You ever get that itch to do something so batshit crazy it’s either genius or grounds for a psych eval? Yeah, that’s where I was last weekend—bored out of my skull, staring at my teen sex doll, and thinking, “Fuck it, let’s go for a spin.” Not just any spin, though—nah, I strapped her into the passenger seat of my beat-up Civic and hauled ass to the automatic car wash down the street. Why? ‘Cause I’m a sick bastard who wanted to see jaws drop and phones pop out. Spoiler: it went down exactly like you’d expect—and then some. Here’s the whole damn tale, unfiltered and unapologetic.
Prepping the Doll: My Silent Co-Pilot
First things first—had to get her ready. My doll’s a mid-tier TPE beauty—$1,200 worth of tight little ass, perky tits, and a face that screams “fuck me” with those big, glassy eyes. Blonde hair down to her shoulders, slim waist you could wrap your hands around, and legs I’ve bent every which way. I call her Lexi—not ‘cause she talks back, but ‘cause it’s hotter than yelling “Doll!” when I’m balls-deep.
I tossed her in a crop top—white, tight, showing off those nipples poking through—and a little denim skirt that barely covered her pussy. No panties, ‘cause why bother? Slapped a pair of cheap sunglasses on her to hide the “I’m not real” stare, and damn, she looked good—like a slutty college chick ready for a road trip. Propped her up in the passenger seat, buckled her in, and adjusted her so she’s sitting straight, one hand resting on her thigh like she’s chilling. From the side, you’d almost buy it—almost.
Car’s a mess—empty Monster cans, a rogue sock, some crusty tissues (don’t ask)—but Lexi’s the star here. I’m grinning like an idiot as I pull out of the driveway, knowing this is either the dumbest or dopest thing I’ve ever done. Neighbors didn’t blink—too busy mowing lawns—but the real test’s coming. Automatic car wash, five bucks, five minutes of pure chaos. Let’s fuckin’ go.
Rolling In: The Calm Before the Shitstorm
It’s a Saturday afternoon, sun’s blazing, and the car wash is hopping—minivans, pickups, some dude in a Tesla trying to flex. I pull into the line, three cars deep, and already I’m catching side-eyes. Lexi’s sitting there, still as a statue, staring out the windshield like she’s deep in thought. I crank the AC—don’t want her TPE ass melting—and blast some Metallica to set the mood. Guy in the F-150 behind me glances over, does a double-take, then looks away fast. Yeah, buddy, you saw her—keep staring.
Line moves slow, and I’m sweating bullets—not ‘cause I’m nervous, but ‘cause I’m hyped. This is my “fuck you” to normalcy, my middle finger to the mundane. I peek at Lexi—damn, she’s hot. That tight top’s hugging her tits just right, skirt riding up enough to flash a little thigh. If she were real, I’d be banging her in the backseat right now. But she’s not, and that’s the kicker—this whole stunt’s about pushing limits.
Finally, it’s my turn. Roll up to the pay kiosk, punch in my five bucks, and the attendant—a scruffy dude in his 20s with a vape dangling from his lips—ambles over. “Wash and wax?” he mumbles, barely looking up. Then he clocks Lexi. His eyes go wide, vape nearly drops, and he freezes like he’s seen a ghost. “Uh… she good?” he stammers, nodding at her. I smirk, “Yeah, she’s just along for the ride.” He blinks, mutters “cool,” and scurries back to the booth. Game on.
Inside the Wash: Lexi vs. The Machine
Tires hit the track, car lurches forward, and we’re in—the automatic wash kicks off with a hiss of water and a wall of soap suds. Lexi’s front and center, strapped in tight, staring blankly as the brushes slam against the windows. It’s loud as fuck—whirring motors, splashing water, foam splattering everywhere—and I’m cackling like a maniac. Outside, Vape Guy’s standing by the control booth, peering through the glass like he’s watching a damn UFO landing.
First pass: the pre-rinse. Water blasts the windshield, streaming down in sheets, and Lexi doesn’t flinch—sunglasses on, tits perked up, looking like she’s posing for a wet T-shirt contest. I glance out the side window—Vape Guy’s got his phone out now, snapping pics or video, I can’t tell. “Yeah, get that shot, asshole,” I mutter, loving every second. The brushes drop next, giant spinning fuckers that scrub the hood and sides, rocking the car like we’re in a storm. Lexi’s steady—head tilted slightly, hand still on her thigh, skirt hiked up enough to tease what’s underneath.
Soap suds pile up, turning the windows into a blurry mess, and I’m picturing the chaos outside. Vape Guy’s probably texting his buddies: “Dude, some psycho brought a mannequin to the wash!” Brushes hit the passenger side hard, and for a split second, I worry her arm’s gonna flop—cheap joints’ll do that—but she holds firm. Good girl, Lexi. Water jets kick in again, rinsing off the foam, and there she is—crop top soaked, nipples popping through like headlights, skirt clinging to her thighs. I’m half-hard just looking at her, and we’re not even out yet.
Final blast—air dryers roar, shaking the car like a goddamn earthquake. Lexi’s hair flutters a little, but she’s unfazed—sunglasses still on, cool as shit. I’m losing it, laughing so hard I’m tearing up. This is peak absurdity, and I’m the king of it. Wash ends, track spits us out, and it’s showtime—time to face the world.
Rolling Out: Jaws Drop, Phones Pop
Pull out of the tunnel, wet car gleaming, and the scene’s straight outta a fever dream. Vape Guy’s still by the booth, phone in hand, staring like I just ran over his dog. To my left, a soccer mom in a Suburban’s got her mouth open, kids in the back pressing faces to the window. To my right, some dude in a Jeep’s squinting, head tilted, trying to figure out if Lexi’s real or not. I roll slow, letting ‘em soak it in—me grinning like a jackass, Lexi sitting pretty, tits still wet and screaming for attention.
Stop at the exit light, and Jeep Guy’s bold—he leans out. “Yo, she okay? She ain’t moved once!” I turn, deadpan, “She’s just shy—hates getting wet.” His eyes bug out, he stammers “Oh, uh, cool,” and sinks back into his seat. Soccer Mom’s still gawking, one hand on her phone like she’s debating 911 or a TikTok. Vape Guy’s jogging over now, waving me down. “Dude, what’s her deal? She a robot or something?” I laugh, “Nah, just my date—low maintenance.” He snorts, snaps another pic, and I peel out before he asks for her number.
Drive home’s a blur—every stoplight’s a stage. Old lady in a Prius stares, guy on a motorcycle revs past with a thumbs-up, some teens in a Taco Bell parking lot point and howl. Lexi’s oblivious, skirt still damp, nipples poking like they’re begging to be sucked. I’m buzzing—half adrenaline, half horny as fuck. This wasn’t just a car wash; it was a goddamn performance, and I crushed it.
The Aftermath: Worth It?
So, was it worth it? Hell yeah. Lexi’s fine—TPE held up, no damage, just a little damp. Me? I’m a local legend now—buddy saw the post, knew it was me, and won’t shut up about it. Cost me five bucks and some dignity, but the rush? Priceless. Fucking her that night felt extra dirty—wet hair, car wash vibes, knowing the world’s talking about us.
Would I do it again? Maybe—next time, I’d crank it up. Tinted windows down, Lexi topless, see how many phones fry before I’m banned. For now, I’m basking—king of the car wash, lord of the dolls. Dare’s done, limits pushed, and I’m still hard thinking about it.
