Authors Note
The Second Book in the I Am Jake's Mom Saga
Update from Book 1: Brandon has just had the best sex of his life; the only problem is: it was in Mrs. Moore's exquisitely sexy body - and he had it with his college nemesis Mike. Now he's Mrs. Moore, alone, in her mansion, and to top it off, he has agreed to meet Mike later tonight. The mysterious black stone that changed him waits at the deep end of the palatial swimming pool out back. Will Brandon retrieve it to unlock its secrets, or will he linger in Mrs. Moore's body a bit longer?
***
ONE
She adjusted the lingerie on the bed.
She slipped her hands beneath her breasts and considered the large cups of the bra. Would she really fill them?
And the thong.
The thong.
The underwear enthralled her. There wasn't much to it. A small triangle to cup her mound, a string that would trace a thin path between her thighs then ascend through the crack between her cheeks; a circle of frilly, black lace to round her hips in support. Lithe. Compact. The bare minimum required to cover her sex. With her cock gone, she knew — the bare minimum would more than suffice.
Would she really put it on?
She reached behind her and took a plump cheek gingerly into each hand.
"Her ass."
Mrs. Moore's butt had always been Brandon's favorite part of her body. Whenever possible, his stolen glances settled onto the two masses of flesh that composed her tight derrière. Their heft. Their curve. Now they were his to touch — and to possess.
Unbeknownst to Brandon, Mrs. Moore's butt was a feat of engineering, chiseled with sweat, care, and love. Clad in tight-fitting lycra, Mrs. Moore climbed stairs, hiked, did yoga, and sweated through squat after squat, until her ass was firm and plump. Recently, over drinks with friends, she had joked that her butt was made to destroy yoga pants. It was true. Countless overstretched, threadbare pants had been left in her ass's wake. She shook her head and sighed. Her friends smiled on, jealous of her charm and age-defying beauty. They would kill to have a body like hers. Had Brandon been in their company, and had he possessed the courage to admit it, he would have agreed with them, albeit in a different way.
Mrs. Moore's ass was an undeniable presence behind her; bouncing with each step, swaying as she walked, and sitting firm when she stood still. She spread her fingers wide, trying in vain to contain its abundance in her small hands. She lifted herself quickly to her tiptoes, then fell, letting it bounce into her hands.
Mmm. . .
She traced her fingers lightly over the curves, savoring the new feeling of her manicured hands clawing at the supple flesh. She dug her nails in and grinned.
"My ass."
TWO
Hot water flowed in the bathroom filling the bathtub in a slow crescendo. She blushed at the thought of walking barefoot across the cold, white tile of the master bath and dipping her body into the warm water. She knew she should be diving into the pool and touching the black stone instead. She gazed at the thin crusted glaze Mike had left behind on her large breasts, and then back to the thong on the bed.
What would it feel like?
She squeezed her hands into the firm flesh of her cheeks. What would it feel like disappearing between them? Would she like it? The abundance of thong underwear in Mrs. Moore's lingerie cabinet provided a hint of an answer.
The deluge continued from the bathtub faucet, breaching the surface of the rising bath water and creating a rush of white oxygen bubbles. The sound made her think of Mike's cock plunging into her depths; the sharp smack of flesh meeting flesh.
Impact.
She bit her bottom lip and winced. How many times had Mike made impact? She moaned forlornly. Hundreds? It felt like thousands. She recalled his first plunge; she had made sure to savor it. The successive thrusts blurred together in her mind. She knew each had been memorable, violating her reality in unfathomable ways, some coupled with a pull of her long hair, others with a rough grope of her breasts or ass. When she wasn't gasping for breath, most were followed by a sound from her lips. A moan. A scream. A desperate demand.
More. Yes. Fuck me. Harder.
The sound, the feel, the impact; all worked together — pummeling her consciousness deep into the alluring extremities of the body she inhabited; making her at home in it.
She turned away from the lingerie in shame and gazed into the inviting colors of Mrs. Moore's well-provisioned closet, allowing the afternoon to linger in her mind. She exhaled a nervous breath. She had tasted the pleasures of a woman. Or had they consumed her?
None of this is my fault. It just happened.
She pressed her thighs together, feeling heat in the tight canal between them, where, once, her balls would have hung, jammed tightly together. But now when her legs touched, a triangle of light shown through a passage at their apex, casting her new sex in a sensuous silhouette. She felt the absence — the nothingness — and, strangely, felt like nothing was missing.
She bent forward, feeling the weight of her bountiful breasts settling beneath her shoulder blades. She held her ass in her hands with a firm grip, spread her cheeks wide, and allowed the air of her bedroom passage to rush in from behind and cool her pussy. She basked in the relief for a moment before sending her middle finger into the valley between her thighs. In the process, her thumb pressed dangerously close to her asshole — which for some reason was an area no longer off limits to being touched. She puckered it expectantly. Mrs. Moore was fastidious groomer, seeking out massages, facials, and the occasional Brazilian wax. She was smooth; her body was elegant, well-maintained, and youthful in its maturity.
Her finger neared her pussy. Closer.
Closer.
"No!"
She spun around, threw her hands to the bed, and clutched at the soft cotton duvet, holding on desperately. An assortment of pillows was arranged artfully across the head of the bed. The room was lavish, yet cozy; its furnishings added over time from Mrs. Moore's trips abroad, creating an improvised, colonial feel. Mrs. Moore was clearly an explorer and, thus, there was no solace found in losing oneself in the details of her bedroom. The elements conspired together, composing a room that was beautiful, functional, and inviting — like her body.
She fought the desire to return to her explorations. "Stand up, walk to the pool, and touch it. Do it now before —"
The faucet cut off in the bathroom.
She cocked her head and listened. The waves in the tub coursed back and forth for a few moments before settling into a placid, steaming mirror.
THREE
She eased her body into the hot water and reclined. Her breasts settled into mounds over her chest — two islands in the bath. She looked down through the ripples of water. The last rays of afternoon sun shown in a broad band through the window, over the tub, and across her pelvis, casting a perpendicular light on her thin stripe of pubic hair. Mrs. Moore's landing strip glistened in the sun. She longed to trace it with a polished fingernail, moving slowly toward her waiting pussy. Instead she took the razor from the ledge — something to occupy her fingers — and dipped it in the steaming water.
She held the razor to the edge of her strip and considered shaving herself clean. But, she liked the way it looked. Her pubes were an artful mark of maturity compared to the clean-shaven collegiate girls Brandon was used to bedding. She consulted the area for stray hairs, but found none. She sighed. Mrs. Moore must have shaved before putting on her bikini.
Brandon deliberated for a moment, then lowered the razor anyway, making strokes around the stripe on her mound, pretending for a moment to be Mrs. Moore in the bath, tidying up, landscaping her pubic hair. She stretched forward and stroked her hands down her long legs. Her breasts pressed into her belly, her nipples dipped into the warm water. When she found the tiniest rough patch near her ankles, her heart skipped a beat. She quickly employed the razor and checked again.
Smooth.
Dipping the razor in the water, she tapped it with her long fingernail. Tiny golden hairs sunk into the water at the foot of the bath, ready to be washed down the drain. She lifted each arm, continuing her pantomime with her cleanly shaven armpits, enjoying the odd feeling of moving the razor over places she had never shaved on her male body. It felt so wrong, but she knew this is how she wanted her body. Well-groomed and smooth.
She set the razor on the edge of the tub and stretched her legs, searching for something to think of beside her new form. Her toes wiggled beneath the water as she thought of Mike's secret project, his confidence, his success, and his skill with her pussy. Her body buzzed with jealousy and envy for him. He had done it. Mike had slept with their collective crush. He had plunged into her, spread her wide, and unlocked something deep within her. And Brandon was complicit. She sunk lower into the water.
