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 1


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 click bait 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”.

Déjà 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 Benét. 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 dilapidated 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 bed mates. 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.



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