and she gasps like she’s been goosed, but then she quickly recovers- "Uh, sure. Okay!"
We hurry in through the tinted glass doors. She grabs a dish rag and rubs the dress clean where it’s spotted with mud, "You want me to leave this on, don’t you? Oh that is wonderful, you have no idea! Because I like it too! But some people will never get it ........ Oh Lord, just look at that big old lump in your pants! This way!"
Coffee tables lie strewn with old heavy hardbound books. Amorphous /// (HUXLEY! ) \\\ slung-canvas chairs twist like manta rays in the turquoise light. I try to imagine what esoteric positioning might let us ball in one of these chairs. A real puzzle. But she tugs my hand, leads me up the spiral staircase to a bedroom with a jacuzzi, a modernistic central fireplace finished in bulging yellow tiles...
And the same huge carved gothic castle of a bed I’d just imagined her on!
She falls back across one side of the bed. Arches and shimmies and rocks as I peel the snug dress-bottom up, and when it’s far enough up she grabs on and helps. The stuff is heavy, the whole thing must weigh thirty pounds! 
We pull it up until it’s all piled on her chest and shoulders- casting reddish light on a face transported by desire!
She finds a gap in the mound and drives her arms in. They lie criss-crossed over her jugs, buried within the dense folds. This confinement makes me think of those bicycle inner tubes, but I don’t want to run all over her house looking for something like that; and there is one small fold that looks like it just might-
I tug it out from under her arms. It stretches just enough for me to lift it, snap it over her elbows, forcibly pinning them flat! She tries to free them until---satisfied that she is good and trapped in there---she lets out a happy squawk and starts writhing wildly!
Hurriedly I shove my pants down, step on them, kick them and my shoes and one sock across the room and clamber on. I sit atop her, straddling her thighs. Surveying my prize ............. She bounces her hips under me to the extent that she can, her dewy mons veneris just a-buckin'for a fuckin’!
Four inches of alabaster leg bulges from the top of each boot, her thighs steepling together into a shock of dense black bush. Hmmmm...
So this time she is not really a blonde, but artifice can be alluring too. Worldly. Compromised. Seedy. Decadent.
Her legs twist and kick and squirm. Her lean white belly disappears under the unyeilding slick red arc of where the corsetting begins...
I drop forward, my palms landing just below the corners of her parcelled arms, my legs slide frictionlessly along her outspread boots as I position myself, my pecker homing in on that wet ruby rift!
She wriggles, gabbling deleriously, "I’m all trussed up like a Christmas turkey! Fuck me, fuck me, you fucking bastard! I feel so .............. so rubbery! I feel so .......... feel so .......... BRUNO!!"
"AH-HAH!!!" comes a roar from behind us!
I whirl, start to scramble off of her, then remember that she is in at least as much danger as I am, and quickly tug the restraining loop down off her arms.
She sits up, gesticulating meaninglessly in panic, "But Sweetie Pie, this isn’t what it looks like!"
Bruno resembles me except he’s about 20 years older, with greased back hair and an Errol Flynn moustache, "Paranoid, am I? Sad that I never learned to trust? I caught you red handed, you two-timing vulcanized hussy! You think I don’t know what it means when you just happen to be wearing that goddamned perverted dress you’re so fond of ........ on days when something is being delivered?!"
"I was gardening! I like to wear it when I .......... It’s so easy to clean! You just hose it off! But I tripped, you know how clumsy I am! And somehow it- I fell on the bed and it slid up around my arms and-" she glances at my name tag, "Thomas, he’s installing our new TV, was trying to help me get back on my feet!"
"He was installing something, all right! Where’s my gun? Where’s my gun?!" He has flung the closet open and is throwing stuff everywhere, his back to us.
Rosalie shoves the fireplace poker at me, hissing: "Quick! Bash his head in! Kill him! Before he-"
"Kill him?! What happened to Gandhi?"
"Same thing that’s gonna happen to us if you don’t- Oh no he’s found it!"
We race each other out the door and down the spiral stairs. Behind us Bruno roars, "Goddamn it- EMPTY!WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE SHELLS?"
She leads me through the garage to a curving drive carved into the hillside, a high-walled granite well with a colorful tile fountain in the center. Six pudgy gymnasts with wavy tentacles for arms stand in the spray in an inverted pyramid, leering like lecherous morons. In spite of my terror, the way in which Rosalie has been nailed as a hypocrite strikes me as funny, "Bash his head in, huh?"
"Well pardon me if I want to live! It’s not like being out in front of tanks, you know. Standing up for some great principal. You don’t know Bruno! He’s not someone you can- OH FUCK!"
A Land Rover is parked haphazardly, the driver’s door hanging open, pinning her toylike Porsche against the blasted granite wall of the drive- "Let’s go see if my neighbor Lori is home."
Where the wall of rock ends we hop a little cement rail and scurry down this faint trail that wanders periloulsy along the dirt edge of the cliff. Waves slam dramatically against the rocks, echoing like thunder. Then there’s a sharper boom from behind us as a squat cactus next to Rosalie explodes meatily!
Bruno is up on the edge of a drive with a rifle, a wild-haired silloette with the sun directly behind him. A shell richochettes off a rock. Rosalie judges the distance to the neighbor’s chateau, a long haul with no cover. "He’s not a great shot but he does have a scope on there. We’ll never make it. Can you swim?"
"Are you out of your cotton pickin' MIND? It’s a fucking cuisinart down there! And that’s at least 100 feet. At least!"
"No, listen," she pants, "it’s high tide. We jump just as the wave hits, so it’ll be even deeper. And then the backdraw pulls us out, and we swim-"
A bullet shatters my clipboard, which I had grabbed for some reason while fleeing the bedroom. We plunge! 
She plunges rather---a lithe rubber missle, disappearing into the surf through a tiny gap between two big gnarled boulders---while I flap + flutter down slowly, daunted by such a hazardous landing site, and finally wind up just hovering there.
Her head breaks the surface, "Goddamn it, quit messing around! I know a cave under here. Clean sand, some blankets I stashed in a trashbag. Candles, black caviar, a good bordeaux. He’ll never find us! He can't swim, and oh my God it's so beautiful in there, how the light sparkles. We can-WHOOOAAHH!!"
The outward surge grips her, and drags her with utter indifference under an explosion of foam. The sudden drop in the water level reveals that there’s nothing below me but vicious blades of rock. No openings anywhere. Wherever she splashed down couldn’t have been any deeper than a washtub.
At this vertiginous sight my newfound power over gravity begins to slip! I am jerked sickeningly downward before I regain a tenuous control.
Rosalie resurfaces, coughing. "Hurry up, I’m drowning here! Come on, it’s only another thirty feet. Just let go..."
All at once whatever is keeping me aloft gives way, and I’m tumbling toward the jagged grey rocks. They zoom up at me, studded with thornlike barnacles, and maybe that is a nominal deep spot forming there as the next wave shatters itself against the cliff; but as with any falling dream the quickest way to safety is...
As the scene starts to dissolve Rosalie hollars: "Oh no, don’t you fade out on me again, you coward! You started this, and this time you’re gonna finish it!"
I land on my bed with a loud thud, the jouncing of springs, and lay there gasping! Can feel where the end of my dick had started to get goopy from our having almost made it, in that big old bed of hers. Once again I am fucked. Not fucked. Fuck...
 Comments make Laika a happy puppy! 


Ohmigod! Joyce! Eeeek! Somebody! Help! Help! Help!

(Can you tell I panic easily?)

I haven't been able to access Part III of my story in the last 10 times I tried.

And when I reinstalled windows on my horribly messed up computer I was counting on my stories on various fiction sites
for backup copies until I could open new Word files for them. So I SURE HOPE Part III hasn't disappeared somehow.

I would be very bummed and angry at myself...

~in an unjoyous meltdown, Laika

Memory Error

I'm getting a memory error when I try to access it. Have to find out why but I should be able to fix it by the morning.



Thank you! Now I'll make my own backup copy. I'm going to try to post this epic at Literotica too. I have no idea what they'll think of an "erotic" story where it takes the hero 60 pages of ever-sillier digressions to finally get off, but they do have a HUMOR category...
~~hugs, Laika

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