Authors: Jessa Hawke
So why not take advantage of this incredible moment?
I slide my index finger towards the top of that leopard thong. I take a peek below, and it’s as pink as my nipples. Nice, Marissa, very nice. I lift my legs and slide the thong off, enjoying the pull and ripple of my flesh in the mirror as I do so. I spread my legs and tentatively slide my hand between my legs. I am warm and pink and as my finger makes contact with the hood of my clit, I feel dirty and excited, all at the same time. God, it’s good. I rub a little faster on that spot that feels so nice, and I feel the blood rush to my hips, thighs, and legs. My chest is turning a little bit red, and my breath is becoming shallow. Any other time, I would picture some gorgeous guy I saw on the street with his head between my legs, but now that look like this, I don’t need to picture anybody but myself. I like that my lips are parting as I’m rubbing myself, that my perfect hair is now becoming disheveled. Most of all, I like that I feel tingly from my pussy to my ass, and I’m saying things out loud I’ve never dared to before, that I want all my holes filled up, that I want fingers in my ass and my pussy all at the same time. The pebble of flesh between my fingers is growing fuller, and I can feel my moans stretching out into eternity, rising and falling with the great fullness of my tits. They bob in the mirror, and I lift one of them up to my mouth and suck, amazed by the fact that I can finally do this, that I can finally feel my own tongue on my own body, that this fullness is now mine. Just as I’m building up to my climax, however, my cellphone buzzes.
I look over, not daring to take my hand off my pussy, and the name that pops up on the screen almost makes me freeze. Damn it, Marissa. I know you’ve had a stroke of bad luck now that you’ve lost your tits and ass, but don’t you dare take away from my moment.
Um, yeah. Gaining this body after a night of attempted suicide seems to have made me a little cranky.
I silence the phone, but the photo of Marissa’s—I mean my—smiling face is still there, up on the screen. So I reach over my new body, flip the phone over, and get back to business.
I add more fingers now, and my whole palm is grinding into the smooth flesh between my legs. I’m probing the inner parts of myself, the ones that are slightly rough to the touch, and I gasp as a finger slides accidentally in. Nice. My fingers are long against the sopping slickness of me, and I slide two of them inside. My pussy stretches to accommodate just a touch, and I’m working myself, over and over, holding my breast up to my mouth with my other hand. One bite on that nipple and I explode all over my fingers, moaning like an animal, like the big, sleek, contented kitty that I am now.
Laying there, panting with exertion, I see that I have stained my sheets. I spread my legs even further, enjoying the fact that it’s me who has made this big, huge, incredible mess. Those are my juices on this bed. My cheeks are flushed, exaggerating the loveliness of my doe-like eyes, the pupils wide enough to evidence my recent orgasm.
I’ll call Marissa later. I promise. Even though I’m kind of silently thanking whatever deity that may exist above that she does not know where I live.
Oh man, speaking of that, I should really also return her planbook. She accidentally left it at the diner where we grabbed lunch three days ago, and she’s been on my butt ever since then to give it back. Apparently, she can’t do her work without it or some nonsense like that, blah, blah, blah. Seriously, woman, get with the electronic age, will you? You’re a high-end reporter, and all your friends have gone digital, so will you just get with it?
I skimmed it out of curiosity—and jealousy, all right, I’ll admit it—and it seemed like she had something pretty exciting on tap for today. I cannot seem to remember it, but I do remember feeling a mixture of bubbliness and rage. I wonder what that was all about. I guess it must have gotten kicked under the rug when I was planning my evening of foreversleep.
I stride naked to the countertop where I left the plan book and flip it open to today’s date. Manicure, facial—who needs one when you’ve got the natural glow that I’ve just achieved, I mean, come on—and ah, there it is. NFL players interview for five o’clock at the Rainbow Room.
Wait, what?
Oh man. Football players. At one of the best restaurants in town. With the classiest, most high-profile bar in the entire town. I could sing, I really could, but unfortunately, a good voice does not come with these glorious curves. Ah, who cares?
I bounce past the mirror again, happy as a clam.
Five o’clock. Marissa, you naughty girl. Well, not the original Marissa. I enter the players’ names into an Internet search engine and their photos leave me almost breathless. These are the types of hunks I would never even allow to enter my fantasies, they’re so hot. I love those big, muscly types with bodies like well-carved trucks and faces like Alain Delon, that French actor who was all boyishly handsome even into his late fifties.
Come to mama.
Now, ordinarily, I wouldn’t even entertain any thoughts about men like this, but hello, I look like the high priestess of everything feminine.
If only Rob could see me now. He’d eat his damn words in a minute, and he would be so bowled over by what I look like he’d forget his name, address, and telephone number.
And so what if the two NFL players look like him a little bit? I’m not shy, I’ll admit it—a little revenge flirting might be just the thing to kick up my spirits. And what if I wake up tomorrow and this Marissa’s gone, you know? I deserve this, more than anyone else I know. In case you forgot, there was a bottle with the Reaper in it with my name on the label.
Five o’clock. Plenty of time to get prepped.
First, I go shopping. Marissa tells me all the stores she goes to; I ask mainly because I like to live vicariously through her, but this time, it actually helps because now I know where to go. Thank goodness I live around the block from one of those boutiques, because all I can fit over my new body is this huge oversized T-shirt that I like to hide in—I mean wear because it’s so cozy.
The salesladies take one look at me and assume that I’m doing what seems to be Marissa’s typical walk of shame. They flutter around me like those birds in Disney’s
Cinderella
, until I’m fully clothed from head to toe. I look hot. Incredible, even. I’ve got this red bodycon dress on that emphasizes that full, full hourglass I’ve got going, and my cleavage is eye-catching. I can’t stop turning in front of the mirror, black stiletto heels shaping my calves into works of art.
As I leave the store, swinging the bag with some extra things in it for good measure, I can feel all eyes on me. Marissa, even when she was Marissa, never walked like this. She was grounded and self-assured, whereas I feel like I’m floating on air, making a statement with every step that I take. I purse my lips at passerby, and heads are swiveling. I thought that only happened in the movies. Not so, not so. Va-va-va-voom, baby.
I get my hair styled in Marissa’s favorite salon, and take a long walk around some of the more high profile areas of the city. I can’t get enough of the attention. Men in suits, the type of men who date those reedy-looking girls but everyone knows secretly desire the bigger ladies, are making fools of themselves, slaving over me with their eyes. Tiny Japanese men breathe me in, and a bunch of college guys almost literally have to wipe up some of their drool off of their chins. I feel as if every pore in my body is screaming, “Look at me now, boys!” I am a walking sex bomb.
Now, I’m not going to lie to you, I’m not a big sports fan. I did my research before I left the house, and I can think of one or two questions I can ask the two NFL players at the bar, but what I’m really hoping for is that one of them will ask me out to dinner at the restaurant. With all the attention I’ve gotten today, it doesn’t seem to be too far of a stretch to picture that.
I’m sitting at the bar. I was hoping for one of those movie moments where the bar is crowded with people and then the hot girl parts it like it’s the Red Sea and approaches the bartender, who instantly grants her her drink wish, but the fact of the matter is that this is a class-A bar, and there are no crowds. I guess I’ll just have to try out that fantasy tomorrow. Agh, there are just so many things I haven’t done yet!
The two football players enter the restaurant, and I can’t believe that nobody is squealing. The hostess walks them over to the bar, they’re that famous, and when they see me, their eyes light up. Now, nobody ever credited athletes for their brains, but this pair is very charming. Turns out they’re both college-educated and have been lifelong buddies. This is fantastic. Whenever they’re quiet, I suddenly find myself talking about all the research I’ve done as an engineer—I pass it off as a change of career—and they’re hanging on my every word as if I’m, oh wow, as if I’m Marissa.
Huh. So this is what it feels like to be gorgeous. I’m not going to lie, it feels pretty darn great.
They both ask me to join them for dinner, which is an unexpected twist. During the meal, the blonde stares at my mouth as I eat, as if he’s picturing it around his cock or something. The brunette keeps sliding closer and closer, and I tell myself it’s because he can’t wait to get snuggly with all this satin skin. From the way he keeps glancing down at my cleavage, I would say that that guess isn’t far off at all.
I am everything and everywhere. I have one hand on the blonde’s wrist, stroking the fine hair there saucily with my fingers, and I’m sliding one of my heeled feet up the calf of the brunette. Who is this woman? I could have never thought that this is who I would be. Is she kind of slutty? Now what kind of talk is that? Like I said before, I deserve this, and amazingly, both guys look clued in on what‘s happening and they don’t seem to mind. That mind-blowing fact is further evidenced when the brunette, who has these cocoa-brown eyes and a dimple in his cheek that makes me want to lick him, asks if the blonde and I would like to go to his loft for a nightcap.
Claire wouldn’t. But Claire in Marissa’s body sails outside of herself and watches the two footballers stare at her ass as she makes her way out of the restaurant.
Time seems to blur. I don’t even notice how we got to that loft, but here we are. The brunette is playing soft jazz, and the blonde is pouring me some champagne as I stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows, taking in the breathtaking lights of the city spread out before me. God, is this really happening to me?
“To this meeting,” the blonde tells me, clinking his champagne flute to mine, and that’s when I notice that his eyes are blue, like Rob’s. I shake the little negative thought from my brain and drain the champagne. It fills me with this odd peaceful feeling, but it’s also like my stomach has gone out from my body for a little vacation. It’s strange, but as someone begins to rub my shoulders through the straps of my dress, I choose not to focus on it.
I turn around and lock eyes with the blonde. We don’t wait, because what is the use of words anymore, really? We all know we came here to play. Because I haven’t quite settled on the fact that I am in Marissa’s body right now, I almost can’t believe that this man is kissing me. I mean, he’s too gorgeous to even be real, and as his tongue probes my mouth and his hands roam over my ass, I can feel his erection against my leg and I cannot believe that it is me, little old me, who has caused that. I feel like I’ve died and gone back to high school as a curvy girl.
Fine, so you figured out my approximation of heaven. So sue me.
The air fills with the smacking and sucking sounds of our mouths, and that’s when I feel someone gently sliding the zipper of my dress down my back. I tilt my head back and it’s the brunette, his pupils so large and dark now that I can’t distinguish them from the brown of his eyes. He’s slipped his hands inside my dress and is touching me, first on my hips, then up my sides, and now he’s got his hands on my tits and he’s slipping the dress of my shoulders.
Hot mama.
What happened after that, I mean, I might as well spare you the details.
Oh, who am I kidding?
There were tongues everywhere. The brunette was painting my mouth and tits like they were the Sistine Chapel and he was Michelangelo. The brunette had his lips to my asscrack and was licking me where the sun clearly don’t ever shine. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I’ve heard about anal orgasms, but I had no idea they even existed before I met that pro footballer and his equally professional tongue. I can just imagine what that looked like, his little pink tongue tucking in around my little pink asshole.
They never even asked me to suck their cocks, like the one other guy I’ve ever been with did. Instead, they asked me what I wanted them to do, and I told them to suck each other, which they did with an incredible alacrity. I guess we all have secrets. Mine is that I’m a skinny girl caught in a gorgeous woman’s body, and there is that they’ve been hot for each other for a long time now. You should have seen them go at it. I didn’t know that two people could bend like that. They lay down, end to end, and deep-throated each other in tandem for all they were worth. Those smart boys, they built themselves up almost to the breaking point before turning to me like hungry little beasts.