She Shoots, He Scores (futa/male, futa/female, incest)

She Shoots, He Scores

A short story by jokermon

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, don't read it. None of the people or events in this story are intended to represent actual people, events or medical conditions. This is story is copyright©2015 the author. Do not repost without permission

In 1978 I left home to play hockey full-time.

I had just turned 17 when I got scouted by some triple-A team I’d never heard of from up in Pennsylvania. It was a lottery-winning break—a chance to play semi-pro in a state with two major franchises, not to mention their farm teams. I grabbed the opportunity with both hands. I stuffed my gear onto the next northbound Greyhound and said goodbye to West Virginia with a middle finger pressed to the chilly, condensation-streaked bus window. It was my first time out-of-state. I hoped I'd never return.

My destination was Westfarthing, Pennsylvania, a boondock farming community in the northwestern part of the commonwealth. I was to play for the Westfarthing Corsairs. The team billeted me with a local family from pre-season through to the end of the playoffs, and that experience, as much as my first season playing real hockey changed my life.

The billeting system in the triple-A’s meant players lived with local families who volunteered room and board. I don’t know how it is today, but back in the seventies that meant the billeted players became unpaid yard boys and handymen. We didn’t care. We were young and starry-eyed with dreams of the big leagues. We were happy to pay our dues. All of us came from places where sports, scholarships or the military were the only legal tickets out. We were the fortunate few, and we knew it.

In my case, I traded one small town for another. Westfarthing wasn't that different from Testament, West Virginia, the raw-knuckled mining town that birthed me, but I was there to play hockey and that made all the difference in the world. In Testament, boys had predetermined fates: the coal mine or the family farm. I didn’t think I was any better than the endless ranks of Testament boys before me who stoically accepted their fates, but I knew that kind of life wasn't for me. I had a shot at something greater.

I became someone else when I strapped on the pads and tied on the skates. I became confident and capable. I was fast on the ice, damn fast, and had a light, quick stick that could snipe the corners of the net in a split second. I had excellent rink radar, meaning I could predict where players would be around me and make effective passes without looking. It was exhilarating to be good at something. I needed to see how far it could take me.

In rural Pennsylvania's poorly-lit and barely-up-to-code community arenas, I had my first chance to play against kids who were just as hungry as I was. Only the best of us would be tapped to advance to the farm teams. Only the best of the best would join The Show: the National Hockey League, the top tier of North American professional hockey. This was our first step on that path.

~~~

I was billeted with the Holts, a young widow and her sixteen-year old daughter. They lived in an ancient farmhouse a half-hour’s drive from nowhere. The girl’s name was Diane. She was a pretty blue-eyed blonde in pigtails who favored oversized old-fashioned country dresses with lots of frills. The mother, Marilyn, was a fuller-figured version of the daughter. She favored ass-hugging bell-bottomed jeans and tied-off plaid shirts. While Marilyn was cheerful and garrulous, Diane was snooty. As I was carrying my stuff into their spare room, I accidentally spilled a box with all my girlie mags in front of Diane. Her eyes popped. It was just a bunch of Penthouse and Playboy magazines (no Donkey Sluts or Nun Floggers), but I guess it was enough to soil her opinion of me. She acted like I was beneath her notice after that.

Later, when I tried to break the ice and ask where she went to school, she replied with a disdainful toss of her head that she didn’t attend high school because she was special.

Hooo-kay, I thought. That pretty well closed the lid on any socializing between us.

Her mother was a different story. I could tell Marilyn had been lonely out there with no one to talk to but her daughter. She was friendly and clearly enjoyed having a man around the h

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