Fishing Trip (futa-male)

Story by jokermon

Posted this one this summer on Subscribestar. It's time for it to live here, too.

Fishing Trip

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.

~~~

Going camping by oneself is a pitiful thing, Rick Adler thought sadly.

He killed the ignition on his pickup truck and surveyed the idyllic grassy shoreline with its little beach. This remote inlet of the Lake of the Ozarks was indisputably beautiful, but he couldn’t shake the glum knowledge that he’d been ditched. Four of his supposed best friends had agreed to come along on this camping-slash-fishing trip, only to back out at the last minute. They’d been spooked by the killer late August heat wave predicted by the local weathermen. They were unwilling to vacation without central AC.

Serves me right for only socializing with other electricians, he thought. Oh well. Their loss. More fish for me.

He climbed out of the cab, a short, squat, broad-shouldered brown-bearded bear cub of a man, and began unloading his gear. It had been a six-hour drive from Champaign, Illinois and it was already late afternoon. The weathermen hadn’t been wrong; it was a real scorcher. Rick found himself mopping his brow repeatedly as the tent took shape and the hibachi filled with charcoal briquettes.

He took a moment to stretch and wince. His body was still unhappy about the long drive. He heard a twig snap in the trees and looked over. There was nobody there.

He had an uneasy moment. He recalled a movie his so-called friends had taken him to see a few years back called Deliverance. It was about some city guys on a canoe trip encountering some buggery-prone hillbillies. The Ozarks weren’t Appalachian Georgia, but still.

A deer walked out of the woods.

Rick froze. It was a doe and she looked at him with beautiful brown eyes like molten chocolate. Her tan, white-speckled coat was lovely and healthy.

Camera, he thought. Glove box. Can I—?

Rick took one slow step towards his pickup and the deer bolted. She disappeared like a magic trick. He heard more twigs breaking under her dainty black hooves, and then even that trace of her was gone.

“Shit,” he breathed. Wow. That was something.

His stiff back and brief gloom forgotten, Rick resumed unpacking and setting up his one-man campground. His default irrepressible cheerfulness had fully returned once he’d secured his fishing pole and tackle box.

Solo act or no, he intended to have a good time. He was in a great out-of-the-way spot with no idiot powerboaters, a proven fishing hole and an ice chest packed with beers that he had all to himself. If the fish stopped biting, he had an engaging paperback to read (The Betsy by Harold Robbins) and at night, if he got lonely, he’d brought his latest copy of Playboy upon which to feast his eyes. It was the July 1976 Happy Birthday America issue.

It was Thursday; he’d cleared his schedule and gotten a head start on what was shaping up to be a fantastic Labor Day weekend.

~~~

Friday morning, he was up at the first red splinter of dawn with a steel coffee pot brewing on the camp stove. By the time the sun cleared the horizon, he was out on the water with his line down. Less than an hour later he was rowing back to shore to slap four eighteen-inch spotted bass on the hibachi for a proper fisherman’s breakfast.

Yessir, he thought as he brought out the lemon and tabasco. Gonna be a damn fine weekend.

Those four spotted bass were the only fish he caught that entire trip.

~~~

By two thirty PM, when he hadn’t had so much as a nibble, he took a break. He went swimming, slathered his pale, hairy body with suntan oil and laid out naked while reading his book and put a serious dent in his beer supply.

A few hours later, after tending to all his mosquito bites and getting dressed again, he grilled up a couple cheeseburgers and washed them down

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