Feature Writer: Angel Cherysse


Published: 22.11.2016

Story Codes: MF, Bi, Shemale, TS, Fiction, Cuckold, FemaleDom, Interracial, Anal Sex, Cream Pie, Enema, Oral, Transformation

Synopsis: What if your most cherished dream could become reality? What if the love of your life became a cultural icon? Are you strong enough to weather the storm brought on by these two potentially disparate actions?


The Institute: Body Double 3

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 ‘hot wife’ 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, Pretty boy?”

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 wünderkinde. The bonus he gave me more than made up for having to continue working – and he assured me he was lobbying the other partners heavily for my place in the Executive Suite…


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-factually, 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 Pretty boy 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 counseled 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’ exposés. A young woman had paid a six-figure sum to be transformed into a Kim Kardashian clone. The images revealed a dark-haired goddess who, indeed, could have been the reality-show diva’s twin.

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

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

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

“When?” was my only question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So,” she pronounced in her clipped, oh-so-precise British accent, “did you miss me, Pretty boy?”

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