Daddy

by DX

Copyrighted, 9/2024 all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced in any format without previous written permission from the author.

 She was bubblegum and candy.  She had puffy, petulant lips and a button nose.  She was petite and slim, with perky firm breasts she liked to display through her flimsy tube top emblazoned with the words, Daddy’s Little Girl. 

 She had playful tattoos of teddybears and unicorns.

 For her, everything was fun.

 She was sprinkle cupcakes and rainbows.  She was a pink forest nymph in short-shorts and sandals with a magic of wand of glitter.

 We had to get rid of her.

 Every season someone arrived in the logging camp who was wholly unprepared for the hard and dangerous work of felling trees.  Most were tree-huggers who didn’t understand that a properly managed forest was healthy for the environment and provided renewable resources, and only wanted to wreck things claiming to save the planet.  They usually weeded themselves out within the first few days when they discovered saving the planet involved walking up a hill and no social media.  The remainder actually wanted to be lumberjacks, enthralled with the romantic idea of manliness, until they discovered the high rate of amputations.

 Every once in a while we got someone like Pink, charmed by woods and nature and cycle of life but sadly, too delicate for the job.  People like her are the weak link in the chain, and weak links caused injuries.

 So when Pink stepped off the bus, giggling and cooing, no one was surprised when Boss Eve took one look at the bouncing fluff-ball of joy and assigned her to me.  

 My job was to get her back on the bus and on her way home before she got hurt, or worse, hurt someone else.

 Officially, I was to get her up to speed on doing the job properly and above all, safely.  I have resting grump face and permanent, glaring eyes of disapproval.  My heavy beard fails to hide my scars, earned over a life of hard work.  

 The bets were on that Pink would be on the morning bus for home.

 I planned for her to be gone sooner than that.

 I started with showing her how to identify Black Widow Spider webs, where Brown Recluses like to live, and how to treat for a Copper Head bite, followed by the many ways loggers get their arms ripped off, or the legs mangled, and how to avoid all of those things.

 While the safety briefing alone usually drove off the pretenders, Pink wasn’t phased in the least.

 She didn’t flinch when I showed her the first aid kit which included tourniquets and a bone saw.  She only nodded, smiled sunshine at me and cooed excitedly, “Yes, Daddy.”

 “Don’t call me, Daddy.”  I responded gruffly.

 In twenty-four hours my new nick-name in camp was Big Daddy.  Even Eve started calling me Big Daddy.

 I took Pink to the thrift store where we got her proper clothes and boots, and I kept the receipt knowing we would be bringing them all back the next day.

 But we didn’t.

 The smallest equipment looked huge on her small frame, but properly decked out, we started her training.

 She paid close attention when I pointed out the poison ivy, oak, and sumac, and she quickly learned the knots every woodsman knows, practicing earnestly with the six foot cord I gave her.  She learned how to field strip a two stroke, sharpen an axe, and how to find North with a watch and a stick.

 She learned to use her tools.  Although cumbersome and heavy, she hauled them up the slope with determination, and in a few, short weeks, she began to put on lean muscle, which she liked to show off, flexing when she caught me looking.

 I couldn’t help but think she was showing off only for me.  Although she flirted outrageously with everyone, she seemed to have a special glance for me alone.  I dismissed it as an old grump’s folly, but it was hard to dismiss whenever there was a muster she was beside me, close to me, brushing against me.  When I looked down, she was always looking up at me, her huge eyes searching for details on my leathery face.  Her proximity to me quickly became normal, expected.  At chow she always sat next to me, and her warm body quickly became familiar.  “More coffee, Daddy?”  She would ask.  “How about an apple for the trail, Daddy?”

 “Don’t call me Daddy.”  I would reply as I put the apple in my cargo pocket.

 As for being on the team, Pink stepped up and proved she was as tough as all the guys.  When they got boisterous, she would just giggle and be coy and cute and diffuse any situation.  

 She instantly mastered the small back hoe.  Soon the guys would ask for my partner specifically, and she would nimbly drive that thing up the steepest, narrowest trail.  “Who called for a hoe?”  She’d announce as she arrived with a big smile on her face.

 Even Boss Eve, a woman who hates women, clapped me on the shoulder.  “I guess your Little Girl Pink’s working out all right.”

 One early morning, just before sunrise, I watched Pink do the walk of shame from Georgie’s trailer.  Gerogie was the camp Lothario.  No woman, not even Eve, could resist his devilish looks and wild flirtatious glances, so it was no surprise seeing Pink sneak out of there.

 I guess it made everything official.  

 At that point I figured she would gravitate towards hanging out with Georgie, but every day she added her name to my roster, and everyday we headed out together, and every day the guys would giggle and smirk, “There’s goes Big Daddy and his Little Girl.”

 On days off, when we headed to town and eventually the bars, she would dress up in her pink short shorts and tight t-shirts.  She often caused a stir at the bar when she put money in the jukebox and took to the dance floor and did a one woman performance that sent many a man to a cold shower.  Occasionally, it caused a stir that usually required me getting up and giving everyone, The Look.  “We’re not going to have an issue, are we boys?”

 “No, Big Daddy.”  Everyone would murmur.  

 “Don’t call me Daddy.”  I would grunt, and go back to my beer.

 But I couldn’t help notice her dance as her lithe body gyrated to the music, almost making love to the melody.  I teased myself that she was dancing for me alone, a silly thought, but I couldn’t help it when I stole a glance from the corner of my eye I saw her looking back at me.

 On night, while Pink was racking up a big score on the pinball machine, Sol slid over to me at the bar.  “Why does she have to dress like that?”

 “‘Cause she wants too.”  I said.

 “Yeah, but it gives guys the wrong idea.”  He replied.

 I eyed him.  “Sounds like that’s their problem.”  I turned, and watched Pink at the machine.  “Besides, I heard she and Georgie.”

 Sol shrugged.  “Fuck that guy.”  He held up his beer.

 I touched my mug to his.  “Yup.  To his health.”

 To Sol’s point, the male to female ratio in the camp was steep, and you either hooked up elsewhere, or like me, learned to enjoy solitude.  Pink, with her unerring beauty, was a disruptive factor, but she found safe harbor with me.

 We were a team.

 Which was no surprise at the end of the season, when the snows threatened, she added her name to my roster to winterize the fire towers on the Ridge.  This meant taking the half-track up the fire road to all the fire towers.  The mission was to make sure the fire road was clear, pull down any big branches that would compromise the fire break, and service/repair/restock the fire towers.  

 Back in the day the fire towers were manned, I mean, attended, 24/7; a lonely post looking over the canopy of trees for the tell-tale signs of fire.  Now there’s cameras and central monitoring to handle that, but during emergencies the towers may be attended, possibly for long stays, so they needed food stuff, cots, a working stove, heat, water, toiletries, ect.  

 This was a tough job that had to be done correctly.  I often had to do it alone, which was why I liked it.  

 Pink was just plain excited.  This was a test of all of her skills.  There was no back up.  If the half track broke down, we had to fix it.  If one of us was injured, the other had to be the doctor.  We would be alone and isolated for a couple days or more, depending on the weather.

 Although I didn’t show it, I was happy to have her along.

 With the half-track loaded with building materials, food, fuel, roof shingles, nails, screws, and a kitchen sink we needed to install, we headed out before the dawn and made it to Alpha Tower before daybreak.  It was an easy service, but the real work was ahead of us.

 The road was shit.  The fire break was put in seventy years ago and the wheel ruts were so deep you didn’t have to steer.  Even though the half-track crawled at a snails pace, we were tossed around in the cabin as if we were trying to break a bronco.  Our first obstacle, a fallen tree, was hung up against another fallen tree and dangled precariously over head. 

 Trees like these were the worst.  In case of fire, they could form a bridge allowing fire to spread across the break so they had to be removed.  But falling them, tangled in a web of branches, made them unpredictable, and many expert lumberjacks met their fate dealing with them.

 Which was why we called them, Widowmakers.

 Pink got her climbing spikes and went up a nearby tree and cast a line to the widowmaker.  Pulling the rope through, she then connected a cable and fed that along, dropping the end to me where I connected it to the half-track winch.

 Getting to a safe distance, we pulled it down, sawed it up, and shoved it off the road.

 Goes easy when you’re a team.

 It took six hours to make ten miles to Bravo Tower.

 We were tired, but Pink gave me her little smile and we pressed on.  Bouncing over the rough trail, we made it to Charlie Tower by sundown.

 The storm was approaching.

 We secured our gear, battened down the hatches, lit a fire in the wood stove, and readied to hunker down.  For privacy, we hung up a curtain.  To save on fuel for the backup generator, we used kerosene lanterns.

 I gave myself a quick sponge bath, then dressed and headed out to the observation deck, whiskey in hand.  From there, above the trees, I watched the quickening night approach with the bubbling clouds of heavy weather in its wake.

 We were in for a wild one.

 I felt the thunder rattle my bones.

 As I sipped my whiskey, I wondered what was keeping Pink, and I looked back.

 Through the observation window, glowing from the lantern light, I saw her laid out on the futon, like one of those fancy, French paintings.

 She was naked, and beautiful, her face flush with passion.  Her eyes were closed and her full lips were parted as if she was tasting something sweet.  Her nipples were bursting with passion as her fingers played over her body. 

 It took a moment for me to realize, as her fingers toyed with her body, Pink, to my surprise, was not born a girl.

Teaser:  For the whole 5,300 word story, plus many more fetish and erotic stories and art, please consider supporting us at,
https://subscribestar.adult/posts/1454229


Copyrighted, 9/2024 all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced in any format without previous written permission from the author.

[email protected]

The Gift of the Ball Thief

By DX

Copyrighted 4/2024, all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced in any format without the author’s permission.

 He watched her from across the street.

 She lived in a quaint, charming house in the middle of the block, like the candy and gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods that lured prey in.  Her front yard was a tiny maze of bursting roses, and every year the block association presented her with a certificate for most beautiful floral display.

 But she wasn’t a witch.

 She was the Ball Thief.

 Her real name was Candice Starling, and back in the day she was the focus of every boy’s wet dream.  Her hair was black as night, and her eyes as cool as winter.  She had strong, full lips permanently shaped in a bemused smile.  Her wholesome, fulsome breasts were magically light, and somehow bigger than her callipygous hips.

 She wore high heels, even when tending to her magnificent roses, and her tiny feet danced like giggling fairies.

 When the kids played in the street, eventually a badly thrown ball would smash into her roses, splinter their delicate limbs, and scatter petals everywhere.

 More often than not, a ball smashed her front window, or dented her screen door, or cracked the siding of her house.

 Even in her controlled, steaming vexation, she was alluring, and the kids would gather and stare as she chided them.  “You must learn to be mindful of other people’s things.”  She would always say.  “You may have your ball back when you return with a parent.”

 No parent ever came.  No ball was ever returned.

 Now, twenty years later, maybe twenty-five, he stood across the street and watched as she came out with coveralls clinging to her wonderful curves and picked apart a load of cinderblocks she had delivered to her driveway.  She hadn’t aged.  The few strands of grey only highlighted her hair.  Her cheeks deepened as her looks soaked in.  Her curves became more curvier, and she was still certainly the subject of every wet dream.

 His wet dream.

 He walked across the street, not because he wanted too, he could watch her haul cement blocks all day, but because he couldn’t look away and was quickly becoming a voyeur.

 She looked up as he approached her, and her steel blue eyes snatched his breath and stopped him from introducing himself.

 “William!”  She said with a breathy smile.  “How are you?”

 William was stunned to silence and only stammered before he regained his footing  “Miss Starling!  You remember me?”  He laughed breathlessly in surprise.  “After all these years.”

 “Of course, and please, call me Candice.  You were in my class in the eighth grade.”  She said knowingly.  “You were all about word problems.  You loved logic.”  Her smile deepened.  “I used to stay up and write them just for you.”

 “I’m honored, and flattered.”  He managed to say.

 “You were an excellent student.  One of my best.”  She pulled off her work gloves and shook his hand.  “How have you been?  You went to work for that big firm… United, something something.”

 He shook her hand and marveled at its softness.  “United Conglomerate Corpora.  Over twenty years now.”  His voice saddened.

 Her face showed his pain.  “Oh, I heard, they just…”

 He shrugged.  “Crumbled like a house of cards.”  His voice lowered.  “We had agreed to stock options instead of a retirement plan.”  He grunted.  “All gone now.”  He forced himself to smile with retuned energy.  “I have prospects, and many, many options.”  He said brightly, then motioned back across the street.  “I’m with Mom until the dust settles.  And she needs the help.”

 “Of course.”  Candice said sympathetically.  “You’re bright and skilled.  You’ll be okay.”

 He nodded.  “I saw you out here and I thought that a little manual labor would be good for me… get some blisters on my hands.”  He reached down and picked up a cinderblock, surprised at its ungainly weight.

 “Oh, no!”  She said, a little embarrassed.  “I can handle this.”

 “Please, let me.”  He said, smiling.  “Mom’s out, and I need something tangible to do.  Seriously, you’d be helping me out.”

 Her eyes were full on concern.  “Well, if you’re sure.”

 “I’m sure.”

 They hauled the blocks down her driveway into her backyard, a wonderland of flora and fauna.  There, they neatly stacked them to wait for her next project, a raised bed herb garden.

 When they finished, they retreated into her kitchen and had a proper visit over tea and cake.

 He returned the following day to help her build the raised bed.

 He returned often, sometimes a few times a week.  Sometimes to help, sometimes to just visit.

 “My boyfriend and I,” she delicately slipped into conversation that she was spoken for, “are going to the open air concert tonight.  Maybe you and your… girlfriend,” she winced slightly, “boyfriend?…would like to join us?”

 He dismissed the idea.  “It’s just me, right now.”  He said, trying not to be too much a downer.  “Three’s a crowd.”  He finished his tea then looked up.  “I just… I appreciate visiting you,”  He grinned.  “and I appreciate you putting up with me.”

 She touched his hands.  “I enjoy your visits!”  Her face brightened.  “I delight having someone to talk to in the afternoons.”  She looked over her tea ware.  “I have all these herbal teas I grow in the garden and I get to share them.  You would be amazed what grows back there.”  Her eyes searched his.  “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

 “I am.”  He assured her.

 As time went on he became a fixture at her table.  Sometimes she had friends over, and on more than one occasion she tried to introduce him to friends closer to his age, subtly playing the matchmaker.

 It never happened.

 Days and weeks, then months flittered on the calendar, until one day, as the fall leaves fell like snow, he went to visit.  She smiled like a spring morning when she saw him at the door.  

 “Come in!”  She ushered.  “There’s something I want to show you!”  She moved with the energy of bee, almost buzzing, as she sat him down in the kitchen in the chair where he usually sat.

 He watched her in askance as she retrieved four little jars from the shelf above the door.  They were glazed, earth-ware pottery about the size of a baseball, fat and stout, with proper fitting lids.  He had seen them a thousand times and paid them no mind, figuring they were the part of the wonderful, magical decorations she had throughout the house.  Seeing them up-close, he noticed the lids were wax sealed in place.

 She took her usual seat across from him.  She picked up one of the jars.  “I take a pottery course at the community college.”  She studied the jar, scrutinizing its invisible flaws.  “I made each of these.”  Her eyes flashed at him.  “They are very special.”  She set it down on the table for him to inspect.  “Each one contains a man’s testicles.”

 Her voice was like a saber, so keen it took seconds to bleed.  

 He said nothing as his mind tripped and fell and lay on the floor wondering what it could have tripped over.

 She went on, picking up the first jar.  “A man broke into my house.”  She said, almost speaking to the jar.  “He was going to hurt me.  He had duct tape, a gun… but I lucked out.  With my self defense training I got the upper hand and restrained him.”  

 She rolled the jar in her fingers before setting it down and picking up the second.  “This one is his brother.”  She snorted a laugh.  “His sister-in-law came to see me.”  She pushed forward the first jar.  “She figured out something had happened because her abusive husband had changed almost overnight and she put it all together.  She was also in my class, and smart like you.”  She pushed forward the second jar.  “So she introduced me to the sister in law.”  She shook her head sadly.  “Poor thing, looked like a prize fighter… he had beaten her so bad.”  She tapped the lid of the jar, brightening.  “He’s nicer now, and getting nicer by the day, or so I’m told.”

 She pushed forward the third jar.  “This one’s empty.  It’s sort of a place holder in my collection.  I found out about this guy through a series of friends of friends.  He was a human trafficker.  He forced girls into prostitution.  He was the first I used my special herbal remedies on.”  Her face hinted of pride as she thought.  “Grown in my garden and distilled in my basement, my little magic potion drugged him up so I was able to get a band on him.  It’s a very strong, very tight, rubber band that cuts off all the blood flow to the testicles.  After a couple hours the testicles are unsalvageable.  I stayed with him for several hours after to be sure.  My potion not only dopes him up, but it messes with his memory so he woke up with no idea what happened and a black ball sack with dead balls.”  She smiled gently.  “I hope he went to the ER.”  She nodded.  “I’m sure he did.”  She shrugged.  “Or maybe not.”

 She regarded him, watching for some reaction, but he only watched her numbly, unable to process what she was saying.  

 “This guy was a college.”  She pushed forward the last jar.  “I discovered he was…” She paused, thinking of a diplomatic term.  “behaving inappropriately with students.”  Her lip sneered with disgust as she set down the jar, unwilling to touch it any more than she had too.  “No need to be ribald.  Let’s not get caught in details, but to say the least, he doesn’t do that sort of thing anymore.”

 She sat back, and her eyes smiled at him as she presented her little collection.  “Do you remember what the kids used to call me back in the day?  The Ball Thief.”  Her hand fanned across the table.  “How prophetic.”

 He looked at the jars.  He felt a touch of delight that she trusted him enough to share her secret.  What she had done was illegal, albeit justified; but she trusted him enough to disclose her superhero secret identity.

 He nodded.  “Thank you for telling me.”  He finally said.

 She watched him for a moment, then slid forward and touched his hands.  “I have one more thing.”  She rose, and returned the jars to the shelf.  She then opened a cupboard and retrieved a fifth jar.  “I made this last month.”  She set it before him.  “I wasn’t quite sure why I made it, or why I glazed it in these colors and pattern.”  She admired it.  “Sometimes art is that way.”  She looked up at him.  “I also think it’s my best work.”

 He smiled simply as he admired the squat, little jar.  “Yes, I think so.”  He noticed the lid had not been sealed in wax.  He looked at her curiously, then slowly lifted the lid.

 It was empty.

 “I think I know why I made this now.”  She said warmly, and held his hands as they held the jar.  “I made it for you.”

Teaser.  If you want to read the whole story, please consider supporting us al:
https://subscribestar.adult/posts/1246272

Copyrighted 4/2024, all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced in any format without the author’s permission.

[email protected]

Girl

By DX

Copyrighted 7/2015 11/2023

All rights reserved, Story may not be reproduced without written permission.

 When I was a boy, I dreamed of the day that I was twelve and my life would begin.  A twelve year old can climb high trees and build forts in the branches with a sign forbidding girls entry.  When I was twelve, I wanted to be fifteen so I could ride my bike anywhere my legs could peddle.  Libraries and ball fields would be open to me and then my life would begin.  When I was fifteen, I wanted to be twenty-one because then I would be a man.  I would change the oil in the car, curse, drink lite beer and find a wife to settle down with.  When I was twenty-one, my life would begin.

 When I was twenty-four it ended.  My wife, pretty and wild, turned into a psychopath and when our marriage collapsed into screaming fights she proved that she was a true harpy, befouling what she couldn't consume.  To say it was a messy divorce was a gross understatement.

 I had to abandon everything in my life and myself to be rid of her and I found shelter on the couch of my old college buddy.  He was a rampant, unrepentant homosexual who constantly cruised for tail and thought mine was a prize to be bagged, stuffed and mounted on the wall. 

 After my divorce, I sought identity and was willing to try anything.  Though I never thought of myself as gay, and even thought the act repulsive, I found myself watching my roommate parade around the tiny apartment naked, his cock flopping around like a miniature elephant’s trunk.  

 He saw me watching and stuck it in my face and demanded I suck him off.  I think he was more surprised than I was when I leaned forward and took him into my mouth.  I was clumsy, but he gently coached me and with a little work, I accomplished the goal.  

 I became his Boy and he my Man.  I would return to a simpler stage of my life.  I was his to play with.  My sexuality was none of his concern.  I was just his cum puppet, my mouth, my ass, my hands, served to his insatiable sexual habit.  When I wasn’t sucking him I was sucking his friends, both men and women.  

 I was the Boy.

 It was his impetuousness that made him one day to decide to ‘Nut’ me, castrate me, to show that it was all about his cock.

 And I was okay with it.  

 Yeah, divorce messed me up that much, but I was also into my new role as a servant, an object, with no obligations other than making my Man quiver.  I still didn’t consider myself gay and I felt uncomfortable kissing a guy, but I thought nothing of feeling his cock slide back across my tongue and the hot splash of cum flooding my mouth.

 He brought over a woman who I only knew as Helen, and after she milked my manhood for the last time, asked me if I still wanted to be a Boy.

 I said yes.

 She removed my cock and balls and moved my urethra down between my legs to make peeing easier.  I was then less than an eunuch.  I was an androgyny.  A sexless being.  A nullo.  I would be incapable of having an orgasm ever again.

 A Boy.

 And that was where my story ended, where my life began, or so I thought.

 Without the flow of testosterone I lost body hair.  I also lost bone density.  I was calmer, easier going and happy.  However as more testosterone drained from me, I became lethargic, to the point that I didn’t get out of bed for days if I didn’t have too.  I struggled with weight and soon didn’t care.  My Man would come home and I would only roll over and offer him my ass.  It was easier.  I didn’t like anal as it made me sore but getting him off was too much effort.  There had been something in the act of taking my Man in my hands, my mouth, making him squirm, controlling his sex, his orgasm, that gave me a thrill.  It was the paradox of submission.  I was in control.    

 And depression set in.

 I didn’t regret becoming a Boy and I didn’t long for my manhood back, in fact it was just the opposite, but I just had no will to function as a person, as a Boy, as anything.  

 I was nothing.  A blob.

 I finally went to a doctor, mumbling a lie that I had picked up a parasite in South America and there was a botched surgery that took my genitals to explain my current state.  To my surprise he believed it, or didn’t care enough to try to see through it.  He just prescribed the logical cure.

 Testosterone.

 Being off it for so long it hit me like a storm and I suddenly became a wild animal.  I wanted to hump everything, anything.  I became aggressive, even scaring my Man when I tied him down and fisted his ass up to my elbow.

 I hated how I felt.  I was now a bad Boy, a juvenile.  I was angry and grinding my teeth, pacing, argumentative and quick to sparks of anger. 

 Worst of all, I was outrageously horny.

 My Man gave me a prostate toy and I tried using that to get off, but Helen had been thorough, and it only left me hornier and frustrated.  It was an inner torment I had not expected, but it did give me back my energy.  On steak and blow job day, I sat him down with a porterhouse and while he dined I was under the table, licking and going down on his cock, working it until he shuddered, his legs twitching, and I savored the distinct taste of his cum on the back of my tongue, a unique buttery liquorish.  I left him there, twitching, pooling into goo while I took another steak down to our landlord.  He’s a sixty something year old widower, and like me, didn’t think of himself as homosexual, but after forty years of marriage he found himself alone.  He enjoyed the company I brought him.  He also gave us an extension on the rent and sometimes even skipped a month.  I fed him his steak, then lay him out on the couch as he likes.  There, I undress him, cover his eyes with a cloth, then press my hand against his stirring cock, gently sliding my fingers across until he’s hard.  I put on some music, taking my time, just sliding two fingers up and down his shaft until his pre-seminal fluid begins to flow and then use that to get him slick.  When he begins to twitch, I lean forward and suckle him.

 I was back to being a Boy again, but I had to struggle with my dark half, my juvenile delinquent part.  The testosterone made me snippy and confrontational and I partially blame it for the next change in my life.

 My Man and I had a spat.

 “Fuck you, you fucking faggot!”  He shouted at me.  He frequently said that but this time he was really pissed.  “You are not going to tell me who I can fuck!”

 That was the argument.  We’re were not monogamous, I didn’t expect him to be, but we still had to be careful in a world full of dangers, and with his impetuousness it was quickly becoming a concern.

 “I’m not telling you who to fuck.”  I said gently through terse lips.  “I’m just asking,”  I stressed the word, ‘asking’.  “for you not to fuck two people out of everyone on the planet.  George and Hilderbrand.”  

 George was an addict and sucked people in the subway bathrooms for crack.  I was sure he was carrying some disease.  Hilderbrand was a married man who came down to the island a few nights out of the year and lets out his gay side.  He has herpes but claims he would never have sex during a breakout.  I know that he would never pass up the chance to have sex, break out or not.

 My Man was furious.  “Fuck you, Boy.  I’m not calling you to get your permission when I want to fuck.  I tell you who to fuck!”

 “I’m just asking you to be considerate.”  I was getting heated, raising my voice.  “It’s just a suggestion.  I don’t want you to bring home something they can’t cure.”

 “Fuck your suggestion!  You ain’t telling me shit.”  He screamed, grabbing his jacket.  “I’m the Man!  I do what I want!” 

 I saw the event spiraling out of control.  I was pissed, he was pissed, so I did the Boy thing and relented.  “Okay, I’m sorry, I was wrong.  Please, don’t go out mad.  Stay home and fuck my ass, okay?”  But he was beyond listening and heading for the door.  “At least don’t go and suck off George because you’re pissed at me!”  

 He slammed the door rattling the china.  

 I slumped to the floor and cried like a little boy.  Tears and snot rolled down my chin as I whinned and sobbed, the whole deal.  I knew he was going to find George and I was furious.  It was his nature, but it was not only self-destructive, it would destroy me too.  

 As my tears dried, I decided that if he didn’t care enough about me then he could go fuck himself.  I packed up my few possessions and brought them to the basement for storage.  Then armed with my suit-bag and knap sack I headed out.  My landlord knew of a room for rent not far from where I worked and he called over there for me to set up a same day interview.

 It was a beautiful Victorian house and the room in question had its own entrance.  It was a quaint apartment with its own kitchen and bathroom and a spiral stair that lead up to a bedroom.  Excited, I headed over and met with the owner in the driveway.  

 She was a handsome woman with tits that I thought were party balloons under her sweatshirt and my testosterone driven system would not let me look elsewhere.  She had beguiling eyes that twinkled with mirth at my lapdog attention to her endowment.  She turned to point something out, inadvertently brushing herself against me as she did.  “Pardon, me.”  She purred and I swear I nearly had a spontaneous nose bleed.

 As she was showing me around, I detected the distinct odor of latex each time she came close, which she saw to it was often.  I mentioned it and she played it off that it was the clinic she ran out of the basement of the house.  She called it the wellness center and asked if I had a latex allergy.  I told her not at all.  She then nodded, smiled and pulled off her sweatshirt.  

 I could not take my eyes off of her amazing breasts, giggling to one another beneath white latex.  She wore a rubber corset that clenched her flat stomach and gave lift to her wonderful boobs.  It was then I gasped, “I’ll take the room.”  We didn’t even haggle over the rent.

 She led me downstairs to her clinic and I marveled at the equipment.  It was a state certified colonic irrigation center with automatic cleansing machines.  She had just finished an appointment when I came over.  “Some of my customers like a little, costume play.”  She giggled.  “As do I.” She said draping a white sheet across the exam table.  “Have you heard about the benefits of a colonic?”  She turned and handed me a brochure.  “We have some homeopathic recipes that are quite rejuvenating.”

 As I took note of the brochure, she was turning equipment on.  She then patted the table.  “You can get undressed behind the curtain and put on a bathrobe.”  She read my sudden apprehension and gave a sly smile.  “If you’re going to live here, you should know what goes on here.  The first cleansing is on the house.”

 I stammered, never having to explain my situation before.  “You should know that I made a, uh, life choice.”

 “It’s just an enema.”  She winked, “It’s good for you.”

 “I know, it’s just that, well, you’ll see.”  I disrobed right there.  “You see, I’m, well, it’s complicated, but let’s say, I’m a Boy.”

 Her brows rose in surprise.  “Wow,”  She whispered softly.  “That is interesting.”  She patted the table.  “Tell me all about it.”

 I told her my story as my bowels flooded with her special brew.  After my irrigation I felt amazingly good.  She took me upstairs for a bit of tea and I returned her kindness.  She preferred being fingered while her massive teats were suckled.  She screamed like a banshee as she came.

 I didn’t know it then, but she was to be my Aunt, and my life was to begin again.

Teaser: for the whole story, consider supporting us at, 
https://subscribestar.adult/posts/1075256