Broadpoles 2: Christmas in May (futa-male)

Story by jokermon

This was this year's Christmas offering on my subscribestar. Just in time for Groundhog Day (sorta), here's the latest installment in the Broadpoles saga. Enjoy.

Broadpoles 2: Christmas in May

A Novella by J.K. Ermon (jokermon)

http://subscribestar.adult/j-k-ermon

DISCLAIMER: 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.

~~~

“Alistair, are you familiar with the term ‘sourdough?’”

The graying mustachioed man in ivy league tweeds looked mystified. He sat back in the Victorian wingback facing his bosses’ desk.

“You mean as it applies to Southwestern cooking?” he asked.

“I mean,” replied Leo Templeton, his editor-in-chief, “as it applies to people. Specifically, a person who’s grown sour on living somewhere, but doesn’t have the dough to move away.”

Alistair looked perplexed.

Leo leaned forward over his desk. “You’ve become something of a sourdough around here, Alistair, and it needs to stop.”

Alistair stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

Leo sighed. “I’m not trying to be offensive. I’m just trying to address a problem. And there is a problem. You work for a sausage magazine.”

He pointed to a framed blow-up of their inaugural issue hanging in a place of honor on the wall. It proudly proclaimed the magazine’s name – Broadpoles. Below that, smaller print read: Issue 1, Volume 1, May 1947. The cover girl was a pixie-cut blonde with bright blue eyes and a gleeful grin. The tag line read: Take Dicksey Gurley for a Whirly!

“Our magazine,” Leo said, “is exactly twelve years old this month. I’m proud of that. We have prospered where others have floundered. And we did it without ever once compromising our quality.”

Alistair snorted.

“There,” said Leo, pointing. “That. We are a sausage magazine Alistair, and you have nothing but contempt for the entire industry. Including dickgirls themselves. And that’s a problem when you work alongside them.”

The older man stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. I went by your office and found a bunch of these on Sue’s desk.”

He opened a drawer and dropped a handful of tiny notes on his desk. He picked one at random.

“She will type up these notes,” he read. He picked up another. “She will fetch my usual lunch from Morganstern’s Deli.” He picked another. “Oh, this one’s my favorite: she will only address me when absolutely necessary and refrain from eye contact.” He dropped it and indicated the whole pile with a sweep of his hand. “What the hell is wrong with you, Laramie? Why won’t you talk to your secretary?”

“I wasn’t aware that was a...job requirement,” he said stiffly.

“Oh, don’t be thick,” Leo said in a disgusted voice. “Sue’s a great girl. Why is it so difficult for you to treat her like a human being?”

“She isn’t.” Alistair said.

There was a brief pause.

“I’m...sorry?” asked Leo.

“A human being. She isn’t one. She’s Hag-bred.”

Leo sat back and stared at him for several long moments.

“Alistair,” he said at length, “you’re...referring to dickgirls’ legal status?”

Alistair nodded.

Leo cleared his throat. “Are you happy with us here, Alistair? At Broadpoles?”

“I am more than capable of performing my duties as Art Director of this publication-”

“That isn’t what I asked,” interrupted Leo. “I asked if you’re happy here.”

“I’m sure you’re aware of my financial situation,” Alistair said evenly. “I need this job, and I can perform it at the highest levels of professionalism. My happiness is irrelevant.”

Leo steepled his fingers. “What have you got against dickgirls, Alistair?”

“Nothing.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I have no personal grudge or vendetta against them. I simply find their presence here in the office unnecessary and unpleasant.”

“Why?”

“Why?” He was momentarily speechless. Then the dam burst.

“Because, Leonard, these are women whose bodies have been corrupted by an interplanetary pestilence! It has turned them, en masse, into a subclass of sluts and harlots with abnormal physiology. And all of you seem to think it’s a giggle. This...magazine that yo

... more on the forums ...