Graduation Day (futa-male) (public)

Graduation Day

A Short Story by J.K. Ermon (jokermon)

https://subscribestar.adult/j-k-ermon

This is a work of erotic fantasy fiction for the entertainment of adults only. Everything in it is imaginary and none of it represents any real-life people, events or medical conditions. Regardless of age depicted, all characters in this story are 18+. It contains explicit futanari (hermaphrodite) content. If that’s not your bag, don’t read it. If reading this type of material is illegal where you reside due to your age or whatever, don’t read it. Do not repost without permission.

This story is copyright the author©2013

~~~

Things might have gone very differently if Howard Preston weren’t so violently opposed to causing scenes.

He was attending a high school graduation. He shouldn't have been there. He wasn’t related to any of the students or faculty, and was decades too old himself to be one of the graduates. He had been, in fact, just walking by the school when he saw the signs out front directing foot traffic to the commencement ceremony. A river of people in their Sunday best were flowing through the gymnasium’s double doors. He didn’t even think about it. He allowed himself to be swept along in the current.

Inside the gym, battalions of folding chairs squatted in square formations. He sat at the back with nothing but wall behind him and plenty of empty rows in front of him. He had an instinctive need for a buffer between him and the other attendees.

Purple bunting and triumphal wreaths abounded. The high school band played brassy De Souza tunes. It was oddly therapeutic, he reflected. The giddily festive atmosphere, coupled with the strong vibe of familial pride and happiness seeped into him. He didn’t have anywhere else to be today and it seemed as good a place as any to spend the afternoon. Lord knew he could use the contact high of all that hope and optimism.

At least I'm no longer sad all the time. I wonder if the shrink would consider boredom and restlessness signs of progress?

There were predictably bland speeches, applauded with good-natured tolerance. A surprisingly moving valedictory address from a plainly terrified boy followed, and his weeping relief at his standing ovation touched Howard's heart. Then, a slow-moving phalanx of gowned-and-mortarboarded teenagers shuffled across the stage to collect their diplomas and a handshake from the beaming Principal.

Preston remembered his own graduation. Amazing to think it was over thirty years ago. The strobe effect of a thousand continuous camera flashes had made him dizzy. Today, a thousand hands lifted a thousand smartphones to digitally record the proceedings. Flash photography was few and far between.

Betty had never looked so pretty that day. All proud and lit up inside. She actually managed to make cap and gown look sexy. Christ I miss her.

He didn’t even notice when the girl sat next to him. He didn’t know she was there until her breath tickled his ear.

“So, who are you here for?”

The voice was lazy, knowing and insinuative. He nearly jumped out of his seat. His head spun toward the intruder almost fast enough to give him whiplash.

He could tell she was trouble. All the signs were there: hair too black to be natural; black lipstick; silver piercings at her brow, nose and ears; a broad, lazy grin with a beauty mark above the curling right corner; precociously heavy breasts weighing down the straining spaghetti straps of a red scoop-necked tank. She was college-age, possibly older. She wore no cap or gown.

Preston couldn’t control his eyes. She wore a short green plaid uniform skirt and this wasn’t a Catholic school. Entirely too much thigh was on display; Preston could see the elasticized tops of broadly-meshed fishnet stockings where they indented her flesh. She sat with crossed legs and the battered toe of an old combat boot made idle circles in the air.

Preston forced his eyes to meet hers. They were a clear steel-gray, crinkled with arch good humor, and alarmingly deep.

“Well?” she nodded sideways toward the stage without breaking eye contact. “Which one’s yours?”

He wrenched his gaze back to the lurching parade of graduates. He didn’t know he’d decided to lie until his mouth opened and it came out.

“Third from the front. The redhead. My granddaughter.”

“Really?” Those eyes lit up. Her animation was unsettling, like a careless bonfire that might spit sparks his way. “Meghan’s your granddaughter? That slut?”

“I-I beg your pardon?”

She licked her lips. It drew his attention to the horseshoe-shaped piercing in her septum, its horns tipped with little silver beads. “I’m balls deep in that little whore like, every other

... more on the forums ...