The Institute: Body Double

"Marry me," D'Arcy announced, as though it were the most natural thing on earth. "It's time. We've waited long enough."

I had been working up the courage to pop the question. Now she had co-opted me. I decided to have some fun with her.

"You're just marrying me for my money," I teased.

"Yes," she chirped matter-of-factly, softly stroking my chest with the palm of her hand while gazing at me through heavy-lidded bedroom eyes, "and your personality, your sense of humor, your Prettyboy good looks, your tight, compact body, your wickedly perverse sexual appetite, a million and one things, big and small, that make you, you. Most importantly, I am marrying you for the way you always, always put me first. You deserve me -- and I deserve you."

We went ring-shopping and scored a breathtaking five-carat flawless blue-white solitaire set in white gold, with matching wedding band. We could have gone big on the ceremony, inviting everyone from the company, plus her sorority sisters and nursing school roommates. I'm certain Brock would have turned it into the social event of the year. Instead, D'Arcy counselled we keep it small and simple. She chose Mama as her Maid of Honor (if you bent the rules -- like, over backward -- she qualified). Jerry Krykowski stood up for me. Gramma and Grampa flew up from Port St. Lucie. The girls from the salon, my uncles, their families and Mama's friends were in attendance.

We spent a week in Fiji at one of those resorts that feature huts built right over the water. You always hear about people who, after finding a place like this, say "fuck it" and tell the rest of the world to kiss off. I could certainly see the attraction. Still, those people don't have a life like ours to go home to -- or a woman like D'Arcy to share it with. On the flight home, my wife -- I was still trying to wrap my head around that concept - was admiring the twin decorations on her ring finger. She turned to me and cupped my cheek with her right hand while showing off the left.

"Aren't these the most exquisite things you have ever seen in your life?" she gushed quietly.

"No," I denied earnestly. "That would be the one wearing them."

"You always know the right thing to say," she sighed contentedly.

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I lay on my back on our California King bed, insensate. 'Alexis' had welcomed me home from work dressed, made up and coiffed to the nines. She had then delivered a full-court press; catered, candlelit dinner, drinks and dancing in our living room, followed by a round of sex that left me staring blankly at the ceiling. There had been no games this time, no artifice beyond that of my lover's cherished alter ego. She had unleashed the full power of her raging sexuality - a beast I had helped create - and focused it on me and me alone. Now she lay beside me, gazing down on her handiwork, a serene smile on her lips.

I am not stupid. I have come to know this woman intimately; sometimes, I think, better than I know myself. She wanted something. Judging by the lengths to which she had gone, it was something big.

"What?" I questioned, gazing into those eyes that could turn me to jelly. She said nothing at first; merely cocked one eyebrow quizzically and ratcheted up her smile a notch. I scrunched my eyes into a squint; my own silent statement:

You can fool all of the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time, but you can't fool me anytime!

She laughed; a rich, warm explosion of pure joy that made me feel warm and gooey. Then she placed a hand on my cheek, her long stiletto nails -- the nails she could now have -- lightly scraping my flesh. My whole body shuddered involuntarily from that one simple, sensual act.

God, I loved this woman.

"Rather than telling you," she pronounced in her accented 'Alexis' purr, "let me show you."

She reached down on her side of the bed and brought up her laptop computer. Lifting the lid, she hit Enter, then typed in her password, bringing the hibernating machine to life. On the screen was a downloaded story, complete with pictures. It was one of those 'extreme plastic surgery' exposés. A young woman had paid a six-figure sum to be transformed into a Kim Kardashian clone. The images revealed a dark-haired goddess who, indeed, could have been the reality-show diva's twin.

"The work was performed right here in town, Darling," my lover informed me, a twinkle in her eye. "She went to The Institute."

I was well aware of this place. It was the destination for people of means to have their 'little work done' in complete privacy and security. Post-op recovery facilities and nursing care were available on site. No one need risk public scrutiny and/or rebuke while bandaged and bruised. Nor were unauthorized personnel allowed inside the compound's imposing eight-foot stone walls; a guardhouse at the gate, manned twenty-four hours a day, ensured that mandate. That meant paparazzi or anyone else. The surgical artists, research scientists and technicians employed there re-defined "state of the art" seemingly every day. They proudly told their prospective clients: "we make your dreams a reality." Of course, such results came at a price; a hefty one. My own mother was one of their satisfied clients and I could hardly fault the outcome of her experience.

I looked at the pictures again, and suddenly, I knew. She saw recognition in my eyes and beamed delight.

"When?" was my only question.

"I... took the liberty of booking my procedures already," the brunette confided. "I knew you wouldn't deny me this, just as you have never denied me anything since we met. I have arranged to have your mama drive me up Sunday afternoon. My surgeries begin first thing Monday morning. I will be gone a month."

"A month?" I queried, astonished. "That long? How soon can I come and visit, see how you are doing?"

"You can't," she insisted gently, but firmly. "Michael, we are not talking about a simple nose job here. I will be undergoing multiple procedures by multiple teams of doctors and will be in surgery all day Monday. The road to recovery after that will be a long, arduous one. For the first ten days, I will be a sight that would turn Medusa herself to stone. When I am not zoned out on medication, I will be beyond bitchy. Even if they allowed visitation, and they don't, I would not want to expose you to that and have you remember me that way. I want to come home to you complete, fully-formed, perfect in every way. That is what I want you to see and appreciate. You deserve nothing less for the fantasy life you have already given me, and continue to give me every day. Please tell me you understand and will honor my wishes."

We said our tearful good-byes Sunday. I carried her suitcase out to Mama's Lexus and placed it in the trunk, then came around to the passenger window. We kissed one final time. Then my mother pulled away from the curb. I watched the car diminish down the street, turn the corner -- and then it was gone. I couldn't help but feel a cherished, really important chapter of my life had just ended. What would take its place? Only time would tell.

I worked. I ran. I worked out in our home gym. I filled my time home alone as best I could. I couldn't even do little odd jobs around the house, because the house was already perfect. That left me a lot of time to brood. Had I made the right choice? Nonsense! It wasn't my choice to make. My only option was to say "Yes" or "No". If I had said "No", denied her her dream, what would have become of us?

Honest to God, I crossed off the days on our wall calendar.

Mama helped -- a lot. I had her over for dinner at least twice a week. She reciprocated. It was like the old days, when it had been just the two of us. Mama always knew how to make me feel better about myself, the person I wanted to be.

That long, hellacious 33-day torment ended on a Friday evening. Mama had picked D'Arcy up early that morning, but even then she wasn't ready to see me. Instead, they went directly to the salon so my lover could indulge herself in a "Day of Beauty". I had gone to the office, but had been useless all day. The house was spotlessly clean. I had stocked the refrigerator with food and champagne to celebrate her return. That left me nothing to do but pace the living room floor.

Through the front window, I saw the car pull up to the curb and park. I was out the door like a shot, down the steps, advancing down the walk. The passenger door opened... and she gracefully swung her legs over the sill and stood. The outfit was deceptively simple; a long-sleeved red silk blouse with pointed collar, unbuttoned to the fourth button, a fitted, over-the-knee-length black lambskin pencil skirt, stockings and black calfskin Cash Calzature platform pumps with seven-inch stiletto heels. A wide, cinched-in black calfskin belt accentuated her narrow waist.

It was the package inside that took my breath away. How many times had D'Arcy and I watched this vision on our television screen? I had memorized every line, every curve, every gesture and facial expression. I had even fantasized about her sitting next to me on the sofa, watching her own show with me and making behind-the-scenes commentary. I had finally come to admit to myself; I, like D'Arcy, was completely captivated by this woman. Now she -- a twenty-something vision of her - was here, standing before me, smiling D'Arcy's coy, cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. Now it was her smile.

And yet, this goddess-in-the-flesh was dramatically different. The simple, yet provocative outfit revealed a lush, curvy body her progenitor did not possess. She had taken the best of D'Arcy and improved upon it -- in spades. I didn't know then, but would learn later she measured a very provocative 40-24-39. At that moment, I only knew she filled out that skirt and blouse like no woman's business. Her lipstick and long stiletto nails matched her blouse. Those haunting, taunting, glacial, dramatically made-up gray eyes matched the best of my memories.

We met half-way. She pressed her body against mine, rubbing back and forth in that salacious way she knew oh, so well. Her kiss was light, so as not to muss her lipstick, but full of promise for later. The fingers of her right hand slid though my hair, their stiletto nails lightly scraping the tender flesh of my scalp. She couldn't help but notice my raging hard-on pressing against her tight skirt. She glanced down, then up into my eyes.

"So," she pronounced in her clipped, oh-so-precise British accent, "did you miss me, Prettyboy?"

We didn't leave our new home all weekend. We did properly christen every room in it.

Chapter Four

Go ahead. Tell me you could be perfectly blasé coming home to your television/movie-star-clone wife every day, as if it were the most normal routine on earth. Tell me having sex every night with an out-and-out goddess -- an insatiable screamer of a goddess - is "ho-hum, same old, same old". Tell me you wouldn't be tripping over your own tongue and doing your very best to keep saliva spots off your shoes. Tell me seeing the rings on her finger and hearing this woman tell you she loves you with all her heart for making her dream life come true isn't the most humbling experience you have had in your life.

Tell me you wouldn't do, give her anything she asked for with a snap of those elegantly-manicured fingers and a rich, gentle purr in that crisp, alluring British accent.

It's not like she had to go to court to legally change her name. Alexis Morrell was her name. If she had to sign legal documents, it was "D. Alexis Morrell". Otherwise, the metamorphosis was complete. She embraced her new identity with serene confidence. Other than me, Mama was her biggest fan. The other girls and clients at the salon were not far behind. People came up to her and asked for her autograph.

"Wow, you are even more stunning in person. I swear, you don't look a day over twenty-five."

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Alexis was beyond exquisite as she left that Friday evening to join Mama and their friends. The black crepe dress hugged her curves like wet tissue. The right arm was bare. The left shoulder strap featured a big, fluffy bow. It wasn't low-cut, but the thrust of her F-cup breasts through the clingy material was not to be denied. The hem demurely covered the welts of her stockings, unless she moved suddenly or bent over. Add a pair of Christian Louboutin platform pumps with seven-inch stiletto heels, jewelry, perfume, makeup and hair and my lover was hot. So was the embrace she gave me before she went out the door, complete with grinding her pussy into my crotch.

"No other boy I ever dated would have let me walk out the door looking like this unless he was attached to my side like a remora," she posited. "You are the 'real man' in my life. Don't think for a moment I don't recognize that -- and appreciate it."

She paused for a moment, her eyes fixed on a point over my shoulder as her mind wandered. A coy smile tugged at the corners of her glossy lips as her attention returned.

"Just think of all those boys who will be there tonight," she continued in her saucy, accented 'Alexis' voice, reinforcing her words with the pressure of her pussy rubbing back and forth against my clothed flesh. "They will see me and want me so bad. They will take me out on the dance floor and dance real close, pressing their sex against mine just the way I am doing to you right now. Their hands will be all over my body, too; touching, feeling, caressing, trying to get me as hot for them as I am getting you for me..."

Her words were getting me hot and bothered. She had slipped into our hotwife role-playing fantasy so smoothly, effortlessly, knowing full well the erotic effect it had on my libido as well as hers.

"You had better be ready to perform for me when I get home, Prettyboy," she cooed, gently scraping the sharp tips of her fingernails down the tender flesh of my cheek. "I'm going to need good loving and lots of it after the evening I'm going to have. If you can't give me what I need, I might have to go elsewhere to find it."

She punctuated her threat/promise with the lightest, sweetest buss on my lips, adding a stroke of my cheek with the palm of her hand. Then she was gone.

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It must have been close to 3AM when I was awakened by a shifting of the mattress. It was dark, but I felt myself being straddled, pinning my arms to my sides. A looming presence hovered above my head. My nose detected a pungent, complex bouquet of hairspray, perfume, liquor, raging sexual arousal.

"Do me," her voice hissed in the night as she jammed her sex into my face. My mouth was immediately flooded with a gush of thick, ropy, pungent cum. She had really done it!

"Clean my cunt, you bastard," she commanded. "You have no clue how much I need a good, hard fucking. Those pricks were all over me all night, teasing me, enticing me, feeling me up, dry-humping me on the dance floor, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, telling me no real man would allow a girl like me to go out without him, looking as fine as I do, unless he wanted me to get laid by any man who had the stones to take me. Your mama got laid. Gayle got laid. Jennifer got laid. Even Elizabeth got laid.

"There was this one guy who walked up and introduced himself as pretty as you please. Even in my high heels, I had to look up to him. He was so ripped, even his muscles had muscles. He took me out on the dance floor and danced real close. I could feel him, Michael; right through his pants. His cock was huge; the biggest I have ever felt in my life. He was hard, throbbing and wanted me so bad. God help me, I wanted him, too! What was I to do, Michael? What was I to do?"

She had hold of my head with both hands, jamming my face into her hot, steamy snatch. Her well-toned muscles were expelling her juices and his into my mouth in waves. I could easily envision this faceless, well-hung stud having his way with her, filling her cunt to overflowing with his demon seed. That, plus her vile, stream-of-consciousness invective of how she had been defiled these past few hours was like a drug, binding me to her, compelling me to do her bidding. I wanted to please her, worship at her temple, give her any and all she required of me. As I lapped furiously at her love canal, she screamed through one climax after another; still she wasn't satisfied.

I knew instinctively what I had to do. I managed to roll her off me and onto her back. Reaching across her, I opened the top drawer of her nightstand and withdrew the Manhandler. Holding her tightly with my right arm, I jammed all ten inches of latex 'meat' into her with my left and pumped hard, emulating her description of how she had been taken and used like a fucktoy. She seized my left wrist with both hands; not to pull the phallus out, but to drive it in harder, deeper. Her banshee wails intensified with the assault, echoing off walls and windows and crashing into my head.

My lover released her death grip on my wrist. Her hypersonic screams tapered off to whimpers. We both rolled onto our backs, panting. Alexis pulled the latex intruder from her well-used hole and tossed it aside. Her whole body vibrated like a cell phone on silent ring. I closed my eyes for a minute...

I awoke to a sharp prick in the side of my neck. A sudden rush of intense warmth and well-being suffused my senses. I felt... detached, dreamy, like I was being borne aloft on a carpet of fog. At the same time, I felt tingly, electrified, as if millions of nerve synapses were firing in sequence. It was still dark in the room, but there was enough light emanating from the clock-radio on the nightstand to make out my lover pulling back from my side, a dermal injector pen in her hand.

"That's better," she sighed. "I gave you a little 'mood enhancer". That will make this next part so much more pleasurable for you. She's all yours, Jean-Claude. Make her your bitch."

A darker shape emerged from the darkness. In the semi-illumination, it appeared very tall, very broad, and very muscular. Jutting out from the inverted "V" of his loins was something huge! As he pressed it to my lips, I could detect its pungent aroma.

"Suck it, Baby," she cooed in my ear. "Suck his cock. Show him you are alright with him being here."

The pressure persisted until I finally had to part my lips and jaw. The bulbous head slipped in, then withdrew, then entered again; this time a little deeper. The process repeated. Each time, a little more of the thick shaft worked its way into my mouth. In my euphoric state, I suddenly craved this delectable hunk of man-meat more than the tenderest, juiciest sirloin. I grabbed the shaft with both hands and guided its seductive bulk into my oral opening.

"Ooooo, that's the way, Baby," she purred appreciatively. "Take all of him. We knew, in your heart, there was no way you could resist this."

I sucked greedily, savoring the flavor. It was... different than that which had filled my wife's quim. In fact, it was better, somehow sweeter. I was in bed with the love of my life. We were sharing this, as we shared all important things. Everything was alright.

"That's so good, Baby," my lover repeated, "but you know what? He is still not sure of you. He needs to be convinced you are totally okay with being his little fucktoy. What can we do to set his mind at ease? I have an idea. Help me with this, Baby. This is going to be the best yet."