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The Institute: Body Double By Cherysse St. Claire This story is set in the near future. Some of the medications, procedures and technical advances detailed within have not been introduced - yet. The usual disclaimers apply. This story is best enjoyed when viewed in HTML format. Chapter One I had never believed in love at first sight until the brunette with the mesmerizing gray eyes appeared. She arrived late; the party was already well underway. She wasn't supermodel stunning; more like girl-next-door pretty. Beyond those eyes, her wide hips and lush, rounded bottom, sheathed in a tight print dress, would have made anyone sit up and take notice. At a party like this, she was clickbait for any guy with a 'pointer'. That would be Eddie Matthews. He was currently winding down his fifth year of college, no degree in sight, majoring in Drinking, Debauchery and Terrorizing Pledges and Other Underclassmen. He had been the bane of my existence from the moment I moved into the house until the moment I moved out. At that moment, he was, as was his wont, stupid-drunk. The object of his afflictions dismissed him with a toss of her dark-haired head. I didn't have to be an expert lip-reader to see hers form the words "Take a hike, Buddy". D?j? vu. I had the feeling I had seen her somewhere before, but I couldn't place her for the life of me. Then our eyes met. I had drawn my fair share of attention from women before, although I didn't seem to be anyone's 'type'. This woman's reaction to me was completely new. Her eyes sparkled. Her nostrils flared. Her mouth curled into the most come-hither smile I had ever seen. The bigger surprise was that she made her way towards me, the expression on her face unchanged. Even from this angle, the sway of her full hips was hypnotic. My first impression was we were nearly the same height, but she currently towered over my five-foot-seven-inch frame in the sky-high heels she wore. That didn't seem to deter her in the slightest. "You are Michael Bennett," she avowed without preamble. "My girlfriends and I watched you win the conference cross-country championship last month." Huh? Reality Check: No one but runners and coaches attends cross- country events. At best, we get a one-inch box story on the back page of the Sports section - unless that big sporting goods chain has pre- empted us with another full-page, four-color ad. We are the Black Hole of intercollegiate competition. We runners have come to accept that as a fact of life. Besides, if this woman had been anywhere near the finish line, I would have remembered. She sensed my thoughts and ratcheted up her smile a notch. "Okay, I confess. We only saw you because the finish line was on the green, right across from Bradley Hall. We had a good view from our fourth-floor window. Even at that distance, I thought you were the prettiest boy I had ever seen. What's not to like about that tight, compact body and all that thick, sandy blonde hair? You are even better up close and personal. Those azure eyes are simply amazing and that dimpled smile makes me tingle all over. You belong on a runway in New York or Paris." "Thank you," I acknowledged; the only thing I could think to say. Then I added: "How did you know my name?" "I asked around," this amazing woman responded. "One of my sorority sisters mentioned you were a member of this house. I wouldn't have shown up tonight otherwise, but if there was even a chance you might be here...." 'Nuff said. We found a quiet corner, sipped, rather than guzzled our obligatory cups of punch (I know what goes into "Velvet Hammer"), conversed - and canoodled. Me? Canoodling with an attractive woman who was stone-cold attracted to me? That only happened in my dreams. Don't wake me up. Her name was D'Arcy. She was a graduate student in Business, which meant she was a year older than me. She was sardined ("cozy", she called it) into a townhouse near the business school campus with five other Wall Street wannabes. Three bedrooms, six women, one bathroom. Yeah, that'll work.... "That's not too far from me," I commented, perhaps more hopefully than informatively. "At least it's closer than this place." "You don't live in your house either?" she queried, amazed at the coincidence. "Nope," I chirped. "I am fulfilling my filial obligation to show up. I'll give them at least that much. After three and a half years of this madness, I bailed. You met one of the reasons why when you came in." "I see what you mean," she posited knowingly. "I had only been here five minutes and I wanted to grab an assault rifle and go postal. In that case..." She took my hand in hers and squeezed. "... I feel doubly-blessed we hooked up tonight." She looked down at our hands, then held them up, palm to palm, comparing the two. "We have the same hands," she noted. "You have such long, tapered fingers for a boy. You would make a good pianist." "I've never played," I admitted. "Never played?" she challenged, eyes twinkling. "We'll have to change that." Like most fraternities, the living room was decorated in Early Thrift Store. In front of us sat this old, ratty ottoman which weighed a ton. We were using it as a kinda-sorta coffee table, as everyone else had through the years. If the cup spilled, the stain would blend right in with all the rest - until the next Hell Week, when some hapless pledge would be assigned to clean it with an upholstery shampooer. I had. When the music wasn't abjectly awful, we got up and danced. Although we gyrated our way through a couple of fast numbers (I didn't embarrass myself too badly), we really liked the slow songs. D'Arcy danced close; real close. During one number, we spooned; my front to her back, my hands on her hips, our lower bodies rocking in sync. She reached behind my head with one hand and pulled me in even tighter against her, gazing at me through heavy-lidded bedroom eyes over her shoulder. Up close, her dark hair was thick, lustrous and smelled of lavender and perfume. Even I could tell this, whatever it was, was something special. We had just returned to our seats when Eddie staggered up, got right in my new acquaintance's face and insisted she just had to dance with him the way she had with "the twerp". As zoned-out as he was, it was amazing he could stand up at all. In his imagined glory of stealing my girl away from me, he didn't notice the ottoman was right behind him. It only took one little push with the flat of my hand against his sternum. Doofus cartwheeled over backwards, arms flailing in empty air, only to land with a resounding thump like the proverbial sack of potatoes. Remember that old commercial? I've fallen and I can't get up! Yeah, it was like that. "Nicely done, my prince," my companion commented appreciatively, studying the spud stud laid out at our feet. "Now, be my knight in shining armor once more and rescue me from the rest of these drunken louts." Her kiss convinced me the night was young and so were we. I had a car. It was nothing fancy; four wheels and an engine that ran. My place was closer than hers; a one-bedroom with no roommates. I had lucked into it. A friend had graduated early; I took over the lease. We spent the night together, cuddling and getting to know one another. An only child, D'Arcy had been orphaned two years previously, no thanks to a drunk driver. Her parents' life insurance and the meager equity return from the sale of the family home were keeping her in school, but she pinched every penny. She had to do well in her studies; there was no fallback option. I, too, was an only child - and had been an 'oops' baby. My mother gave birth to me when she was fifteen. A party, too much alcohol and a smooth-talking older boy had been all it took to change the attractive, precocious teen's life forever. The baby daddy hadn't even given her his real name. Mama continued living at home with her parents and older brothers, earning her diploma via home schooling, then attending the local cosmetology academy. Upon completion of that curriculum, she went to work as an operator in her mother's salon, House of Ben?t. The name had been Gramma's idea. She thought the French version of our family surname added a certain panache. As she matured, my mother became a real 'looker' and had dressed and acted the part; lots of makeup, hair out to there and clothes that showed off her rocking body. Even at a young age, I was aware of the effect she had on men. I had overheard more than one calling her a "bimbo". I didn't know what that meant, but it had to be a good thing because they told each other they "wanted her so bad." She dated serially and lusted the same way; this time, on birth control. Mr. Right Now never seemed to morph into Mr. Right and she was okay with that. She now had her career, secure income and me. Once burned, twice skeptical as Hell. Grampa and my uncles came to terms with the fact I would never be football player material like them. They appreciated the fact I was a good distance runner, but runners didn't get scholarships, and they determined I was going to college, like them; that was non-negotiable. More to the point, I would be going to this school, our state university, whose main campus was in our home town. They had, I would; simple. That meant I would have to work hard in high school and make good grades. I did, and won a National Merit Scholarship. ---------- "You shave," D'Arcy gushed in surprise, noting my depilated body. "I run," I reminded her. "This is a lot more comfortable when I get hot and sweaty, especially in summer. Actually, I had the hair permanently removed. That isn't too much, is it?" "Nooooo," she drew out the demurral, her twinkling eyes drinking in every inch of me from head to toe. "I could get used to this real quick. I'm into fur as much as the next girl, but not on my bedmates. Besides, you more than make up for it with all that thick, rich hair on your head. I get shivers running my fingers through it. You cut that off and we're done. You hear me, Mister?" It's college, right? You are expected to experiment, try new things. I had allowed my hair to grow to shoulder length. With its natural heft and body, it was relatively easy to manage, as long as I shampooed and conditioned it every day. Yeah, I took some grief from the other guys about my Fabio-like locks, but they cut me some slack because of my quasi-fame as a sports 'star'. Other women had flirted and complimented me on my 'look', but D'Arcy was the first to act upon her attraction and state it in no uncertain terms. In the early morning hours, we chose to make love for the first time. She was actually worried I would think less of her because she had already given up her cherry. There had been others before me, she informed without going into detail, except to report they hadn't given her what she was looking for. Was that a problem for me? Are you kidding me? The past was the past. If they couldn't see what a jewel they had given up, I could. I was less experienced, but knew enough to use lips, tongue, teeth and fingertips to bring her to two very satisfying orgasms before mounting her and riding her to a third. We cuddled and talked in the afterglow. The way she gazed at me, I thought she was going to nominate me for sainthood. The missing quantity in her previous relationships had been twofold. First was oral sex. D'Arcy was crazy for it. Her previous boyfriends were totally on- board with receiving her blowjobs, but had paid 'lip service' at best (pun intended) to returning the favor. At worst, they wouldn't bring their mouth within a country mile of a woman's sex, declaring it "un- manly." Perhaps they were afraid of getting 'cooties'. The second factor had been orgasms, or complete lack thereof. From what she said, her previous lovers had basically used her to masturbate, as though she was some glorified blow-up doll. "Really," she groused disconcertedly, "I might as well have been doing my Statistics homework while they were humping me, for all I was getting out of it." Huh? Who does that to a total babe like this? I set her straight; I had no such reservations about it and would worship her 'temple' to her heart's content. "I'm gonna hold you to that, Mister," my lover chirped saucily. She did. In the following weeks, D'Arcy took full advantage of my offer, lovingly teaching me the oral and tactile techniques that drove her into a thrashing, screaming frenzy. I could spend an hour or more laving her into a shuddering puddle of goo before entering her and giving her the good, hard male-on-female seeing-to she needed to feel really complete. In that department, she teasingly pronounced me "more than adequate." "Go to the head of the class, Prettyboy," she purred contentedly one night, as she lay euphoric in my arms, "Suma Cum Laude." She, in turn, taunted me with long, lingering blowjobs that left me begging for release. Suddenly, I was the only man in the world for her. I already knew she was the only woman for me. Whenever she was with me, she was the flashiest dresser I had ever seen, loving to flaunt her curves for me in tight, revealing outfits and her much-adored high heels. As I was to discover, D'Arcy's exhibitionism was a 'tell'; a not-so-subtle hint to her deliciously kinky streak, which she loved to exercise behind closed doors. Exercise it, we did; role-playing, toys, bondage and domination, we tried a little bit of everything in the precious moments we were able to spend together between our hectic schedules. That was how we found out really big dildos, like oral sex, made her crazy with lust. Enter the Manhandler; a thick, veined, beyond-lifelike ten-inch latex dildo with bull balls and a ribbed rubber handle at its base. It was a favorite in the Gay leather scene and quickly became one of D'Arcy's favorites as well. Chapter Two I graduated with a degree in Finance and scored a good job as an analyst at Maitland and Associates, a top-tier downtown investment brokerage. Brock Maitland, the founder/Managing Partner, was already a legend in the industry as well as our city. A football star and graduate of our university, he had, according to the urban legend, eschewed the NFL and started the firm with a loan from his father. He wasn't a billionaire - yet - but he wouldn't be clipping coupons anytime soon. His uncanny record for navigating the twists and turns of the stock market was eclipsed only by his charismatic personality, matinee-idol good looks and hard-core body-builder physique. If you stared directly at his zillion perfect teeth without eye protection, you would be flash- blinded. It was said a private elevator in his plush office suite gave him direct passage to both the basement parking garage and his sumptuous Penthouse condo with all the creature comforts, including an infinity pool on the patio deck with an unmatched view of the city. Brock had yet another legendary reputation; that with the ladies. Because of his wealth and standing in the local business community, plus his photogenic good looks, he was a regular feature in the gossip columns, Internet blogs and television fanzines - as was whatever nubile young plaything occupying his attention at the time. He hosted semi-formal company social events twice a year and Friday night 'office parties' every month, at one nightclub or another, as a token of his appreciation for our efforts. I couldn't remember ever seeing him with the same strumpet hanging on his arm (and every word) two events running. The legend spread, echoed on well-lubricated lips at our company events: Big Cock Brock, the love 'em and leave 'em stud who could go all night. Oh, I wished that I could be Richard Corey.... Whatever I thought of him personally, I couldn't speak ill of the man. He was an alumnus of our fraternity and our Chapter Advisor. In our house, his undergraduate exploits were told and re-told; the stuff of post-pubescent male fantasy. I hadn't known it, but he had been keeping an eye on me. After I had distinguished myself as both runner and scholar, he recruited me to work for his company. He cautioned me I would be a probationary employee, like all new hires, but I would be a star 'probie'. "I dunno about all that hair," he had mused, shaking his head, "but the media eats it up and I am all about good publicity. You prove you have a good head under that mane and I suppose we can work with it - but tie it back or something. You hear me, kid?" Yippieeeeeeeee! I proved my worth many times over with my own keen interpretation of which companies' values were on the rise and which were going to tank in short order. Ours was a high-turnover business, with lesser talents disappearing overnight. Bob Martin, one of my fellow analysts, made the observation our boss was dumb as a post himself when it came to market dynamics. His true talent lay in surrounding himself with real savants such as ourselves, jettisoning the ones who didn't add value to his brand on a regular basis. Bob was gone the next day. I learned the lesson and kept my mouth shut. Brock took note of my successes for the firm. The promotions and bonuses followed. He had dropped a couple of hints of late; I was being considered for bigger things and an office in the Executive Suite to go with it. What a difference disposable income makes! D'Arcy moved in with me and I supported her through the rest of her studies. She attended company social events with me and was adored by everyone. We knew marriage was in our future, but we wanted to wait until she was done with school and we were more settled. To that end, we stayed in our current apartment and saved money towards buying our own home. Living together exposed me to a couple of D'Arcy's endearing little quirks. She did occasional Girls' Nights Out. It had been natural enough with her sorority sisters during her undergraduate days. She now did them with her girlfriends from her business classes. She regarded her nights out as a "mental health exercise", both to relieve the stress of her studies and to maintain outside interests so she and I wouldn't get on each other's nerves. I was already used to the practice. My mother had done them regularly and still did. I was totally supportive now. Okay, I admit it; when my lover came home from one of these little soirees, the sex was off the charts. D'Arcy's mother had been an ?ber-fan of Dynasty, the 80's television series about wealth, power and conspicuous consumption. As a child, D'Arcy had watched re-runs with her mother - and caught the fever. She now had several seasons worth of DVD's and had all but worn them out from repeated viewings. The object of their mutual obsession was Joan Collins as the bitchy, ambitious, serially-married Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan. "Not 'bitchy'," D'Arcy huffed indignantly at my suggestion. "She is strong, assertive, sure of herself, what she wants and where she is going in life. She loves her men, but on her own terms and won't tolerate them taking her for granted." Such had been the depth of her devotion, my girlfriend's mother had named her daughter D'Arcy Alexis. That their family name was Morrell made it all the more kismet to her. What is it with these women? My mother was also a fan of the show, so I was already familiar with it. Yes, there was that whole "Moravian Massacre" thing (jumped the shark there, did we, Mr. Spelling?), but mostly it was amusing. I scored major points with D'Arcy by watching episodes with her and enduring the Byzantine plot twists. I scored again, even bigger, with the perfect Christmas gift: Dynasty: The Complete Series, Collector's Edition. 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. ---------- 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 Ben?t. She had also "gotten a little work done." A little? My lover was taken aback when the ?ber-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. ---------- 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. ---------- 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 w?nderkinde. 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.... ---------- 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. "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. ---------- 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' expos?s. 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 blas? 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." ---------- 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. ---------- 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." Under her prodding, I rolled over, then rose on elbows and knees, my tush high in the air. I could feel the mattress shift as he positioned himself behind me. It was like that first time all over again, but better. I heard the soft pop, like that of a plastic cap, followed by a barely-audible gurgle. Then came the first cold, lubed finger, then the second, then the third, sawing their way in and out of my anal flower, expanding my hole and making my insides slick. At last, the trio withdrew. "Here he comes, Baby," she purred. "Relax. Welcome him into you. He wants to make it good for you, too, just like you want to make it good for him." A hard, muscular arm wrapped firmly around my waist, holding me in place. Then I felt him at my opening and pushed back, allowing him access. He entered a little, then eased back, then pressed forward a little more, then eased back again. The pattern repeated as he filled me, inch by glorious inch, until I could feel his balls pressing into the cleft between my asscheeks. He was in me now, filling me beyond full. Oh God, he was big! The shaft of his dong was rubbing against my prostate. Electric jolts of pure pleasure rocketed through my whole body. I rocked back to meet his thrusts, greedily seeking out every fraction of an inch he had to offer. "That's it, Baby," she encouraged in my ear. "Give in to him. Take it. You know you want it. Use his cock for your pleasure, even as he is using your pussy for his." I did want it; more than I had wanted anything in my life. My entire body was vibrating like a violin string. My lover was using me for his pleasure, even as I was using him for mine. Alexis was there with me, assuring me everything was fine. It was fine; more fine than it had ever been before in my whole life. The tension was building towards a crescendo.... My world exploded, came undone. My whole being exited through its only avenue of escape, even as the stud emptied his into my bottom. Every thought I had had, every feeling I had felt, every emotion I had experienced was nothing compared to this. If not for the supporting arm around my middle, I would have collapsed like a rag doll. The arm let me down gently, rolling me on my side, with him spooned behind me. His amazing cock was still hard, still buried inside me. "That was perfect, Baby," Alexis' voice whispered in my ear. "Sleep now. Everything is going to be just fine." Chapter Five I awoke late that Saturday morning, feeling groggy and confused. What the hell happened last night? The memories, if they came at all, were disjointed, kaleidoscopic flashes of light, sound and sensation. I remembered coming like there was no tomorrow; the most explosive climax of my life. I should have awoken on a cold wet spot on the sheets, but there was nothing; not a trace that I had even had sex, either on the bed or my person. Did I hurt, ache from the experience? No. In fact, I felt... cleansed, uplifted, physically and emotionally liberated - but why, if nothing happened? I looked around and... Alexis was gone. That reality was like a punch in the gut. It was all real. My wife had gone out, gotten laid, brought her toy boy home, did unspeakable things with and to me. Then she had left with him. Would she return? If not, how would I find her? Should I find her? Would I be able to convince her to come back to me after last night? Maybe if I called Mama, she could give me a clue.... Then I saw the handwritten note, folded into a tent, sitting on my nightstand. My Darling Michael, You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn't have the heart to wake you before I left for the salon. Last night was our best yet. I see nothing but good things ahead for the two of us. I have so much love for you in my heart, it hurts. Be a lamb and pop over and join us as soon as you can, won't you? Your mama and I have talked, and decided last night was so good, we are going to do it all over again tonight. This time Brandi is going to join us. I think it is high time she and I met, don't you? We have so much to discuss; especially after last night. Your One and Only, Alexis P.S. Your mama has everything you will need, so just bring your sweet self. She promised me I wouldn't be disappointed. She has been right about everything so far. I hope she is right about this. This punch was worse; much worse. She knows! At least she hadn't left me already. She had simply gone to the salon; one of her favorite pastimes, of late. I re-read her note, then read it a third time. It sounded hopeful. She told me she loved me and we had a future, in spite of this. What choice did I really have? I took the time to run my usual five miles first, just to clear my head and get my mind in a good place. The bathroom in our master suite contained a marbled shower stall with multiple shower heads, including a hand-held wand at the end of a six-foot articulated stainless steel hose. The wand featured multiple screw-on attachments. I availed myself of the probe attachment to give myself a cleansing enema to make sure I was thoroughly clean inside, then washed the rest. While I was patting myself dry, I wondered if Alexis truly understood the implications of what Mama had promised her? I had to handle the first part myself. This was short notice and the medication would need time to take effect. I kept the