Forging the Book of Truths.

(A few moments earlier...)

Swish.

Smunk.

Kerthud!

I opened the book in front of me to the next empty page, and stared down at it. Then, I pulled out my pen and began to write.

"Dear Journal,

What a strange day it has been.

I was woken up by... some inconceivable stimulation, wasn't sure if it was a voice, or a living being; the way it approached was awfully murky and hard to wrap my senses around.

But after the interaction was over, it became clear that, somehow, I was granted 'ownership of the world'. I was given free reign over this reality. Over this domain. Every inch and every cranny.

I... I... just fucked my own mother today.

Sounds crazy, does it?

Well, it's not. It is. I mean. But it's also true. I did give her a fucking. Multiple fuckings.

I wonder where things will go from here. I kind of wish not to lose my humanity, right? Like if there was still some way to keep my conscience in check. But it's also all just... too much fun!

Only time has the answer.

All accounts yours,
John Doe"

Dated and signed.

***

I sat back in my chair, and spun in it.

There I was, a lonesome boy in his second-story bedroom, with one heck of a weight on his shoulders.

Wondering what next to do, I looked down at my journal.

So....As fun and liberating as it was to exercise my powers at-will, on anyone I wished at any given time, a niggle in my mind sought for altitude. Not necessarily restraint. An order of operations, one that can allow me to channel this... this 'gift', in, you know, a more focused manner.

Thought, I did. A conclusion, I eventually came to.

Maybe I can use this journal as a kind of 'Spell Book', or 'Book of Truths', I leaned forward, and flipped it to another page.

Maybe, I half-joked, I can be like a, like a wizard... or something.

And as the pen in my hand gently rolled between my absently turning fingers, the idea sank. And sank. Until finally--

Yeah, my eyes glimmered.

Yeah... let's try it!

Focusing with all my might on my journal, I concentrated on transforming the natural properties of its original function as a book of blank pages to the mystical, world-changing set of script I wanted it to become, fully, wholly. It was unreal. It was impossible, surely. But mostly, the process felt longer than it actually was -- a little sweat dripped form particularly obscure places I wasn't even aware I secreted from.

And thereupon a quick and easy refashioning of the reality I (we) knew to be logical and rational and grounded, it had been done, with just a tickle from my grey matter.

With a flash and a plop, and even a little bit of mystifying, cliche wisp-smoke sparkle-darkle, the book jumped up, tremored, and landed back on my desk with a boorish slam. I had to pick myself up from the carpet, having just crashed into it in a spur of mild defensiveness. When I climbed back up, clutched the edge of the desk, and peeked at the book, however, a sudden surge of power emanated from its immediate radius, and under a brief flinch of a brow, I knew.

I knew that it was no longer the journal of former innocence and one-dimensional teleology. This was a weapon in the guise of regurgitated bark, assimilated in change thusly undetectable by the naked eye. No, it was down and in and somewhere far away from 'material'.

It called the pen. Not literally, like, in that magic, inanimate-whisperer kind of way.

Gulping, I pulled my chair back to my meager arse, sat on it, and obliged it;

And naturally, I decided to start with my mom's three country club friends down below.

***

(Back in the present...)

Once I was done reciting the words from my book, I slipped back inside in haste. I was really curious to see how the effects would take place in those butt-tight women. But I wanted to bait it as organically as I could. My mom, see, was helping oversee one of the housekeepers' dinner preparations, which meant Rena, Laureen, and Mary would be piling in soon. I could probably use that as an opportunity to see just how exactly this would manifest itself when the time came.

After waiting a while in the west sitting room, my mom walked past, apparently towards the back pool. I watched her (and her backside) go, and wriggled my nose. It seemed, it smelled, pot roast, maybe, like dinner was done.

I was planning to actually go into one of the guest rooms on this first floor, because that was where the women would be going into to change out of their swimsuits, but before I could even take my butt out of the couch, the gaggle had meandered in.

As soon as they spotted me, I looked away, unsure of how they'd react, albeit interested to see if they would try something with such high visibility. Who would've guessed, it wasn't all unrestrained. After all, the next thing I knew, I had Mary Kumanis sitting next to me with her arm over the back of my shoulders, her whole close and sexy body still clad in naught but her one-piece.

"Hi John," she breathed down my neck.

"Hey Mrs. Kumanis," I replied, a little breakage coming through.

"Hahaha, John! Call me Mary. You know I don't mind."

I managed a nervous chuckle. "Okay. Mary."

"Mary! Get off your lazy butt and get changed."

The other two ladies were down the opposite side of the room in the open hallway, which would lead to their site of changing. At this moment, however, they were glaring daggers down at their blonde compatriot, who only brimmed her lower lip against her upper one and glared back with a silent huff.

"Well, I guess it's time to slide back into more suitable clothes, right?" Mary finally stood to her feet. As she did, though, she remained in that position, with her ass directly in front of my face, and just spent a good minute adjusting small infractions of her swimsuit, cleaning off a speck of dust or three, wiping her arms dry of who-knew-what. "Buh-bye, sweetheart," once 'done', she looked back to me, winked, and went over on two tight, near perfectly sculpted legs to join her mates who gave her an inscrutable side-eye or two; gestures that impacted and was then promptly shrugged right off her smooth shoulder.

Meanwhile, in the aftermath, I sat there with a blood-pumped dong and an exhalation of air I didn't realize I was holding back from until it came out like a hammered whirl of wind from each lung. Never before had I seen Mary like that, at least not to me. She had barely paid me any attention in the past. None of them really even knew me that well. I was a kind of black sheep to them, if nothing else. At best, I helped my mom set up the refreshments and decorations. Passed them the sunscreen and margueritas.

But the truth was that that... that extended above and beyond any ordinary, baseline courtesy of attention. And considering where it came from, it was... practically dreamlike. Not-possible. A fantasy as wet and calcifying as the most intimate of self-run mental theme park rides in a night addled brain in the bosom of a soft cotton pillow.

Mary Kumanis, to be exact, was the youngest of this particular group, being a fresh-faced and gorgeous young lady at the mere age of 30. Nevertheless, she was an entrepeneur prodigy, already having led two clothing line companies, the first of which she championed at the age of 23, in under three decades of life, and reaping a bountiful harvest. Her father, an owner of a successful media outlet organization, had always looked after her in order to make sure she remained financially secure and capable of doing what she wanted to do. So, reasonably, it came to pass that she thrived under his blessing, and proceeded to use his leadership smarts to make the most out of her own fashion hobbies.

She was also possibly the hottest of the group, on that physical, immediate level. With a cute blonde bob and a body she was rather meticulously conscious about, to an art, her anatomy was a drooling delight to behold. It was hot just to glance at her. To skim. Visually flit.

In the meantime, just minutes ago, I got front row seat tickets to her beautiful, perfectly smooth, mouth-ploppable ass cheeks in what I can only presume was a delectable, unignorable, deliberate taste of her own prudent, self-important medicine: a giving of what I want, through a re-wired belief in her brain that equated such a sentiment to her getting of what she wanted. All my doing. My own affectation on the reality she once lived and breathed so sensibly, she (and one can only deduce, the others as well) now did so in the flavor of my choosing.

Also, yes, I did get to see her alongside the rest of those wonderfully bodied ladies bending over backwards for me already before (with the pictures to prove it!). Nevertheless, being there, right there, before them, those buttocks, in the serene lighting of indoor au-lait style serenity; it was pitching a tent in the middle of winter, summer, and spring all at once!

Warily, my eyes shifted, crossing intricately patterned carpet and foreign-styled table leg to the journal just on its surface in front of me. Then, out of a spontaneous sense of whim, I grabbed it and began hurrying back up the stairs to my room. Once inside my jugular abode, I slid it into my open shelf, shut it closed, nodded awkwardly, and was about to begin back down the stairs again when a shadow through the curtain tipped my eye. Pausing, I stopped mid-way. I almost hit my knee against the bed frame again, but never fear, I survived, arriving at the window with my finger tracing the textile of the soft, yellow-hued curtain like a hairdresser assessing a lock of hair. Portentously, I flung it apart, and scanned the premises. Down past the window ledge, the transformer, the 20th-century style brick padding and hedge cut, was mother at the pool, cleaning up some of the mess that, it seemed, I inadvertently had caused.

Not all of it was me, though. A good chunk of her work was rudimentary tidying-up. My mom was a fan of all things clean and organized, and, though it wasn't really comparable in terms of commitment, at least a little bit of that had carried over to me. Or maybe it was just her constant pressing. Either way, I became a sporadic neat freak of my own. It was oddly disjointed, though. More inconsistent than incessant. I wonder if there's a term for that.

As my mother picked up some stray glasses and turned off the jacuzzi jets, I flattened my brow. Mother, strip out of your bikini and get naked. You won't notice your nakedness until someone points it out to you.

I watched with a quickly beating heart as, suddenly, before me, my mom moved one hand over to her back and swiftly snapped untied the loop of her bikini top, shucking it off of her shoulders and sufficiently exposing a handful of grabbable female breast. Then down her hand swung, as she slid down her bikini bottoms and slung it off of her foot. With her tough, curvy ass and cunt in the open below, and her two chest pendulums making the moves above, she neatly placed the articles on the patio table by the lounge chairs and returned to cleaning in her full, beautiful naked form.

Meanwhile, my hand had squished up against my dick and begun frigging it silly the moment I saw that side-boob.

Oh, mother. I was definitely enjoying this show.