Maple sugar

opened the slender silver ashtray on the back of the carseat and saw a fossilized piece of gum in there like some Doublemint scented mouse brain. “Wonder who chewed that and what year it was chewed,” I thought. The chewer was most likely dead. The car was a 1977 Lincoln Continental Town Coupe with suicide doors. The airport loomed in the horizon, late afternoon bleeding its color across the sky dotted with planes taking off and landing, adventures in the clouds for all the ticket holders. Whatever. People on business with honey roasted peanut allergies more likely. The charm of airports had waned years ago due to too many delays, overbooked flights, and infants screaming like they were being eviscerated.

I couldn’t even muster the enthusiasm of a change of scenery. Contentment is an elusive entity. I’m never content where I am and when I do go out of town I’m preoccupied by the machinations of getting back home to fully enjoy the new experiences. The brochure promised a life-changing memory but I doubted I’d be able to unplug from the hardened routine for any length of time to let it register.

I left the vintage cab, tipped generously, filed through the screening queue, and eventually boarded. My overnight bag I kept by my feet. Once in the air, two bourbons helped me doze off until the treble speak of the onboard system announced our landing. The colors of the islands were magnificent greens and teals, dotted with multicolored flowers and striped through with pristine beaches. Resorts speckled here and there and I wondered in which one I was reserved.

Out of the plane, I removed my sport coat, the temperature being at least 30 degrees hotter than where I flew from, the air smelling of sunshine and promise. In spite of myself I relaxed and smiled, slipped on some dark sunglasses. The cab ride to the resort snaked up a twisty road, from switchback to switchback climbing ever higher until the road crested and presented the large wooden lodge in all its teakwood peaked glory. Palms bowed at the entrance and eager bellhops came every few feet to smile and offer help. I waved them off and checked in, walked the orange blossom scented carpeted halls and slid the key card into my room.

Throwing my bag on the bed, I walked over to the patio window and took in the view. The edge of the island looked far off. Private aerie indeed. The phone rang, a pleasant tropical ringtone like pineapples beaten on steel drums. “Welcome Mr. Caplan, good afternoon. We have all the arrangements made for your evening and we think you will enjoy what we have planned. The questionnaire you filled out gave us some ideas and we narrowed down the three best options. Know each companion has been specially made and never used by anyone, so we want you to fully enjoy.”

“Ok,” I replied.

“What time would you like the festivities to commence?”

I thought. I wanted to shower first, of course. “An hour? Hour and a half?”

“Excellent. That time frame has been entered and noted. We are excited to present your first option. You can decide to opt out if it is not to your liking, but we are confident in our algorithm and believe the first one will be the only one.”

“How many times has someone opted out and chosen one of the other three?”

The attendant laughed. “Never. Enjoy your stay.”

I hung up, showered, raided the mini fridge in my towel. After my second Maker’s Mark, a knock sounded on the door. I opened it and a crate was wheeled in by a bellhop. I tipped him and he left promptly after handing me a card. The card reade: “Key code 4196, for both container and character boot.”

The crate had a keypad and I typed the code. A hermetic seal hissed open and a dark human shaped figure slid out covered in bubble wrap and plastic. Feeling like a kid on Christmas morning, I hastily tore off the packaging and there she stood: a life-size Mrs. Butterworth, looking like a dark bottle filled with syrup but with obvious articulation, squinty eyes and smile, hands clasped at her waist. She looked hotter than her original design. Less grandmother, more sexy aunt or sultry cougar. Larger hips, plunging neckline, and a shiny booty. I felt stirrings and excitement. What in my questionnaire could have possibly triggered this? Age group of desirable mate? What flavor always brings comfort? I had definitely listed maple a couple times. While I had never had this fantasy, this was definitely in my wheelhouse, but a kink I would have never thought of for myself. The algorithm was impressive.

I flipped the kneecap open and typed in the 4196 code. A whirring, a hint of ozone, and suddenly the statue before me began moving fluidly and stepped across the room. The crate folded itself up and slid on its edge via two wheels into the closet, even shut the door behind itself. Mrs. Butterworth strode across the room and her voice sounded incredibly sexy, raspy yet buttery, like Kathleen Turner just keg-standed a pound of honey.

“This room is great,” she cooed. “Looove the view. Remind me your name again?”

Her face smiled and her eyes radiated desire. I thought i saw liquid flowing inside her, unless it was an optical trick to project the bottle effect.

I must have taken too long to answer because she purred, “Cat got your tongue?”

“Simon,” I said.

“Mmmmm, Simon. Speaking of tongues, Simon, why don’t you come here so I can taste yours?”

She/it stood with a leg out and I saw her/its long skirt was slit nearly to her belt, which offered a long narrow window of leg curve and a hint of underpants. Why would a pleasure droid need underpants?

I strode over and held her and she was warm to the touch. Soft like real skin, too. She smelled great. Like being sleepy and wanting breakfast and grinning. That’s what she smelled like. Like memories. I kissed her warm soft lips, feeling a carbonation in my stomach and a nervous system branched explosion comprised of yes and more.

She moved her tongue into my mouth and I caressed it with my own tongue, sucked it, rotated my head left and right, keeping her tongue prisoner. She tasted amazing. Like real maple sugar. She pressed her body against me and I could feel her hard nipples jabbing me just under mine. Her hot breath steamed my glasses and I threw them across the room. My attention was completely on this moment. I kissed her cheeks, sucked her earlobes. Though she wasn’t damp, she tasted of maple sugar. I licked her neck, she moaned, sucked in her breath so that under her ribs ebbed. I kissed down her belly as she unbuttoned the golden brown gown, let it fall to the floor.

I kissed down her legs, purposefully avoiding her nipples and vulva so her excitement would build and thus her energy. She had on some golden brown high heels and with the toe of one, she pressed my head back, dug the heel under my chin. She looked down at me with eyebrows up. “You want me?” she asked.

“Yes,” I croaked. She dug the heel in more, almost to pain level. “Then lick the bottom of my shoe and you can have anything you want.” Her mouth turned up in a grin on one side. I dragged my tongue against the underside of the shoe. (She was just in plastic and had only walked a few steps around 6 star hotel carpeting. It was not nasty.) Tasted like maple sugar. She pulled me up from the floor, onto the bed. She eyed me for a second, then started unbuttoning everything down the front. (Her processor must have computed buttons vs zips and reconfigured the seduction technique.) I was not really into S&M, but this was I guess diet S&M, maybe due to the questionnaire where I told about a time I was accidentally choked during sex (The woman was on top and leaned her elbows on the sides of my windpipe. It made for an intense orgasm, but not something I could ever plan on doing again.)

Anyhow, Mrs. Butterworth and I were nude and on the bed. (I can only assume Mr. Butterworth wasn’t watching from the corner or CCTV.) I finally gave her nipples release. Then I swirled my tongue on her clit while she hummed her moans over the tongue depressor of my cock. Everywhere, she tasted like maple sugar. I slid inside her with her below me. I went inside and hit her walls. She moaned and grinned. In and out I stroked with each stroke producing a moan from below.

I flipped her over and tongued her ass, buried my face there and licked away. Maple goddamned sugar. I mounted her from behind, stroked fast then slow. “Pull my hair,” she grunted as I felt her vulva clamp with excitement. I wrapped some strands around my fist and tugged. Her head went back and her mouth broadened in pleasure. She pressed herself back against me, to the hilt and deeper. Her toes curled and her mouth sounded like a first time rev on a motocross bike. I slid my thumb in her ass, increased my speed going in her. Light and pleasure braided into one, my body seemed to move on its own tempo, extremities tingled and convulsed. My hands shook as I gripped her sides, her moans such sweet music, the vibration, the tempo, until…………..cascading sparks from the best fireworks on the 4th of July. A release, a return to the senses, an exhale of happiness before all the shitty floods back into the world like a thunderclap. To orgasm is to produce lightning.

A sheen of sweat had beaded down her back. I didn’t lick it but I know what it probably tasted like. I had selected the post-coital cuddle option which was fine, except if you moved too abruptly she would offer to get you a glass of water.

The next morning I checked out still grinning, ran my credit card. I decided to upgrade to take home. The thought of destroying her was too much, but like they said, you are the only one to use it, so if you don’t buy it after, they will incinerate it. After I signed, I asked the guy what my other two options would have been if I hadn’t kept the maple queen. “We can’t tell you that. But on next visit, we can show you.”

Ah, so that’s how they keep you coming back. Since Mrs. Butterworth was coming home with me, I wouldn’t be back.