Jaycee's Blog - Mon, Sept 12

When will I learn to shut up? Why did I tell Brooke about my meeting with Morgan anyway? Is it possible that he's making me call him up and tell him everything that's happening to me? I wouldn't put it past him.

(If I'm honest, maybe I'd do the same to him if our roles were reversed. Lately, I'd certainly wish they were.)

As you probably figured out, something happened this weekend. I was "myself" when I went to bed on Friday night. When I woke up Saturday morning, I was still in my bedroom, but my body wasn't the same anymore. From a distance, Brooke (I suspect) had changed me into...Morgan herself. No surprise here for my readers: after the initial shock wore off (which took all of thirty seconds), I found myself fondling those big boobs of hers (now of mine) and let nature take its course.

(As a side note, I get crazy, mind-blowing orgasms almost every time since I've been transferred into Brooke's body. Sometimes, I'm wondering what normal female orgasms are like. Might be nice to NOT thrash around like you're being hit by a cattle prod when you come.)

Since it was Saturday (and my day off), I got dressed and decided to go out. I thought it might be fun to strut my MILF body around, see what life might be like as a fortysomething. Brooke's wardrobe doesn't have a lot of choice in formal clothing. It's all right pants, vests, hats, scarves, and midriff shirts. But I did find a somewhat slinky dress that could pass as respectable (if you squint real hard, then throw rock salt in your eyes).

Once dressed, I got out and headed downtown. There's a classy cafe that I like to go to to read a good book from time to time (it's in an old bank and has a lot of character). I took the metro there ("Metro" is the name of Montreal's subway, if you didn't know) and noticed a lot of male stares lingering on my curves. Some were discreet (like the looking-at-my-reflection-in-the-windows trick), but most were pretty direct. I remember one young guy even staring directly at my boobs. I stared back at him. He eventually looked up at my face, then slowly and deliberately returned his eyes to my breasts. I felt slightly disgusted, but I won't lie, there's power in boobs. Sometimes, that power is even worth some of the downsides of being female.

But I digress.

I got to the coffee shop, had myself a large latte, and sat down to read my book. I was there for a few hours and got through several chapters when Brooke called me to check up on how I was doing. I thanked him sarcastically for turning me into another woman without my consent, but he said "you're welcome" like I was being sincere. He asked me to show him where I was, so I did.

"Quiet place," he commented.

"Yes," I said. "I like to come here to read. It's nice here."

"Cool, cool."

I could see he was up to something.

"Out with it," I said. "What did you do?"

"You'll see," he answered. "Let's just say you'll want to avoid noisy environments."

Goddammit! Knowing him, he'd set something up so that loud noises would trigger some kind of sexual arousal, or even straight-up orgasms. Well, today, I wasn't going to put up with that. Today, I was going to figure out a way to go home and not cum my brains out in the process.

We finished talking and hung up. It was time to go home, and the metro wouldn't cut it. I'm a big fan of public transit, but the Montreal metro is loud as hell. If there were any sound triggers on me, they'd explode the moment the train entered the station, and keep me revved up all through the thirty-minute ride home.

My only option was to call an Uber. Their drivers are generally nice, and if I asked for the windows to be rolled up and the radio to be off, they'd probably do it. I'd give them a generous tip, get home in one piece, and enjoy my little victory over Brooke.

But that's not what happened. My Uber driver did get there. It was a nice a nice gentleman named Sidi. I sat in the back, but not quickly enough. I heard an angry driver honk loudly at another car, and felt a wave of arousal wash over me. It wasn't enough to make me come or lose control, though, and I was able to recover quickly. I closed the door behind me and we drove away.

The problem isn't that Montreal is a loud city in general, but that there's literally construction everywhere—including on the way we took to get home. Traffic jams are the norm. Thankfully, those aren't loud. The two-kilometer construction site we passed, however, was filled with men with jackhammers and lined with large, loud trucks delivering whatever the construction workers needed. We crawled past all of them at a snail's pace, and the car's windows offered literally no protection from the noise.

In the back, I writhed in agony, hiding my face behind my book so that the driver wouldn't notice how flushed with pleasure it was. I gasped and moaned constantly, but fortunately my own noises were covered by the sounds outside. I was leaking profusely between my legs and by the time I got home, there was a large wet spot on my dress. My nipples were jutting out and drilling holes through the front, making it clear to anyone who could see them that I was in heat.

I exited the Uber and thanked the driver, making sure to hide any hint of my embarrassment. Though I didn't get the win I wanted, I was home safely and hadn't exposed myself as the hot slut that I was.

But that wasn't the worst moment of my day.

No, the worst moment was when I spotted a car parked near the entrance of my building. The driver stared at me in shock. She quickly started the car and drove away in a panic.

The driver was Morgan Reiss.

--Jaycee