The Jaguar's Room was called a gentleman's club by its owners, but cut
down to the basics it was only a cheap, cheap strip joint. There
were there places in town where women stripped, danced, and strutted their
across stage for men, and maybe a few of them could possibly be termed up-scale, almost legitimate, but not so the Jaguar's Room.
Even the name was stupid, Ray thought, sipping a watery beer. The place should be called the Jaguar's Cage or the Jaguar's Lair or something . . .but Room? It just didnt sound right.
What kind of idiots ran this place anyway?
But, then, he already knew the answer to that, didn't he? They
were cheap idiots. Ray sat there by the stage drinking his beer,
staring up at the slattern-faced woman lurching across the catwalk, trying
to look like he was interested in her. They watered the booze, they
offered for food only stale peanuts, and they kept the lights purposefully
low so no one would
get a really good look at most of the girls they had. Ray grimaced slightly as the dancer on stage, a blonde with black roots and overly large hips, tried to arouse him by jiggling her goods in front of his face. She saw his expression change, and, misunderstanding it for a sign of pleasure, she went on over to the next guy.
Ray was lucky there was a next guy. There are only five of us
in the whole goddamn place, he observed, looking around. Just five
customers in three nights, and most of them just winos with nowhere else
to go. The Jaguar's Room was a place, he saw, where the people who
worked there were all either on their way up in life or seriously on their
way down . . . and it was usually down. Which was why, as Ray's partner
had said to him earlier in the day, the place was such a perfect set-up
for the two of them. Nobody kept track of anybody here, and so, on
those rare occasions,
such as now, when someone who didn't know better 'was' working her way up, everybody'd just assume that such a young, beautiful dancer would eventually be moving on anyway. No one would miss her, and nobody would
be surprised if she suddenly disappeared.
It really was the perfect set-up.
The girl's name they wanted was Tiffany, which even to Ray sounded fake. She was gorgeous, though. She couldn't have been more than twenty years old, with a slim body and long, naturally straight blonde hair. Ray had seen Tiffany dancing earlier in the evening, and she was scheduled to go on again soon, though Ray wasn't planning on sticking around long enough to watch her last act. Her breasts, while not large, were firm, and her thighs were muscular and tight. She was exactly the sort of girl the boss looked for in new acquisitions. She would pose well. Her complexion was flawless. She had to be at the Jaguar's Room (stupid name) just to be perfecting her moves for somewhere else in town, another gentleman's club she had in mind. Tiffany'd been working there only a few weeks, and no doubt she'd be leaving on her own soon. It wasn't luck that Ray and his partner had spotted her, though, for all that brief time. They specifically kept an eye out for girls like Tiffany in situations like this.
It made their job a lot easier.
Ray got up and left the joint before Amber, forty years old and sagging, finished her act. He was a short man, very nondescript if not actually a little seedy-looking in appearance. He tended to blend in in crowds, which was another thing that made his job easier. He walked to his car, got in, took out a cellular phone, and called his partner, Lester.
"It's me. Tiff will be going on stage in about ten minutes. She should be back at her apartment in about two hours." That's where Lester was outside of now, waiting to break in.
"Great," he said. Then, after a pause, "She's got company already."
Tiffany lived alone. Ray was surprised. "What do you mean she's got company?" he blurted. "Who? We gotta grab her tonight!"
"Hey, it's not my fault," Lester said. "But it may not be a problem, or much of one anyway. It's another woman, you know, maybe Tiff's sister or a friend . . . and she's a real looker, almost as good as the Tiffster herself . . . ." He trailed off suggestively.
Ray was furious. "We can't take both of them, you idiot! Were not prepared. I'm not prepared! We dont have enough information."
"What's to know? It don't matter." Lester was calmer than his partner. "It's the same scenario. We just take em both at the same time."
"I don't like it. If something goes wrong, we're screwed. I only pray the police get us before Fip does."
"We can do this, Ray. It won't even be that difficult, and I got the extra stuff already with me. I'll work with the friend, you get Tiffany just like we already planned." He hoped he could convince Ray. They would get a bonus probably.
Ray sucked in air through his nose, closed his eyes, and thought quickly. Finally, he said, "We gotta call Fip first. He's gotta know."
Now, about that Lester was hesitant. "The auction's on tonight, guy, you know that. You know that's when he doesn't like being disturbed."
Ray remained adamant. He didn't want to disturb their boss either, but if something went wrong . . . . "We gotta call, man," he said. "You wanna do it or me?"
"Hey, it's your worry, not mine."
"Thanks a lot." Ray hung up, took another deep breath to steady his nerves, then called his boss. The other end was picked up on the first ring.
"This is Fip."
"Ah, boss, it's me. Ah, Ray." He paused for a moment. "Ah, something's come up.
There was no reply. Just silence.
"Uh, boss?" Pause. "Are you there?"
"Well, don't keep me in suspense, Ray. What's on your mind?" Fip sounded amused . . . but then Fip 'always' sounded amused. It was one of the scarier things about him.
"Uh, right. Our pick-up tonight, the stripper . . . she's got another girl staying with her tonight . . . we didn't know, and well . . . ."
"And you and Lester want to pick her up too, right?" Fip asked, interrupting. He knew Ray would have gone on like that for another five or six minutes if he had let him.
"Uh, right." Maybe calling Fip 'hadn't' been such a good idea,
after all. Before, he had just been expecting one new acquisition.
Now, though . . .
Fip read his mind. "By all means, then, Ray, go ahead. I applaud your initiative. Use the plastic if you think it's warranted, or use your own best judgment. I leave everything up to you."
Ray started to shiver. There was maybe an implied threat in that.
'I leave it up to you,' and now if there was a problem, the blame would
fall squarely on him. "I'm, ah, sorry to call you so late, boss,
it's just . .
"Think nothing of it, Ray," Fip said, interrupting again. "Call me anytime. And I'll see you tomorrow morning with two new subjects." He hung up.
Ray continued to shiver, sweating. Now instead of one . . . and disappointing Fip was dangerous. Very dangerous.
"I gotta find another line of work," Ray quietly remarked, alone, then sighed and picked up the phone again to call Lester back.
* * * *
Thoughts similar to Ray's were going through another man's mind at about the same time on the other side of town. Donald Allen was also sitting inside a car, although he was outside a warehouse near the docks, not a strip club, the address provided him only an hour or so ago, though it had been the work of several days in getting. Only now, however, with the actual appointment at hand, he was hesitant. It had been a mistake calling Fip, he thought. Too many things could go wrong, and the blackmail potential was enormous.
And yet, if even half of the stories were true . . . .
A man came out of the warehouse office entry a few yards away and dramatically
waved at Allen. He was tall and thin and dressed in a black suit,
and he carried a silver-tipped walking stick. He was pale and he
had oiled black hair, and if he hadn't been smiling so, he would have looked
as sinister as the devil himself. Allen got out of the car and met
"Donald Allen? It's a pleasure to meet you." The man shook the millionaire's hand and pumped it like a politician running for office. Allen immediately disliked him.
"Yes, sir, Oberon Fip of G. Limited. Please, let's go inside.
The others are waiting, and you're a busy man, I'm a busy man, time's wasting,
and I don't want to waste anymore of yours than is necessary. I'll
just show you some of the merchandise I have on hand here, and if you're
not interested, hey, well still part as friends." He poured so much
over Allen, spoke so quickly and so theatrically, like an actor speaking well-rehearsed lines, Allen wasn't quite sure what to think. The situation felt unreal.
Fip led him through the office and into a long hall with a row of doors on one side. He opened the first one and pointed dramatically at what was inside.
It was a statue, the most incredibly detailed statue Allen had ever seen. His jaw dropped slightly in amazement. She was breathtakingly beautiful, a vision in gray-and-silver-flecked stone. The showrooms ceiling lights sparkled off of her form. The statue was of a young woman, nude, kneeling with her knees spread and her back arched far to the rear, her hands on her thighs. Her face was upturned, and her mouth and glazed, featureless eyes were open. The expression captured there was an ideal combination of surprise, fear, and overwhelming ecstasy.
Allen knelt beside her. Every feature was there, every detail was present. She looked almost alive, like she was a live woman encased in a skintight gray-and-silver-flecked bodysuit. He could see the individual strands of hair on her head, the delineation was that great. "She's so lifelike," he finally said. "I swear I can almost see her breathing."
"I thought you might want to look at one of the exhibits before meeting your competitors. To whet your appetite, you might say."
Allen didn't turn around. He continued to appreciate the amazingly precise statue.
"Why don't you touch her," Fip invited. "I know you want to."
Allen hesitated, then said, "I don't want to spoil the illusion." He paused, then continued. "The artist, who . . . how could he achieve so much . . . ?"
Fip reached down to his lapel, lifted the white carnation resting there, and sniffed at it gently. "I think you'll find the illusion, as you call it, will survive your touch. I dare say it will even be enhanced." Hewaved abstractly. "Please, sir, by all means."
Holding his breath, Allen raised his right hand and slowly drew it across
the thigh of the unmoving figures form. The surface of the statue
was pleasantly textured, he found, like soft, very soft sandpaper . . .
not rough at all but rather powdery smooth instead. She was also,
quiet literally, as hard as a rock. The very denseness of her, in
fact, combined with that unusual texture, proved almost intoxicating to
Allen. He pressed harder himself, moving his hands over the statue's breasts,
her folded legs, her sex, and as he did so, he seemed to sense something
new . . . not precisely a softening, for the statue remained very hard,
and not precisely a warmth either, for the statue remained chill, but a
warmth and softening nevertheless. The statue was trying to tell him something, he realized suddenly. It was . . . her . . . her name . . .her name was . . . .
(Her name was April.
(She was twenty-four years old, a model, recently moved to the big city,
waiting for a big assignment from her agency, living on her own for the
first time, still reveling in her new apartment, just come back from a
recent shoot, tired, sleepy, sorting through her mail before going to bed
. . . and while doing so she found a thick, handwritten letter among the
usual bills and advertisements. It had no return address, and the envelope was actually sealed with wax.
(How cool, she thought. It was like something out of an old movie
or a gothic novel. She wondered who could have sent it. The
paper of the envelope felt rich, almost like cloth. Was this how
the agency let its models know a good assignment was waiting? An
overseas shoot, maybe, or the cover of a magazine, she hoped. April
didn't want to damage the
paper, she wanted to save it if it was good news, so she went to her cupboard and got out a pair of scissors and carefully cut the envelope open.
(From inside, small clumps of grayish powder spilled over her fingers
as she lifted the single-page letter out. It felt kind of like baby
powder, only finer, and it stained her fingertips a light silvery color.
The letter, when unfolded, April saw was almost totally blank. It
featured only one neatly scripted sentence, a command: "Kneel and
assume the most
erotic pose you can think of."
(What the hell? What kind of sick joke is this? April flipped
the letter over to see if anything else was written, but there was nothing.
She started to ball the paper up angrily, but then she stopped when she
becameaware of a tingling sensation in her fingers. At the same time
a sudden feeling of warmth settled into her body, emanating from her breasts
and groin. Her nipples hardened uncontrollably, and, unconsciously,
unaware that she was doing it, April sank slowly to her knees, still clutching
the envelope in one hand, the one-page letter in the other. I've
been drugged she realized. That powder . . . but it was already too
late. By the time she realized what was happening to her, her transformation
had begun. Her
skin felt electrified. The tingling sensation, from where the powder had been absorbed, quickly traveled up her arms and into her breasts. April's hands reached there by instinct, dropping the papers finally and then holding, clutching, fondling the suddenly over-sensitive flesh she found there. Her breasts had already been firm - they were one of her best features as a model - but now they felt even firmer, almost rigid somehow. It felt good, yet at the same time quite disturbing.
(A crackling sound was heard in April's ears. Against her own
volition, April began to arch back on her heels. Her hands strayed
down to her thighs and froze into position. Streaks of grayish color
appeared along her arms and streamed down past her shoulders. The
skin along those places stiffened; the muscles hardened and calcified.
Aprils knees slowly
spread as a fiery core of blissful heat began generating there. The ecstatic petrification peaked. Her breathing first slowed, then stopped forever. Her flesh grayed and fused into a stony plate. Sparkles of silver surfaced along her immobilized frame. Her lips widened almost imperceptibly in a combined last gasp of fear and delight, her blank and
now featureless eyes caught facing the ceiling.
(Time stretched, and in April's dimming mind that one moment of her
ultimate transformation became an eternity . . . an endless moment of erotic
joy, fear, and understanding of her new place in the world. As a
model she had wanted men to gaze upon her and appreciate her beauty.
Now, as a statue, they would gaze upon her beauty forever. It . .
. it was . .
. it was . . . .)
Heaven. It was heaven, the most powerfully erotic experience Allen
had ever known. Utterly spent, dripping with perspiration,
the rich man fell back from the April-statue in a kind of half-stupor.
He retained just enough presence of mind to check the front of his
pants for a stain, but that was it. He hardly noticed Fip still
in the room with him until the
other spoke, breaking Allens reverie.
"The bidding starts in one hour."
* * * *
Lester waited outside in the alley next to Tiffany's apartment building.
The scenario for tonight's action was going through his mind. He
could foresee no real difficulties. The building was run-down,
just a shade away from being condemned, and the security was nonexistent.
Tiffany herself would likely have several locks on her door, as well as
but one good, sharp kick would solve that problem, if it ever even came to that. Lester was a big, imposing man, the exact opposite of Ray. He wasnt afraid of being alone in an alley in the city at night. No one, not even the most desperate of crackheads, would dare to face up to his 6'6", 300 lb. frame.
He looked up at the light in Tiffany's window. Every once and a while a shapely silhouette would pass back and forth. Lester had had the opportunity to observe Tiffany's friend earlier. She was a cute little brunette, no more than five foot or so. Her hair fell down to her shoulders in tight ringlets. Whatever her name was, she'd make a fine acquisition, as good as or even better than Tiffany . . . at least in Lester's humble opinion.
He checked his watch. There was still an hour or so to go.
He wondered how the bosss auction was going.
* * * *
Aside from Allen, who was only now finally coming to grips with his moment spent with April, there were three other potential buyers present. Two were men, the third a woman, all, like Allen himself, well-dressed and in their forties or early fifties. Allen recognized one of the men, and the other recognized him, but neither felt making introductions in this place would be fitting. This was a place for anonymity.
Still, Allen thought, I'd bet between the four of us we could buy a small South American country.
They were standing in another section of the warehouse, a large room with a number of still figures hidden under dropcloths scattered about it. None of the four wanted to be the first to peek under the wraps, so they remained covered. Allen paced back and forth remembering Fip's explanation for what he had experienced.
"I use a variety of techniques," he had said, "some arcane, others more
scientific . . . some the product of my own research, others the developments
of colleagues who share my interest. The quality they all have in
common, though, which I insist upon, is an entrapment of the mind as well
as a transformation of the body. My subjects, my acquisitions,
are all uniform in the sense that their thoughts are preserved yet at the same time caught in a kind of perpetual feedback-loop, you might say. Whatever their state now, they are constantly reliving that most important moment in their lives . . . their transformations into eternal works of art."
Allen had stopped and looked at his host. "Then what I experienced . . .?"
"Really happened," Fip completed. "Their thoughts cycle over and over again, and as a result they gain strength and power. They can be shared through physical contact, as you shared April's thoughts just a few moments ago."
Footsteps from down the hall brought Allen back to the present.
Fip came into the room and greeted his guests again, asking about their
trips. He had put on a pair of old-fashioned wire-rim glasses in
the interim, and
his eyes gleamed behind their smoke-colored lenses.
"Are we ready to begin bidding, ma'am, gentlemen? Very good." The showman walked over to one of the dropcloths and pulled it off the figure it was obscuring. A sudden collective sigh was heard in the room.
"This is Elena," Fip said. "She was once an actress."
She was . . . an actress . . . was . . . she was . . . .
("She was hot and uncomfortable beneath the glaring overhead lights,
but it was a great opportunity for her, this audition. She had practiced
her part, knew her lines by heart, and was willing to do anything to get
into the movie. Elena already suspected she was going to get the
casting couch treatment - she was alone with the director, and she knew
how things went in good 'ol Hollyweird, she was no girl just off of the
farm - and she was willing to put out, if that's what it took. It
was only a small role in the movie, but it would get her foot in the door,
might get her seen by the right people. So far, though, the short
guy behind the camera hadn't put any moves on her, which put Elena to thinking
that maybe she'd been
wrong about him in the first place. There was always a first time.
(All he had done so far was shoot video of her in the studio, giving Elena instructions from behind a glass booth, directing her movements beneath those hot lights right above the stage platform. "Alright, now I want you to stand with your feet and legs together, tummy in, chest out, your hands up behind your head."
("Like this?" she questioned. Elena had long dark hair, and she was very fair-skinned. She hoped she wouldn't burn underneath these lights. She was only wearing high heels and a red bikini.
("Yeah, but use your hands to spread your hair out more . . . yeah, that's more like it. Tilt a little forward . . . that's it, perfect. Hold that pose."
(She hoped the director liked what he saw.
("Look off into the distance, think about the part, and . . .
." The director's voice trailed off. Elena heard a buzzing
noise start up, and then the lights overhead became dimmer, bluer.
She was about to ask if anything was wrong, but then she found she couldn't
speak, couldn't move, couldn't even blink anymore. A sudden feeling
of heaviness had come unto
(What's happening, she tried to scream, but there was nothing she could do. The blue lights, the change in selected radiation frequencies, was having a startling effect on Elena's body. The molecules slowed and assumed different patterns of organization. Her skin became shiny, silvery. The last thing she heard before the bones in her ears fused solid was the director saying that she had the part. She . . . she was . . . she was . . . .)
She was made of chrome.
Allen could only marvel at the transformation wrought. Elena had been beautiful, but now she would remain beautiful forever. The lights in the auction room reflected off of her, and the bidders could see themselves in her polished, galvanized metallic perfection. She stood slightly on her toes, her heels supported from beneath by extensions built into her platform, and her legs were exposed thereby in all their liquid metal smoothness. She was nude, as she should have been; the bikini had been cut away after her body had hardened. The muscles in her calves and buttocks were clearly defined, again rendered in liquid metal glossiness. Her breasts were upraised and revealed in precious silveriness. To touch Elena was to touch a dream of silken excellence.
Chrome. She had been turned to chrome.
"Shall we set the opening bid at one million dollars, gentlemen, lady?" Fip asked, and everyone began talking at once.
* * * *
Lester turned out to be right, Ray had to admit.
Acquiring Tiffany and her friend, whose name had turned out to be Roxanne, hadn't been difficult at all. Tiffany had been grabbed first, on the street, and with her keys . . . well, getting into her apartment had been easy. Roxanne was taken while she was asleep.
Now all they had to do was use the stuff.
* * * *
"Any last bids? No? Very well, then, ma'am. Judith is yours for an even two-and-a-half million dollars. Congratulations on your purchase. I'm sure shell bring you years of enjoyment."
The wealthy lady bidder continued to gaze fondly, and still a little dreamily, at her new marble statue while Fip led the men over to another covered block. Allen had already spent three million dollars himself tonight. He had been beaten out on the bidding for Elena, but April was now all his. He felt almost giddy with excitement.
He wondered where he would put her.
"And now, gentlemen," Fip said, the following is a highly unusual piece for which I'm afraid I can accept no bid of less than three million dollars. Eve, you see, volunteered for her petrification." He removed the dropcloth.
And what was revealed was . . . was . . . .
(Ready. She was ready.
(Eve had always been aware of her extraordinarily striking good looks, ever since her earliest childhood in rural Ireland. Her most prominent feature was her exceptionally long and flame-red hair. And when she had been taken away from her small village at the age of seventeen, spotted by the man who would one day become her Lord and Master, she had known even then that she would someday have to pay a price for her attractiveness. And now that day had come.
(Her Master stood before her, dressed in velvet robes. Eve knelt, her face to the floor, clad only in a whalebone corset gathered tightly around her waist, her ass and breasts pressed out and fully exposed. She was twenty-two years old.
("Look at me, child," the Master spoke.
(She did, lovingly. She had been well-conquered.
(He held the elixir out to her, which she accepted with her hands high above her head. "You know that there is no turning back from this. That once this deed is done, it is done."
(Eve nodded. "Yes, my Master."
(Then he nodded too. "Then you accept." It was not a question.
("I accept, Master," and she kissed his feet one last time.
("Then pose for me, and drink.
(And she did.)
And two hundred years later Allen looked upon her preserved features,
unmarked by the passing of time. Eve had remained flesh following
her transformation, or at least had kept the appearance of flesh, for though
her skin looked womanly soft and fragile, alive even, it held the hardness
and durability of stone. She stood, a picture from life, her hips
slightly turned to one side, her back and shoulders erect. Her wrists were crossed behind her back. Her head was down in submission, but there was a wicked smile on her face, of wild pleasures remembered and anticipated.
She still wore her corset, or at least a reasonable facsimile of.
Touching her, feeling the velvet smoothness of her body as well as the sheer harlotry of her thoughts, and Allen knew he had to have her, to own and possess her. Unfortunately, that same feeling was shared by the other two male buyers, and the bidding war was on.
None of them gave thought to the Eve-statue's age, nor to the more than passing resemblance Oberon Fip had to the Master in Eve's endless dreams.
But perhaps that was a good thing.
There are some questions which should not be asked.
Sometime later, after the other bidders had left with their new purchases, Eve among them, a somewhat dejected Donald Allen remained behind with Mr. Fip. He was still happy about his purchase of the April-statue . . . but he had wanted the Eve, too, so much.
Fip tried to cheer him up.
"I'm going to give you a special treat, Mr. Allen," he said, speaking
to the man like he was a child. "Since I know you werent completely
satisfied with the results of the auction, although you did make one excellent
purchase, and since you are a new customer and all, I'll let you in on
a little project I've had going on this very evening. You might be
interested in it."
He led Allen through another series of rooms in the warehouse and finally into a holding area of sorts. And once there Allen saw . . . and felt . . . and saw . . . saw . . . .
(Saw her best friend Tiffany turned into a stone statue right before
her very eyes. But for all the horror of it, and the direness of
her own situation, Roxanne couldn't help but admit that Tiffany still looked
pretty good. She had been turned a dark gray, almost black color
of stone, like basalt maybe, or flint. The two men who had kidnapped
short guy and a large guy, had held Tiffany and given her a shot of something from a hypodermic needle, an almost black colored liquid. She had stopped struggling almost at once. The big guy had then stepped back and let the little guy work on her, posing Tiffany like she was only a mannequin. She was arranged in a showgirl-like stance, with her legs
straight and slightly crossed before her, hips turned partially, and arms spread wide and angled forward away from her body, as if she were carrying a large Las Vegas-style feathered-fan agains her back.
(And while caught in that embarrassing, demeaning pose, a darkness had appeared and quickly spread across Tiffany's exposed flesh. She petrified within minutes, and then the little guy (the big guy had called him Ray, Roxanne heard) had gone up to her with a pair of scissors and a knife and begun cutting Tiffanys clothing away, from her tight blouse and skirt to her stockings and underwear. Beneath it all was stone, and when he was done, all that remained of Tiffany was a gorgeous, nude statue . . . amazingly lifelike in its details, but seemingly lifeless nevertheless.
(Roxanne had never been so scared in her entire life.
(Nor as excited, she hated to admit.
(The kidnappers (statue-makers) had grabbed Roxanne in bed, tied and
gagged her up, and, along with a then still-human Tiffany, driven her in
a van to someplace near the docks (she could smell the salt water).
There, in this large room with cages along its walls (just how many girls
did these people grab anyway), they had undertaken the process of ransforming
her best friend into a solid work of art.
(And now it was her turn.
(The big guy walked over to Roxanne , picked her up as easily as he
might a doll, and carried her over to a free-standing metal framework in
one corner of the room. There, he stood her up as the little guy
(Ray, his names Ray, Roxanne screamed inside) attached manacles to each
of her ankles, then slipped a steel rod between them so that her legs were
held shoulder-width apart. Her hands were then untied and raised
over her head, whereupon they too were locked into manacles and spread
far apart. A belt assembly was then attached to the framework and fastened
around her waist. A similar set of straps was wrapped around her
neck a minute or so later and connected to a spoke now behind her head.
The big guy then stepped around Roxanne and worked a lever mechanism in
the framework's side. The helplessly bound brunette was lifted up
as tension was placed on certain chains and gears. Her feet left
the floor, and Roxanne found
herself suspended in the framework with her eyes almost on a level plane with the giant before her.
(She could hardly move at all. She could struggle, but she was caught as simply and completely as a fly would be in a spiders web.
(Ray came back with his knife and scissors and said to Roxanne, "Now try not to move too much. I don't want to cut you."
(Gee, thanks for the concern, you bastard, Roxanne thought, but she didn't move, and within minutes her clothes had been cut from her. Roxanne was a short girl, but she had upthrust breasts and truly remarkable hips and thighs. Ray whistled appreciatively while admiring her.
("You were right, Les," he said. "She'll be even better than Tiffany.
I owe you a beer." The other guy, Les, laughed and nodded.
I can't believe this, Roxanne thought. They're talking about me like
I'm a piece of
(An idea which led her to even darker thoughts.
(Les brought over a strange-looking tool he had taken from a shelf behind
him, and it took Roxanne a moment for her to recognize it. Her eyes
widened and began pleading. It was a dildo, slightly curved and covered
in small ridges and bumps, with a built-in vibrator. Les smiled,
bent over a little, and inserted the tool inside Roxannes vagina, then
(She tried to relax her vaginal muscles, but it was no use. An
electric sensation began in her anus, traveled up through her vagina, and
finally ended at her clitoris. Waves of stimulation began washing
over Roxanne. She contracted tightly around the shaft trapped inside her,
helpless to do otherwise. The first orgasm shot through her body,
as hard and as sharp
as a whip's crack, and not even the gag in her mouth could entirely muffle her scream of pleasure."
(And it didn't stop. She could still feel the tool's ribs and
bumps vibrating against her tight vaginal walls, inducing one mind-blowing
orgasm after another. Roxanne's hips pumped back and forth as much
as her restraints allowed. All the while, Ray and Les watched.
The tool was having its effect. A shininess had appeared in Roxannes
skin, far more
than what could be accounted for in normal perspiration. Her hair, formerly black and ringleted, became even curlier and tightened in a wide puffball on top of her head, doll-like. Roxanne's struggles slowed, then ceased altogether. Her eyes became glassy and unfocused. Her flesh hardened. It became plastic-like first. Then it actually became plastic
. . . soft, yet hard . . . flexible, yet firm. Each orgasm brought the transformation closer and closer to completion. Roxanne was aware of what was happening to her, in part of her mind, at least, but she could do nothing to stop the process. After awhile, she didn't want to. The orgasms just kept getting better and better the more she was plastic, and
the more she was plastic . . . and so on, and on, and on, until finally there was one penultimate burst of pleasure that stretched on into infinity, and she was . . . was . . .was . . . .)
Nothing but plastic, with curly fibery hair on her head and at her sex,
and Allen loved her, like he loved April. Roxanne was a plastic statue,
a mannequin in some ways, like a giant rubber doll in others, capable of
being posed in any way her new owner desired. The Tiffany-statue
had already been promised to someone else, an advance purchase, but as
been said earlier, Roxanne was a bonus, and she was a steal at one-and-a-half million dollars. Allen went away happy caressing his new art objects and reliving over and over again their last earthly experiences. Ray and Lester were happy over their unexpected bonus. And Oberon Fip of G. Limited was happy because he had another satisfied
It was all and around a good night.
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