My Summer Job (futa-female, futa-male, male-female)

My Summer Job

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 does not represent 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 and all associated artworks are copyright©2024 J.K. Ermon.

~~~

(Editor’s note: taken from Femmestrüdel issue #261, August 1969)

Dear Femmestrüdel,

I never thought I’d be writing in with a story of my very own, but as they say, truth is indeed stranger than fiction.

I’m a college coed finishing up my freshman year at Stanford. I’m originally from Vermont and last summer I drove cross-country to get here. It wasn’t my idea. My father did not approve of me going to college (he thinks post-secondary is wasted on women) and refused to support it. Fortunately, I won a full-ride scholarship and didn’t need him to pay my way. The only problem was getting to California. I couldn’t afford airfare and had too much stuff to take on a Greyhound. I bravely decided to load up my old pickup and hit the road.

I got as far as a small town outside Topeka before my truck broke down. I was stranded there for two-and-a-half weeks. I had quite the adventure. I’ve been dying to tell somebody this story and feel it’s only appropriate your magazine gets it first.

The one silver lining to the breakdown was that it happened just a stone’s throw from a local garage. I was able to push my pickup into the repair bay. There was only one mechanic on duty, and all I could see of him was a pair of legs in baggy overalls sticking out from under an old Chevy.

When I rang the bell on the counter, he rolled out from under the car and I was very surprised to see that ‘he’ was actually a ‘she’—there was a woman under all that motor oil and grime.

She wore a green bandana kerchief-style and her eyes were bright green too. That’s all I could tell about her at first glance because her face was so dirty. She took off a work glove, revealing a thankfully clean hand, and stuck it out for me to shake.

“Scarlett Novak,” she said. “Pleased to meetcha.”

“Mabel Kemp,” I said (not my real name).

She was the first female mechanic I’d ever met. I tried to hide it, but I was a little dismayed. Where I come from, women aren’t known for their mechanical aptitude and I was worried my bad luck had just gotten worse.

Her manner, however, was pleasant, friendly and reassuringly confident. I explained what happened and she cheerfully put up my truck’s hood and had me try to start it. She listened to it sputter, and then got right to work. She poked and prodded while singing to herself in a very tuneful voice. It was like she’d forgotten I was there.

Oh, this just gets better I thought.

I really needed to pee. I asked her if I could use the facilities and she nodded absently towards the back.

It was the cleanest public ladies’ room I’d ever been in, which I supposed was one advantage of having a female mechanic. It smelled good, too, an unusual sweet-and-spicy scent I couldn’t place.

When I went to wash my hands, I couldn’t find any soap. I looked in the cupboard under the sink and there were plenty of soap bars there all right, but there was also a foot-tall stack of magazines with smiling pretty ladies on the covers. The topmost one was called Femmestrüdel. That was my introduction to your fine magazine.

I didn’t know what it was at first—from the title I thought it might be a culinary magazine. When I opened the magazine up, I was so shocked I almost dropped it. I’m from New England, remember, so I had never seen a sausage magazine before. I knew, in a general sort of way, about Seahag Syndrome, but I had never met a dickgirl and certainly had no idea there were magazines celebrating them.

It was…graphic. I flipped through it with eyes like saucers, drinking in page after page of naked, voluptuous women with beautiful bodies and enormous wieners. There was even a pictorial of two dickgirls having sex. It showed everything.

I was enthralled. I should have been disgusted or horrified, but instead this stuff fascinated me. It wasn’t just the pictures; there were articles, funny cartoons and even hot stories mailed in from readers. There was a whole world here I never knew existed. I got very turned on.

That pleasant smell, incident

... more on the forums ...