Rubber Dolly by Jack Kahler - Chapter 01

1966 Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Robot Ladies

Sam Bollen—boss of PREMIUM ART, an ad agency deep in the heart of Hollywood—lived in a glamorous and fantastic world. A full-throttle, bare-knuckled, no-time-for-niceties world that he loved—for one reason—because it offered a constant press of sleek, beautiful females, beautifully packaged in nylon, driven by ambition, yearning for success at any price…

When the genius of his imagination created the Rubber Dolly—manikins so lifelike in action and substance they shocked even hardened business executives—Sam thought he had it made. But the perfection of his Rubber Dollies triggered a new set of pressures—threatened the economic structure—tampered with sanity—sparked the cupidity of the Communist organization—and nearly got Sam killed ... in the bedroom of a beautiful and provocative girl!

CHAPTER ONE 

Maybe one time in a man's life he gets to play God. My time was now. It was dark enough in the studio to prevent me from seeing what the four men expected. But what they expected and what I was about to show them weren't even kissing cousins. We were standing amid cameras and lights and there was wire all over the floor. PREMIUM ART wasn't neat, but it was a hell of an advertising agency, with production departments and technicians to back up the admen. For twenty grand a year, I acted as chief vibrator. I also handled special effects, and I had one. 

"You men are all over twenty-one, I take it?” I asked. 

"Hunmf,” grunted John Fairfield, who made TAMPITS FOR TEEN-AGERS. 

"Well, certainly,” Henny Gross agreed testily. The other two men were too blasé to reply. "So there, then," I said. 

I punched the button. The dirty gray curtain separating the staging area from the production floor began to part. Also, the lights came on. Pink-tinted top-light, orange foots. A pale blue backdrop was dry-brushed to indicate a pool and a terrace with some country-club-type trees in the deep background. 

I heard the breath go out Henny's nose so hard it made his seven-dollar necktie flutter. Because on that stage, in a round light, was a naked figure, seven feet tall; absolutely the most devastatingly sensual she-human a man ever saw. Her face was almost too beautiful, deep-set smokey eyes, broad-mouthed and framed in golden hair that billowed and rolled and fell back over her smooth shoulders in perfect symmetry. She sat cross-legged, but anybody with half eyes could see the blonde ringlets popping up from between her thighs. Her belly was exquisite, and up from the voluptuous contours, her rib-cage supported what I knew to be the craziest tits in Hollywood. They were big, round and deep, and the nipples were luscious by any standard of male comparison, plum-colored and thick, standing out so audaciously you expected them to drop, except for the positive solidity of the pale pink flesh supporting them. 

The size twelve, five-inch pumps made the calves of her legs just muscular enough to suggest the tiger-she, ready to jump the tiger—he. 

"My god!” gasped George Richter, who made corsets, booby traps and a million a year. 

The doll sat at a table, a miserable chrome-legged thing like you used to see in soda fountains. On the table was a tall glass and a bottle of Henny's PULSE-PEP, label showing. I touched a button on the console at my right hand. The big beauty turned her head and smiled at the five of us, nodding her head with just the right hint of 'here's to it. Then she reached out with a perfectly tapered hand and picked up the bottle of PULSE-PEP. She poured the glass full, stopping as the carbonation threatened to over-flow the glass, then set the bottle down. With her other hand, she lifted the glass, shook her glorious hair back, female-style, then tipped the glass to her ruby red lips, caressed the rim with those sexy lips, and drank a third of Henny's lousy pop. Then she put the glass down, she drew a deep breath (which made those lovely boobs dance) then took another long deep drink of the super-sweet junk. You could see that liquid go down her throat, saw her belly rise to receive it, and settle languorously back to its lovely shape. The whole sequence took two and a half minutes. 

“There you are gentlemen," I said. 

Henny Gross went forward on shakey legs. He stepped up on the stage and put out one hand. His fingers touched the beautiful face, then slid downward. With the confidence that comes from being a millionaire, he took bold hold of the doll's left breast. He froze, a little man taking liberties with this huge, nude figure, but not ashamed, nor afraid. He kneaded that big breast until he was satisfied. His eyes went the full length of the gorgeous shape, hesitating at the place where the slightly out curved belly met the solid thighs, then he turned and looked at all of us, his face drawn and shocked, his eyes alive like black fire. 

“In a Bikini—one hundred thousand dollars!”

"I'll buy it,” he agreed. “Ve'll call her Lilith!” 

"It's uncanny!” George Adamson gasped. He made cosmetics so he knew what uncanny really meant. Most of his face creams would be better for greasing ways at a shipyard than for beautifying the American female. But he had money by the bankful. 

"That's only a preliminary demonstration, gentlemen," I said. “The fact is, that model can be altered, recolored, and programmed to do anything any human being can do. She can even insert and remove your product, Mr. Fairfield.” 

"Oi gevalt!” Henny moaned ecstatically. "That I'd like to see!” 

"I'm sure you would,” I said. "Shall we go back to the conference room and discuss business?" 

"Can she walk?” George Richter asked, longingly. 

“Funny you should ask," I remarked. “The one thing these mannikins can't do realistically is walk, or run. You see, walking is a process involved with balance, rather a coordinated mental and physical operation. Naturally, we can't build that kind of a sensory mechanism-at least, for the kind of money you people are thinking about." 

"So what's big about valking?” Henny asked. 

I closed the curtain. The four tycoons followed me through the hall and into the general offices. I opened the door to the conference room, and they filed in, too shocked by what they had seen to be worried by knowing what it was going to cost them. But I knew. When they were all seated, my secretary appeared from another doorway, and she had Scotch and Bourbon, glasses and ice. She also had everything else, but the four men had eyes blinded by a bigger, madder-looking form, and Grace never got a tumble. Except from me. 

“So, I bought. You got to tell me," Henny said, sucking at his drink. "I got a right to know!" 

"You all have a right to know," I told them. "It is nothing fantastic. About a year ago, I decided the advertising business needed some new impact. There were certain products, represented by your collective accounts, which seemed to need and merit a new concept in public relations. The relative size of advertising budgets was very important too, because this project was expensive. PREMIUM ART has invested something like a half million dollars in that demonstration you just witnessed!” It was two hundred thousand, but it was also none of their business. "We heave exactly thirty-two patent pendings on the mechanisms and the materials involved in that mannikin.” 

“You sure it ain't human?" Henny asked. 

"Rubber, plastic, iron, motors and electronics," I assured him. “The only human portion is the hair." 

"Hair?" Leslie Adamson echoed. 

I smiled. "It is all real," I told him emphatically. "All.” 

“And you can make her do anything?” George Richter asked. 

"Not that model, ” I corrected him. “We made two master models, one is nine feet tall, the other is ten feet tall. These two models are our master controls systems. They weigh about four hundred pounds apiece. Each one has over three thousand moving parts, mostly in the form of fulcrumed tendons for back-and-forth motion, and a system of cells, fed by a hydraulic pumping system, capable of distension and retraction. For instance, the lips are not a fulcrumed portion of the anatomy. To get a mannikin's lips to react as a human's lips react, to purse, drink, or laugh, we must have the ability to push the overlay of skin, and twist it, without a bone or a point of pivot. Thus, we use a series of plastic cells, which we inflate, or exhaust by vacuum, to produce the mouth movements you witnessed in the studio." 

"Oiyee,” Henny said, his imagination running wild. 

“While our master models contain the ability to do anything we care to program into the electronic system, located in the general region of a kidney and liver cavity, these specialized models are equipped only with the tendon and cell muscles for the particular action we need for any given advertiser. The rest of the model is inert, made of rubber and plastic in useless volume, to fill the skin, which, incidentally, is of a special plastic, tough but yielding, and warmed so that it is almost impossible to tell it from human epidermis." 

"That, you can say again, yet!” Henny agreed.

"Thank you, Mr. Gross,” I said quietly. “We program the special models from our master models, using a reversal technique which imprints a program for insertion in the control centers of the special models. As all the interior anatomy is exactly the same, our master models provide extreme mobility, perfectly coordinated.” 

"And the price?” George Richter asked cautiously. 

"One half million dollars for the exclusive rights to purchase an advertising specialty, custom designed for your respective trade. From there on, there are the usual costs, per unit, per contract period, plus the supporting elements of an intelligent campaign. You can plan on about one thousand dollars per model, and perhaps that much more in staging and publicity.” 

"That's pretty expensive," Fairfield observed. 

I looked at him coldly. "One model, set up with adequate personnel for staging and handling, say operating in the back-end of an over-sized bus, something like a Greyhound super-cruiser, could in six months, demonstrate to a hundred thousand college girls how to insert and appreciate TAMPITS, Mr. Fairfield. Further, a second model is capable of showing those same girls what happens when they use your competitor's napkins.” 

"You could make her—bleed?” Henny asked. 

“Like a stuck pig, every two and a half minutes, for twenty-four hours a day," I told them quietly. 

"How about my product?” Leslie Adamson asked, with a sly wink at the rest. "I'm a pretty tough customer!" 

"Not at all," I assured him. "You make twenty-nine different beauty aids, from lipstick to breast creams. For a slight additional cost, we can make a mannikin use and apparently benefit from each and every one of them. At two and a half minutes per item, a five thousand dollar model will put on a seventy-three-minute act. In the window of Macy's, or Robinson's or Rexall Drugs, you'd create a traffic jam never before recorded in the annals of the police department. You could also produce television commercials to compete in spectacle with the ninety-minute specials, I'm sure.” 

“Oiyee,” Henny hummed, slightly wet at the corners of his red mouth. "Such a genius, Sam Bollen. You should work for me!" 

"Thank you, Henny," I said, “Well, gentlemen, that's about it. My secretary will present each of you with a prospectus, outlining our plan for each of your firms, with approximate costs and supporting promotions as you leave. There will also be a contract containing our binding agreement. I suggest you think about it this afternoon, and call us in the morning. I have about three or four more industrialists willing to see our proposition, so we can't waste time, can we?” 

I don't smile much during a business deal, so they stood up, a little in awe of the jolt I'd handed them, a little frightened at the figures I'd mentioned, yet scared to be afraid. 

"Oh,” George Richter said. “You said you had made two master models, one nine feet tall and one ten. Why the difference in size?” 

I gathered my notes and papers together and didn't bother to look up. “The nine-foot model is female. The ten-foot model is male," I told him. 

"Oiyee!” Henny cooed, and his black eyes flashed imaginatively. 

I looked at him and nodded. “You are quite right," I said. 

For several moments after they left, I stood thinking about the future. The past didn't matter, though it had been pretty good. At thirty, I was a big boy in the specialty advertising field. I owned forty percent of PREMIUM ART, worth perhaps five or six million as of this afternoon, two hundred thousand as of this morning's mail. We had ten good contracts, twenty-odd small ones. In the past three years, I'd let go of everything but the specialty development field. My brother-in-law, Donald Bernstein, took care of the routine business, and tried to keep my gentile sister happy. This wasn't easy, because Willhelmena was a snot. The other sixty percent of the stock in PREMIUM ART was owned by five old ladies in Pasadena. They called themselves the Saturday Sorority, and they thought I was a sweet kid. 

Now, I looked up as Grace came into the conference room. She had on piece of paper in her hand, which she waved at me. "Henny took the prospectus, but the contract is signed!” she laughed. “He couldn't wait!” 

“Good old Henny, who ain't old," I told her. “You look horrible, simply a frump, baby.” 

Grace pouted. She was five-six and prettier than Liz Taylor. Black eyes, wide mouth, and a real patrician nose, but slim-bridged and smooth. Mad, she could look like a Gypsy whore, and she had the square shoulders to carry her big, pushy breasts and a waist hardly worth mentioning. Her hips were the killer, however. Some women flair, some bulge, some just bulk. Grace had fanny that started in the S-curve of her back and went out in unbelievable buttocks, live and tight and perfectly cut under. Her hip bones were low and narrow, so the curve from her waist down from the front or rear made you feel like there was the repository for all the goodies in the world. 

Only now she wore a too-small, three-dollar brassiere which made her breasts look like sacks of flour, and the silly ruffled dress she had bought in a bargain basement, would have made Mrs. Miller unswallow. Her stockings were opaque and wrinkled. Her shoes had squash heels about as high as mine. I shook my head in wondering disbelief. "I didn't think you could do it.” 

Grace kicked off the flat shoes, then unzipped the dress. This helped, and when she stepped out of it, those magnificent hips sent the usual twitch up and back down my spine. Then she reached back and unhooked the silly brassiere, and her breasts jumped up and out bouncing beautifully, showing the tremendous, pinkish aureoles with the berry in the precise center. She drew a big breath and rolled her hands over and under her breasts to relieve the ache of being cramped for three hours in the too-tight brassiere. Standing in front of me was the model for the mannikin that had reduced four get-around businessmen to shambles. 

"Do you think they guessed?" she asked, stepping close to me. 

“No. I never would. Even now. You don't smell like polyethylene, baby. And you're not a blonde. And I don't start your performance with a button." 

Grace took hold of my right hand and guided it expertly to the warmth of her body. “It has been called a button, among other things, Sam," she breathed. "How much money did you make today?” 

"About enough to pay for that last abortion," I told her, and began to think about trying again. The moment I laid my hands on her, she began to tremble, and when I had my two hands full of her solid buttocks, she let me scrub myself against her tummy. I was sure the air-conditioning had failed, the sweat made my starched collar itch, and my loins burned. After a long, exciting stand-up exercise, she swung away and hunched her bottom onto the conference table. With a laugh and a squirm, she lay back on the polished walnut. The twelve-foot table made a beautiful stage for what she did with that voluptuous body, and our eyes locked, mine flitting occasionally to verify some fantastic contortion registered in my perimeter vision. I got rid of my coat and necktie, and she just made her body smack on the walnut and bounce at me. 

The waistband of my trousers was wet, my shorts were damp. The minutes of fever had soaked them both with perspiration. I kicked off my shoes and climbed after Grace. She slithered away, and it was remarkable how excitingly evasive a full-grown woman became, with only a four by twelve table as an arena. When I caught her, she was moist from her exertions, too, and as I gathered her into my arms, she let one leg stretch out and drop half off the table. Our lips met and argued, then agreed, and became one seeking, mutually intense center of erotic excitement. Our bodies could not stand another minute of contest then, and there was no further contest. We loved in our own way, a slow, gently-teasing, fiercely consuming way; a completely devastating ecstasy, brought to focus by tempered experience and passionate practice. 

Open-eyed, she let me see deep into her brain, past the cells and down into the intimacies of her straining body. I could focus on every convulsion, every nerve whipping and singing, and then I went blind. I knew my six-hour beard was rough on her neck, but the irritated patch of scarlet skin was our own private flag. Finally, I tensed and rolled over on my back, dragging her up and over me. The walnut table was cool to my back, and I drew a big breath. Grace kissed my chin. 

"Anyway, getting pregnant proves something," she said. 

"Like the laws of nature are inviolate?”

"Like I can do something she can't do!" 

I opened my eyes wide and looked at her. "I believe you're jealous of that big, rubber doll!” I laughed. 

For a minute she looked like a Gypsy whore, then she scrambled down from me and the table. She grabbed my shorts and mopped, efficiently and belly and walked out of the conference room. I threw the shorts to the floor and closed my eyes. In two minutes, I was sound asleep. 

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