I Am Jake's Mom (Szilagyimi Gender Transformation)

Brandon ended the call. “That was Jake. He can’t make it. Senior project issues.” “That sucks,” Chad said. He was sitting next to Brandon in the front seat of the car. “Can we still use the pool?” “Yeah, he said no problem there, so at least that’s good news.” “Plus it makes it easier for me to hit on his mom,” Mike said from the backseat. Brandon gritted his teeth and looked at Chad with a scowl wishing he could telepathically communicate his disgust at Chad for inviting Mike. It was supposed to be Chad, Jake, and Brandon. But no. Chad, why did you have to invite Mike? Why? Brandon rubbed his temples and shook his head and whispered out the window, “Why?” “Why not?” Mike asked. “She’s hot.” Brandon shook his head. The car navigated itself down the winding country road; scanning the scenery, and making countless small adjustments to steering, speed, and course navigation. Mike thought of Mrs. Moore’s curves nestled in her bathing suit as he peered into the forest – if you could call it a forest. The trees were planted in rows – the unmistakable hand of humanity. Mike focused his eyes into the darkness between the trees, scanning the shadows created by the thick canopy. The passing trees took the effect of a film projector so that each space between two rows became a frame. Mike searched the projection, finally spotting a buck standing deep in the forest. The car sped around a turn and the film ended abruptly, melting into large swath of freshly-cut land. Twisted trunks and underbrush remained, baking in the sun. Stacks of unsatisfactory logs dotted the desolation, smoldering from fires set the day before. In a few weeks, the land would be cleared and saplings would be planted to take their place. “I think we’ve gone too far.” Mike said. “You’ve gone too far,” Brandon snapped. “Mrs. Moore is our friend’s mom!” “Miss Moore,” Mike said. Her husband had disappeared seven years ago. “Still, she’s Mrs. Moore to you...” “Is she ever!” “...and maybe you shouldn’t be such a pig.” “I’m just saying what we all think,” Mike laughed. “And we all think Mrs. Moore is hot. We're just three little piggies. Three lost piggies.” “The car has the right address,” Chad said, checking the interface on his phone. “We can’t get lost.” --- From the moment they moved into their dorm hall, Mike and Brandon had never mixed well. Chad, however, enjoyed them both as friends and did his best to act as conduit – a weak one – between them. “The more the merrier,” Chad would say. Now he was beginning to doubt his trite slogan, but he begrudgingly attempted to steer conversation to better waters. “So Brandon, how’s your senior project coming along?” Brandon felt an immediate tightness in his shoulders. He didn’t want to talk about his project. He wanted to go to the Moore’s pool and forget, at least for a few hours, about the mess that was his senior project; but, feeling Mike’s presence in the backseat, he sugar-coated his answer. “Great!” he replied nervously. “We had a slight issue last week, but the fix is in and everything is moving along nicel-“ “What’s your project?” Mike mumbled from the back. Brandon cleared his throat at the interruption. He didn’t bother to turn around. “My project is an app. It’s a social networking app that-” “A social networking app?” Mike sighed and chuckled. The man-made forest returned and he resumed his searching, more intent to find signs of life in the shadows. Brandon turned in his seat. His seat belt dug into his neck. “And what’s wrong with an app?” “What’s wrong with a social networking app, you mean?” Mike spotted another deer, a doe, munching daintily at something in the underbrush. “Maybe you should make an app for deer instead...” he trailed off, his mind taken in by a new stretch of smoldering desolation. “What? What the fuck are you talking about? Deer?” “Guys.” Chad said. “Please.” “Buckfuck.” Mike mumbled to himself. “The Dating App for Deer. Hoof-sensitive touch screens.” “Ha ha. Very funny, Mike.” Chad gritted his teeth and poked Brandon. “He’s just having a little fun, Brandon.” “No, I want to hear what he has to say,” Brandon frantically loosened his seat belt and turned back to Mike. “What’s wrong with a social networking app?” he asked, trying his hardest to imitate the disdainful way Mike had said social networking, which had been more the product of Mike’s languid way of talking than any deeply held opinion. Mike thought of Buckfuck, The Dating App for Deer. Could it scale? How would it do during hunting season? He sighed. “Brandon. Do you think the world needs another app?” “Guys. Stop. We’re going to a pool. This is supposed to be fun.” Chad looked at his phone in defeat. Nothing for the last mile looked familiar to him. They were lost. Fuck. “Obviously, I do think the world needs another app or I wouldn’t be making one,” Brandon’s stomach tensed, caught between explaining himself and wanting deeply to divert the attention from his failing project. “What’s your senior project, Mike?” “I can’t tell you.” The car fell silent for a moment. “-in the interest of the confidentiality of my investors and protecting national security interests.” Brandon guffawed. “I take it back, Chad. I’m glad you invited him. He’s good for a laugh.” “I’m being serious.” Mike shrugged. “But laughter is healthy. I’m happy to provide it to anyone.” Brandon looked over his shoulder. Mike sat calmly, looking out the window, surveying the world like a king in a horse-drawn coach. He hated Mike. His easy manner. His success. His charm. Everyone liked Mike. Everything he touched seemed to work out. Brandon told himself he didn’t care. But he did. And now he cared even more. What was Mike working on? National Security? Investors? All while everything he was working on was a complete mess! It made Brandon feel out of control. He hated to be out of control. He wanted to see one thing in Mike’s life not go according to plan – just once. “Navigate the car to turn around, Chad,” Mike called from the back. “We’ve gone too far.” Chad sighed and started searching through his phone for the proper address. Mike turned his head and looked at Brandon directly in the eye. “So, Brandon, what happens after you make your social networking app?” “It sells. It scales. I build my company.” “Is that it?” Mike said. “Yeah, that’s it,” Brandon shrugged. “Why? What would you do?” “I would sell it and go to Patagonia.” Brandon laughed. “Yeah, and then what?” “I guess I’d see where that road led,” he replied. “Live comfortably until I die. Maybe learn how to paint landscapes. Do some wilderness skills training. Write a book, or two.” “A book! Ha! You?” “Why not?” Mike’s tone never changed as he spoke. He was clear and calm. “I could write a book. So could you. It would be better than sitting in a climate-controlled boutique workspace surrounded by programmers and angel investors all waiting to cash in. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, Brandon.” “‘The Road Not Taken,’” Chad whispered, still trying to figure out how they all got lost. “Well, social networking app or not, I’m happy with the road I’m choosing,” Brandon said dismissively. “That’s not the point of that poem,” Mike said dryly. “The point is it doesn’t matter which road you choose.” “Then why are you ragging me about an app?” Brandon asked, irritated. “Because the world doesn’t need another app, and you know that, Brandon.” Brandon sulked in his seat. The car fell quiet. “Unless…” Mike said from the backseat. Chad and Brandon’s ears perked up. “Unless, what?” they asked in unison. “Unless it’s Buckfuck: The Dating App for Deer.” --- Mrs. Moore answered the door. It wasn’t enough to say she was beautiful, and even if the three young men had said it out loud, would it have mattered? She occupied an off-limits space. To consider her as anything more than their friend’s mom would be indecent. Or would it? This question – or would it? – lingered in their subconscious and made interacting with her a lovely form of torture. They had borrowed the pool a few times over the summer, and each had, in the back of their minds, looked forward to seeing Mrs. Moore in her bathing suit, lazing next to the pool. Facets of her beauty had been discovered over time, pieced together with stolen glances: Her hourglass figure. Her thighs. The way the crotch of her bathing suit cut over her pelvis. Her breasts defying both gravity and age – though, to be fair, she had given birth to their friend at the age of sixteen, making her a good ten years younger than their own mothers. They would inevitably act out and joke, each doing their best to make her laugh, u*********sly searching for her approval. Mrs. Moore just rolled her eyes. Boys. “Hi, boys.” “Hi, Mrs. Moore,” they said together as they stepped through the palatial doors of the Moore estate. The soft murmur of water emanated from the sizable stone fountain at the center of the foyer. Mr. Moore had been a wealthy man. “Do you mind locking the door? I just painted my nails.” “Not a problem.” Chad held the door for his friends and locked it behind him. She was wearing a sheer robe over a new bikini. Her nails were long and coated in white polish. The wrist of one arm was circled with a series of silver bracelets which tapped together pleasurably as she swept her arm down to her side. All three boys pretended to notice her manicure before stealing a glance of her bust as she turned, each noting her nipples poking slightly through her bathing suit and into the robe. They followed beside her, circling the fountain, strolling slowly toward the entrance to the main living area. “Brandon, how’s your mom? I’ve been meaning to call her.” “She’s doing well. My dad retired so they’ve been traveling. It’s hard to keep up with them.” “I would love to see her. It’s been too long. Tell her, when she’s back, that we should have lunch.” “I’ll do it,” he smiled back at her politely. Talking to older people made him nervous and he felt especially self-conscious after the conversation in the car. She turned to Mike. “And what about you, Mike. Still getting into trouble?” “As always.” He smiled. She smiled back. “I’m thinking of going to Patagonia!” “Wow! I’ve always wanted to go there!” “Then we should go. How’s next spring?” Brandon rolled his eyes. “I’ll think about it,” Mrs. Moore laughed out loud. “Now, you boys go out to the pool. I’ll bring some lemonade in a bit and join you.” “Please do.” Mike eagerly said as he took off his shirt. She smiled and nodded, swaying into the living room, then turning to walk down the hallway leading toward her bedroom. Brandon looked at Mike’s shirtless frame next to Chad in the threshold to the living room. Both of them were drinking in Mrs. Moore’s curves as she walked away. Idiots, thought Brandon. He pushed between Mike and Chad, stepping down from the foyer into the living room, an open area with a high-ceiling with exposed wooden beams and a giant fireplace that evoked a Pacific-coast lodge. He sped through the lavish room toward the back door, determined to reach the pool before the others. To dive in. To have a few fleeting moments of peace. Chad called out behind him. “Hey Brandon, wait up!” Brandon grumbled back, opened the back door, pulled off his shirt, flicked his sandals to the tile, and carefully made his way to the edge of the deep end, which was a considerable distance from the front door, as the Moore’s pool was a massive multi-leveled affair. If the Moore house was palatial, the pool was a work of art. Its design had been a labor of love for Mr. Moore. Its details evoked Venice. Budapest. Some architectural flourishes tipped their hat to the Turkish baths Mr. Moore had frequented in his youth. Strangely enough, rather than clash, he had deftly made these disparate elements work together on a grand scale. A beautiful tile border surrounded the curvy pool perimeter in a broad strip, and beneath the water, on the deep end of the pool, lay a mosaic — a black octopus, a replica of one found in an excavated house in Pompeii. Lush landscaping dotted with lounge chairs and a tiki bar finished the scene. At the end of the pool, by the deep end, stood a cabana with a day bed, where Mrs. Moore lounged on sunny days and read. A great stone wall with two elaborate metal gates surrounded the pool area, and beyond it, the forest, all Moore-owned land, stretched for acres and acres. Brandon stood at the deep end with the cabana behind him and gazed at the black octopus at the bottom of the pool. The undisturbed water was still like a translucent mirror. A few leaves floated on the surface. He stared beyond his reflection into the round eyes of the pixilated cephalopod. They stared back. Wide-eyed. Vacant. For a moment, he wished the octopus was real and that it would grab him and pull him under for good. He tried to push that fatalism from his mind, remembering the words from a song his mom used to sing to him at bedtime about an octopus’s garden, a place free of care, but it was no use. He wanted to sink to the bottom, if only for a moment. He breathed in and stepped back to dive. But then he stopped. He squinted. What is that? There was a dark spot next to the octopus’s right eye. A gust of wind blew through the Moore’s backyard. Tiny waves began to form in the water, reducing his reflection to fragments. He peered through the disarray to see a small black stone lying on the bottom of the pool. He assessed stone, its size and location. His dive now had focus. Brandon positioned himself, took a deep breath, and leaped.. --- Chad and Mike pushed open the back door. “Where’d Brandon go?” Chad shrugged. “I think you upset him.” “Please. I was just being honest.” “I know you were. But to him, you’re a threat and always have been. You should tone it down.” “Ha, me? I’m already toned down. And I’m not threatening to anyone.” Mike fluttered his eyelashes. “Whatever you say, Mr. ‘National Security Interests!’” Chad laughed as he sent a foot behind Mike to trip him and wrestle him toward the pool. Mike guffawed and threw a hand behind him to grab Chad’s arm. He stabilized himself with a strong leg. “You’ve just made a dangerous mistake, sir.” --- The water enveloped him in an instant, cutting the lush treble of lapping waves, rustling foliage and neighborhood noise into feint frequencies. White clouds of tiny bubbles emanated from his extremities, rising toward the surface as he descended. He opened his eyes. The water stung for a moment before the inside of the pool came into view and he could see clearly. For a few seconds he floated, suspended halfway below the surface of the water. He listened to the faint sounds of Chad and Mike roughhousing above the surface. Brandon looked up at the rays of light cutting through the clouds and then back down to the octopus waiting for him below. The stone shifted slightly beside its eye in the undercurrent created by his dive. Brandon felt calm. He still had plenty of air. He lunged toward the stone, kicking steadily to reach it. As he neared the bottom, he felt a strange sensation run through him. For a split second, the mosaic inexplicably dissolved into the polished sheen of a wooden floor. He closed his eyes and stopped his descent, floating away from the stone. The floor disappeared. He opened his eyes again. The octopus stared back. He paused for a moment, perplexed. His breath was dwindling, but he was determined not to surface before retrieving the stone. He held his arm out and lunged again with a kick, expecting to snatch the rock quickly and float upwards again without much effort. But as he arrived above it, his body was drawn closer to the stone, as if it possessed its own gravity. And then: he felt pulled from within. He was filled with the desire to hold the stone. A longing to possess it. Need. The mosaic around the stone shimmered and its eight arms faded again into the image of a wooden floor. He examined the strange stone on the foreign surface in wonder. Half of it was smooth and polished, like obsidian, and the other half was rough and jagged, like coal. It was beautiful. There was a flash of red. A lightness in his jaw. He looked up to the surface, expecting to see the sun shining through the waves above him. Instead, he found himself peering down a long dark hallway. The image undulated above him, but his spatial sense had faded away; it was as if he was standing upright, peering down the long passageway. Brandon panicked. He reached beneath him and grabbed the stone, taking it into his hand, and kicked off the bottom of the pool. But he didn’t go anywhere. The stone became suspended inches from the bottom and his legs flipped into the water above him. A strange sensation rushed through Brandon’s arm and into his body. He tried to relax his fingers to release the stone. He couldn’t. He kicked frantically. His hand clenched around the stone, gripping harder and harder, until his nails dug into his palm painfully. The muscles of his body stiffened and convulsed as the bottom of the pool, the wood floor, turned black like a void. He peered into the nothingness for only a second before turning his head and reaching back for the surface with his other hand. There was a light at the end of the hallway that faded as darkness beneath him began to absorb everything like a black hole. He was out of air. He felt a heaviness in his chest. He opened his mouth to scream and water rushed into his throat. Everything went black. --- He fell. Stumbling, he caught his fall at the last second against a wall. Gasping for breath. The breaths came easy. He opened his eyes. He was dry, standing on a hardwood floor in a long hallway. He immediately recognized it as the hallway leading from the bedrooms of Jake’s house to the living room. He breathed deeply, expecting to cough up a lungful of water. But nothing came. He felt a tightness across his chest. A snugness around his hips. His legs felt weak and off-balance. He looked down. Hair fell around his face. He brushed it from his eyes. Red fabric encased his chest. He could see it through the sheer robe he was wrapped in. He pulled it apart frantically and it fell from his shoulders, exposing two pert breasts suspended from his chest. What? He reached for the red fabric with both hands, grabbing it from above with his fingers, which were tiny and topped with long nails that glimmered with a thick coat of fresh, white polish. He took another breath. Fabric parted from his skin, revealing a clear division between tan exposed skin and pale orbs of flesh hidden beneath. Skin hidden from the sun, season after season. Brandon continued to tug at the nylon, the globes of flesh relaxing forward at the release of compression and the weight on his back steadily increasing. They were large; there was a lot of ground to cover until they were fully exposed. He pulled, gradually uncovering another change in color: the circular flesh of areoles that capped the generous round breasts and led the rest of the distance to two prominent nipples, the sight of which made him immediately release the material in shock. It snapped back, containing the sizable breasts with a jiggle. The nipples suddenly stimulated and grew firm. He felt them pushing forward; they were a part of him. They lengthened as they swelled, making hard divots in the fabric. He shakily brought his hands to cup the massive breasts before him, noting how sensitive they were compared to his muscular chest. He pulled the heavy masses into himself and leaned forward to gaze over them. His crotch was cupped in matching material and he eyed it expecting to find a bulge or the outline of his dick snaking to one side. He swallowed; a triangle of red material lay snug against him and he knew there was no way he could fit within it. He tried to ignore the thighs and the tiny pedicured feet in thong sandals doing their best to balance the curvy frame he was inhabiting. His left hand fell from his breast and he took the hem of the triangle in two manicured fingers. He clenched a breast firmly with his other hand and peered over the sizable bust with wide eyes, pulling the fabric from his flat tummy. Again he was met with an immediate change of flesh color: another tan line, a triangle of paler flesh that matched the suit, evidence it had been there over many sunny days. In the center of the triangle was a wisp of blonde hair, trimmed smartly in a thin stripe. It led a trail down his mound. A trail to nothing. He let go of the material in a snap. He felt the panties, hugging his pelvis. Containing it. He surmised from the pressure that behind him hung a prominent butt. His nipples dug in harder to the bikini top. They felt thick. Thicker than his had ever been. He let his hand trace its way down the curved thigh of the suit before hooking his fingernail beneath the thin section of fabric between his thighs. He pulled it to the side and felt a breeze of cool air roll over the nothingness. Why did he feel so wet down there? So warm. He brushed his finger delicately over the moist folds for a moment before releasing the fabric with a snap. He pressed his fingers together. They were slippery. He winced. No. He rested his hand back to the hem of the suit and pushed beneath it, his fingertips running over the soft line of fur on his pubis. He stroked his hand back and forth over his pubis. Soft skin, then a line of hair, then soft skin; his crotch perfectly framed – divided by the pubic hair down its center. He stood in the hallway, confused. Mere seconds ago, he had been submerged in water, diving for the stone. Now he was dry, except for a strange feeling between his legs. He heard the muffled commotion of Mike and Chad horsing around outside and turned to his left, to the half-opened bathroom door. He pushed it open with his dainty hand and stepped in. He squinted to see between the blinds in the window. Chad and Mike’s muscular forms were wrestling at the edge of the pool. Mike pushed Chad into the water. Mrs. Moore’s brown eyes focused, allowing Brandon’s gaze to linger on the muscles of Mike’s back for a moment, taking them in as water splashed behind him. Mike is strong. Time seemed to slow. Brandon turned to the mirror, trying hard not to anticipate exactly who he would find staring back at him. A curvy body clad in two pieces: a red bikini, a form he knew all too well, a body he had pieced together in his mind countless times before. He regarded it for a moment before turning back to the window. Mrs. Moore’s long hair fell in his face. He pulled it from his eyes and gazed at Mike’s back again, admiring his chiseled form, before turning back to the mirror, trading each scene in his mind. He hoped to add his own muscular frame to the sequence of images, to return himself back to reality, but when he looked down he was met with the cleavage of Mrs. Moore’s huge tits from altogether new and foreign angle: From above. From Mrs. Moore’s point of view. They weighed on his back. Her back. His hand was still beneath him, inching dangerously close to something he never thought he would touch. Nearing the unmistakable heat he had felt when he had dipped his hands beneath his girlfriends’ panties. It felt so wrong he nearly pulled his hand away. What would Mrs. Moore think? Her body’s ever-hardening nipples gave him one clue. He breathed in expectantly and nestled a finger into Mrs. Moore’s labia. He felt light-headed and high. Outside, Mike was beating his chest as if the victor of a jungle battle. Mike looked over his shoulder and Brandon could tell it was to see if Mrs. Moore was watching. Brandon smirked and settled his fingers into Mrs. Moore’s swollen lips. Mike is such an asshole. His weight fell to one foot and his breasts and ass shifted to balance his new posture. Mike could only dream of having a body like this. Having these tits. And here he was, seeing them first hand. Feeling them first hand. Possessing them. He cupped the breasts in his hands and laughed. Finally, he had something Mike couldn’t have. As Brandon’s eyes traced Mike’s muscular frame, he decided he might as well have a little fun at Mike’s expense. --- “You want to take me again?” Mike laughed. “That’s okay. I think I skinned my foot on the side of the pool when I fell in.” Chad trod water and kicked his foot back to inspect his wound. “Hey boys!” Mike turned. Chad released his foot and grabbed on to the pool edge. Mrs. Moore strolled out the back door with a tray of lemonade. Both boys’ gazes darted between her brown eyes and glimpses of her bikini-clad breasts between the pitcher of lemonade and stack of glasses. “Hey,” they said quietly. She waddled to a pool side table with the tray, self-conscious of their glances, and set the glasses down. “Are you okay Mrs. Moore?” Mike walked over to help her. He settled his hands on her hips. “You seem...dizzy.” In Mrs. Moore’s short frame, Mike was much taller than Brandon had remembered. She flicked her hair back clumsily. “What do you mean?” Her voice was shaky. She was taken aback at his forwardness, the firm hands on her sides and his imposing presence. Chad eyed her suspiciously. “Did something happen, Mrs. Moore?” “Of course not – I’m fine!” The words rushed out of her mouth, only adding to her flustered air. “Who wants lemonade?” She lifted the pitcher, poured three glasses, quickly taking a glass of her own and gulping a big sip. The lemonade was tart and refreshing, a cascade of cool liquid rushed down her throat and into her chest. She could feel the chill radiate into her breasts. Her nipples responded. Mike picked up a glass languidly and took a sip. “You forgot Brandon.” She nearly choked on the lemonade. A chill ran down her back, joining the one in her chest. “B-Brandon? Excuse me?” “You only brought three glasses,” Mike said dryly. Her glutes and thighs tensed. Adrenaline rushed through her nerves and into her extremities, as if mapping her new frame from within. “Speaking of which, where is Brandon?” Chad turned behind him, squinting into the deep foliage on the other side of the pool. “Brandon!” Chad yelled as he began treading to the other end of the pool. “Brandon! Where are you?” Her eyes darted between them. “I’m sure he’s just exploring in the woods out back. M-men like to explore, right? Let me go get another glass for...for Brandon.” She shuffled back into the house, nearly tripping over the step leading to the back door. Mike watched her bounce away. Men like to explore? --- “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Mrs. Moore whispered to herself as she entered the kitchen. She flung open a cabinet, retrieved a glass and set it on the counter. Her breathing was erratic. She tried to steady herself. “You need to calm down,” she implored, “or they’ll know you are fucking with them.” The words rolled easily from her throat and reverberated sweetly in Mrs. Moore’s ears. She could feel her ears poking through her long hair and the slight weight of the wide hoop earrings through her lobes. She reached up to feel the holes, the way the metal studs pushed into them, filling them. She carefully combed her fingernails through her hair, brushing it back behind her, taking care if the strands were not tangled in the hoops; as she did this the bracelets on her left hand rattled in one ear and her long hair tickled the small of her back. She let a hand fall over her tummy and began tracing the waist of her bikini bottoms with the nail of her pinky finger. She felt lightheaded; the ghost of Mike’s strong hands still lingering above her hips. She tucked her finger beneath the hem and her other fingers followed. She could feel her stripe of pubic hair running down her palm as her middle finger settled above her crevice. She curled her finger, and her right thigh twisted in response. She stood there pigeon-toed. Something about touching herself there made her feel in control. She gripped her crotch firmly – it was akin to an a****l being taken by the scruff of its neck She opened her eyes. “What...what am I doing?” Brandon took stock of the situation without moving the hand from Mrs. Moore’s pussy. He pushed a feminine finger against her entrance and cringed, fighting the urge to enter it. He looked down and his field of view was filled by Mrs. Moore’s luscious tits. Brandon snatched the hand from Mrs. Moore’s pussy and grabbed the glass on the counter in front of him, depositing a spot of sticky wetness to its side. Brandon pulled the hand away and a tiny thread of moisture followed. He looked at the moist spot on the glass in horror, then lifted the wet finger up to his face. Mrs. Moore’s finger glistened; her juices magnifying her fingerprint. Her long white nails peeked out from behind her fingers. He felt their length. Their substance. Her hands were so small. So soft. So beautiful. What did she taste like? The thought filled her with such revulsion and curiosity that her hand began to shake. As if scared to lose her nerve, she acted quickly, sticking her tongue out and settling her finger to its surface, feeling Mrs. Moore’s nail hard against her tongue – then her taste. Mmmm. Her body relaxed instantly. “I taste...” Her fragrance filled her nostrils. “She tastes so sweet.” She could feel her pussy between her thighs – getting wetter. She tensed the muscles within her, muscles that would have once made Brandon’s cock bounce – now they clung against nothing in the vacant cavern within. She stood for a moment enjoying how smooth and compact her crotch felt in the bathing suit before returning her hand for a second taste. --- She was wearing sunglasses now. She strolled out and set the glass on the tray, topped off her glass of lemonade, and made her way to the cabana. Within the last half hour, Mrs. Moore’s walk had been inexplicably washed of decades of feminine refinement. She had suddenly acquired the giddy gait of a college coed and, instead of a sultry sway, her ass bounced back and forth with each step. Mike and Chad eyed her from the pool in suspicion – and desire. Mrs. Moore shakily balanced herself at the edge of the cabana. She set her glass down on the table beside it and leaned over the daybed. “Oh shit!” Her breasts poured out of her bathing suit. She scrambled to contain them with a forearm. Mike and Chad watched her struggle on all fours, scanning the circumference of her luscious ass and a peek of the breasts beneath her. She giggled nervously at her clumsiness and sat her tight butt down on the day bed. Brandon could feel Mrs. Moore’s ass beneath him, as if his weight was now suspended on a thick, luxurious cushion. A bottle of tanning oil and a short stack of books lay next to her on the bed. She quickly grabbed a book, sat it on her lap, and lay back. Her breasts settled over her chest. They jiggled to the left as she reached a hand to her glass of lemonade. Her fingernails clicked the edge of the glass. She admired her ‘painted claws’ for a moment and then grabbed the glass and took another gulp of lemonade. “Are you sure you are okay, Mrs. Moore?” Mrs. Moore scowled slightly and sweetly whispered an ‘mmm hmm.’ Michael and Chad peered back, unconvinced. All eyes were on her. She crossed her legs and shifted on her butt, trying to get comfortable. Chad stepped towards the deep end. “Are you sure you are--” “Stop asking me if I’m sure I’m okay and go play! Now!” she growled back. Chad quickly spun around. He gritted his teeth at Mike. Mike shrugged back at him and turned to pull himself from the pool. Water dripped from his body as he made his way to a lounge chair next to the shallow end to sunbathe. He dried off with his towel, put his sunglasses on and leaned back, arms behind his head. Embarrassed – and for lack of anything better to do – Chad began swimming laps. --- Mrs. Moore scowled at the book she had selected. Aztec Desires. An elaborate painting of a muscle-bound native warrior holding a fainting princess graced the cover. She shrugged and cracked it open and a card, apparently serving as a bookmark, fell from the pages. She held it between two long nails. OKSANA PSYCHIC READINGS Mrs. Moore’s eyes rolled behind her sunglasses. She flung the card to the daybed. Brandon opened the book to the page that had been marked and pretended to read while he worked out the next step of his impromptu plan. But before he could get beyond assessing his friend’s current locations, his eyes stumbled upon a sentence. “I know who you are.” The five words startled him and he looked both ways before returning to the passage. “I know who you are.” She pulled herself up from the floor. “Then let me go – or I’ll have you executed.” Mezatl laughed deeply from his belly and kneeled beside her. The adobe hut was now permeated with his scent, a mix of incense and rare spices. He took the bun of her hair and pulled her head beside his. “You wouldn’t kill the father of your c***dren, would you, princess?” She gasped and whispered, “I have no c***dren,” trying with all of her will to sound offended by the way he was treating her, all the while knowing her voice betrayed the desperate longings of her heart. He pulled her head back roughly with her hair and stared into her amber eyes. “You will. Remove your huipil.” She looked at him with fierceness. She wanted to spit in his face. Instead she pulled the tribal blouse over her head, exposing her perky breasts. The firelight danced across her brown skin. She eyed the growing spear of flesh beneath his loincloth, his words echoing between her ears. ‘You will.’ She cupped her breasts in her hands to hide herself from him. Brandon flung the book to the bed. Jesus, Mrs. Moore! You read this shit? Though he found the passage to be complete drivel, something about the book made Brandon feel funny. Mrs. Moore’s breasts were buzzing with a faint energy, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to take the two orbs into his hands. He surveyed the pool from the cabana, like a queen assessing her subjects. Chad was still swimming back and forth across the width of the pool, his wake made the water lap hard against the pool walls. And Mike? Mike was lounging – but his eyes were obscured by his sunglasses. Fuck it. Brandon settled his lithe hands on his shoulders and, pretending to stretch, slowly rolled them down the body he inhabited, exhaling steadily, feeling the curve of her breasts, the indentation of her nipples in the palms of her hands as they rolled past, her tight belly, the string of her bathing suit bottoms, her generous thighs. She inhaled a shaky breath. This body. It’s exquisite. She looked back to the book, wondering what happened to the Aztec Princess next. Will Mezl-whatsit fuck her? Impregnate her? She flexed the muscles in her pelvis. What would that even feel like? She eyed the lusty couple on the cover. Her heart began to beat faster. She swallowed and turned the book over. Reading is definitely out. Reeling from her explorations, she lay back in the daybed and pulled the cord dangling behind her. A canopy opened revealing the afternoon sun. She could feel its heat over her body. It felt wonderful. I will sunbathe instead, she told herself. It was then it hit her. The perfect way to get back at Mike. --- “Chad. Oh, Chad!” She called out from the cabana. Chad stopped swimming and yelled from the shallow end of the pool. “Yes, Mrs. Moore.” “Would you mind rubbing this oil on my back for me? I want to get a nice tan today.” Chad froze. And swallowed. “Um, uh...” She looked at Mike behind her sunglasses. He had turned his head slightly from his own sunbathing and squinted towards her. She could barely contain her laughter. Her smile grew wide. That’s right, Mike! Chad continued to stammer, looking lost, like a sailor stranded in open water after a shipwreck. She sat up and her suit shifted, struggling to hold in her breasts. “Hurry up, Chad! I want to take advantage of all of this sun!” Chad took a step backward. “Uh. But.” He searched for an excuse. He turned to Mike warily. And, then, just as quickly as it hit him – he said it, in a deluge: “Mike will do it for you I’m going to go look for Brandon now.” Chad rushed out of the pool so fast it looked like he was walking on water. He grabbed his towel and flip flops and hopped deep into the foliage surrounding the pool. She watched his escape in horror. She looked back at Mike who was already lifting himself from his lounge chair. Fuck. “Mike! That’s okay, you don’t have to go to the trouble of…” “It’s no trouble, Miss Moore.” Mike stretched and strutted towards her languidly. “I’ve changed my mind. I may just go inside.” Mike smiled dryly as he approached. “You want to take advantage of all this sun.” Fucking hell. She crossed her arms, trying hard to hide her bulging cleavage – to no avail. Mike stepped up to the cabana and grabbed the bottle of oil. “Okay. Roll over.” “Mike, I don’t-” “Now!” She sighed and fell to her side, with her arms still crossed over her chest. “All the way over.” “Hmmph.” --- She could feel an imposing impression in the daybed as he sat down beside her. She listened as Mike opened the cap on the oil and squeezed it into his hands, setting the bottle down slowly to rub his hands together. Warming the oil. She waited, begrudgingly. She felt Mike’s broad hands settle into her upper back. He pressed into her shoulders. Drops of oil ran down her arms and he retrieved them with a sweep of his hand. He rubbed them back into her shoulders. She turned her head and eyed him with a side glance. “That should do it. Thank you, Mike.” He ignored her and pressed in harder with his large hands. She rolled her eyes. A massage. Brilliant. Just brilliant, Mike. He pushed a thumb into her back. “Ow, Mike! Ow.” She writhed in the chair. Her breasts billowed beneath her. “You have a huge knot, Mrs. Moore. I need to work it out.” “I don’t want you to work it – Ow!” Mike dug his thumb into the spot again, harder. She growled at him but he kept firm, unrelenting pressure on the area and continued digging. “You are really tense, Mrs. Moore.” “I am not.” “Yes. You are.” He dug his thumb in again and she moaned in pain. “If you relax, it won’t hurt so much.” She breathed in and tried to relax her muscles. Mike’s held firm. Waiting. Gradually, she gave in to the pain. “That a girl. Now let me do my work.” Mike worked the knot and the pain began to dissipate. She breathed in deeply. It felt kind of nice – until she noticed a pull of the strings supporting her bathing suit top. She panicked, lifting herself up again, only to realize her suit had been left behind. It lay flat over the daybed and her breasts now swung freely below her. “Oh fuck, what now?” “I can’t oil your bathing suit, Mrs. Moore.” She fell to the bed blushing and pressed her breasts into the cushion beneath her. “You tie that back right now!” “No. You want an even tan.” “Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. This was not how it was supposed to be. She should have known Chad would have pussied out. Mike continued to massage down her back as she stewed. Things could be worse. If she was on her belly there was nothing to worry about. Plus, she was basically forcing Mike to serve her, to do her bidding, as her slave. “How does it feel?” “Shhh.” She pointed to her back with a regal air and relaxed into the daybed. --- After ten minutes, he lifted his hands from her back. She let out a faint whine. She wasn’t ready for him to stop. Her disappointment only lasted a second, ears perking up happily when she heard him squirted more oil into his hands. His hands settled around her thick thighs. Damn, that feels good. She let him work his way down her legs, losing herself in all the attention. When Mike eventually pushed his fingers beneath her suit bottoms to massage her ass, she only offered a symbolic protest – a slight grumble – but made no attempt to stop him. God, my ass is big. She could feel how Mike’s large hands could barely contain her tight cheeks. When he pressed into them, her pubis pushed into the cushion beneath her. Flat. Flush with the cushion. Something about Mike’s strong hands made her body feel real, as if his hands were sculpting her generous curves out of clay, forming them, setting their generous boundaries. She welcomed the feeling, especially over her plump ass. She savored the attention. She gave in to it. She dozed off. --- “Turn over.” “Mmm?” She lifted her head drowsily and flipped over, leaving her bathing suit top beneath her. Her large breasts settled on her chest. The sun felt warm against her body. Every exposed inch of her worshipped it. She squinted her eyes through the sun. “That felt great, Mike.” She closed her eyes. His hand rested high on her upper thigh. “I’m glad, Mrs. Moore.” “Now go get me some more lemona-” Something firm and wet pressed into her left breast. She opened her eyes. She opened them wider. “Oh. Fuck! What are you doing?” --- Her hands clung to the daybed. Mike was leaning over her, his breath hot against her skin. He weaved his tongue around the nipple of her left breast. She watched, frozen in terror. Terror at what Mike was doing. Terror at how much the sight of a tongue traveling over the contour of Mrs. Moore’s breast turned her on. She gazed at the impression where Mike’s tongue met her flesh. As his tongue circled her nipple, the impression – the tension – moved with it; the area of flesh left behind returned to normal with no evidence Mike’s tongue had been there, except for the feeling of the summer breeze over the light glaze of saliva that led to the next area of stimulation. She compared it to the tension now building within Mrs. Moore’s body. It was the tension of arousal – a tension without release. When Mike’s tongue lifted, it lingered, and when his tongue pushed back into her breast the tension resumed its build within her. She was taken in its dangerous progression; arousal radiated in the generous flesh of Mrs. Moore’s breasts and through her tight tummy, down into her thighs and into the threshold they protected. She pressed her thighs together and her heat radiated between them. Mike’s tongue continued circumnavigating her nipple, slowly, rolling over the small bumps that surrounded it, using the darker flesh of her areola as a guide. She exhaled – the air rolling over her vocal cords resonated a slight, shaky moan. Neither had ever heard Mrs. Moore make a sound quite like this – and it immediately turned both of them on. Her neglected nipple swelled, inviting attention, making known it was there and ready to be to be played with. Her other nipple hardened in agreement as Mike’s tongue grew closer, but he pulled away to trace her areola once more. She moaned again. Louder. The meager distance between tongue and nipple was pure agony. Brandon felt Ms. Moore’s pussy swelling between her thighs – growing wet in expectation. Preparation. “Mike, please. The massage was nice. But this...this is too much.” Her nipples were painfully hard. Her breath shallow. Her voice uncertain. “We should stop. We should.” She moaned. “Stop.” Mike kept his attention on her orb, pulling away for a moment to speak. “Then why aren’t you stopping me?” He settled his lips around her nipple, gripping it firmly, and flicked his tongue. She moaned, damned by his retort. Why wasn’t she stopping him? He grabbed her other b**st with a broad grip and held it firm. Her nipple poked between his fingers and he pushed them together to pinch it between them. Mmmm! She shifted her ample butt in the lounge chair. Brandon’s nipples had never been so sensitive; Mrs. Moore’s nipples were a different story: they longed to be touched. They needed to be touched. Mike had given her a long massage. Perhaps this was his reward? One he had taken for himself, in all fairness, but a reward all the same. A small reward. Her left breast could be licked, and her right could be fondled – but the line would be drawn there. She would allow it. Mike could enjoy himself for a few more seconds, and then enough would be enough. She settled into the fleeting calm of this resolution, savoring the last moments of guilty pleasure. She closed her eyes. Above them, a billowing white cloud moved over the sun, instantly casting an ominous shadow over the pool and their bodies. Mike leaned forward, pulling her other breast towards him. She opened her eyes and watched in horror, as Mike’s eyes locked on the engorged and neglected nipple that tipped her melonous orb of flesh. “Mike...” Mike hovered over her other nipple and flicked his tongue to greet it. Her nerves fired. Oxytocin flooded through her body. The line she had drawn was crossed with such a speed that it faded out of her minds view in an instant. She suddenly understood, as well as she could through her arousal, something altogether new and horrifying about the tension: There was no clear separation between fighting and giving in. There were no lines. There would be no steady progression. Mrs. Moore’s body was not of mind alone; but a complex interaction of impulses, hormones, desires. Human conscience. a****l nature. A touch of the breast was not an action independent of consequences. A nipple given the right attention could lead to other reactions: Her breasts responded to the heat of Mike’s touch. Her pussy was doing the same without any attention. She looked skyward, eyes darting side to side, as if searching for answers – for reality. But the only reality was Mike’s lips around her nipple. His tongue teasing it. Playing with her. Mike groped her other breast roughly. She let him. The massive cloud continued its slow passage above them. She could smell her sweetness in the air. A darkness was spreading in the strip of red nylon that cut between Mrs. Moore’s thighs. The fabric was saturated and wet, as if she had taken a dip in the pool. She released her thighs. Spread them. The suit cut uncomfortably around her crotch, accentuating a prominent camel toe. It needs to come off. As if responding to her assessment, Mike’s left hand released her nipple and inched lower, over her body, stroking down her side and over her thigh. Tucking his hand into the space between her thigh and pubic mound, he hooked two fingers beneath the fabric of her bathing suit bottoms. He pulled the fabric out. Then over. Exposing Ms. Moore’s crotch. Her wet pussy gushing at its center. He settled her panties into the gap between her thigh on the other side of her mound. Her lighter skin revealed from beneath the suit shown bright even in the diffuse light created by the cloud. Her wispy line of blonde pubic hair glistened. She could feel the summer breeze blowing over it. It was intoxicating – so intoxicating that she didn’t realize a vulnerability had been exposed. . . until it was too late.

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