Indian Bride Examination and Skills Training Institute
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The Institute: Body DoubleChapter 8 free porn video
Saturday was crazy-busy. You would have thought everyone was going to a Winter Wonderland ball that night. All of my appointments had been front-loaded into the morning and early afternoon so Mama and Gayle could prep me for my date that night. Topic Number One was on everyone’s lips. TMZ had dropped the bomb that morning, setting the Internet ablaze. Brock Maitland had been spotted at Essence the night before, canoodling with a stunning Joan Collins look-alike. The digital images confirmed it. That was enough to set tongues wagging. But it was the photo of them clinking their champagne flutes together that had transfixed me.
She wasn’t wearing her wedding rings!
The media hyped, as they had with each one of his previous floozies: Would this one be The One? More to follow...
Jean-Claude had returned the previous afternoon. We spent the evening together at home. We had done things together that blew my mind, as well as my libido. Then he took me again with his magnificent member. He would have gone all night – he certainly had that capability -, but I kicked him out, pleading I had to get some sleep if I wasn’t going to be a zombie at the party the next night.
Alexis never came home. I hadn’t seen her since she left for the office Friday morning. The little number she was wearing for Brock, the one on such prominent display in the Internet images, certainly wasn’t what she had had on when she walked out our front door. For that matter, I didn’t remember ever seeing it before. Was it something she had purchased and worn only for her new lover?
I was doing a full set of acrylics for another client when the star of last night’s drama, currently The Most Beguiling Woman in the World, breezed through the door into the salon and was immediately seated in Mama’s cushioned chair, to be fussed over by Mama, Gayle and Jennifer. The four were soon abuzz in conversation, oblivious to the rapturous attention being heaped upon them from all sides.
Was she even planning to say “hello”?
Since she was wearing something different now, she must have snuck in after I left for work. She was wearing her rings again, too, as though nothing were amiss. Was that for our benefit? Did she think no one would have noticed their absence in the publicity photos? No harm, no foul.
I knew full well how the scene was intended to play out that coming evening. She would be in Brock’s arms; I would be in Jean-Claude’s. Brock would monopolize her attention all night, as he usually did with his women. At some point, he would whisk her away back to the office, the private elevator, and his penthouse palace. I could envision her with my former boss, clawing desperately at the flesh of his back as he made her his bitch, and how much she enjoyed it. Meanwhile, Jean-Claude, I and everyone else would be left to our own devices.
Jean-Claude. I suddenly had a really creepy feeling in the pit of my stomach. After he decided to break up the act, a famous folksinger, part of a duo, had penned a farewell song with an oblique reference to his soon-to-be-ex-partner as his way of saying goodbye. The thing is, the partner didn’t find out about the song’s hidden meaning until after the split. They had recorded it and performed it live, in front of multiple audiences, without him knowing he was being publicly disrespected. The Haitian heartthrob’s sudden appearance in my life, followed so closely by this, took on a whole new meaning.
Now that she had the life she had always wanted, was Alexis tossing me a bone on her way out the door? Good doggie! Say “bye-bye, Mama.”
If that was her intent, she had sadly miscalculated. That ‘bone’ wasn’t chump change in any respect. For all his good press, Brock Maitland was, essentially, a big fish in a small pond. The Chrétien Group was global, and their balance sheet reflected it. I knew; I had assiduously tracked the conglomerate’s earnings in my former life. Apparently, my hard work had factored into Brock’s decision to solicit Jean-Claude’s business. Jean-Claude and I had only been together twice; three times, if you counted our late-night ‘introduction’. The way he was treating me, the things he was saying, the look in his eyes said he wanted more; a lot more. That was crazy, given where I was at that point in my transition.
The thing was, Jean-Claude was really into that. The sight of this amazing hunk of a man sucking my ‘clit’ while fondling my empty scrotal sac the night before, and doing so with both skill and tenderness, had blown me away. He had confessed; the idea of a beautiful boy, transforming himself into a breathtakingly beautiful, voluptuous woman for him made him crazy with lust.
I had made clear that the circumstances of my life, not the least of which was that transition, tied me here to this city; at least, for now. He understood, and regretted the circumstances of his life precluded him being here with me every day, sharing the journey with me.
“But after that journey is complete, ma cher,” he had intoned in his rich, mellifluous baritone, “then our journey can begin.”
I had dismissed his protestations of devotion as mere pillow talk. Now, in light of what I had learned, they were taking on new appeal. As much as I loved Alexis, I no longer had to live vicariously through my mate’s ‘hotwife’ exploits. I had my own Adonis who seemed hell-bent on making me forget about anyone else, including Alexis.
Was it real? Was anything real in my life at that point?
If push came to shove, I didn’t need a lifeboat at all. I had plenty of money; now tucked safely away in a numbered offshore account. The irony was, that had been Alexis’ idea. Given the ever-increasing frequency of financial cyber-hacks, she had wanted our newfound wealth protected as best as possible from the predations of others. I had fully intended to add her name to the account, but had not yet done so. I might have to split the money with her if we divorced, but I would make her work for it.
Whatever the case, I would now keep my ‘Jean-Claude Option’ open.
A phone call informed me my next client had to cancel her appointment. She was to have been my last appointment of the day. What luck! I was just wrapping up my current task. A quick glance confirmed; so was Mama. I went to lunch – alone. Cowardly? Perhaps. I just didn’t want to deal with it right then. I texted Jean-Claude, knowing full well I wouldn’t hear back from him immediately. He had mentioned he would avail himself of his health club’s nation-wide membership privileges to work out at the club’s local outlet before tonight. Who was I to complain about a hunk who wanted to look his best for me?
“Where have you been?” Mama chided sternly. “Alexis was beside herself. She wanted to talk with you after we finished with her. She waited as long as she could, then told me she had to hurry home and start getting ready for tonight.”
“How sad,” I dead-panned. “She spent all that time in your chair and never thought to say ‘Hi’ to me when I was sitting ten feet away. Oh well; we will just have to catch up later.”
My mother gazed at me queerly, then hustled me into her chair. My nails didn’t require a fill yet; just new polish and artwork. The big question was what to do about my hair; up or down? A classic upsweep would have been an elegant exclamation point to what I would be wearing. The smell from the perm was just now abating, and I really wanted to make a statement.
Down – and out!
Sheila had finished the dress the day before. Mama had it hanging up in the back room. I had brought everything else I would need. The original plan was for Alexis and I to dress for each other separately, so we could admire the result in a mutual ‘Grand Reveal’. Now, Jean-Claude would be the beneficiary of my efforts. He deserved it. The gown was a dazzling silver, snug-fitting, floor-length, halter-topped with a deeply-plunging neckline and front slit to mid-thigh. The matching armpit-length gloves were fingerless, covering the back of my hand with only a loop around my middle finger to hold them in place. The black corset, thong and full-fashioned stockings were a reprise from the previous weekend. The silver ankle-strap platform sandals featured rapier-thin stiletto heels that reached for the heavens. I had done the makeup myself, copying an ultra-glam look from one of my favorite You Tube makeup artists. I was going for ‘drop-dead sexy’ and could already sense hearts failing all over the world.
My Nubian prince had messengered a big box to the salon while I was dressing. There were a series of smaller boxes inside. The faux diamonds blazed, even in the salon’s artificial light; drop earrings that would nearly brush my shoulders, a multi-tiered necklace, multi-strand bracelets for each wrist, even a single-strand anklet. Then I read the label inside the lid:
Cartier
I thought my heart would go into arrest. It had been a big box for a reason. If you thought a stunning brunette looked good in Silver Fox, wait until you see a Platinum-Blonde goddess in full-length Russian Sable. Mama just sighed at the sight of me. Contentedly? Wistfully? I had no trouble interpreting the love and pride in her hug. My clutch was already packed. I grabbed it and was out the door.
Jean-Claude had ‘messengered’ the coat and jewels in a limo, which awaited me at the curb.
It’s too much! It’s too much!
Yeah? Well, what do you call the split of champagne and chilled flute that awaited me in the limo’s bar? I called it: “I fell down the rabbit hole and it’s getting curiouser and curiouser, so I think I’ll just hang out here for a while and please tell the Boy Scouts to hold off on that search.”
Snick went the injector pen. “Ahhhh,” I sighed expressively, as the warm, tingly rush enveloped my senses.
I texted my escort that I was on my way to his hotel, and when and where he was to meet me. I didn’t know how well he knew American movies, but there was a scene I was dying to act out. There would be some obvious differences, but that would only add spice to an already erotic tableau.
You know the one.
Black Adonis in designer tux, meet voluptuous Blonde Venus lounging languorously on a high-backed stool at the hotel bar – with every eye in the place already locked on her like radar. If my eyes sparkled with anywhere near the intensity of the diamonds I was wearing, I hoped they would convey the message I was happy to see him. I slid sinuously to my feet upon his arrival. Even in my sky-high heels, I had to look up to him. That was as it should be. I felt so good in his powerful arms, my body pressing into his. As we made our way to the exit, my arm in his, I watched the eyes track us. The unspoken message was clear. Every man in the room wanted me. Every woman wanted to be me.
I wondered what they would think if they knew.
Jean-Claude was staying at this particular hotel for a reason. Brock had rented their Grand Ballroom for Winter Wonderland. Although it was billed as a semi-formal affair, it didn’t surprise me the least we weren’t the only couple to show up black-tie. Brock looked appropriately spiffy in his own tux. Alexis was radiant in a floor-length black velvet bustier sheath and matching opera-length gloves. I did not see the outline of her rings on the appropriate finger.
The coo-some twosome was playing host and hostess just inside the door, welcoming their guests. I knew she had watched me shed my coat at the coat check across the hall from the entrance. Out of the corner of my eye, I had seen hers open wide with surprise as I revealed my gown and jewels – and me. My wife and I air-kissed, as I also did with the snake beside her. A quick check of the room confirmed what I had already expected; she and I were the stars of this show, hands down.
“We have to talk later,” she whispered in my ear.
“Oh, absolutely,” I agreed earnestly, as I drew my date past them and into the room.
Just like we did at the salon, Bitch!
For the next hour, I had the time of my life mingling and chatting with my former co-workers. They either had already met Jean-Claude or had been primed to expect him. Brock is very thorough about such things when there is big money on the line. By prior agreement, my escort introduced me as “Brandi Benét”. My transformation was already so profound, no one recognized me. My ‘Marilyn’ voice certainly wasn’t giving me away. I spent the time regaling them with old office war stories, as though I had known them for years – which, of course, I had.
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