I Am Jakes Mom Ch 01

Author's Note:

This is the first chapter of a story about a dark stone and hidden paths. The story begins innocently in an idyllic suburban setting, but don't be fooled: This is a story of descent -- shifting forms, pleasure, control, and the mystery of nature.

Elements: Human TG, TF, Transformation, M2F, genderbending, time and space. All characters are over 18 years.

*****

The Road Not Taken

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 row -- 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 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 16, making her a good 10 years younger than their own mothers. They would inevitably act out and joke, each doing their best to make her laugh, unconsciously 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 from 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 leapt.

---

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.