Ms. Rogers' Neighborhood (futa/male)

Ms. Rogers' Neighborhood

A Short Story by jokermon

This is a  work of erotic fantasy fiction. It contains explicit futanari  (hermaphrodite) content. If that's not your thing, don't read it.lf  reading adult material is unlawful where you reside due to your age or  whatever, don't read it. None of the characters are real and nothing in  this story is meant to reflect actual events or real-life medical  conditions. This story is copyright the author©2015.

I swear I wasn’t going in there to steal anything. My friends had dared me, and when you’re male and a junior at a new high school certain things just aren’t optional. If I saw anything cool I was only going to take a few pictures with my phone and send them to my friends. I wasn't going to do anything stupid like actually swipe something or post any gang-sign selfies during the commission of a criminal act.

I only went in there to explore. We all believed the big house at the end of my cul-de-sac was empty. The previous resident, a crazy old cat lady, had died half a year back and the realtor hadn’t posted any For Sale signs. We'd been talking about spooky old houses last period Friday and the old place on my block came up. Before I knew it, I'd been dared to check it out.

That was how I got caught trespassing at a stranger's house on a Saturday afternoon.

~~~

I had decided to approach the place from the rear. There was a huge backyard flanked by tall privacy hedges, but the back lay open to the woods with just a token waist-high diamond-link property fence. A large multilevel wooden deck ran the length of the back face. Sliding patio doors offered access to the inside and nobody in this neighborhood ever locked those.

I entered the woods behind my house and cut through the trees all the way to the end lot. I hid in some bushes straddling the fence and scanned the back of the house while I worked up my nerve. There was no one in the yard, and no matter how hard I looked, I couldn't see any movement in those tall, arch-topped windows.

I took a deep breath and vaulted the fence. I sprinted across the lawn with my heart thundering like kettle drums in my ears. I fully expected to hear warning shots and alarms any second.

Nothing of the kind happened, of course. I made it to the broad, three-tiered back patio without incident. I dropped to a crouch and used the tarp-covered barbecue and wicker deck furniture for cover. I remained perfectly still and listened with all my might. I couldn't see through the sliding glass door leading inside; the angle of sunlight gave me nothing but reflection.

Nothing continued to happen. Birds sang in the trees. Boughs creaked in the breeze. A lawnmower rattled in the distance as it chewed up twigs. My heartbeat quieted to an easy canter. 

I crept to the sliding doors and looked carefully through the glass with cupped hands. There was some kind of breakfast nook there, with archways leading off to a kitchen and what looked like a living room.

I tested the door and it slid open. I went inside. It was as simple as that.The second I was inside, my pulse began pounding again and I felt the neck-tingle of adrenaline. At first I didn’t know why. Then I realized.

The house wasn’t abandoned.

The refrigerator was humming. The digital display on the microwave was on and displaying the correct time. Someone had been baking cookies recently; I could smell baker's chocolate and vanilla extract. The tile floor had been swept and scrubbed with lemon cleanser. I could also smell weed, I realized. There was a distinct skunky under-note of marijuana lingering beneath all the other kitchen smells. My senses registered all these details before my conscious mind could.

I stood very still and listened. I quieted my breathing and listened so intently my whole body thrummed like a radar dish. I heard nothing beyond the normal house noises: appliances, central AC (that was working too) and the distant whoosh of a furnace. I heard no movement or voices. Nobody was playing a stereo or watching television.

This was the normal soundscape of an occupied house, however. Not the stark, creaky silence of a vacant one. Even at sixteen I knew this instinctively. I'd been living in big houses like this my whole life and I understood its noises like I could recognize my own mother’s footsteps late at night. For the moment, though, it seemed like nobody was home.

I slowly relaxed. Maybe the realtor’s been paying the bills, I thought. You can't show potential buyers some dank mausoleum. The expense would be worth it. The commissio

... more on the forums ...