Learning to Swim (futa/female, futa/male, female/male)

Learning to Swim

A short story by jokermon (sasquatch_9@hotmail.com)

This is a work of erotic fantasy fiction. It features explicit futanari (hermaphrodite) content. If that's not your thing, or if reading this type of material is unlawful where you reside due to your age or whatever, don't read it. This story does not contain, nor is meant to reflect any real-life people, events or medical conditions. This story is copyright the author©2016. Please do not repost without permission.

In the summer of 'ninety-five I met a girl named Yasmina. She taught me how to swim and a whole lot more.

Before that summer, I only knew her as one of the pretty girls I'd see around the neighborhood. We'd bump into each other going in or out of the local KwikMart. She'd nod at me with an embarrassed little half-smile and scoot on her way. She was always too timid to say hi. 

That made her stand out. In my experience, pretty girls didn’t act like that. All the pretty girls at my high school were arrogant. They strutted around with the certainty of their elite status within our micro-society oozing from each barely-visible pore.

I didn’t strut. I did what plain, fat girls always did: kept my head down, my mouth shut, and my grades up.

Yasmina didn't strut either. She walked around in a bubble of agonized shyness. Nor did she wear the kind of skimpy outfits that the other pretty girls wore, even in hot weather. I always thought that was a shame, because she certainly had the body for them.

I have to stress this, because it was the first thing I noticed about her: Yasmina had a mouth-watering figure. Bust out to here, waist into there, bum out to everywhere. Her curves defeated even the most modest of the beautifully embroidered calf-length dresses she wore. I was always surprised not to see mobs of boys following her around. I imagine her less-than-outgoing manner discouraged them, since there were plenty of more approachable (read: easy) girls in our town.

I was both jealous of her and attracted to her in that complex way reserved for overweight and sexually-confused girls in their teens. It was a resentful, hopeless fascination. Both boys and girls made me silly-hot, but neither seemed to like me much. In all honesty, if she hadn't been so self-effacing, I would have disliked her intensely.

That's why I was so shocked when she approached me.

I was out walking Crackers, my Mom's brindl Boxer, at a park near our house. I had just let him off the leash to chase around the other dogs and parked my big bubble butt at a picnic table. I was careful to sit apart from the other dog owners. They were all adults and intimidated me with their grown-up chatter and toddlers in strollers.

I remember it being a nice day, clear and hot and breezy. My finals were done at long last, and I was grateful to put my junior year of high school behind me. On my way to the park, a convertible filled with beautiful blonde girls my age had driven past me. They'd yelled out the usual.

"Hey, porno shack girl! Does Daddy make you work the glory holes with your fat whore mouth? Good thing they can't see your stupid fat face! Suck it, chubby bitch, suck it!" They turned the corner, laughing gaily.

I kept my eyes averted and didn't acknowledge. Sitting on the park bench, my feelings were still a little raw from that. My mind was drifting. I remember vaguely looking forward to not doing much of anything that summer besides working part-time for my family (and no, I would not be working the glory holes, but more on that later), and then all of a sudden Yasmina was just there, like a genie, sitting beside me.

“Hello,” she said in a soft voice.

“Uh—hi?” I replied.

She smelled good. That was my first thought. I don't know if it was perfume or her shampoo, but there was a lovely scent about her, like a whiff of pure vanilla extract with a dash of something spicy like cumin or cinnamon. It was faint but captivating, and it made my nostrils flare. I leaned towards her.

“My name is Yasmina.” She held out her hand, and I automatically shook it. Her hands were delicate with a deceptively firm handshake.

“Maggie.”

I'd never gotten to see her this close up before. She had hair the color of mahogany and an olive complexion. She had the most arresting eyes I'd ever seen—light brown, but clear, almost like amber gemstones, with the teensiest bit of catlike Asiatic slant.

With a name like that, you'd expect her to be wearing a headscarf or something, but she had a gold cross upon her prominent bosom. It was an odd crucifix, though—it had three crosspieces: a short one near the top, a longer middle one, and an even shorter diagonal one near the bottom.

“Hello Maggie

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