She Shoots, He Scores (futa/male, futa/female, incest)

Story by jokermon

In honor of the 2019 Stanley Cup playoffs, here's one with a hockey backdrop. Enjoy!

She Shoots, He Scores!

A short story by J.K. Ermon (jokermon)

This is a work of erotic fantasy fiction for the entertainment of adults only. It features 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. Everything in this story is imaginary and nothing in it is intended to represent actual people, events or medical conditions. All characters in sexual situations are over the age of eighteen, even if it seems otherwise for dramatic or narrative purposes. This is story is copyright©2015 the author. Do not repost without permission.

~~~

In 1978 I left home to play hockey full-time in the minors.

I got scouted by some triple-A team I’d never heard of from up in Pennsylvania during my Senior year in high school. It was a lottery-winning break — a chance to play semi-pro in a state with two major franchises and their farm teams.

I grabbed the opportunity with both hands. I stuffed my gear onto the next northbound Greyhound and said goodbye to West Virginia with a middle finger pressed to the chilly, condensation-streaked bus window as we crossed the state line. It was my first time out-of-state. I hoped to never return.

My destination was Westfarthing, Pennsylvania, a boondock cornfield community in the northwestern part of the Commonwealth. I was to play for the Westfarthing Corsairs. As was their practice, the team billeted me with a local family for the season and that experience, as much as my first season playing real hockey, changed my life.

The billeting system in the triple-As meant players lived with locals who volunteered room and board. I don’t know how it is today, but back in the seventies that meant the billeted players became unpaid yard boys and handymen. We didn’t care. We were young and starry-eyed with dreams of the big leagues. We were happy to pay our dues. All of us came from places where sports, scholarships or the military were the only legal tickets out. We were the fortunate few, and we knew it.

In my case, I traded one small town for another. Westfarthing wasn’t that different from Testament, West Virginia, the raw-knuckled mining town that birthed me. I was there to play hockey, however, and by God that made all the difference in the world. In Testament, boys had predetermined fates: the coal mine or the family farm. I didn’t think I was any better than the endless ranks of Testament boys before me who stoically accepted their fates, but I knew I had a shot at something different.

I became someone else when I strapped on the pads and tied on the skates. I became confident and capable. I was fast on the ice, damn fast, and had a light, quick stick that could accurately snipe the corners of the net in a split second. I had excellent rink radar, meaning I could predict where players would be around me and make effective passes without looking. It was exhilarating to be good at something. I needed to see how far it could take me.

In rural Pennsylvania’s poorly-lit and barely-up-to-code community arenas, I had my first chance to play against kids who were just as talented and hungry as me. Only the best of us would be tapped to advance to the farm teams. Only the best of those would join The Show: the National Hockey League, the top tier of North American professional hockey. This was our first step on that path.

~~~

I was billeted with the Holts, a young widow and her teenage daughter. They lived in an ancient farmhouse a half-hour’s drive from nowhere. The girl’s name was Diane. She was a pretty blue-eyed blonde in pigtails who favored oversized old-fashioned country dresses with lots of frills. The mother, Marilyn, was a fuller-figured version of the daughter. She favored ass-hugging bell-bottomed jeans and tied-off plaid shirts.

They may have looked alike, but they were very different people. Marilyn was cheerful and garrulous, while Diane was snooty. As I was carrying my stuff into their spare room, Diane accidentally caught sight of me stashing my girlie mags. Her eyes popped. It was just a bunch of Penthouse and Playboy magazines (no Hungbunnys or Boobfürters—that Hag-bred stuff grossed me out), but I guess it was enough to soil her good opinion of me. She acted like I was beneath her notice after that.

Later, when I tried to break the ice and ask where she went to school, she replied with a disdainful toss of her head that she didn’t go to high school

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