The Photographer (futa on female)

Story by jokermon

Hello, and here's another original posted earlier this year on Subscribestar.

The Photographer

A Short Story by J.K. Ermon (jokermon)

This is a work of erotic fantasy fiction for the entertainment of adults only. It contains explicit futanari (hermaphrodite) content. If that’s not your thing, don’t read it. lf reading adult material is unlawful where you reside due to your age or whatever, don’t read it. Nothing in this story is real or meant to reflect actual people, events or real-life medical conditions. All characters in sexual situations are over the age of 18 even if it seems otherwise for dramatic or narrative purposes. Please enjoy this story responsibly and do not repost without permission. This story is copyright the author©2025

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“So.” The beautiful woman said, “You’re not going to pay me?”

“It’s not that kind of photography,” Dee-Anne Arbuckle said patiently. “It’s for showings at galleries, not sausage mags.”

“That’s a neat loophole,” the woman said drily. She plucked at the terrycloth belt of her bathrobe.

They were in the backstage area of a sausage joint. The show was over. Dee-Anne had waited outside in her darkened car until all the men left before sneaking inside. She’d tiptoed past the owner’s office while he was busy counting the night’s earnings.

“It’s not a loophole,” she said evenly. “It’s art. But if you’re not willing, I won’t press you.”

The photographer’s pixyish appearance belied her serious, almost solemn manner. She was thirty-six years old but looked at least ten years younger. Her brown hair was cut boyishly short and forever tousled. Her most striking feature was her mouth; it wasn’t wide, but had very full and sensuous lips. Its natural expression was a thoughtful pucker. She always looked like she was going to kiss someone or start whistling.

“Hold your horses,” the woman said. “I’m willing. I’m just not willing to go unpaid.”

Dee-Anne normally found it easy to talk to people, to get their trust. The trick was to not judge them. Most people would bend over backwards for you if they sensed you were hearing them out fairly and not dismissing them out of hand. The dismissed were her bread and butter.

In the case of the Hag-bred, the usual formula didn't work. They weren’t hostile or even unfriendly. They were just...obstinate.

She had never faced this kind of challenge before. Four years ago in 1955, when she started shooting seriously, she would roam the streets of New York and strike up conversations with interesting-looking people (of which there were no shortage in NYC). It never took much to talk them into posing for her. She would only photograph her subjects once they were comfortable with her, and only in places where they felt comfortable. It was how she captured such intimate and revealing portraits. She was especially proud of the photo essay of modern-day Romany gypsies that was just published in Harper’s Bazaar. The cheque from that score had financed her current expedition.

In the case of the Hag-born, finding them was hard enough for a Manhattanite with no roots or contacts in the Midwest. Never mind a female Manhattanite, in Missouri, no less. All of her friends back in New York, including her husband (and her lover) had told her it was a hopeless task.

Thus far, they seemed to be right. The Hag-born moved around a lot and were hardly ever in one place for more than one night. That gave her a very limited window to win over each woman.

And she couldn’t not think of them as women now, despite their patently offensive legal status as ‘physically corrupted females.’ Not after talking to so many of them. They were simply women. Women put in an impossible situation, dropped into the most demeaned underclass imaginable by a cosmic fluke. And yet, the more she spoke to them, the more she saw how they all had bounced back with remarkable aplomb. They were freakish and inspiring. They were the subjects she’d been looking for her entire life.

The problem was, she could only get fifteen minutes with each one, tops. The venue owners didn’t like her hanging around. Cameras made them nervous. On top of that, the Hag-born themselves were all, to a woman, unwilling to co-operate unless she paid them.

Dee-Anne knew it would be a simple matter to fork over five bucks to shoot a nudie roll. The problem was those photographs would be worthless to her. They would be opaque smut at best, toxic exploitation at worst. They would show nothing of the subject’s inner life. Every inch of their bodies would be exposed, but there would be no access.

Maybe this i

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