The Severance Package (futa-female, interracial, nc themes)

The Severance Package

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 this story is imaginary and is not meant to represent any real-life people, events, or medical conditions. It contains 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. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years of age or older, even if it seems otherwise for dramatic or narrative purposes. Please enjoy this story responsibly and do not repost without permission. This story and all accompanying artworks are copyright©2024 J.K. Ermon.

~~~

It was pouring rain in Philadelphia. Concordia Baxter sat on the bench by the bus stop and wept.

She didn’t have an umbrella. Her boss’s son had just tried to rape her and she broke it over his head. That was why she was sitting umbrella-less in the rain at 9:34 AM on a Thursday. She no longer had a job.

She could see her reflection in a big puddle at her feet: a thirtyish black woman with a coffee-with-half-a-cream complexion, strong cheekbones, and a fine full mouth. There was a discarded section of newspaper soaking into the pavement by the puddle, and it revealed the date: Thursday, May 24, 1956.

Up until just after 9:00 AM, she had worked as a maid for one of the city’s top bankers. She was barely inside the servants’ entrance, just bending over to put on her soft-soled work shoes, when the boy grabbed her from behind.

She knew immediately what was happening. She’d never had to deal with the son while she worked at the old man’s office, but when the business moved, he transferred her to his home staff. She’d been warned by the other maids. The banker’s son did this with almost every woman who worked in his father’s house—he would attack from behind and narrate each act in a sing-song voice: “Up with the skirt…down with the panties…in with the dick!”

He never got past up with the skirt. Concordia (Connie to her friends) immediately snatched up her umbrella, reversed it like she was about to commit hari-kari, and jabbed it under her arm into his midsection.

“Ow!” He reeled back, crying out in a shocked and surprisingly hurt voice. It was a why’d ya do that kind of voice. The steel tip of her umbrella was blunt and didn’t skewer him (not that he didn’t deserve it), but would definitely leave a nasty bruise. She turned to face him. He was clutching his diaphragm in pain and staring at her like she’d done something unimaginably mean. He was twenty-four, but looked like a little boy who’d just had an ice cream cone slapped out of his hand.

She gripped her umbrella like a Louisville Slugger, instinctively dropping into the batter’s stance she learned playing college softball. She tried to talk sense to him.

“You just walk away and behave now, Mr. Lowe. I won’t tell your daddy nothing.”

It’s anything, woman, her inner voice scolded her, and you damn well know that. You have an English degree from Storer!

It made no difference. Whenever she got emotional, especially in a confrontation with a white person, her grandmother’s Deep South dialect was always the first thing to leap out of her mouth.

As she watched, the younger Mr. Lowe went from surprised to sullen to belligerent at astonishing speed. He stepped towards her with an unpleasant gleam in his eye. Connie didn’t hesitate. She whacked him in the skull.

“Ow!” he cried out again, staggering and clutching his head. It was a stout umbrella with an oak core, built to last. Also, Connie had been scrubbing toilets for a decade. She had strong arms.

“I mean it, Mr. Lowe,” she said. “Let’s just you and me call it a day, now.”

Real rage came into his face. “Oh, you’re gonna get it now.”

She whacked him again, this time hard enough to break her umbrella over his cranium and lay him out flat on the floor. He groaned in pain.

At that moment (the worst possible moment), his father walked in the rear entry hall.

“What on earth is all this racket?” He stopped and stared. “Junior?”

The young man was struggling to his feet.

“Sir,” Connie said, “your son tried to assault me.”

“That’s a lie!” he yelped. “That crazy jig hauled off and hit me for no reason!”

“Mr. Lowe,” she said, addressing the senior with as much dignity as she could muster, “I have been working for you for ten years. Have you ever known me to hit anybody?”

She saw a look come over his face then, a look she recognized. It was look she had worn herself on occasion: not another damn mess to c

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