The Changeling - the Switch

My rotund editor Clarisse, blonde hair contrasting with her dark power suit had called me in to her corner office. Her corner office offered a vista on the tract houses and malls of the suburban sprawl-o-polis and in the distance the glittering silver tower of the Puzzle Place. The subject of today's discussion was my progress into penetrating the Puzzle Palace. I smirked, "I understand The Puzzle Palace's output - webcast porn is mild compared to its competitors' racy material."

"Marjorie, The Puzzle Palace is planted dab set dead center among the suburban sprawl. In this community, all roads in this sprawl-o-polis lead to The Puzzle Palace. TPP is by no means your first attempt at investigative reporting. How long did you take to penetrate a massage parlor, a week? Why can't you seem to make any progress?"

I chuckled. "With the massage parlor, I picked the target. I identified a massage parlor on the edge of legitimacy," I reminded Clarisse, "I limited my risks."

"Didn't you and other girls administer therapeutic showers half -- naked," Clarise asked credulously, "for select regular patrons in the bath?" Quoting my article, Clarisse rendered my words in a melodramatic tone, "`Shower girls routinely allowed good tippers to pull the strings of the bikini top open. To pay mortgages, some women permitted select customers to loosen the strings of the bikini bottoms or thongs and allow the bottom to gently fall away.'"

"Shower girls live a tough life. That's what a shower girl does to make ends meet," I replied. "What choice does a shower girl have: the job or induction into national service?"

I took a breath. As impervious as rotund Clarisse was, I had to keep her satisfied that I was pursuing the objective in earnest. Releasing me from employment could mean getting swept up into make work in national service.

"Remind me! How did the massage parlor justify this shower ritual -- as a religious service?" Clarisse posed a question.

"The presentation," I sighed, "serves a quasi -- medical purpose, more entertainment than sex. Most LMTs tried to prevent shower girls from going full buck naked -- for obvious reasons."

"So it is possible to penetrative a secretive, insular world," Clarisse insisted. "Sex sells, Marjorie. People want to think the press or what's left of it can rescue pretty girls from a life of subjugation to perversion, humiliation, and violation and bring down worlds of money, power and influence founded on their suffering."

I sighed. I was locked in a struggle between Clarisse's expectation and her unwillingness to devote sufficient resources behind the project. TPP ran a webcast. Clarisse refused to buy the webcast.

Thus far, my husband James, a computer nerd, could not hack its way past TPP security into TPP's data bases. "Puzzle Palace, Marge, It's an apt name. Their computer security lays one trap after another to the hacker," James apologized, "I'll keep trying. It's an interesting problem in outthinking the computor's logical processes, but it would be cheaper to simply subscribe to the webcast." I had only a vague idea that TPP's webcast was a strip game show.

To Clarisse, I affirmed, "No, you're correct. TPP isn't my first attempt at investigative reporting," I thought out my words carefully, "The Puzzle Palace presents extreme difficulties. Executives did not grant interviews. `Subscribe to the service or apply to be a contestant,' was its standard response to queries. Any reporter who approaches TPP without a convincing, verifiable legend, cover story won't survive TPP's thorough background check. Aren't there enough social problems, impressment into national service, police check points, runaway inflation?"

"We run a news blog here, Marjorie. Newsflash: people don't read the news for information. Our viewers want entertainment, not news," Clarisse explained, "The viewer wants to escape much of the dreary reality--police checkpoints, arbitrary arrests--shortages we face. We talking about TPP, a company that went from operating out of a garage to acquiring an architectural statement in the heart of sprawl -- o -- polis. Behind that meteoric rise must be the taint of salacious sex, exploitation, money and influence. These make a juicy story," Clarisse solemnly affirmed with absolute confidence, "that our readers salivate over."

"My initial soundings of former employees told a story different from any form of sex -- ploitation," I protested. "Oh, yeah, there's plenty of nudity and occasional sex, but no exploitation. Everyone's paid and paid well for what they do. Nobody has to do anything they don't want to. There's always someone standing behind you ready to grab the cash, if you pass it up."

"What about TPP's insufferable secrecy and iron clad security? Entrance is controlled by a single manned checkpoint, extreme selectivity even of its patrons permitted access into its eh -- sacred precincts, go well beyond what is necessary to conceal planning from would -- be competitors. Their webcast is publicly available. Marjorie, doesn't that tell you something?" Clarisse prodded me.

Clarisse's words called up an image of TPP's manicured grounds, walled in by an eight-foot perimeter fence and protected by a visible security service to safeguard its secrets.

"It tells me that I can't walk up to the front door, knock and expect to be admitted?" I thought aloud, "TPP too carefully vets prospective employees as well as patrons of its art who attend the daily live performances. I could not simply live at home and report to work at TPP under a pseudonym. To penetrate TPP, I needed to create a set, a stage on which I could live out someone else's life. But the process of inserting myself into someone else's persona has to be seamless. No one should notice the turn-over."

It took months to develop a plan for a deep cover investigation that stood a chance of success and to persuade Clarisse of the expense needed to support a deep cover investigation but came one Sunday night, I was prepared to disappear into an illusion I had created.

That Sunday night I would leave my home, my child, and my husband James behind. It had been a miserable, damp, drizzly day. Our two-year-old was already in bed. I think it was shortly before 7PM. James and I were both hyper-charged. Our hearts were beating in synch to the tic tock-ing, old fashioned clock. Sitting in the kitchen counting down the time left to us, we were chatting about the length of my assignment, when James suddenly grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the stairs which led to our bedroom.

James quickly undressed and laid flat on his back. His pole popped up at right angles. James demanded, "Climb on board... before I burst."

Stripping down to my panties, I chuckled as I carefully mounted James, "A little fooling around, some dry humping will have to do. We haven't much time." Leaning over James to dangle my tits across his chest, I was breathing heavily when asked, "Today a kiss for farewell before I roam; tomorrow I won't get the job and 'll be back home and let our hearts throb." I released a satisfying `Ah` as my hand grasped Jame's extended pole. From its pulsations, I gauged James could not last very much longer.

Then came the unexpected. James' hands tore the sheer fabric of my panties. Throwing the shreds across the room, James declared, "with just enough spice for bait, your newly found modesty, you excise leaving a strip of elastic around your waist."

Putting his hands over his ears, James closed his eyes and pulled his head back. His bemused smile faded away. A blank look came across his face. His body tensed. His lips were moving but I heard no sound.

It wasn't going to be a long ride tonight. I had teased James too long. He started erupting before I reached the pinnacle of my first pump. Usually, I preferred to allow James to come at the apogee of a pump. This time I relaxed my body and allowed it to pull James in. I lay atop James, making contact with his lips whispering curses, threats and profanities into his ear.

"This is a special treat," I whispered as the pace of the rhythmic contractions of his orgasm started to taper off, "to allow you in this deep where it's warm and cozy and permit you full body contact. Now, I have to go."

I jumped up. James snickered, "That was wild, too much fun. I hope you were using your protection. It would be a shame to waste all my efforts breaking into TPP's computors to put you at the top of their list, if you turn up pregnant."

I leaned over James and took his scrotum in the palm of my hand, running his nuts between my fingers. James started to squirm. His projectile coming back to life elongated. "The best contraception, dear husband, is to excise these. I'll have full protection, but we'll have no more spice. Not nice!"

I turned to head to the shower.

I was douching myself when James threw open the shower door. A wild look peered on his face. I laughed, "Frisky, James, are you here for more, I'm sweaty. I have to wash to get ready." Twirling me around pinioned my arms above my head, James forced my face against the cool damp walls of the shower. My lips and tongue were lapping the condensation off the tiles. His body bumped up against me. I could feel his erection against my butt.

I spread my legs, stood on my tippy toes and butted my butt against Jim to allow Jim a smooth entry. I felt him throbbing inside me.

We were fully in contact. His belly was smack up against the cleft in my butt. His hairy legs were butt up against the inner sides of mine spreading my legs further apart as he drilled deeper inside with his throbbing appendage.

I tried to face him, begging him to allow me some kisses, but he locked me against the wall until he started to detonate rhythmically releasing his sap. James was still squirting when he pulled out and left me hugging the wall.

I quickly cleaned myself, dressed and raced downstairs. James was back at the kitchen table. To my surprise, the hands of the clock had not moved as far as I might have thought they should have.

For the last half hour as we watched the hands on the clock slowly turn, the conversation became strained as I had fallen into silent brooding. A paper sack with some underwear, night gowns and my alarm clock sat on the floor next to me. I repressed a chuckle. What did my friend Maggie Dowd whose identity I would assume say about plans, no plan survives initial contact with the enemy?

"The assignment will probably end a failure tomorrow about noon and I'll be home for sup," I tried to reassure James or was I trying to reassure myself? Did I really think I could scale the eight -- foot fence and invade the glittering silver tower of the Puzzle Palace?

James forced a smile. We both looked at the kitchen clock. James looked down at the round table. "It's time to go." He reminded me.

I sighed. Fortunately, because of the nature of my profession -- investigative journalism -- and of Jame's computer business run out of the house, we tended to be very private persons with little contact with our neighbors. No neighbors ever came a -- calling. I wouldn't be missed by anyone except--perhaps James and the baby. No eyebrows would be raised.

I took a deep cleansing breath to steady myself. I gave James a quick hug and kiss. I pulled on my sand-colored trench coat.

I struggled to stuff my hair in the jacket. I laughed when James rose to help me. "With hair grown to shoulder length to match Maggie's I do need your help. What will I do without you?"

We both forced smiles, fighting back tears. Placing my hand on Jame's cheek, I assured him, "Heck, I probably won't get the job at TPP and I'll be back Monday night!"

I checked my pockets. Ah, yes there was only a small wad of cash and a single key. I could bring nothing that might identify me as Marjorie Keating. That meant no handbag, watches, rings, jewelry etc.

I paused at the door and looked back at James. He was looking away. A simple plea to beg me to stay was all that was needed to keep me from going away.

Then, no word forthcoming, I quickly left out the kitchen door through the backyard to the garage which had an old door that opened onto the alley behind a strip mall.

From the alley, I looked back at the two -- story frame house. The lights were going out on the first floor. I guessed James was headed for bed. This would be our first night apart since the baby came. But James was fully supportive of my career in journalism and understood. I sighed. So, it seemed. At least my husband James knew what drove a journalist to super -- human efforts: the desire to know everything.

Notwithstanding Jame's complete support, there were those moments in my battle with Clarisse for realism when the frustrations of the working with Clarisse drove me down to the gym in the wee hours and pounding at a punching bag, pretending it to be her impenetrable skull. Oh, I also lifted weights and ran around for a few dozen laps. I liked the wee hours. The few guys around took no interest. For the longest time, no other women showed up that early. I had the women's shower to myself.

On the floor of the roadside gym, I concentrated on the punching bag to relieve tensions of my demanding editor who detecting my disgruntlement wrote off my chagrin with her intransigence to conflict between the demands of the job and the demands of home life. "Marjorie Keating," Clarisse was emphatic, "you forget that I'm a woman too," rotund Clarisse would say shaking her bubble shaped dark curls, "I have kids and a husband." Clarisse choice of clothing, the man -- ish looking power suit made her seem even more obese.

Tonight, as I stood in the alley and looked back at my house, I renewed my determination to crack a tough nut, The Puzzle Palace where everyone else had failed to get past the initial interview. What did Maggie Dowd say about the impressive security that sniffed out every shill sent their way: no target no matter how well secured is impenetrable? Turning toward the back entrance of the bar, I scurried past the patrons of the bar too lost in conversation, drink in one hand cigarette in the other, to take notice.

Inside the bar the bar tender nodded to me. "Evening, Marge," he said as he tended a customer.

That strategic door on the alley had provided a portal for me for quite some time so that my comings and goings could not be monitored. Oh well my transformation to Maggie Dowd by changing my color to a lighter color, not quite blonde, and letting my hair grow to shoulder length hadn't fooled the barkeeper.

Would my guise fool anybody else? I felt the knot in my stomach. Butterflies I tried to reassure myself. Every actress feels them before stepping out on stage. Oh well, I did tell James I'd be back by supper tomorrow.

Perky Maggie Dowd, my doppelganger, had started working out in the wee hours in the gym sometime in the last few months. In the first few weeks there was little contact. I'd see her stuff her shoulder length sandy brown hair into a black padded head guard insert a mouth bit and stand in the ring with the smaller, light weight men in the feather weight category. She was amazing as she danced around male opponents.

As I watched Maggie whirl around male opponents with the grace of a prima ballerina and then stun the opponent with the force of her blow like a heavy weight champ, an evil thought crossed my mind. I wondered how much under her protective sports bra was real. Female boxers must have some sturdy protective cups under the bra, I thought. I didn't have the same worries. Neither the ovate speed bag nor the long cylindrical boxing bag fought back.

Initially, Maggie's entrance hadn't disturbed my arrangement, the locker and shower remained my private preserve. Initially, we conveniently used the locker and shower at different times.

I walked out the front entrance of the bar. There were few cars in the parking lot, mostly near the bar, but the supermarket was still open. I decided to wait there. A woman with a paper sack would not appear out of place. After looking around, I started to fret. What if the real Maggie Dowd didn't show up? I had spent time memorizing her date of birth, social security number, schools she attended, her employment history, time in the Army, name ranks, dates of service and promotions. Would all that go to waste?

The first time the real Maggie Dowd and I spoke, I had a bath towel wrapped around my shoulders pulling my gym shorts off when I gasped. I didn't realize Maggie, towel slung routishly over her shoulder, was standing over me. "I'm leaving early. I forgot my shampoo." Reaching at her neck, she pulled a rubber band out of her hair and shook her head to unleash her sandy blonde locks. "Can I borrow a dab from you?"

I had been so riled up by Clarisse's impossible demand to invade the Puzzle Palace that I hadn't noticed the shower running in the women's locker until Maggie Dowd emerged from the steamy mist with nothing on but a towel slung overaround her shoulders. I instinctively turned away from staring at her luscious breasts. "I only wanted to ask if you could lend me some shampoo." Maggie Dowd assured me, "I left mine at home." Placing a finger on her lip, Maggie promised, "I'll cover up if that'll make you feel more comfortable."

I stood. Instinctively, pulling my towel around my body, I threw my gym shorts into the locker and reached for the shampoo. "OK," Bravado had overcome me. I pointed to the showers, "Onto the showers." I didn't want to appear prudish.

As Maggie whirled her towel over her head and effortlessly tossed it onto the rack near the entrance to the shower, Maggie teased me, "Did it ever occur to you that people generally undress, cover ourselves up to walk to the showers wrapped in towels in order just to stand naked together under the spigots?" Yes, Maggie could be amusing. I was laughing so hard. I hadn't realized that Maggie had slipped the towel off me and hung it on the rack.

Maggie and I were about the same size, not very tall and her breasts were not quite as huge as it might have seemed under the sports bra. Maggie smiled. "Remember there are only three really uncomfortable experiences in the world: driving someone else's car, wearing someone else's clothes, and sleeping in someone else's bed."

I was waiting in the parking lot in front of the supermarket only a few minutes when I saw Maggie's blue car pull up. As she parked near the grocery away from the lighting, I could see the light on her cell phone flicker on. It'll be quick she's only calling a taxi, I thought. I grew impatient as the call seemed to go on.

From the time I met Maggie she inspired confidence. After besting a brave male opponent in the ring in front of an audience of some four or five guys, she entered the locker room dancing around on the bench still gloved waving her arms in the air like a boxer who had just taken the title. I had just pulled my sleeveless top off but I didn't reach for my towel. I politely clapped. She was yelling. "There's nothing like watching your opponent hit the mat. Whenever I do it, I feel like just running off home and fucking my husband blind." Winking at me, she exclaimed with a saucy tone, "that is, my husband and/or whoever else is available!"

I laughed. The towel was over my shoulders only partially covering my breasts.

Was it temptation that led Maggie to become more explicit? "I'll get home and break my stallion. Rip the covers off while he's still asleep in bed, tear his boxers to shreds, mount him and ride the bull horn up and down. I'll get wet so quickly that he'll be a-begging for permission to come inside me."

"Sounds like fun." I quipped, "Would you like an audience for that too?"

"Only if you can beat me in the ring," came Maggie's sassy reply.

"Maybe, you could teach me," I suggested.