BOYS DON'T QUEEF

Story by Bec De Corbin

BOYS DON’T QUEEF: Part One of Four

By Bec De Corbin

Author’s note: this story dates back many years and earlier, rougher versions are out there on other sites.

While not a futa story, one character features clitoral hypertrophy. I don’t state the character’s exact ages, but infer what you will from various clues. This is the shortest chapter and has undergone extensive reformatting.

If you despise non-linear narrative, read no further.

With a flash of piss-colored peepers, the grungy tomboy met my gaze.

My turgid cock cast a long shadow over her face like the style of a sundial. She had to look past it as she settled on her leather-clad knees in the short grass.

Angrily ordering me to keep my "faggit" hands off her shoulders, the tomboy gave me a squeeze in the balls to show she meant no bullshit.

I wondered if she had some herself, because her hasty clutch did more to read adjust my swelling nuts than to pain them.

Sometimes, all the complication of life fall away into simple moments just like this.

This was my sexual introduction to the infamous Lulubelle L’Esperance—-the last decadent offspring of an otherwise worthy lineage of daring ladies.

Keeping her slightly-cleaner left hand on my thigh as a

reminder as well as a brace, she loosened up her scar-crossed right hand and began playing with the 13 inches of cock that had only felt the heat of her gaggy breath and the wetness of her rancid spit.

Being blown by a tomboy coupled with the fear of being seen as a pair of men compounded with broad daylight and the possibility that a passing Red-Blooded American trucker would see us and veer from the road to grind some "pre-verts" to death under his rig had been an initial obstacle to getting up the blue-steel erection I needed.

I wasn't really into outdoor sex, and I never had been. Even poolside feel-ups and midnight fornication with my favorite divorced housewife in her heated pool with the lights out always brought with it the terror some jerk with a telescope or telephoto lens would catch us in the act.

A little used roadside clearing without so much as shade or screening shrubs to mask us from the infrequent passing truck was what Lulubelle had insisted on. With her scuffed leather biking garb and the body beneath it stinking of motor oil, beer, sweat and she-funk, she got in close.

Somewhere on the road, a truck sounded its horn in a double blast that echoed over the trees.

None of this registered on Lulubelle who shifted her grip on my pulsing shaft as though the out-thrust organ was just another of the cylindrical objects she throttled in her grimy fist in the course of a day--the grips of her motorcycle handlebars, a beer can, the hilt of her boot knife, her socket-wrench and its fittings, and the tightly-rolled road-atlas she'd

clubbed me with an hour or so before.

Regarding my huge prick with a mixture of envy, lust, bewilderment, animosity and probably another helping of envy just for good measure, she swiveled my cock experimentally, spreading the cum-slit wide open like a miniature vagina--a sight I figured she was familiar with.

She humphed in appraisal. The glans was already glossy with her chewing-tobacco spit and she expectorated another glob to wet it down.

I know when a chick is stalling for time, building up courage to put her mouth on me, and the tomboy was no exception. I don't know if it was the size alone that bothered her. Maybe it didn't look like her daddy's cherry-popper. She worked her mouthparts like a snake unhinging its jaw.

Opening her mouth wide to display stained choppers, Lulubelle rolled out the pink welcome mat of her abusive tongue and finally let my purpling dome drop heavily into the grainy trough with a splat.

Eschewing cosmetics save for a poorly-chosen dye-job in her frizzy hair, the rough semi-femme had nothing store-bought to come between her flesh and mine.

Lips only slightly richer in color than her chin surged and puckered in almost-kisses on my glans.

Lulubelle had both blacks and whites in her lineage, but it was impossible for me to figure out the dynamics of the blend. Hazel the point of looking amber, her eyes were her most distinctive facial feature.

I would discover her true anatomical claim to fame later.

She drew back a little to purse her lips and gather a huge bead of pre-cum on her "embouchure" like setting a golf ball on a tee.

The amber drop built and rounded in that cusp and then disappeared into the hole in the center with a squeak of suction. This tomboy was good as long as she could make sucking cock a telescoped version of eating pussy. The cold dread that I was feeding my schlong to a male diminished a little.

Just a little.

"D'zat feel nice, faggit?" The tomboy asked in a wet, thick voice, talking around the swollen d

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