Blowing Jennifer's Mind Ch. 01

While writing Bully, I took a detour to a less serious, more smut and fun story.

As always, my kink is futa on male, male on futa fun and games. I write these stories so people can enjoy them, not so they can be offended. If that's not your cup of tea, there are many other excellent stories here.

Enjoy.

Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

Blowing Jennifer's Mind

On a sunny Sunday morning, Mike Wolf waited outside the college gates for the Iceman to decide his fate. His financial fate, to be precise. To be more precise still, the fate of ten thousand dollars.

Any fate in the hands of Rick Miller, AKA Iceman, was a terrible idea. First, Iceman was an asshole. Second, he was a rich asshole. Third, he and Mike were neck and neck in the Delta Kappa Epsilon fraternity's Bangaroo Challenge.

The small college town was as sleepy on a Sunday morning as any other day or night of the week. Yoshino cherry trees bloomed whitish pink on all the streets surrounding the campus.

To pass the time, Mike graffiti-bombed three white movers' trucks parked just outside the gate. Wolves, of course. Each truck got a brand new cartoonish bipedal wolf. Three wolfish gym addicts flexing muscles as big as those of the former governor of California.

He was halfway through the last wolf when his cell phone started playing Kanye West's "Gold Digger." He turned on the speaker and kept painting.

"Yo, Natasha, 'sup?"

"What's up?" Natasha, on the other end of the line, sounded pissed. "You're an asshole, Mike."

"And then some."

"You're a lying sack of shit, you fucking dickweed." Natasha's accent included a Russian W, turning Mike into a dickvid.

"We can work this out like adults, Natasha, whatever it is."

"Adults?" she yelled. "You drive a fucking Ferrari GTS in your Tinder profile. You told me you were a businessman, an importer."

Mike decided to turn off the speaker. "Importer, exporter, doesn't anybody watch Seinfeld reruns anymore?"

A few curses fell in Russian. "You're a college student, you lying sack of shit. Janus told me all about you. You don't even own a car; you ride a shitty bike. "

"Well, Natashka, you didn't come clean when we met either."

"Me?" Natasha laughed derisively.

"You never mentioned the big-ass mole." Mike held the phone between his shoulder and cheek and gave the wolf a big marijuana joint. "If honesty is your thing, you should add that to your Tinder profile. Has a mole the size of a semi's wheel on her back."

"Wow, just wow! And to think I wasted four weeks on someone like you. I'd be ashamed to show my face in public if I were you."

"Why? I don't have a mole the size of Montana on my back."

More cursing in Russian followed and then what sounded like spitting.

A blue Ferrari with its sunroof open came screeching to a halt next to Mike. In fact, it was the same Ferrari he'd used on his Tinder profile, unbeknownst to its true owner. The doors opened sideways like a spaceship, and Iceman signaled him to get in.

"Just a sec, Natasha, my homie Ice is here."

"Wazzzzup, Mikey?" Iceman sounded extra-chirpy. Never a good sign.

"Be with you in a sec, Ice; I'm on the phone with Natasha."

"Natasha Mole?" asked Iceman.

Natasha heard Iceman and started shooting off rapid-fire in her native language, a lot of yotfoyomat and pizda, then pausing momentarily to translate for Mike's benefit: "Go fuck your mother, cunt."

"I guess it's over then, you and me and the mole."

"Fuck you, Mike. I wish you a terrible life." Natasha hung up.

"Shit, still wolves?" Iceman picked his nose and flicked the treasures in Mike's direction. "Can't you draw anything else?"

"Wolves are my trademark." Mike jumped into the car and pulled the door shut. "One day, when I'm a famous artist, each one of these little fuckers is gonna sell for like two million dollars. Then you'll be like, 'Damn, I wish I'd kept one of those napkins Mikey used to draw on in bars. I wish I'd been smart back then instead of a fucking dimwit loser.'"

"Most def." Iceman floored the gas pedal, and the Ferrari roared like a tiger. "What was that about Natasha?"

"She said she didn't feel she was good enough for me. I figured she was right. So we decided to start seeing other people."

"Most def." Iceman picked up a Big Mac from a takeaway bag on the dashboard. "Shame, though. She was fit."

"No biggie. The girl's a gold digger. She only hooked up with me because she thought I drove a Ferrari."

Iceman belched and washed down the burger with a large Coke sitting on the cup holder. "Why the fuck did she think you owned a Ferrari?"

"It's a mystery. You know, Ebenezer Scrooge, for someone who actually drives a Ferrari, you could've bought two burgers. One for your hungry homie. They say he who eats alone, dies alone."

"He who eats alone eats more."

If Iceman were a dog, he probably would have farted when other dogs sniffed his butt. Mike had tried several times to convince the other frat boys to change his nickname from Iceman to Ferrari-Turdo or FerraRim. "Is it much farther?"

"The scene of the crime?" Iceman winked. "Almost there."

"Why are you so smug? Is she like a big celebrity? It's against the rules if the chick is way out of my league."

"Nah, she's definitely not out of your league. She's a futanari."

Mike nodded, searching Iceman's face for the reason behind the asshole's smugness. A lot of futanari girls had a type, and that type was Mike in most cases. He wasn't sure if it was his boyish charm or his exotic looks, but he rarely struck out when he hit on dick girls.

"What, don't give me that stupid look." Iceman stopped the car on a quiet suburban street. "I know you've hooked up with futanari bitches before. Shit, come to think of it, when we were freshmen, you dated Nia for almost two semesters."

"I don't think what Nia and I had could be called dating. More like a very long one-night stand."

"I heard Nia was packing."

Mike scanned the empty street. Why the hell were they stopping here? "A gentleman never kisses and tells, Ice."

"Sure, a gentleman. What about Mike Wolf?"

"I can show you a video."

"Tight." Iceman grinned.

"Wanker! Or as Natasha would have said, vanker! What the fuck are we doing in suburbia?"

Iceman pointed to a nondescript house. "That's the spot." Green, manicured lawn, just like the neighboring houses. White walls, drab gray roof. In the yard was a trampoline on which a tall girl bounced, somersaulting every two or three jumps. An older platinum blonde lady stood next to it, holding a very young girl in her arms. The little child clapped and laughed after each somersault.

"This is the Jackson family home." Iceman slurped what was left of the Coke. "Three generations of futanari girls under one roof. The old bird's name is Jennifer, she's like the queen, the matriarch, she owns the house. The cute blonde on the trampoline is her granddaughter, Sarah."

"She's like fourteen, you pervert."

"Twelve, and she's not the one. Chill."

Mike snorted. "Chill doesn't pay the bills."

"The little one in her hands, that's her granddaughter too," Iceman continued. "I don't know her name. The mother of the two kids is Daphne. She's the bird catching a tan over there."

Mike raised his head and followed Iceman's pointing finger. He'd missed it earlier, but there was an open balcony on the second floor. An early- to mid-thirties-looking blonde was sunning herself in a bikini on a lounge chair. "Oh, hello, Daphne looks familiar."

"Works as a secretary at the college's Student Affairs Office or Human Resource Office, I think."

"You think?" said Mike. "Because so far I feel like I'm in a CIA briefing. How the fuck do you know so much about them?"

Iceman shrugged. "Did my homework."

"So Milftown, huh? Gonna be a tough one." Mike eyed Daphne in her red-hot bikini a second time. Tall, blonde. Legs that start in Alaska and end in Texas. Milfs were never his thing, but he was open-minded, and after all, there was ten thousand dollars at stake. "Wait, so Daphne is a single mom?"

"Dunno. I guess. There are no men living in this house. Would you rather she was married?"

"I don't do cheating wives," Mike said. "And I don't do single moms either."

Iceman raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Too complicated. Single moms always say they're just looking for some fun and games, but what they mean is they're looking for a new daddy for their little ones. I don't do single moms--they're too easy, and it's too cruel."

"Mikey has a conscience. Who knew?" Iceman chortled. "You're in luck. It's not Daphne, either."

"Are there any other futanari girls in the house?"

"Nah, that's it."

"Well, who then--wait, wait, you can't be serious."

Iceman's grin reminded Mike of Odie from Garfield.

"No, man, that's gotta be against the rules," Mike tried.

"I checked with the guys." Iceman chuckled; he held back a laugh. "You got the green light to go to Gilftown."

"Bite me!"

"Sure." Iceman pulled out his iPhone and began typing. "Mike just raised the white flag like the fucking coward I told you he was." He raised his head. "You gotta set a date for your Humiliation Party."

"Fuck you, asswipe!"

"To send or not to send?" Iceman raised his finger over the phone. "That is the question."

@@@@@@

Monday morning.

Mike went to his Renaissance and Baroque Art class in the morning. Then he skipped Managerial Economics, which he hated (both the subject and the professor). Since all the streets looked exactly the same, he found the house only after Iceman sent him the address. The asshole added a link to super-hot-futa-grannies.com.

Mike rode his bike to Cedar Street to check on the Jackson house. He found it empty, to his annoyance and relief. He was about to leave when an old Ford with rusted paint pulled into the driveway. Jennifer Jackson got out and began unhooking a long cardboard box from the roof of the car. Then she probably remembered that she had dairy products that might not appreciate being in the sun, because she let go of the box and started taking groceries out of the trunk.

This was too great of an opportunity to let pass.

He left his bike and sauntered toward the house, humming "Let It Be," because it was the oldest song he knew, and he thought she might relate. Just another pedestrian on his daily affairs humming a Beatles oldie, nothing to write home about. He passed her by, then pretended to have a change of heart, and he turned around.

"Hi there." Mike gave her his warmest smile. "Is there anything I can help you with, Ms...?"

Surprised, she lifted her head out of the trunk. Jennifer Jackson's hair was dyed blond, but it looked lush and healthy. She'd tied it into a single braid that reached her hips. Her blue eyes scanned him a little suspiciously. "Excuse me?"

"Do you need help?"

"Thank you," she smiled, but her brow furrowed. "I'll be fine."

"At least let me help you with the Ikea box. It looks heavy."

Jennifer loosened the rubber bands holding the crate to the roof of the car. "Sweetie, it's just a bookshelf; I can do it by myself."

"Nonsense, my dad told me I should never ignore a damsel in distress." He picked up one end of the box. It was heavier than he'd first thought.

She picked up the other end. "I'm flattered, but I'm not a damsel."

"You're not even in distress? Come on. Throw me a bone here."

Jennifer chuckled and picked up her grocery bags from the driveway with her free hand. Mike walked up behind her, taking the opportunity to get a close look at her figure. Jennifer Jackson was easily over six feet. She was wearing a colorful summer dress that buttoned up the front and had a high neckline and short sleeves. Not too revealing, but it was obvious the woman had a tight figure. Like her daughter, she owned an impressive set of legs that would look good on any runway model. Mike was fascinated by the swing of her hips as he struggled to lift his end of the box.

"Can you hold it by yourself for a moment, sweetie, so I can get the keys?"

Mike wriggled his way to the center of the box. He lifted weights daily to achieve the shredded look, but he had a hard time lifting the thing on his own. "This is a bookshelf? I think the guys at Ikea forgot to take the books off."

Jennifer snorted, hunched below the box, then straightened her knees and balanced the entire flat-pack on her right shoulder.

So much for being a knight in stupid armor. "Wow, there goes my libido," he said.

"The keys are in the bag hanging on my left shoulder, sweetie. Front pocket."

He rummaged in the bag, pulled out something that looked promising, and realized it was a black pocket vibrator.

Jennifer chuckled and didn't even blush. "Those aren't my keys."

Mike grimaced, dropped the vibrator, found the keys, and with her help, chose the right one to the front door.

"Are there any bags left in the car?" he asked hopefully, trying to be a little helpful. He was thrilled to learn there were, and he ran to get them. Jennifer kicked off her flip-flops at the door and entered the house barefoot.

He followed her into the house carrying the rest of the groceries. On the left was a living room that opened into a large kitchen. The house smelled old. The ceiling had a water stain in one corner, and the walls had countless coats of paint. Nevertheless, a feminine hand was hard at work here. The walls were covered with bright, cheerful paintings. The chairs in the living room were painted in bright pastels, and the sofa looked as if it had been recently reupholstered. Flower vases filled with fresh wild cucumbers and cherry blossoms were on every table and in every corner.

Jennifer's head was in the refrigerator as she put the groceries away. The kitchen was twice the size of the living room. There were two pots on the stove and a jumble of plates and cups in the sink. The kitchen island served double duty as a workstation and a table for six. Most of the walls were covered by cabinets. The one bare wall was in the corner and had a black and white painting of a female rock band.

His cell phone beeped. Iceman sent him a text message. "What did one saggy boob tell the other saggy boob? We better get some support soon, or people are gonna think we're nuts!"

Mike replied with a middle-finger emoji, silenced the phone, and tossed it on the counter. He then joined Jennifer, who was unpacking the bags, at the kitchen island.

"Hon, just leave everything. It's really unnecessary." She smiled at him. "You've already done more than enough."

"Totally necessary for my pride after being completely useless," he said.

She laughed. "What's your name, sweetie?"

"Mike. Mike Wolf. I'm a student."

"That's pretty much a given in this town." Her honest smile warmed him. It also made him feel like an asshole. "I'm Jennifer. Jennifer Jackson. That was very nice of you, Mike. It's good to know that chivalry isn't dead. Or is it a habit of yours to stalk older ladies and offer help?"

"More like a hobby."

She grinned, which was fine with him. Jennifer had blue eyes that sparkled when she smiled, and as a bonus, two dimples appeared on either side of her mouth. He thought she was cute.

"Something to drink on this hot day, Mike?"

He bet she'd feel obliged to insist if he said no. "Oh, no, Ms. Jackson--"

"Jennifer."

"Jennifer. I've embarrassed myself enough for one day. I don't want to cause you any more trouble."

"Say what?" She waved her hand dismissively. "Are you old enough to drink, Mike?"

"Twenty-two."

"You like cold beer, Mike?"

"Did Michael Jackson like beautiful kids?"

"Gross."

Okay, cheap jokes that would work in a bar on girls his age wouldn't get him anywhere here.

Jennifer signaled him to sit on the other side of the kitchen island. Then she climbed onto a small stool to retrieve two tall glasses from the upper cabinet. She didn't step down gently, as one would expect from someone her age. To Mike's surprise, she jumped down like a little girl. As her bare feet touched the floor, her small breasts bounced in her colorful dress. She got two beer bottles from the refrigerator and opened both with her car keys, using her thumb as a lever.

Mike watched her with his jaw hanging down. "Damn. You're no damsel in distress."

"I'm sweet and dainty."

"I've met truck drivers daintier than you."

Jennifer sniggered. "I could open a bottle with just my finger if I wasn't scared of busting a nail."

Mike whistled appreciatively. "That's a cool painting you got there." He nodded toward the black and white girl-band wall art.

"You like it? It's an original Rose Marylyn, if you've ever heard of her."

His eyes widened. "Heard of her? She's only the best Californian wall artist ever." He jumped up from his chair and checked the painting up close. He immediately recognized the signature. "I'll be damned."

"You're an art student, Mike?"

"I'm an economics major, but yeah, I like art. How come you have an original Rose Marylyn in your kitchen?"

"She used to be... a friend."

She paused before describing the famous artist's role in her life, and Mike wondered if Marylyn was more than a friend.

"That's my rock band you're looking at. Acid Cats," she said.

"Oh, really? Wow!" He checked the painting again. The band consisted of three black girls on bass, keyboard, and drums, and a tall, Oriental-looking girl, probably the vocalist. Jennifer Jackson was in the middle. He recognized her immediately, now that he knew to look for her. A guitarist. Tall, blonde with a lion's mane, heroin chic. Jeans and high boots, open biker jacket, no shirt underneath, and her small tits on display. "You really are a badass."

She laughed.

"And I hope you don't mind me saying so, Jennifer, but you were a babe."

"Only if you're into futanari."

"Bullshit, if you're into beautiful women." He charged at the opportunity to dive into the water. "Not saying I'm not into it... I mean, I'm very into futanari." He sat back down in his seat across from her.

Jennifer raised both eyebrows.

"What? Don't give me that look."

"Look?"

"As if that's a bad thing. You're a futanari. Your daughter is."

She took a sip of beer and studied him. "Forgive a woman who grew up in Alabama. In my day, most people weren't that open about it, and if they were, there could be consequences."

"Haters gonna hate, same old story." He sipped his beer. "I know what I like, and I'm not gonna apologize for it."

"Amen to that." She clinked his glass.

"Anyone who's problems with that can blame Priscilla Jones, my cousin."

"What?" She laughed.

Mike nodded and smiled.

"What do you mean, your cousin?"

"Let's just say that she and I... On second thought, let's not say anything."

She dipped her finger into the glass and flicked a few drops of beer in his direction. "You can't tease like that, with hints of an incest story, and then just leave it hanging."

"She married my second cousin once removed, so she was like a second cousin once removed in-law or something. It's not like we were related by blood."

"Still your cousin, still incest."

He frowned. "You want me to tell you or what?"

"Sure." She laughed again.

Mike shrugged. "Priscilla was freaking hot. That was the only thing that mattered to me back then. They owned a farm on the edge of town, and I helped them out a lot. First because my dad made me, then I started volunteering every chance I got."

"Oh my God." Jennifer was still laughing. "I need to get another beer."

"Yeah, you know how teenagers are. We're either horny, hungry, or both. And Priscilla used to grill me steaks when I worked on the farm and serve them to me wearing a see-through tank top. And she always had on tiny jeans, and I could tell she was also into me, because... Well, futanari."