Feature Writer: Angel Cherysse
Feature Title: THE INSTITUTE: BODY DOUBLE 7
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 7
I had spent Sunday afternoon in a closed-door session in my mother’s salon chair for the first phase of my makeover. With my wife bearing witness, my shoulder-blade-length sandy blonde hair had been transformed into a huge, layered explosion of Platinum Blonde puffery, worthy of an 80’s rock video. It would require work on my part until the following week, when it could be permed. Then I would be able to wash, dry, fluff and forget. My evil ‘twin’ added two more features right from her own heart; arched, microbladed eyebrows and a set of long, thick curly false eyelashes, affixed with a new adhesive, very similar to that which I used to attach my prosthetics. Result: a set of showgirl lashes that would remain in place a month or more, through showers, tears, repeated makeup applications and removals and anything else I might throw at them.
Monday morning found Alexis, my mother and I in Mama’s Lexus, headed into the hills at the edge of town. With the salon closed on Monday, as usual, Mama had insisted on accompanying us. Under instruction, I was dressed casually in T-shirt and sweats. The hair, eyebrows, eyelashes, talons and toenails all shouted “Brandi”. Otherwise, I wore no makeup or prosthetics, which felt really weird. They had been deliberately evasive of my inquiries, saying only I wouldn’t be sorry we made the trip.
The high stone walls at the end of a private access road, far removed from the nearest neighbor, gave it away. We parked outside the main building, which resembled a huge French chateau, and made our way inside. We were expected, and escorted down the hallway to a door leading to an anteroom staffed by an attractive secretary, who announced our arrival via telephone, then ushered us into the inner office.
The sign on her desk said it all:
Elizabeth Masters, M.D., PhD.
Director
The dazzling redhead stepped out from behind her desk to greet Mama, Alexis, then me. Then we took our seats.
“I have to say, Brandi,” this truly exceptional woman began, “I have been quite intrigued hearing about you, first from your mother, then from D’Arcy – I’m sorry, Alexis. I am proud of the results we have accomplished for each of them, just as I am proud of what we have done for all our clients. Your case is of particular interest to me. Mind you, we have performed gender-transformative procedures in the past, both male-to-female and the reverse. In each case, the client was well pleased with the outcome. What sets you apart is the level you have already transformed yourself, with the help of your mother.
“Hearing her description of you is one thing. Seeing you with my own eyes Saturday night, watching the way you comported yourself in a public setting, was another matter. If I hadn’t known better, I would have surmised your transformation was already complete, rather than just getting underway. The Harry Benjamin Protocols require an initial period of counseling to determine whether the subject is a suitable candidate for transition. After observing you Saturday night, I have already determined you are, and we can progress to the next phase.
“Alexis chose surgical procedures to make her appearance mirror that of her idol. As it happens, that woman is also a client of ours and we had already digitally mapped her physiognomy to fractions of a millimeter. The procedures themselves were exacting, and the recovery arduous, but the results were a foregone conclusion. You, too, enjoy a similar benefit. We already have your mother’s dimensions mapped, from head to toe. Your results are, as they say, a ‘shoo-in’. Given the almost-surreal resemblance between you two already, the cosmetic procedures to transform your face into hers are actually minor and can be accomplished this afternoon on an out-patient basis. The… adjustments to the dimensions of your lower body can be performed the same way.
“Normally, Hormone Replacement Therapy is the longest, most drawn-out portion of the transition. It might take a year to see noticeable results and two years to see appreciable ones. Professionally, I do not condone the subterfuge you and your mother conducted, although I understand the motivations. You have been on low-level HRT for ten years now. Your blood work confirms…”
Bloodwork? How … I turned to my wife. She continued looking at the Director, a coy smile on her lips. Okaaaaayyyyy…
“ … your body is ready. In fact, it is at a tipping point. With the application of higher-level dosages of next-gen synthetic female hormones, plus a new medication we have recently developed, your physiological changes will be rapid and profound. Our computer modelling projects you will be ready to undergo your final surgical makeover in six months.
“The introduction of an androgen suppressant in conjunction with your hormone therapy is the norm. Your file indicates that you have already initiated sporadic use of Depro-Gen. If we were to put you on a more aggressive régime with that medication, we could achieve the desired results in sixty to ninety days. Of course, the female hormones would be at war with your male hormones during that period, delaying your progress and final surgical date. Because of your advanced-phase status, I have a different protocol in mind; a more extreme one, which will resolve that conflict immediately.
“The bottom line is, by the time you leave here this afternoon, you will already feel more female than male. Eight months from now, you will have difficulty remembering you were ever male at all.”
Information Overload. My head was swimming with all the data Dr. Masters had poured into it. Mama and Alexis were beyond solicitous and supportive as I signed the necessary consent forms. Then a nurse appeared to lead me out of the office and further down the corridor to the surgical wing.
My two companions helped me to the car three hours later. I was still woozy from the sedatives and anesthetic. Radical Bilateral Orchiectomy. They had resolved my hormonal conflict, all right. I wished Doctor Masters had been a little more forthcoming about the procedure up front. It wasn’t that I was sorry to take such a great leap towards Womanhood so soon. I just wished I had had an opportunity to prepare myself mentally. My groin would wear the heavy gauze padding for forty-eight hours. After that, I would no longer have to worry about tucking my testicles inside my abdominal cavity.
Then again, I wouldn’t need to wear the pussy panties anymore. There are several injectable body fillers available, ranging from short-term to permanent. Given the changes expected from the hormone replacement therapy, my hips, thighs, and buttocks were injected with a collagen-like agent that would gradually be absorbed by the body. That way, they could monitor my dimensions month to month, injecting more as needed, until my body reached the extent of its hormonal development. Then they would switch to Perma-Plast, a more permanent inject-able media, to fill me out for the long run. I would wear heavy-duty support pantyhose for the next twenty-four hours while the filler ‘set’; infused itself into my tissues. Now, my wide hips, thick thighs and beautiful Brazilian bubble butt were all me – with a little help from modern medical science.
My face had already received the permanent media. My cheekbones and lips were bruised. That would resolve itself over the next few days. More to the point, they were dramatically fuller. I now had my mama’s face and hair. From the neck up, we were identical twins!
I had begun my hormone therapy as well; two pills and two injections. I had enough pills to last until I could get my prescriptions filled. I would be taking them twice daily. The injections would happen twice a week. The first was a hormone booster; a concentrated combination of the medications I was taking orally. The second was the new medication Dr. Masters had mentioned; Gyna-Gen. If I correctly understood what she told me, Gyna-Gen was a different kind of booster. It was more of a gene therapy, altering the body’s cellular structure to accelerate the effect of the hormones. The changes I could expect would not only be faster, but more profound than those of hormone therapy alone. I would have a standing appointment with Dr. Masters once a week to monitor my hormone levels and progress, and to talk about how I was feeling about myself and my transition.
I was lost in thought on the way home. How long had I dreamed, fantasized about doing exactly this? Now that we were actually doing it, it all seemed to be happening too fast, that it was out of my control. I didn’t doubt Mama’s support for a moment. If it had been her decision to make, I never would have made it to college. I would have been an operator at House of Benét and full-time female right out of high school. If that had been the case, I would not have the financial resources I now possessed. I also would not have Jean-Claude or Alexis.
Did I have Alexis? I felt like a dog, worrying an old bone. If I took her words at face value, there was no question; she was mine and I was hers. We had been through so much together, experienced so much, meant so much to each other. Now she was literally one of the most beautiful, desirable women in the world; a face millions would recognize, world-wide. She was the kind of woman men lusted for. There were so many Eddie Matthews out there who took what they wanted, with no respect for who or what they trampled along the way. It was clear Brock Maitland was one of them. At the same time, I had had a significant role in transforming D’Arcy/Alexis into the sensual, sexual being she had become. Brock Maitland’s big cock was catnip to her – and what woman wouldn’t relish being swept off her feet by a hunk like him? Whose fault was that; hers, or mine?
What about me? I was, had been all along, every bit the slut for big cock she had become. We had played our ‘hot wife’ games and it had been just as exciting for me as for her; not because I relished the idea of being her cuckold, but because I fantasized myself in the role of the hot wife. Now I was both. If I took her at her word, she loved this new ‘me’ even more; win-win. Did it matter if she kept her “boy on the side” as she called him? It did if ‘big cock’ won out over ‘big tits’.
The following morning, I watched from the comfort of our bed as Alexis prepared herself for the first day of her new job. The tailored two-piece suit fit in all the right places, if more than a little snugly. The wide-set lapels and unbuttoned blouse revealed way more cleavage than was office-appropriate. Combined with the sheer, dark stockings and designer high heels, her office outfit could easily have gone straight to a Girls’ Night Out.
She sat on the edge of the bed, cupping my cheek with the palm of her hand.
“You take it easy for the next two days, as the doctor told you,” she pronounced. “Tiffany is looking forward to you starting work on Thursday, as am I. I am so excited for us, this daring new ‘us’, I could burst. Elizabeth told me you should be mostly recovered by Thursday. I can’t wait to show you how I feel in a more intimate way. Now, I have to be going. I don’t want to be late and make a bad impression on my first day. I love you.”
That was easy for her to say. Despite Dr. Masters’ assurances to the contrary, I didn’t currently feel more female than male. I had the hair (currently a mess), but no boobs. I had the face, but appeared to have smacked into a brick wall. I had the curves below, but the visible parts screamed “Male”, even if my ‘clit’ was limp and my scrotal sac empty. In contrast, my A-list wife had never looked better, and was off to spend the day at the office with her lover. Some competition to him I was!
We made it through that day and the next. Alexis was nothing but supportive. If she and Brock had been intimate – given what I knew about the man, I had no reason to believe they hadn’t – she didn’t flaunt it in my face. She was the woman I had fallen in love with, amped up to fantasy levels. How could I not be utterly, totally, completely devoted to her, no matter what?
Thursday was my turn to dress for my new job. This was also my first day of serious figure training; tight-laced corseting all day, every day. Mama’s exaggerated-hourglass figure looked so good, and I had noticed Alexis giving it more than one appreciative glance. No brainer (tongue set firmly in cheek)! With prosthetics, makeup to cover the fading bruises and an appropriate outfit, I felt more like myself. The light in my mate’s eyes as she looked me over from head to toe made me feel like the proverbial million dollars. Another benefit for having come out to my wife, under whatever circumstances; in our respective high heels, we were finally the same height.
“You look good enough to eat,” Alexis murmured, gazing into my eyes. “If it weren’t for our new jobs, I would stay home and ravish you.”
“Anytime you need your itch scratched,” I replied huskily, “you just let me know.”
“Tonight,” my mate declared emphatically. “Brock will be at the gym, pumping iron. I plan to be right here, pumping my little bimbo with ten thick inches of hard manmeat.”
“Promises, promises,” I dismissed snarkily.
“Believe it, Bitch,” the brunette beauty avowed.
xxxxx
Mama greeted me with a hug when I entered the salon.
“Finally,” she declared her eyes misty. “You are where you belong; where you have always belonged.”
It was like coming home again – and not. Before, it had always been stolen moments, begrudgingly granted by a predetermined life and sullenly surrendered by me when that life called me back. Now I was here, doing the things I loved to do, working in the surroundings and with the girlfriends that brought me comfort. Gone were the pressures of having to come up with new and creative ways to feed the insatiable money machine. Gone, too, were the imagined sound of footsteps, the perceived tap on the shoulder, the implied enjoinder that it was time to put ‘Brandi’ away and return to the ‘real world’. I was free to just be. To make a good thing better, Mama had time to perm my hair. Wash. Dry. Fluff. Forget.
Big Hair, Don’t Care!
I couldn’t remember ever before feeling such genuine joy.
The sexpot that greeted Alexis at home that night wore only a corset, stockings, CFM heels and sheer, floor-length peignoir. Boudoir makeup and hair? You’d better believe it! The beguiling brunette made good on her threat of ravishment, but I gave as good as I got.
THE END OF CHAPTER SEVEN