The Institute: Body Double

It had been a while since I had been able to indulge in a Day of Beauty -- or even part of a day. One of the most underrated pleasures in the human experience is to be pampered by other human beings who require you to do absolutely nothing but sit back, relax and enjoy. Perhaps, under the Oxy's thrall, I relaxed a little too much...

Mama gently shook me awake. Wow, I must have been out for a while. Gayle and Jennifer had already departed. Mama was already dressed for the evening in a Royal Blue latex bustier-style mini-sheath and matching high-heeled sandals. She gazed down on me appreciatively.

"Are we... done?" I prompted, looking around.

"Not yet," the fabulous blonde answered, "but the progress is encouraging. Let's get you dressed."

The mirror was covered. That was a game we loved to play with complete makeovers. The "Grand Reveal" is always so much fun.

I understood my wife's desire for glamour nails completely. Gayle had done a breathtaking set on me. They were two inches long from root to tip, gently curving with oval tips, polished in MAC's Life's Blood with glittering gold nail art. I was both delighted and concerned. These were no press-ons; they were full-on acrylic sculpted nails. I wouldn't be prying these off with an orange stick after an evening of fun. I still had to go to work on Monday and these talons would not be suitable office attire. I extended my arms, palms out, and admired Gayle's handiwork. I wanted to cry: "it's too much! It's too much! My brain was telling me: "WOW, IT'S JUST RIGHT!! They looked exquisite on the long, tapering fingers of my small hands.

After all, Monday morning was such a long way away.

I had acrylic sculpted toenails, as well! They extended about an eighth-inch from the tips of my toes and perfectly matched my stunning new talons. I could keep these and no one at the office would ever know. The gold toe rings added just the right bad-girl touch. Even if I wore my male shoes, where no one would see them, I would know they were there.

Eight loose, dangling garters cried out for a pair of stockings. Pantyhose can be cute for a minute, but nothing says "girlie" like old-fashioned stockings and garters. These were 'old school' all the way; sheer black full-fashioned, with reinforced toe, French heel, back seam and dark, reinforced welt at the top. After removing my thong and donning the classic hosiery, I adjusted the gossamer fabric with the palms of my hands until the seams were arrow-straight up the backs of my legs before securing the welts with the garter tabs; four per leg. Those dark stocking tops concealed the already-nearly-invisible hems of my pussy panty legs. The corset already masked the upper extent, rendering the illusion perfect. With the replacement of the thong, my foundations were at last complete.

Sheila, Mama's client and friend, is the wardrobe mistress and costumer for a local theater company. She also does custom work on the side. For the right price, she can create anything, using any fabric or skin, including leather and latex. I could see her deft handiwork in this. The dress was fully-lined black satin spandex with gathered front. In place and zipped, it was spray-on tight, clearly delineating the cleavage between my profoundly-generous Brazilian bubble butt cheeks. The hem was knee-length. The scooped bodice was barely there. It covered my otherwise-exposed bullet-shaped nipples and dark areolae, but only just, exposing a vast expanse of boobflesh. The indentations in the fabric caused by those nipples were clearly visible. Wide shoulder straps attached at the sides, rather than in front, and perched securely on the extreme edges of my shoulders.

The shoes were black patent Di Marni open-toed platform pumps with two straps each. The first strapped diagonally across the instep; the second, horizontally, just below the ankle. The one-inch platform soles were mated to Di Marni's trademark rapier-thin seven-inch stiletto heels with steel caps.

The jewelry was gold. Super-skinny four-inch hoops in my earlobes. A half-dozen neck chains, ranging in length from ten inches to thirty, arrayed in a cascade that dipped deeply into my cleavage. A slender bracelet double-wrapped around my trim left ankle. Mama demurred on handing me the bangle bracelets, saying they would come later.

The black satin spandex opera-length gloves were very obviously intended to go with this dress. Starting with the left, I slipped my hand inside and worked the tight, stretchy material up my arm, all the way to my armpit, then worked out the wrinkles. The gloves were open at the fingertips, revealing my Dragon Lady talons in all their glory. I slipped eight jangly bangle bracelets on each wrist -- and my 'look' was complete.

But I wasn't. Obsession is my signature scent. A few spritzes in strategic locations and I smelled as alluring as I looked.

Mama ripped away the newspaper covering the mirror with a little "Ta-daaaaa!" Even I had to gasp. Dark smoky eyes with gold glitter to the inside of the lids. Wide swaths of black eyeliner angling up towards the corners of my eyebrows; a true 'cat-eye' effect. The brows themselves were sharply-angled bat-wings. Mama and I had this thing about fake eyelashes. These were the longest, thickest, curliest available. There was nothing 'natural' about them; these, like the rest of my 'look' were pure drama. The blush in the hollows of my cheeks really brought out the contour of my cheekbones.

Conventional beauty wisdom states, if you go bold on the eyes, you are supposed to go neutral on the lips. Mama had defied convention so long, it had packed up and left town. This was an old, bold look we both adored. My bee-stung lips were outlined in claret. That line had been smudged a little in towards the center. The lips had then been filled in with what looked like two coats of long-lasting MAC LipIntensity in Life's Blood. The lips, talons and toes were of a piece.

My own hair had been tucked up under a wig that was pure Mama. Platinum Blonde. Lace front. Layered. Huge fluffy curls, draping over my shoulders to mid-back.

Big Hair, Don't Care

I had no doubt it had been pinned in place. With Mama's expertise, this hair wouldn't come off for the End of Days. The hairline looked completely natural; as 'natural' as a creation like this could be. It worked really well with my 'boob job'.

It's called Rapture. Part euphoric, part aphrodisiac all synthetic and extremely powerful, a Rapture high makes Ecstasy seem like aspirin. The favored delivery system is a dermal injection pen, similar to those used for epinephrine. In fact, a six-dose Rapture injector is designed to resemble an Epi-Pen. Any exposed blood vessel is suitable for induction. The favorite is the vein in the crook of the elbow, although a 'hit' delivered to the carotid artery in the neck produces the most sudden, intense rush, as the drug speeds directly to the brain and lasts for hours. That is where Mama injected me, then herself. You didn't drink alone; that's anti-social. Why would you do Rapture alone? The sensation of floating on a thick, velvet fog, my entire nervous system in a state of dizzying, giggly enervation, returned. Rapture has always had that effect on me. She slipped that pen into her own purse and a second one into a black patent clutch bag, which she handed to me.

"Everything you will need tonight is already in there," she assured me.

"What time is it, Mama?" I asked.

"It's time to meet your destiny, Sweetheart," she replied with a wink.

She handed me my black rabbit coat, picked up her own purse and chinchilla coat and we were out the door.

I was riding a magic carpet through the clouds. I glided into the main room, my heels clicking on the tiled floor, my bangle bracelets jangling musically. The tight, hobbling dress and killer high heels conspired to make my hips and tush undulate in an exaggerated manner. An aromatic symphony of hairspray and perfume filled my nostrils. I felt like I had lost fifty I.Q. points in the last four hours and couldn't have been happier.

Alexis was sitting in the waiting area, browsing a magazine. When she saw us approach, she stood, mouth agape, looking dumbfounded. She was dressed in a stunning gold brocade bustier-style mini-sheath, dark stockings and gold platform stiletto sandals. Her dramatic makeup and hair confirmed she had indulged in her own day of beauty -- Mama's other VIP? - while I was enjoying mine. On my Rapture high, I squealed excitedly at the sight of her and scurried across the floor, hugging her like I hadn't seen her in a year.

"Hi Alexis," I cooed in my hushed, breathy Marilyn Monroe-esque voice, "I'm Brandi. It is such a pleasure to meet you at last. Michael has told me so much about you. I feel like I have known you forever."

That snapped her out of her trance. She blinked twice, rapidly. A smile crept into the corners of her mouth and grew.

"Your mama has told me so much about you, Brandi," she smirked in her clipped 'Alexis' voice. "I'm glad we have this chance to meet face to face... at last."

After exchanging air kisses, she held me at arm's length, casting an appraising eye from head to toe and back. She took my chin in her hand and canted my head this way and that, noting the expression on my face and in my eyes. She nodded approvingly, a smile on her lips, then looked over my shoulder at my mother.

"You win," she avowed appreciatively. "She is perfect."

"I know my daughter," Mama acknowledged gracefully, "and my business. Now, we had best be on our way. We'll take my car. Elizabeth will meet us there."

This was the second time I had heard a reference to 'Elizabeth'. I thought I knew all of Mama's friends. I had never heard of this one until last night.

"Who is Elizabeth?" I asked in my girlish 'Brandi' voice.

Alexis and Mama looked at each other and laughed.

"Who indeed," my lover smirked.

The big, fluffy, mid-thigh-length black rabbit coat with the even bigger collar would come in handy. It was early December. A cold front had moved in the previous day and there would be a distinct chill in the air tonight, like last night. I slipped into the coat, leaving it open, black calfskin belt halves dangling, for effect. Mama's Blackglama mink was equally dramatic. This was Alexis' opportunity to indulge in a present I had purchased for her after our newfound fortune was realized. If you have never seen a truly attractive brunette in a full-length silver fox coat, you have missed one of the wonders of the world.

Chapter Six

Alexis and I rode in the back seat of Mama's leased Lexus. She held my hand in hers and stared straight ahead, smiling that notorious, unnerving Cheshire smile. I felt like we should be talking about everything; my history as 'Brandi', her recriminations over my hiding it from her, my reasons for doing so, her perceptions of this new 'me' and its effect on our relationship. She didn't seem at all inclined to discuss it, as though this, all of it, was the most natural thing in the world.

Essence was the 'it' club of the moment; the place for the beautiful people to see and be seen. The line of hopefuls extending down the block bore testament to the venue's popularity. The valet hustled the Lexus away as the three of us advanced directly towards the door. The catcalls and wolf whistles from the line were immediate and vociferous. The hunky sentinels at the gate took one look at us and the velvet rope parted like the Red Sea for Moses. Was that fair? It was to us. The coat check was open and exchanged our wraps for tokens -- and a fee, of course.

If club owners could figure out a way to charge the rabble for breathing, they would do so.

Taking me firmly by the arm, Alexis hustled me into the Ladies Room. She again took my chin in her hand and looked me directly in the eye.

"Do you love me?" she challenged.

"More than my life," I acknowledged.

"Do you trust me?"

"Implicitly."

"And I love you more than my life," she avowed solemnly. "Remember that. Now, let's go have a good time."

The club was more expansive than most. The dance floor was big and equipped with the obligatory thundering sound system, lasers, light trusses, fog generators and so forth. Multiple bars with multiple waitresses slaked the built-up thirst of the masses. There were tables and standing areas, as well. Upstairs, via a conventional staircase in back and a spiral staircase in front, disappearing through the floor directly to the dance floor, was a VIP seating area, equipped with enough acoustic insulation in the walls and floor that it was possible to carry on a normal conversation. The area had an array of low-slung tables and a line of high-backed, semicircular upholstered booths along one wall.

Mama led us directly to the middle booth and slid in, followed by myself and Alexis. The booth was already occupied by a spectacular emerald-eyed redhead. She looked to be in her prime; perhaps early 30's. She and Mama air-kissed, then did the same with Alexis. Then Mama introduced her to me as Elizabeth Masters. The other three fell easily into conversation, as though they had known each other for years. Elizabeth made a point of drawing me into it as well. She didn't pry, per se, but without realizing it, I was opening up freely about my past and present. Her obvious poise, confidence and worldly-wise demeanor were that of a woman a decade older than my original estimate. Alexis held my hand and squeezed her encouragement. The way she gazed lovingly at me made me melt, as it always had.

They approached our booth with an ease born of habitual, unshakable confidence. Then again, it was easy to see that was the natural state of affairs for these two. Had it not been for the drugs carrying me aloft among the clouds, I might have dived under the table to hide in shame. Even though I was seeing his face clearly for the first time, there was no doubt the one on the right was Jean-Claude, the hunk who had made me his bitch the night before. He was a handsome hunk at that; perhaps six-foot-four or --five, two hundred fifty pounds of sculpted muscle under that designer suit, GQ-handsome, shaven head and smooth ebony skin. His companion was... Brock Maitland!

Alexis slid smoothly out of the booth, holding out her arms. Brock swept her up in his and kissed her with easy familiarity, as though they had rehearsed this ritual a thousand times. I had no time to make anything of it. Jean-Claude swept me out of the booth like a rag doll and into his powerful arms. I felt so helpless -- and alive! Alexis introduced him formally as Jean-Claude Chrétien of New York, Paris, London and Port-au-Prince. She also introduced Brock as her 'date'. The way her eyes bored into mine as she announced his status confirmed we were playing our 'hotwife' game for real -- with an unexpected twist.

We re-arranged and re-seated ourselves. Alexis was next to Elizabeth, with Brock on the outside. I was seated next to Mama, with Jean-Claude taking his place as the other muscular bookend to our little coterie. From the course of the conversation, it appeared I, and possibly Jean-Claude, were the only strangers here. The other four clearly knew each other well.

"Jean-Claude, I have barely heard a word out of you," Alexis teased. "Do you approve of the companion I have selected for you?"

"Now that I have had a chance to see her in the light," he began with an intoxicating Caribbean-French accent, "I most definitely approve. She is everything I could have hoped for, and more -- and she has a twin!"

"I don't know anything about Brandi," Brock leered, "but I can personally vouch for Tiffany's charms."

That remark earned him a well-deserved elbow to the ribs, causing him to raise his hands in mock surrender.

The evening was magic. Champagne and conversation flowed with equal aplomb. I danced with Jean-Claude. Alexis danced with Brock. Mama and Elizabeth both danced with admirers who approached them. My partner may have been a man-mountain, but he was graceful as a panther on the dance floor. As we danced, he was remarkably candid about his less-than-humble origins. He had been born into that rarest of breeds; Haitian Old Money. His family had done business with their French overlords during colonial days. Their holdings and influence had spread throughout the Caribbean, to the French colonies on the North American continent and to France itself, then the rest of Europe. More recently, they had entered the Asian market. Jean-Claude himself had been educated at the Sorbonne and the London School of Economics; groomed to take his rightful place as the next patriarch of the family business empire.

Brock had introduced himself at a Mr. Olympia event they had both attended; Jean-Claude as a contestant. Brock was familiar with the Chrétien family's global holdings and had solicited my companion to manage a portfolio of the family's investments. The worldly Haitian had, of course, heard of Maitland and Associates and was impressed with its track record. The recent Genesee Industries coup had been of particular fascination. He had accepted Brock's invitation to come to town and discuss the matter further.

We couldn't help but notice Brock and Alexis on the dance floor. They seemed intent on making sure everyone noticed. The song playing was a popular Trance track; slow, rhythmic, compelling. They were spooned together, his front to her back. His hands were on her hips. Their lower bodies undulated in time to the pounding beat. She had reached behind his head with one hand and was gazing at him over her shoulder with heavy-lidded, bedroom eyes.

Déjà vu.

On one hand, the erotic display was intoxicating. But for the effects of Depro-Gen, I would have been writhing in erectile agony within the tight-fitting prosthetic. On the other hand, I felt a gnawing in the pit of my stomach. They looked so good together. The dreamy expression on her face -- the one she had, in the past, held only for me -- indicated she was certainly enjoying herself. I had fretted in the past about losing this woman to a more 'manly' man -- especially if she had learned about 'Brandi'. Was my worst-case horror now playing out before my eyes, with me helpless to do anything about it?

"They make an attractive couple, no?" my dance partner observed, as if reading my thoughts. "She reminds me of that actress; you know the one. She and I had the opportunity to talk last night. In addition to her spectacular beauty, she has a warmth, an...empathy that makes a man want to tell her things, unburden his soul. I revealed things I have never told a stranger before. I am a complicated man, cheri. I have... appetites. I cannot deny my feelings, any more than I can deny the air that I breathe or the morning sun. She listened to me, ma cher. Then she told me she knew a girl she wanted me to meet; the perfect girl for me. That girl is you, my Brandi, and you are perfect; in what you are now, and the promise of what you can be in the future."

As he spoke the words, I could feel the massive bulge snaking its way down his pant leg, half-way to his knee. I could only imagine how uncomfortable he might be with that monster trapped within its cloth prison. Pressed up against it, and him like this, I could feel the growing attraction between us. He had taken me the night before, made me his bitch. It had been the most intense sexual experience of my life.

In my Rapture-fueled frenzy, I wanted, craved more.

When we returned to the booth, Alexis corralled my arm, offered our excuses and escorted me to the Ladies Room. I did my business in the stall, then joined her before the mirror, where we touched up our makeup.