Broadpoles 1: The Shoemaker's Elves (futa on male, futa on futa)

Story by jokermon

Another formerly subscriber-only tale of Comet Seahag now shared with all you good people. Please enjoy.

Broadpoles 1: The Shoemaker's Elves

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

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 is copyright ©2025 J.K. Ermon.

~~~

Springfield Missouri, April 1, 1959

“Leo, we got another lawyer-letter.”

Hank McCutcheon walked into his Editor-in-Chief’s office waving an eight-by-ten typed page in the air. The room was a dim and Dickensian cubbyhole crowded with overfilled filing cabinets and only one tiny window near the ceiling. The wooden floor creaked. The furnishings, like the building itself, all looked at least a century old.

Leonard Templeton looked up scowling from a stack of photographic contact sheets. “What, they want money? They can get in line.”

Hank shook his head. “It’s a cease-and-desist order. From some outfit called,” - he checked the letterhead - “The Polish-American Anti-Defamation League of Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”

Leo looked blank. “What do they want us to cease and desist doing?”

His Managing Editor read from the page. “‘Any and all perpetuations of derogatory stereotypes against Americans of Polish extraction.’”

Leo looked even blanker. “How the fuck are we doing that?”

Hank scanned down the page and continued reading. “...in particular, the vile falsehood that the terrible scourge, Acquired Xenogenic Andromorphism, colloquially known as ‘Seahag Syndrome,’ disproportionately manifests in teenaged girls of Polish descent.”

Leo went beyond blank. His face and mind were a void. “That’s an actual stereotype? I never heard a that. Did we print that?”

Hank shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. Anyways, they claim our name reinforces that stereotype.”

“Our name? Broadpoles?”

As soon as he said it, Leo heard it.

He sat back hard in his squeaky office chair and leaned dangerously far back to stare at the ceiling. His hair was a black and bushy horseshoe encircling his bald head. His hairless dome shone under the overhead fluorescents. He gaped at the ceiling tiles. The infinite speckles were weirdly therapeutic.

“But that’s...that’s...” He sat up and glared at Hank. “They know we’re a sausage mag, right? Our name is a dickgirl innuendo. It has nothing to do with Polish people!”

Hank shrugged. “They claim our name is an insinuation that female Poles of a certain age are more likely to come up Hag-bred.” He glanced at the page. “They even suggest we change it to something less offensive, like Broadstakes or Broadposts or possibly Broadplungers.”

Leo’s gaze, which had wandered, suddenly snapped back to Hank.

“Hank,” he said slowly. “Are you fucking with me?”

“Could be, yeah,” Hank answered with a big grin. “April Fools.”

Leo’s eyes and mouth gaped. Hank burst out laughing. The office door (which had been previously closed to a mere crack) burst all the way open and a laughing crowd consisting of Broadpoles’secretarial pool, led by Leo’s secretary, Meryl Auerbach, burst in applauding. All the secretaries were wearing sporrans. The sporrans were not part of the joke; Broadpoles’ entire secretarial and custodial staff were Hag-bred.

“Oh, very funny,” said Leo, giving Hank a disgusted look. A smile spread across his face regardless. He harrumphed as Meryl flung her arms around his neck and gave him a big smacking kiss on the cheek.

“Sorry, Leo, it was all Meryl’s idea, honest.” Hank chuckled through his apology.

“Oh, traitor,” crowed Meryl. “Way to give me up there, Galahad.”

He shrugged. “I did tell you Broadplungers was a bridge too far. He got the gag the second I said it.”

“It was too hilarious not to use. Now,” she said as one of the secretaries handed her an empty eight-by-ten picture frame, “this is yours to keep.” Meryl put the bogus cease-and-desist letter in the frame and placed it on her boss’s desk. “So you can always remember to laugh at life’s little absurdities.”

Leo eyed it balefully. “As soon as you’re out of here, it goes in the trash. I won’t throw it out in front of you out of respect for your feelings.”

The secr

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