Feature Writer: Angel Cherysse
Feature Title: THE INSTITUTE: BODY DOUBLE 10
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 10
The only reason I returned to work was my prior commitments to my clients. I was still angry enough to spit nails at the sanctimonious little so-and-so’s who had believed I had been insensitive about my wife’s happiness. Mama must have spread the word. They avoided me, couldn’t even look me in the eye, unless they had to ask something related to salon business.
Mama finally cornered me in the back room. If she had prefaced her remarks with “We have to talk”, I swear I would have punched her lights out.
“I didn’t know,” she opened instead, her own eyes filled with tears. “She told us it was a game you two played, that you were totally cool with it.”
“It was a game we played in private, just the two of us, in our own home,” I corrected. “Then she hooked up with Brock and the whole thing went sideways. Now everyone believes the romance is real and that they will be announcing their engagement any day. Honestly? I can’t tell them any different.”
“Alexis and I have talked,” my mother continued calmly. “There were other factors; things that were not on the recording…”
“Yeah, I know,” I interrupted. “The whole story. Seriously? Are you still buying in to that crap? Are you still taking her side in this? ‘Oh, wow, it’s Alexis. She’s my idol. She must be right in all of this’.”
“NO!” Mama barked. “I’m only saying this is more complicated than it appears. According to what she told me, and I believe her, this isn’t the way it was supposed to happen. No, I didn’t know about her and Brock and how long it had been going on. She didn’t tell anyone. I won’t try to justify what she did. I will only say I have been there myself; used by a man I foolishly believed in. I have had my own dealings with Brock Maitland and never allowed him to get as close as she did because of my experience; experience Alexis didn’t have. Baby, beyond that beautiful, put-together exterior, she is me twenty-four years ago. I will let her tell you her side of things if you will listen. Just know she is every bit as devastated about how this is turning out as you are, as I am.”
“Of course she is,” I spat. “She got caught. Of course, whatever happens, she will land on her feet, and likely come up smelling like a rose. So will you. So will everyone else – except me. I am the one in legal limbo in all of this; no longer ‘Michael’, but not yet ‘Brandi’. But for my financial independence, I would already be destroyed by all of this.”
“You said she didn’t have experience. What about those boys she was with before me?”
“We talked about that, too,” Mama confirmed. “The operative word here is ‘boys’. They used her, just as your sperm donor used me. They didn’t play her, the way Brock did. He has had years to perfect his technique.
“Elizabeth called me. You haven’t been back to see her and you are not taking her calls.”
“Given the circumstances,” I observed, “I didn’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Your surgery is in two weeks,” Mama bleated plaintively. “You can’t tell me, after all you have been through, that you don’t want to go through with it now. Elizabeth wants to see us; just the two of us this time. She said there have been new developments.”
“Yeah, she probably wants to drop my case,” I speculated. “That really would be the icing on the cake.”
“Just go with me, please?” Mama implored. “Let her tell you, whatever it is.”
That was how we found ourselves back in Elizabeth Masters’ office. After we were seated, she went to the trouble of stepping out from behind her desk, crossing the office and shutting the door before returning to her seat. She sat pensively for a moment, aligning and re-aligning a single file folder on her desk with her fingertips. Then she spoke.
“I had a visitor yesterday,” she began in a concise, conversational tone. “The Corporation Counsel for a multi-billion-dollar, multinational conglomerate, which shall remain nameless, flew in from New York to see me. I had never met the man before, but I knew him by reputation. I also happen to know he plays racquetball with the Attorney General of the United States. So, when he uttered phrases like ‘professional malfeasance’ and ‘medical malpractice’ in the same sentence with the name of this clinic, I can assure you he had my undivided attention. Also, he handed me a notarized request from a very prestigious private surgical clinic in Paris for your medical records and assured me a court order for same could be secured if necessary. I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see where this is heading.
“I have always, and always will, stand by our standards of care for all our patients, including you, Brandi. The decisions we made, and the treatment we have rendered on your behalf, were carried out with the utmost degree of professionalism and without outside influence. However, in light of new information which you brought to our attention, I can see how others might interpret our motives in this case to be … suspect.
“Brandi, I realize this puts you in a difficult position, but let me ask you this; ignoring any outside considerations or influences, is this transition something you wanted?”
“Yes,” I replied without hesitation.
“Are you having, or have you had at any time in the last five and a half months, second thoughts?”
I had to think about that one for a moment. I remembered how happy D’Arcy and I had been in the beginning, and how that happiness had seemed to multiply a thousand fold after her transformation. Then I remembered she had already been Brock’s play toy by then, and how our seemingly-idyllic relationship had been rapidly self-destructing ever since. Still…
“No, I answered confidently, reaching out for my mother’s hand. “This is the ‘me’ I have always envisioned myself to be. You can call it ‘Gender Dysphoria’ or wishful thinking or whatever, but this ‘me’ makes me feel good about myself. You asked me to disallow outside considerations and influences. I think we all know how impossible that is in these circumstances. Still, even if they hadn’t been present in my life, I would have made this journey to be true to myself.”
The doctor nodded her head thoughtfully.
“Here is what we are prepared to do,” she went on, absently tapping the folder before her with the tip of her pen. “We will fulfill our commitment to you in the treatments and procedures you have contracted with us to perform. From this moment on, we will waive any and all fees involved with those treatments or procedures. We will not ask you to sign a separate non-disclosure agreement regarding this unfortunate incident, as we feel both you and this clinic are already adequately covered by the verbiage of the contract you have already signed. We are acting in good faith here, Brandi, and we hope you will do the same.
“We have never, in the history of this clinic, had a stain on our reputation such as this incident could conceivably cost us. Even that pales in comparison to the emotional trauma you have endured. Despite what we have just discussed, I, personally, can see where you could feel within your rights to pursue legal action. I sincerely hope you won’t. I’m trying to mend fences here, Brandi.
“I think your mother and I are going to step out. We will go down to the café, have a cup of tea and catch up on current events. We should be gone thirty minutes or so. While we are gone, I hope you will contemplate the olive branch I am extending to you. If you would like to join us later, feel free.”
With that, Elizabeth and Mama rose and exited the office, closing the door behind them. I sat there a moment, pondering her last words. Olive branch? What was that all about? I looked around the office absently – then my eyes settled on her desktop. The file folder was still there. What had they written about me? Had she included any personal notes, insights about me?
Curiosity killed the cat.
It wouldn’t hurt to take just a little peek, would it? I reached over and turned the folder towards me. To my surprise, it wasn’t my case file.
Maitland, Brock
iPhone. Camera. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click…
xxxxx
God himself could not have restrained TMZ from dropping this bombshell. Alexis Morrell is already married – to another man! The image of a marriage license, showing D’Arcy Alexis Morrell had been the wife of Michael Carlyle Bennett for more than two years, was displayed prominently under the banner headline. Side-by-side photos of husband and wife had been embedded within the text of the scathing exposé. Further, it was confirmed that Michael Bennett had, for most of that time, been employed at Maitland and Associates. Efforts had been made to contact Mr. Bennett, but he had left the company and hadn’t been seen in six months. Reporters had tracked the erstwhile Mrs. Bennett to her townhouse residence, seeking her reaction to the allegations, only to be rebuffed with a terse “No Comment”.
Police were opening an investigation into Michael Bennett’s disappearance.
The hits just kept on coming! The very next day, a new report, complete with photocopied medical reports, broke: Brock Maitland’s muscular physique had been, in no small part, the result of ‘juicing’ anabolic steroids since he was fifteen years old. While his muscle mass was impressive, so were the side effects. His testicles had shrunken to the size of grapes. He was clinically sterile and subject to frequent near-psychotic outbursts; “Roid Rage”. His teeth had loosened and fallen out, to the point they had to be replaced en masse with dental implants. His reputedly large male member was the product of a next-generation penile implant which he had to pump up manually. The X-rays of it, both flaccid and fully erect, had been conclusive. Without it, according to the medical findings, he was not able to achieve erection at all.
Brock himself had stormed the Twitterverse to categorically deny all allegations. Further, he had threatened to sue “unnamed medical facilities” for breach of confidentiality and defamation of character. The Law of Unintended Consequences was not kind to him. His tweets invited an even greater tempest of counter-allegations of groping, sexual assault, Sodomy, alienation of affection, aggravated battery and more, filed by two dozen women, each linked at one time or another to the besieged financier. The alienation of affection charges had been leveled by aggrieved husbands of six of the women. Each claimed Maitland had been aware the woman was married, and had aggressively pursued the seduction with the intent to break up the marriage.
The famously hatchet-hearted host of a hugely-popular sports talk show on ESPN had stepped up next. Citing a leaked internal NFL document, he revealed Brock Maitland had, in fact, attended the NFL combine in the spring of his senior year. At the time, evidence of ‘juicing’ was not considered detrimental to a prospect’s potential. In fact, the opposite was true. It had been an alleged impropriety with a billionaire team owner’s trophy wife during that week that got the college sensation booted from the combine and black-balled throughout the league.
In what was widely regarded as a desperate attempt to regain the publicity initiative, Brock Maitland called a press conference and went on camera with Alexis Morrell, reiterating his denial of all the spurious rumors.
“Ms. Morrell left her husband when he confessed to her he was seeking a sex change,” the embattled business magnet avowed. “We kept that story quiet while the legal process ran its course. I am pleased to announce their divorce is now final, and the love of my life has agreed to become my wife.”
In a now-famous video sequence that set records after being posted to You Tube, the suddenly-horrified brunette had slapped her companion soundly across the face and uttered a totally-uncharacteristic “Take a hike, Buddy” before storming off-camera, alone.
The Chrétien Group had stunned everyone by withdrawing its investment portfolio from Maitland and Associates, citing loss of confidence. Senior investment and media analysts alike had labeled the move precipitous. Other investment and corporate CEO’s had been guilty of their own personal peccadillos in the past, without having a significant effect on their companies’ bottom lines.
The Chrétien Group’s renowned market prescience was born out twenty-four hours later from an entirely different and unexpected source. Respected financial reporters from both Forbes and Bloomberg, citing unnamed sources, revealed the SEC was quietly launching an investigation of alleged insider trading at Maitland, in regard to their recent spectacular success with Genesee Industries stock.
Then came the coup de grace. It began as a rumor on Twitter and spread like wildfire; the existence of a digital video clip, purporting to show Brock Maitland and Alexis Morrell conspiring to do away with Ms. Morrell’s husband in the furtherance of their illicit affair and to gain control of his extensive financial holdings. The video itself could not be found anywhere online, yet the existence of a ‘teaser’ audio excerpt, featuring a now-familiar voice, took on mythic proportions that would not go away.
“Seriously? You cut off his balls?”
Police investigators had expressed keen interest in tracking down the source of the excerpt and original rumor to confirm or refute their authenticity.
The crack opened by Chrétien and widened by those two august financial news services, then blown apart by the dark rumors of the video clip, brought forth a deluge of panic sell-offs. The catastrophic, overnight collapse of Maitland was compared to that of Lehman Brothers and Bear Stearns by the financial cognoscenti at their favored Manhattan watering holes. A domino effect, leading to another 2008-style ‘market re-alignment’, seemed imminent. At the peak of industry anguish, a white knight stepped in; none other than Chrétien Group itself. They scooped up the flailing firm at fire sale prices. Their first order of business was to restore investor confidence which, with the Chrétien name on the marquee and the conglomerate’s investment portfolio restored and expanded, was a given.
Brock Maitland disappeared. It was alleged he had embezzled the remains of the company’s operating funds when he left. Unnamed sources within the company revealed his own net worth had evaporated with that of his clients. His fabled penthouse condo was said to have become the in-town retreat for Chrétien’s CEO during his frequent visits to monitor the performance of his newest acquisition.
Despite confirmation the voice on the ‘teaser’ was that of the fugitive financier, Police had found no evidence the source video actually existed. Nor could they find evidence of foul play in the disappearance of Mr. Bennett. His mother, a well-known local hair stylist, denied her son had had any untoward sexual tendencies. According to her, he had been utterly devoted to his wife – and utterly devastated by the recent turn of events. No, she hadn’t heard from him, but hoped with all her heart he was well and happy, wherever he was. Based on her testimony and lack of evidence to the contrary, it was hypothesized Bennett had become so despondent over his wife’s very public affair with his employer, he quit his job and left town, leaving no contact information.
In an even more bizarre twist, authorities traced the video rumors and ‘teaser’ audio to a blind Twitter account, registered under a fictitious identity. Forensics specialists tracked account activity to a burner cell phone found in Maitland’s office desk. It was speculated Maitland himself had planted the rumor of the video on Twitter, in part to focus police attention on his former paramour, aiding in his escape, and in retribution for the on-camera slapping incident.
While not totally blameless, Ms. Morrell was not a person of interest at this time.
The SEC denied comment on the allegations of a Maitland investigation, as was its policy. No such inquiry materialized, and that story died a quiet, well-deserved death.
xxxxx
Neither the police nor the media had been able to track me down because I was safely hidden behind eight-foot stone walls for two months. That is not to imply I got off scot-free. Post-op is a bitch! That analogy about GRS recovery being like an alligator doing a Donald Trump on your newly-fashioned female parts is utterly true. Pain medication or no, for the first few days, I wished the lovebirds had dispatched me, as the rumors claimed.
Two hippos sat on my chest, swathed in a stout surgical bra. I couldn’t see over, around or through them. My nurses came in several times a day to “massage” them; i.e. move them this way and that to make sure scar tissue did not form and harden them. When they did, it felt like my chest was on fire. I knew I still had a lower body, despite the visual roadblock, because those same nurses also had to dilate my new vagina. Who knew alligators also had long, cylindrical, nail-studded tongues? My personal mantra became: “Tomorrow will be better.”
Tomorrow was better; and the next, and the next. From a clinical standpoint, I did not have to stay the entire sixty-one days. Still, I was under no pressure to leave. Thanks to our agreement, my bills were all covered. Plus, Doctor Masters had made it abundantly clear, and continued to do so, that she and her staff would take scrupulous care to ensure I was healed, fully functional and perfect in every way before I re-joined the outside world. As a final incentive, I wanted to wait until the dust from our – mine and Jean-Claude’s – all-out media blitz had settled. Given the renowned short attention span of the media and public, two months would just about do it.
That is not to say I was a prisoner. They had me on my feet (shudder) the day after surgery, cage-like surgical bra and all. I was walking the halls – slowly, carefully – in a few days. By the time I moved to one of the guest cottages, I was wearing a stout athletic bra and able to walk the grounds. After the first month, I availed myself of the clinic’s gymnasium, starting slow with the motorized treadmill and elliptical trainer and building stamina.
With Elizabeth’s permission, I resumed figure-training when not working out or showering. I had made spectacular progress in the months leading up to surgery and did not want to lose it now. I also had my laptop computer and iPhone. The cottage had a Wi-Fi router, connected to the clinic’s network. I was able to keep up with current events, relishing each and every one, and also communicate with Mama and Jean-Claude.
I also Instagrammed with Alexis. She was back in our home, hiding out from the media jackals, just as I was in the clinic. She was wildly happy to hear from me; and apologetic, morose, reflective, hopeful and fearful. More than anything, she was desperately, wretchedly sad about what had happened to us.
In the beginning, when Brock was pressing her to leave me for him, she had been level-headed enough to make him agree to her demands. First and foremost, I was off limits; he was not to publicly abuse or humiliate me in any way, regardless of what steps she took to get me ‘out of the way’, per his mandate. Second, although she would share his bed, travel and be seen publicly with him and otherwise give in to his sexual desires, she would not move in; she would continue living in our home and coming home to me when he was occupied with the other facets of his life. Third, in her capacity as his ‘Personal Assistant’, he would pay her a salary commensurate to what I had been earning, so we would suffer no disruption in our lifestyle. She had had the prescience to get all of this in writing and notarized and kept the document in a safety deposit box in our bank.
As their relationship had unfolded, she had become completely caught up in the glamour and excitement of life in the limelight. She had the handsome, charismatic, well-endowed beau, wealth, fame, and status. They went to top-tier locations and events and socialized with the rich and famous. People had fawned over them wherever they went. She felt like royalty, like her fictional counterpart on television. She was, at long last, living her dream. Best of all, she had me waiting at home to fill in the missing spaces.
Unexpectedly, she had thrived on the frenetic pace and challenges of running a business. Her position as Brock’s ‘Personal Assistant’ had been intended to be a cover for her actual duties as his mistress. Instead, she began taking on real responsibilities and reveled in the satisfaction of seeing her hard work and initiative bear fruit. That made her ‘Alexis’ fantasy all the more real – and rewarding.
The cracks began to show; slowly at first, then more rapidly. I began to withdraw from her dream world. She was angry at first; how dare I deny her what she wanted? Who did I think I was? As our separation became more acute, she was able to step back from the brave new world she inhabited and see it for what it was. Brock Maitland was, in fact, all the boyfriends she had had before me, literally on steroids; arrogant, egotistical, selfish, vain, deceitful, jealous and utterly indifferent to any needs but his own. While his big cock was enough to get her off in and of itself, it was not with the intensity our shared fantasy had given her. Brock himself was certainly not putting out any effort to rectify that situation. By his reckoning, if he was happy, she should be happy, too. That, plus the absence of our love life, meant a sudden nose-dive in her connubial bliss.
It turned out her superman was not so super in the business sector, either. As Bob Martin had correctly pointed out so long ago, my former boss really didn’t have a head for the markets over which he reigned supreme. Instead, he relied on the coterie of gifted analysts he hired to chart the course of his investment empire. My wife reported he had boasted in private of periodically dangling the ‘carrot’ of an office in the Executive Suite in front of our noses to keep us motivated and producing our best efforts for him.
Lately, earnings had been flat. After the towering success of the Genesee Industries deal, then the acquisition of the Chrétien portfolio, none of his fair-haired boys had stepped up to deliver the Next Big Thing. The company’s prestige in the industry continued, borne aloft by Brock’s aggressive media campaign and force of personality, but that would not be enough to sustain them long-term. Behind the scenes, he had been desperately searching for another whiz kid with my level of expertise and intuition. He had even begun sounding her out about the possibility of maybe, just maybe…
Little by little, Alexis had come to realize the carefully-crafted myth of Brock Maitland – carefully crafted by him – was exactly that; myth.
Once he felt secure in his dominance over her, he had dropped the façade of the charming, caring, worldly-wise gentleman, revealing the other, darker ‘Mr. Hyde’ beneath. It had begun with a casual contempt, taking her presence in his life for granted. The benign contempt morphed into a more active, sometimes conflicting criticism. She wasn’t spending enough time with him. She was always underfoot. He wanted her to take more of the load off him at the office; after all, she was his Personal Assistant. She needed to back off; it was his company, not hers. He wanted her to look sexier for the cameras; it was good for his image. She looked like a whore. He wanted a deeper commitment from her. He needed his space.
He had always been forceful, ‘manly’ in his physical handling of her. That changed as well. He was very careful not to bruise her in places that would be noticeable on camera; at least, nothing her expertise with makeup couldn’t disguise. She was his woman and she would toe the line – or else. As he spent more and more time away from her, leaving her more and more alone, she began to suspect, then realize, she was not his one and only.
Why did she stay? At that point, given the state of our relationship, she wasn’t sure it wasn’t already too late to come home for good, try to mend fences and get on with our lives. For all of that, I was still her blind spot, just as she was mine. Brock knew that. That made me his ‘Ace in the Hole’. If Alexis didn’t give him what he wanted, when he wanted it, he wouldn’t just ‘out’ me to the media; he would destroy me, destroy any chance I might have for future happiness.
She may have roundly betrayed me in her infatuation for the High Life, but she wasn’t willing to do that.
When the Media turned on him like a pack of rabid dogs, he began using her as his personal punching bag to vent his frustration and anguish. She was at her lowest ebb. Then Brock had made the one mistake he could not afford to make with her; he had ‘outed’ me on camera in his attempt to deflect criticism from his crumbling image and empire. That act had released her from any sense of obligation she had to him – and she had bolted. The irony was, at that point, he could have exposed me as Jack the Ripper and no one would have believed him.
She had worried about money at first. She had allowed me to set up our financial vehicle and, because of Brock’s insistence on getting control of my money, had scrupulously stayed away from it. Now I and the money were tucked away behind stone walls in more ways than one. Then she realized our joint account was being regularly refreshed from our offshore holdings and our monthly bills automatically paid. Once again, I had thought of her first, despite the sad state of our relationship. For that, she had felt profoundly grateful – and ashamed. She was in the process of mending fences with Mama and hoped she could do the same with me when she had the opportunity.
Burn the bitch? Kick her to the curb? Again, that’s the easy call from the Lazy Boy Brigade down in Hicksville. They haven’t lived with her, loved her, shared the life I have with her. They haven’t gazed upon that face, loved that body, gotten lost in the depths of those fathomless gray eyes. No, she wasn’t totally blameless in all this, but who was? The whole thing had begun as a silly game, played by both of us with our eyes wide open, which had then spiraled out of control. The really important part was, when all was said and done, the love we shared had endured and sustained us when our world was going nutso.
Could we find our way back? How could we not?
xxxxx
Friday, August 1st. I had had plenty of time – two months in near solitude – to get my head straight and decide what I wanted to do. As I sat next to Mama in her car, heading home for the first time in eight weeks, I thought back to another Friday, so many months before. What thoughts had gone through Alexis’ mind as she sat where I did now? Anticipation? Hope? Desire? Contentment at having at long last achieved her life’s ambition? I thought it was all of those, plus one more; certainty that it had all been for something good, something lasting, something that meant something that was awaiting her – now me – at home. After sixty-one days of tribulation, followed by eight hours of pampered cosmological bliss, I was about to find out.
Tonight would be our night; just the two of us. Tomorrow we would share our bed – and each other – with Jean Claude. Choosing between the two of them was not an option. The other choice was obvious – and wildly erotic in its appeal. Would our Haitian hero be up to the task? Was that a serious question?
We glided to a stop at the curb in front of the house. I swear, gremlins must turn out the night before and place traffic cones out, to make sure that parking space is available. I opened my door, swung my legs over the sill and stood on red calfskin platform pumps whose spike heels elevated me to nosebleed altitude. I had to tug down the hem of my lipstick red four-way-stretch spandex tube sheath to cover the welts of my stockings. Alexis was out the front door like a shot, even as I sashayed up the walk to meet her. I languidly laid my arms over her shoulders and rubbed up against her in that special way we had of greeting one another. The anticipation of a soon-to-be close encounter with a certain double-ended latex friend had me wet in a brand new place.
“Did you miss me, Sugar?” I purred in greeting.
That incendiary flame of desire in her eyes told me everything was going to be alright.
xxxxx
Although The Chrétien Group maintained an army of publicists who were very good at their jobs, Jean-Claude Chrétien was a star because of who he was and what he did; not for any conscious manipulation on his part. The seamless integration of his latest acquisition into his financial empire was touted as yet another in a seemingly endless string of successes his family had enjoyed, dating back to the eighteenth century. He and his personal assistant, an über-busty blonde bombshell, together with Chrétien Investments’ new manager, the dark-haired beauty formerly linked to Brock Maitland and frequently compared to a famous Hollywood actress, became the new darlings of the media.
There was an unconfirmed sighting of a used-car salesman in Santa Monica, California who allegedly “looked just like that disgraced stockbroker who had been all over the Internet a while back”. The exposé gained little traction in the jaded, with-it Internet blogosphere. In today’s world of extreme plastic surgery and celebrity cloning on demand, who knew? Besides, that guy, wherever he was, had committed the ultimate publicity sin; being old news.
CSC
P.S. If the ‘Richard Corey’ reference went over your head, you can listen to the clip for free on You Tube.
THE END