Stephanie's Story (Futa/F, Teen, Growth, Self)

Eleven

She tried not to think about it.

Beige and green suburbs rolled past outside the car window. A park. A school. She counted lamp posts. She pretended it wasn’t her mother driving, that she couldn’t feel the fury radiating from the front seat. The Morris house was buried in a warren of cul-de-sacs and crescents, the type of completely average suburban sprawl that envelops ever major city in North America. Judy and David, her parents, had divorced when Stephanie was three, her father moving to an essentially identical house in an essentially identical neighborhood a three hour flight--or two-day drive--away. She had spent some summers there, the school year living with Mom, until Dad remarried, made it clear his old family was no longer a part of his life.

The car turned onto their street and went over a bump in the road too quickly. Stephanie rose off her seat slightly and then slammed down hard. She felt a blast of pain radiate from between her legs, up her spine. Her mouth fell open and she almost cried out when she caught sight of her mother’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They pulled into the driveway, the garage door barely high enough before her mother lurched the car into the garage. Before Stephanie could even undo her seatbelt, her mother had left the car, slammed the door, entered the house, and slammed another door.

When she entered the house, Stephanie could hear her mother ranting to no-one.

“...disgusting! Disgusting! Bad enough to walk around with those goddamned udders … but… disgusting!” she screamed again, walking tight circles around the coffee table. She stopped and turned, realizing Stephanie had entered the room. Judy Morris pulled herself up straight and smoothed her white blouse. Blue eyes--one of the things Stephanie had inherited from her mother--blazed as she crossed the room to stand in front of her daughter. Stephanie had never been so intimidated, not even when she broke the crystal vase that one time when she was seven. Mom looked so … angry.

“Room. Now,” her voice was clipped and short. Stephanie scampered from the living room, stumbling as a last lingering jolt of pain shot up her spine. “Now!” Mom screamed. Steph pelted up the stairs, into her room, and threw herself onto the bed.

Well after dark, the door swung open and Judy shoved a plate with food into the room. Stephanie dragged herself over and ate, gratefully--her stomach had been rumbling for hours. After finishing the plate of food she turned and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror it brought tears back to her eyes.

“Stupid!” she said, staring at herself, “stupid, stupid… NGNGHH!!” frustrated, she stamped her feet and then growled as the stamping made her body move in ways that reminded her of her mother’s fury.

Stephanie was red haired and blue eyed. She’d been told for years--by most everyone--that she was pretty. She liked being called pretty. Just a few years ago she started to think “pretty” when she looked in the mirror and saw her small nose, the way freckles dusted across her face.“I am pretty,” she would think, wrapping herself in princess dresses and playing pretend.

Then her breasts--goddamned udders, Mom said--started to grow. Mom took her bra shopping and it had been such fun. Mom bought her pretty pink flowered bras, and beige ones for school, and even a black one for special occasions, mom said.

They kept growing.

So they went again, and Stephanie’s mother bought her nice white bras this time. Then they grew more, and some more. Then Mom stopped taking her bra shopping and she was forced to shove herself into one of the two grey, cheap sports bras Mom had flung at her one day, telling her to “keep those yourself covered.”

People still called her pretty, but it was different. Women didn’t do it as much, it was men now and it didn’t feel nice.

So she covered up, wore sweaters as late as she could in spring and early as she could in fall. Jackets whenever possible. She slouched. From her sex-ed classes she expected her period to start anytime. So that morning when she woke up to sticky thighs and bedsheets, she thought she knew what had happened.

“Futanari,” the doctor said. Stephanie rolled the strange word around her brain.

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