The Institute: Body Double

Did I say D'Arcy was obsessive about La Collins? She memorized entire passages of the diva's dialog and echoed them as they played out on screen -- and had that clipped, oh-so-precise British accent down cold. With their shared dark brunette hair, icy, mesmerizing gray eyes, accent and affected, haughty attitude, it was almost like watching the re-runs with the actress herself sitting next to me on the sofa, adding behind-the-scenes commentary.

Then a vision popped into my mind; the haughty, aristocratic Alexis, uttering the unlikely words: Take a hike, Buddy.

That's where I thought I had seen my girlfriend before.

"I believe Alexis is the perfect role model for the young, with-it, twenty-first-century woman," my lover asserted in that crisp, modulated London lilt. "She has style, class, drive, attitude and a taste for the very best. I would love to be just like her."

My breath audibly caught in my throat. I guess I had always known Joan Collins, with her Old Hollywood sense of style with makeup, hair and clothes, was a supernaturally attractive woman. After watching her again and again in her signature role as the imperious, demanding Alexis, I had come to realize how... compelling she really was. My girlfriend's fixation on her totally made sense. The thought of my own D'Arcy as that dominant diva...

"Oh, you like that idea, do you?" the bewitching brunette purred seductively with a coy smile, stroking my now-raging member through my pants. "Perhaps we need to explore this mutual fascination further, Prettyboy."

That moment marked a turning point in our relationship. We had experimented with domination-submission before. D'Arcy had enjoyed being the 'top'. I had felt... liberated surrendering control to her. Now we took our game to the next level. In a matter of weeks, morphing into the confident, in-control "Alexis Morrell" became less role-playing and more an act of slipping into a snug, perfectly-fitting kid glove, right down to that clipped, oh-so-proper British accent. You could see the transition in her eyes when she walked through the door after class. Even in casual clothes and minimal makeup, 'Alexis' was there in a sanguine, alluring smile, a soft caress of my cheek and those haunting, taunting glacial gray eyes.

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A diva needs to dress accordingly. Now that we had the means, we could indulge in clothes, shoes and accessories that flaunted my girlfriend's newfound sense of entitlement. Nine hundred dollars for that pair of designer ultra-high heels that caught her eye?

"Take care of it, Prettyboy. You know how fabulous they will look on me."

Of course, they did -- and made her feel fabulous as well. Someone had to slip those designer heels on her pretty feet. That job became mine. Soon I was dressing 'Alexis' from the skin out for our playtime; hooking hooks, snapping snaps, buttoning buttons, zipping zippers.

In keeping with her new image, my lover decided it was time to ramp up her 'look'. She stopped at the MAC store downtown on her way home from class one day. She treated herself to a very 'Alexis' Glam-over and brought home a professional-quality makeup kit in an aluminum flight case, with accessories and a top-tier set of brushes. The problem was, she couldn't re-create that 'look' herself later. Unlike her namesake, cosmetics had been an afterthought to my girl-next-door girlfriend until then; she didn't have the knack for a makeup effect that involved. I knew it vexed her, even if she wouldn't admit it.

"Let me do it," I offered one night as she sat at her vanity.

She drew her head back, a bemused smile on her lips. I could almost see the words "AS IF" coursing through her brain, yet she cocked her head towards her makeup kit, silently offering me a try.

I turned her away from the mirror and went to work. I took my time, adding powders and paints one after another and blending, blending, blending. The thick, curly pair of false lashes and red lipstick were the perfect finishing touches. I turned her to face the mirror. I hadn't seen a reaction like that since the night we met. It wasn't Drag or Las Vegas Showgirl. It certainly wasn't Bozo the Clown. It was clearly "Alexis" in the Hollywood-glamour tradition, but a bit overstated, as Alexis herself is larger than life. The now-stunning brunette turned her head this way and that, studying herself in the mirror. Then she turned to me and her expression changed. It was equal parts "I deserve every bit of this" and "Where the hell did that come from?"

"I grew up with this," I explained with a slight shrug of my shoulders. "My mother has worked in a salon her entire adult life. She taught me... stuff."

"Stuff," my companion echoed with amusement, her riveting, star-quality eyes twinkling. "Stuff."

The new, improved 'Alexis' flowed fluidly to her feet. Pressing against me, she stroked my cheek while gazing playfully into my eyes.

"Hmmmmm," she mused, those seductively made-up eyes dancing, "my own personal dresser and makeup artist. I think I'll keep you around, Prettyboy. I can't wait to see what other talents you may be hiding. Perhaps it's time you introduced me to your mother. I would so much like to meet the author of all this largesse I have come to enjoy. Besides, it's time for a new hairstyle to complete the picture."

Meet my mother? Gulp. I wasn't ashamed of my mother by any stretch of the imagination; just the opposite. That said, was D'Arcy ready for this? Still, it was time they met, and I could visualize 'Alexis' with the kind of alluring, carefully-coiffed 'do Joan Collins rocked and Mama excelled at fashioning.

Calling ahead, I took my girlfriend to the salon which my mother now owned and operated, having taken over when my grandparents retired and moved to Florida. Mama had celebrated her newfound status and increased income by going Gramma's business ploy one better, changing her last name to Benét. She had also "gotten a little work done."

A little?

My lover was taken aback when the über-busty, drop-dead-gorgeous Platinum Blonde goddess with handspan waist, wide hips and full-on Brazilian bubble butt greeted us at the door in her tight-fitting dress and sky-high heels and hugged us both. If my mother hadn't coined the phrase "Big Hair, Don't Care" herself, she was one of its most ardent devotees. D'Arcy had arrived armed with a publicity photo of her screen idol, done up in a hairstyle she adored. With their mutual fandom already connecting them, Mama had loved both my girlfriend and her proposed new 'do instantly and had taken charge.

I watched them from a chair in the waiting area. They chatted animatedly, like two old friends. Occasionally, they would glance in my direction, smiling. At one point, Mama bent close and whispered something in my girlfriend's ear that made her eyes open wide and her mouth drop open in astonishment. I felt an icy mass in my stomach.

This could be bad.

My lover emerged two hours later. Gone was 'sleek and straight'. In its place was an over-the-shoulder mass of big, fluffed-out, perfectly-coiffed curls to match her pow makeover.

Joan Collins indeed.

She also had a new Best Friend Forever.

"Don't be strangers, you two," Mama urged, a warm, genuine smile on her plush, pouty lips. "Especially you, Girlfriend. You and I are gonna get along fabulously!"

D'Arcy managed to contain herself until we returned to the car.

"Tiffany is your mother?" she gushed effusively. "She could be your sister! She's gorgeous! She is such a, a..."

"Bimbo," I interjected, earning me a sharp elbow to the ribs.

"That was not the word I was going to use," my companion scolded, "but yes, she has that whole Barbie Doll thing going on in a big, big way. I could never pull off that look, but damn..."

Truer words were never spoken. There just weren't many women who would feel comfortable with Mama's eye-popping 48-24-42 physique and Barbie Doll mien, complete with prominent cheekbones, hyper-inflated lips and two-inch fingernails. When she corseted (and often did for the back support) her waistline approached twenty inches. Most people couldn't understand how she could do the work she did with those Dragon Lady talons. Knowing Mama as I did, I knew it was all a matter of practice; second nature to her now.

"So, what did you two talk about?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"Oh, stuff," D'Arcy teased. "Fashions, makeup, hair, Dynasty, men...you. She invited me to a Girls' Night Out with her and her girlfriends. I think that would be fun."

The idea of D'Arcy and Mama getting together socially was intriguing -- and troubling.

On one hand, my mother could be a good influence. She had grown into a strong, confident, successful, independent woman, very much like Joan Collins' Alexis. On the other hand, Mama's 'rebirth' had contributed to her morphing into Cougarzilla; constantly on the prowl for newer, choicer cuts of male meat. Her girlfriends were no better. Together, this 'posse' cruised the bars and nightclubs of the city. No man was immune to their predations.

My 'Alexis' would be a perfect fit; perhaps too good. Was I ready for that? Could our relationship survive it? We weren't married. We hadn't vowed "'til death do us part". There was nothing binding her to me if she met a guy who really made her toes curl. Plus, if Mama's tongue was sufficiently loosened by alcohol or some other 'party favor' they had been known to indulge in, she might let slip...

Chapter Three

They did get together on a regular basis, whenever D'Arcy's schedule allowed. As far as I could tell, my fears were unfounded. My lover returned from these events and nearly annihilated me with sex. Our relationship strengthened, deepened, as did hers with my mother. They were more than best friends; the stunning blonde had become a surrogate for the mother D'Arcy had lost. In turn, Mama was enchanted with 'Alexis'. One intriguing benefit from their deepening friendship was my girlfriend's own makeup efforts approached a level of near-professional expertise. She confessed she would love a set of long stiletto nails to complete the package, but the business school's administration was too conservative to allow that.

The now-fashion-forward, confident brunette thrilled to have me take her out and show off her new look. She played 'Alexis' to the hilt, right down to the accent. We even introduced her as such (never "Alex" or "Lexi") if the situation arose. Twenty-seven years after the series' cancellation, most guys didn't catch on (apparently, there were no Dynasty re-runs on ESPN). They only saw an attractive, vivacious, flirty woman and their interest was obvious. On several occasions, men walked up to her and asked her to dance, right in front of me. With a silent assent passing between the two of us, she would accept.

As herself, minus the accent, D'Arcy was a sensation at the company's Spring Fling Ball. She was the most in-demand partner on the dance floor. Even Brock took a turn with her, while his Flavor of the Month seethed on the sidelines. Surrounded by awestruck well-wishers, even I couldn't keep track of where she was or who she was with. Some commented how ravishing my girlfriend had become and how lucky I was. Others wondered aloud if that was the same D'Arcy at all. When she finally re-joined me after her whirlwind tour, the look in her eyes told me our time at the ball was drawing to an end. I was going to get lucky that night; very, very lucky.

Afterward, at home, our sex was near-animalistic in its intensity. Over time, we had incorporated these random hook-ups into our role-playing games, adding toys and our own vivid imaginations to reach new heights of fantasy perversion. One of our favorites was 'Alexis' as the 'hotwife' who adored big cock.

"What will your husband say when he finds out about us, Alexis?" I would coo in her ear, playing the role of the lothario who had just done his best to get into her panties, as I fucked her senseless with our Manhandler.

"I have him wrapped around my little finger," she would gasp, submerged in the persona of the wayward wife, matching my assault thrust for thrust. "He loves me so much, he will do anything I ask of him. He understands a woman like me deserves a real man with a real cock. I may just have Hubby sit in a chair and watch us. Then he can clean your cum out of my pussy with his lips and tongue -- then clean your cock the same way, to acknowledge you are the better man."

After delivering a half-dozen or so hummers with the latex leviathan, I would enter her and dump my own load in her well-used pussy. Then I did eat her out, just as we had role-played. If her resulting sexual tsunami hadn't awoken the neighbors two ZIP codes over, then those folks were already dead. Dangerous ground for a relationship? Perhaps, but the fantasy was hotter than a five-alarm fire for both of us; one we re-played again and again.

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It had been one of those nights. 'Alexis' had gone out with Mama and her girlfriends. She had returned hours later, horny as hell, challenging me to "make her scream". I had; multiple times. She lay on her back, panting, staring at the ceiling, seeing nothing. I felt as though I had run a marathon. My tongue was numb from exertion. I had tossed the Manhandler to one side, then cuddled with my beloved. We fell asleep that way.

I awoke lying on my stomach, to the sensation of someone straddling my thighs. The essence of Scoundrel, Joan Collins' signature scent, wafted through the air. A pillow beneath me elevated my hips and bottom. I tried to turn around, but discovered my wrists and ankles were secured by padded cuffs and rope to the four bedposts.

"Sauce for the goose, My Love," the vixen purred melodiously into my ear from behind. "You have given me so much pleasure these last months. How can I not return the favor? I want you to experience what I experience, feel what I feel, when you wind me up."

There was a quiet pop, then something pressed against my anal button. Immediately, I felt cold gel squirting inside me. That was followed by a single finger, then two, then three, sawing in and out, loosening me, spreading the slickness around. The fingers withdrew, only to be replaced by a firmer, larger presence; much larger. The bulbous head pushed past my sphincter, paused, then pushed a little more, then a little more, then a little more. In time, the invader's entire mass was inside me, massaging my prostate, filling me beyond full. Then the pumping began; in and out, in and out, her hands on my hips, facilitating her motions`. Alexis was slow, methodical, deliberate in her ministrations. She was in complete command and wanted me to know it.

"Yessssss," she hissed sibilantly, rocking back and forth. "This is soooo good. I feel free to be me; the 'me' I have always wanted to be. How do you feel about that, Prettyboy?"

How did I feel? I was in heaven. The woman I adored was turning my world upside-down. My entire universe had been reduced to my bottom and the monster dong pillaging it, with her loving words as the soundtrack. When I came, it felt like every fiber of my being erupted through the tip of my untouched male member into the pillow beneath me, leaving me utterly spent.

"Oh my," Alexis purred enticingly in my ear. "Did I do that? I had no idea you were so... sensitive. I like this new 'us'. We'll have to do this again -- often."

We did. While this new and thrilling turn of events did not completely replace the other facets of our love life, it did gain increasing traction in the weeks that followed. My lover purchased the lesbian love version of our Manhandler; twenty inches of thick, veined bulbous double-ended delight, mated to a heavy-duty cowhide-and-chrome-steel harness. The scenario never lost its allure. After laving her naked charms to a half-dozen or so flights to Nirvana, she would strap on her latex monster and have me pay oral homage to it. Then it was her turn to claim me, which she did with relish.

Alexis' assertive, take-charge personality blossomed, even as I sank contentedly into sub-space. We arrived at a point where no words needed to be spoken. That special gleam in her eye and cat-that-ate-the-canary smile on her lips pronounced she would own my ass that evening. Each night, I couldn't imagine two people more totally, head-over-heels in love. Each new day proved those silly ruminations hopelessly outdated.

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Jerry Krykowski was one of my few lasting friends from my fraternity years. He had been an Electronic Engineering major and... well, there was no good way to put this; Jerry was a geek. Like me, he had been terrorized by Eddie Matthews. After graduation, my friend had gone to work for Genesee Industries, a relatively new, up-and-coming defense contractor. Jerry and I still got together for lunch whenever we could. A recent get-together had changed my life forever.

Jerry confessed on the hush-hush he was part of a development team that had perfected a new electronics suite for military aircraft; an honest-to-goodness cloaking device. "Real Star Trek stuff," he had labeled it. Any aircraft so equipped would not only be invisible to radar, but to the human eye as well. On a fifth-generation fighter already equipped with thermal image suppression, the enemy would not know it was there until the bad guy had been blown out of the sky. The company would be able to charge whatever they wanted for this technology -- and get it. My friend had already ordered his own broker to purchase as much Genesee stock for him as he could get his hands on and advised me to do the same.

He had been at the party the night I laid out Eddie and felt he "owed me one".

I had gone big on the position, buying on margin, using the money D'Arcy and I had been saving for our home, plus a substantial short-term loan. I was literally 'betting the ranch' and then some. I had also alerted my boss to the windfall, carefully dancing around the source of the intel. There were more than national security implications and the FBI to worry about. The Securities and Exchange Commission would be all over us if there was even a whiff of insider trading. Brock recognized this as the tip of the year and went big for the company's preferred clients -- including himself.

When the announcement of the new long-term, four hundred billion dollar contract was made, Genesee stock took off for the moon -- and we were all along for the ride. The stock split, then split again. D'Arcy and I weren't Rockefeller rich, but neither of us would ever have to work again if we didn't want to. Brock must have read my mind. He cornered me and told me he couldn't do without his wünderkinde. The bonus he gave me more than made up for having to continue working -- and he assured me he was lobbying the other partners heavily for my place in the Executive Suite...

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Our newfound good fortune arrived just as D'Arcy completed her studies and was awarded her MBA. After working so long and hard to achieve that lofty goal, she had no problem taking a little time off to become a 'Lady of Leisure'; at least, until she found something more fulfilling to occupy her time. If she was miffed at all about the daring and unilateral gamble I had taken with our money, our new three-story, fully-renovated townhouse made up for it. She worked with the contractor on the interior layout, then shopped for the furnishings, including the antique Spanish walnut dining room set and third-floor home gym. Neither one of us would have an excuse for not remaining in the best physical shape of our lives. When everything was just so, we moved into our dream home -- and life.