Chapter 9

Baby steps. One foot in front of the other. Breathe in, breathe out. Make it through this moment, this minute, this hour, this day. Then the next. And the next. It’s easy to say “Burn the bitch, leave her, divorce her, cap her cheating ass” from the comfort of your Barcalounger a zillion miles away. You haven’t gazed into those mesmerizing gray eyes, run your fingers through that thick, rich, fragrant dark hair, held that warm, voluptuous body against yours, seen her smile, heard her laugh, been totally enchanted by that voice, that style, that everything, knowing there could never be another like her in your life ever again.

Leave her? This is my house, free and clear, purchased with my money, earned by my hard work, despite Brock Maitland’s interpretation to the contrary. For the first time in my life, I am not beholden to anyone in my place of residence, other than the tax collector and the utility companies. No one is forcing me out. Why should I walk away from all of that?

Cap her cheating ass? I’m Bimbo, not Rambo. I have a black belt; several of them. They are hanging in my closet. They look great with this dress, or that pair of jeans, or even my black rabbit coat. A measure of my martial arts prowess? Not so much. Nor can I count on Tom Cruise and his team to help me plan and execute an impossible mission to climb the elevator shaft to the insidious villain’s rooftop retreat and slay him in his den.

This recording will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Brandi.

You weren’t there when she returned Sunday evening, after Jean-Claude had flown on to Paris. You didn’t see the smoldering desire in her eyes as she beheld me. You didn’t follow us as she led – dragged – me to our bedroom and threw me down on the bed whose sheets I had only just changed. You didn’t witness her slowly, sensually strip, then climb atop me and straddle my face. She was full of Him, and made me swallow every drop, proclaiming her ecstasy in lustful screams. Where was your righteous indignation when she strapped on that huge, double-ended dildo, impaling herself and me on twenty thick inches of pure hedonistic delight?

I wanted to resist. I wanted to protest how unfair it all was. “I am not turning into some kind of ogre, Darling,” she had teased me before. “I am not going to keep my ‘boy on the side’ and deny you yours.” That’s easy to say when her boyfriend is across town, while mine is across an ocean. I wanted to scream to high heaven I was afraid of losing her. She was done, complete, a work of art for the ages. She could go anywhere, do anything, be with anyone she chose. My transition was barely begun, and months away from fruition – and Big Cock Brock was right there. I wanted to tell her all those things, but when she took me that way with her own big cock, my ... mind ... just ... went... blank.

“Now we talk,” she purred contentedly. She lay spooned behind me, her arms around me, her phallus impaled as deeply into me as it would go. “Correction; I talk, you listen. I know you were there, in the bathroom. Brock may have been oblivious to the closed stall door behind him, but I was not. I recognized your shoes under the partition. Now you know all the dirty details about us; Brock and me. As much as it hurt you, and I know it did, I am glad it is out in the open at last. The guilt has been eating me alive these past months. I did not know how to make it up to you – and then I did.

“Your mother told me about ‘Brandi’ that day when I got my new hairstyle. I was both floored and intrigued at the same time. You did not bring it up, even though I hoped you would, so I did not either. Still, I was thinking about it. Over time, I realized I had been seeing glimpses of ‘Brandi’ since the moment I first laid eyes on you – and liked what I saw. Our domination/submission games merely heightened my longstanding desire to take charge of our relationship, like my namesake - and see what my little bimbo was all about.

Then came my affair with Brock, and his subsequent demand to get Michael ‘out of the way’. I already had an idea how I was going to accomplish that, but when he introduced me to Jean-Claude and he, in turn, revealed his own kinky desires to me, everything fell into place. Watching that big Black stud take you, use you, make you his bitch was one of the most wildly erotic sexual experiences I have ever had. You were not in a position to see me masturbate while watching you, but I did, and it was an immensely satisfying orgasm.

“And here we are! You are well on your way to becoming the woman you have always wanted to be and I have already arrived at that destination. Now that you know about Brock and me, I see no reason not to continue our arrangement, his and mine, while you transition. I will not even tell him you now know all about us. I know that sounds insensitive towards you, given his attitude about you, but I have my reasons. I cannot begin to describe how... intoxicating it is to live life in the limelight, be the focus of so much attention and adulation. Grant me this, as you have never denied me anything since the day we met. Soon enough, you will be joining me in the limelight, where we belong.”

One month passed, then two, then three. I was half-way home. The medications were working. My body was blossoming at an astonishing rate, just as Elizabeth had predicted. I had already had to replace my breast prostheses once and I had another new pair on order. Each successive pair had a more concave base to accommodate my own rapidly-swelling breasts. Mama was a natural DD-cup before she had her surgery. It looked like I would at least equal, if not exceed that before mine.

I met with Doctor Masters once a week. She would take a blood sample, to be sent to the lab to check my hormone levels. Then we would talk. I told her about my life and experiences. I did not go into the situation with my wife, although she probably knew at least as much as I did if she followed the news at all. The thing was, I was feeling better about myself. I was feeling more focused, more attuned to myself, my appearance and how others perceived me. I was drawing a lot of attention from men on the street and elsewhere. That made me feel good about me.

Alexis returned home on the nights her boyfriend did not require her. Sometimes she was full of him; sometimes not. Whichever the case, she rode my face to multiple orgasms before moving on to our shared intercourse. I remembered his dismissive comments about oral sex and was grateful there was still something I offered she could not get from him. She adored my enlarged and sensitized natural breasts and insisted on incorporating them into our love-making. The sensation of her tweaking my sensitive nipples with her talons while filling me with her latex rod truly was sensory overload.

It seemed I could not escape the constant barrage of publicity and gossip surrounding Brock and Alexis’ whirlwind romance. Her identity had become known, and the obvious comparisons to the television siren had been drawn. That was worthy of a separate round of media hysteria. Through it all, they piously declined commenting on the subject, citing their “desire for privacy”.

Butter would not have melted in their mouths.

The media followed them everywhere; to New York, where they attended Broadway shows, to Santa Clara for the Super Bowl, to Daytona for the 500, to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. Rumors of impending nuptials filled the airwaves and bandwidth. Through it all, the happy couple beamed radiantly for the ever-present cameras.

Mama and the other girls at the salon were enraptured with this real-life soap opera. They attempted to engage me in their gossip about my wife and her beau, asking if I was happy for them, for her? Sure, go ahead; give the knife another twist. Mostly, I just walked away.

If my wife did come home, she demanded oral worship greedily, then went to sleep and was up and gone the next morning. That made me feel cheap, used, disposable. Sometimes, I came home from work to discover she had been there only long enough to shower, change clothes and maybe pack an overnight bag. She might leave a hastily-scribbled Post-It note on the mirror:

LUV U!

She might not.