Nun of Your Business (male on futa)

Story by jokermon

Hello friends. This was up on SS over the summer, more than due for sharing here.

Nun of Your Business

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

This is work of erotic fantasy fiction for the entertainment of adults only. Everything in this story is fictitious 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, don’t read it. If it is unlawful for you to read adult material in accordance with your local laws, don’t read it. All characters in sexual situations are over the age of eighteen (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©2025 J.K. Ermon.

~~~

When the nun sat down beside him at St. Agatha’s, Hank Dunn almost killed her.

She was unnaturally quiet. He hadn’t heard her approach and her sudden appearance tripped his fight-or-flight. His survival instincts had been sharpened to murderous brightness after twelve months in the Vietnamese highlands and he still hadn’t entirely figured out how to switch them off. His hands knotted into fists (nearly breaking the neck of his guitar) and he barely held back a lethal windpipe-chop.

The nun smiled at him pleasantly. She seemed to have no idea how close to death she’d come. Dunn drew a deep breath.

“Where did you come from?” he asked, amazed at how mild his voice sounded.

“Oh, I just got here,” she replied.

She had fire-engine red nail polish. That was the first odd thing Dunn noticed about her. Her hands were clasped prayerfully and her nails immediately caught his attention. It was always like this – adrenaline made him hyper-alert and the little details leapt out at him. Her nails were glossy, perfectly manicured and red as sin.

The second thing he noticed was that she was beautiful. As in, silver screen beautiful. She had a heart-shaped face with cheekbones that made him think of Grace Kelly and Kim Novak. Her wimple didn’t quite cover the blonde dip of her widow’s peak. Her eyes were steely blue. Her full, smiling lips put a hollow of excitement in the pit of his belly.

Lipstick? Is she—that’s not right...

She was wearing an old-fashioned nun’s habit that Dunn had never seen outside of The Sound of Music. She also had a large and ostentatious gold cross that hung down below her modest bustline. That was the next odd thing.

That can’t be, he thought in ever-mounting confusion. Aren’t the vows Chastity, Poverty and Obedience? That cross is like something a pimp would wear.

There was no Mass in progress. The church was empty when he came in with his guitar case and army duffel at four o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. The St. Agatha-of-Sicily Catholic church loomed over the huddle of single-story buildings that made up this godforsaken Kansas corntown, just down the street from the Greyhound station where the bus taking him to Los Angeles was being repaired.

He’d been told it would take two hours. He’d gone to what looked like the most quiet and cool place available – St. Agatha’s – away from the heat and bustle of the station. In 1968, central AC was a long way from being ubiquitous and the station was a pressure cooker filled with passengers ready to boil over.

The big church doors were unlocked. He’d parked himself on a pew halfway down to the pulpit, taken out his Silvertone acoustic and began picking away at a song he was writing.

He found he needed time with his music after he came back to the world. Like a lot of guys he knew, Dunn had problems adjusting to civilian life after his tour. However, he found if he could just get a few hours alone with his guitar every week, he was, for the most part, just fine, Jack.

Right now, though, he was not fine. He was twenty hours into a two-and-a-half-day cross-country voyage and his nerves hadn’t been this frayed since he was in country. He found it difficult to catch a nap on a bus, never mind actual sleep. He was tired and on edge. The insidious suspicion that he was on a fool’s errand gnawed at him.

He was a twenty-one-year-old combat veteran desperately out-of-place in his own country. He was also a musician and a wannabe songwriter with an uncertain future and a year-and-a-half hole in his life that he’d rather forget.

He’d stayed in touch with his band the whole time he was over there. They’d swapped letters almost every week. Terry and the guys were supposedly doing okay out in L.A., gigging around and building a name on the strength of the songs Dunn wrote with them back in Buffalo. The scene out there was exploding; bands were taking rock music in wild new directions. Terry's excitement

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