The MILF Relocation Program

By CJ Blake

Preview:
When I heard a big diesel engine shut off just outside I put my phone down, got off my bed, and looked out my window at the usually very calm suburban street down below.
Across the street was a big white box truck that said LocoMotion Moving Co on the side in big blue block letters. A huge man in a blue t-shirt the same color as those letters on the side of the truck got out of the driver’s side and walked to the back of the truck, he pulled a strap, flung the door up, then pulled down a long, metal ramp. It made one helluva clattering sound.
The house across the street, a simple split-level with yellow siding and a row of neatly trimmed shrubs out front used to belong to Mr. Johnson, a nice old man that used to let me use his air compressor to fill up my bicycle tires when I was ten or eleven years old. Unfortunately, Mr. Johnson started confusing his pickup truck and his riding lawn mower, so the old guy got moved to an old folks home. That’s what Mom told me.
But all summer his house had sat empty, until now I guess.
Just then, a really nice white luxury convertible with a dark blue top pulled up behind the moving truck. It was a cool car with dark tinted windows. The driver’s side door opened and when I saw the driver I actually bumped my head on the window trying to lean forward and get a closer look.
She was incredible.
She got out and strode right over to the back of that moving truck with quite the air of authority. She was short and stacked with jet black straight hair neatly parted to the right, she brushed it back with a hand as she walked up to that truck, I noticed a gleaming silver watch around her wrist.
Another thing I noticed was the great tan, from head to toe, and a lot of it on display, all she had on was a tank top with red and gray and black horizontal stripes and a tight pair of Daisy Duke denim cutoffs that could barely contain her full round booty and thick and juicy thighs.
“What a woman,” I muttered.
When she turned around and started telling the movers what to do I noticed she was in her forties, a real mature MILF, and I liked her already. I could already tell she was different from all the girls in my community college classes. For one thing, she had a real woman’s body, so shapely, not like the thin little waifs in my classes that looked like they ate tic-tacs for lunch.
I licked my lips when she leaned into the truck, stretching to point something out, showing off that round booty and those great legs. I had to meet her.
I glanced in the mirror, smoothed down my floppy blonde hair, brushed the potato chip crumbs off my blue t-shirt and got a quick swig of mouthwash so I didn’t have barbecue chip flavored breath. My shorts were clean and I stepped into my favorite sneakers and hustled downstairs. Mom and Dad were at work, so I was all alone until five-thirty.
I made it out the front door and started across the lawn. The MILF was on her way inside her new house, telling movers what to pick up and where to put it down. I walked in, cleared my throat, and readied myself for introductions.
I heard her coming back toward the front door, where I was, she had an amusing accent, not pronouncing her r’s.
“Put that ovah there, would ya,” I heard her say. It made me smile.
She appeared and stopped, looking at me. I looked at her. Up close she was even better, and I lost my train of thought and didn’t speak up first like I had planned.
“Whatcha doin’ standin’ there, go grab somethin’ hun.”
“Oh, yes ma’am,” I quickly said.
“That’s a good boy,” she said.
So I went out to the truck, grabbed a box that didn’t look too heavy, and carried it into the house.
“Whatcha got?” she said, bending down to look at the label.
This close, I could smell her sexy perfume. It was so sweet I could almost taste it.
“Kitchen stuff,” she said. “Follow me.”
I did, gladly, getting another view of that epic booty, until she stop

• Language: English
• Publisher: CJ Blake
• Release date: Jan 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215891490

CJ Blake

Hi, I'm CJ Blake, your average mild-mannered erotica writer.

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CJ Blake

The MILF Relocation Program

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2024 by CJ Blake

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

CJ Blake has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

Cover Image © FlexDreams | Depositphotos.com

Author’s note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

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Contents

The MILF Relocation Program

Also by CJ Blake

The MILF Relocation Program

When I heard a big diesel engine shut off just outside I put my phone down, got off my bed, and looked out my window at the usually very calm suburban street down below.

Across the street was a big white box truck that said LocoMotion Moving Co on the side in big blue block letters. A huge man in a blue t-shirt the same color as those letters on the side of the truck got out of the driver’s side and walked to the back of the truck, he pulled a strap, flung the door up, then pulled down a long, metal ramp. It made one helluva clattering sound.

The house across the street, a simple split-level with yellow siding and a row of neatly trimmed shrubs out front used to belong to Mr. Johnson, a nice old man that used to let me use his air compressor to fill up my bicycle tires when I was ten or eleven years old. Unfortunately, Mr. Johnson started confusing his pickup truck and his riding lawn mower, so the old guy got moved to an old folks home. That’s what Mom told me.

But all summer his house had sat