Marietta Recalls - Another Side Story to Scum Buckets (futa/male, futa/female)

Marietta Recalls

Another Side Story to Scum Buckets

by jokermon (sasquatch_9@hotmail.com)

This is a work of erotic fantasy fiction. It is copyright©2019 the author. It contains explicit futanari (hermaphrodite) content. If that type of material is not your thing, don't read it. If it is illegal for you to read this type of material where you reside, don't read it. Please enjoy this story responsibly and do not repost without permission.

Los Angeles, 2004

  Sometimes it wasn’t easy living under an assumed identity in a strange place, and places don’t come much stranger than Los Angeles. Marietta Caine had never blown her cover, but on one occasion, it was a near thing.

For a long time, she had been paranoid about the media. Her old band, Bayou Scum Bucket, was practically a rock institution. Every member had been interviewed, profiled, and pondered over in the world’s eye at length. As their first lead singer and the unforgettable voice of their breakout demo, she had a shadowy Stuart Sutcliffe mystique. She was the unfathomable band member who’d jumped ship just before it came in.

After a while, the mentions of Marietta Caine became dismissive, and then disappeared altogether. She never once relaxed her vigilance, but she did stop actively worrying about it.

And then, one day, as she was dropping off yet another demo CD in yet another cookie-cutter office building in Century City, it happened.

  It had been a day like any other. It began with Marietta trotting down the rickety wooden steps to the driveway and hearing her landlord's wife haranguing him. It was almost an everyday thing with them.

As landlords went, Harvey was okay. He was always polite and even funny, in a self-deprecating way. He was good about waiting until after payday to come around for the rent. If something needed to be fixed or replaced, he always got it done quick. He was a slight, balding man, with a sad smile she found endearing. Marietta liked him. It was a shame his wife didn't. As she climbed into her Skylark, Marietta quickly turned on the radio to drown out Lia’s loud, sarcastic voice.

A few hours later, her landlord’s domestic situation was forgotten. Marietta was impatient, tired, and irritable at what she rapidly perceived to be a futile task: getting her songs noticed. The underground parking in this skyscraper charged a ghastly $20.00 per half hour for visitors, and she’d had to pretend to be a courier to get past security. And, unless the damn elevator went any faster, she was going to be late for her noon-to-eight shift at the tire plant. That was all she needed.

Then the elevator door opened and a ghost from New Orleans stepped inside. 

Marietta’s heart flopped, and her mind blanked. The ghost was oblivious to her, sandwiched between two lawyers in a muttering four-way conversation involving them and his Bluetooth earpiece. 

She forced herself not to panic and reined in her breathing. She discreetly pushed her dark sunglasses back up and turned her face away. She stared at the floor of the elevator, desperately willing herself invisible. She wished she hadn’t left her baseball cap in the Skylark.

Invisible behind her shades, her eyes rolled over to him. He hadn’t noticed her. Given how caught up in his own world he was, he might not notice her at all–provided she didn’t draw attention to herself.  Her teeth clenched.  Jesus, what was he doing here?

She studied him in her periphery. He had changed a little, but it was undoubtedly him; a precociously mature young man with a haircut that cost more than Marietta’s car and a tan suit that would break the monthly income of anyone from Cobalt Springs.  He stood taller, fitter, and more confident than she remembered him, but she knew him at once: Ryan Harker.

~~~

He had been less fit and more callow the last time she saw him. He had attended one of her stags back in the Big Easy when she was turning tricks and doing the odd bachelor party. At the time, he was little more than a boy.  He was a younger cousin of the groom, and, considering the entourage of minders and bodyguards that surrounded him, an offshoot of the wealthier bloodline. He looked old enough to drive, barely, but probably not old enough to vote, and definitely not old enough to go out without an embarrassing amount of protection.  He was, she discovered later, the shelt

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