The Autograph (futa-male)(first-time)

Story by jokermon

This one went up on SS a month and a half back. It's time for its FP debut.

The Autograph

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

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©2015 J.K. Ermon.

~~~

Evansville, Indiana, 1963

Jimmy Carmichael stood at the back door of Redd Rooster’s in his stolen busboy uniform. It was a warm May night, and his heart was beating faster than when he ran the 100-yard dash at the intermural track meet the previous day. He’d come in third, which was damn good for a sophomore. He was small for his age, but wiry.

He checked his watch. 11:30PM. Finally. The last of the lookie-loos at this dive bar’s secret backroom show would have left by now.

He tucked a stubborn blonde forelock under his paper busboy’s cap, squared his shoulders and ambled in like he had every right to be there. He kept his head down as he strode through the cacophony of the kitchen. His eyes were big and blue and embarrassingly pretty with long, girlish lashes. They would give him away faster than his five-foot-four height. He kept them aimed at the floor. Jimmy came from a tall family and was overdue for a major growth spurt. Hopefully one that would also take away the angry crop of pimples on his cheeks.

No one noticed him. He picked up a tray and a washcloth lying on a counter. He figured if he looked busy, no one would question that he belonged there. With his cover thus fortified, he walked into the main area of the bar.

He was inundated with sultry swing music blasting from a crappy sound system. A pretty, buxom young woman in a bursting bikini was gyrating away on the stage. The sight brought Jimmy up short. Her breasts swung every which way as the sparse-but-noisy crowd yelled their support. She spurred his already-racing pulse a little faster. Jimmy felt the rush of an erection straining at the front of his pants and he was grateful for the concealment provided by his bulky, grease-spattered apron.

He refocused on his task. Gorgeous as she was, he wasn’t there to ogle a go-go dancer. Tray in hand and washcloth slung over his shoulder, Jimmy slipped down a discreet side corridor beside the stage. There was a door at the end of it, just like the newsletter said. It was guarded by a bouncer with a cashbox on a small table.

The door had the head of a horny cartoon rooster painted on it, with a comically flapping tongue and popping eyes, framed by a diamond ring. The same mascot appeared the big sign out in front of Redd Rooster’s. This also matched Jimmy’s information.

Pitching his voice as deeply as he could while keeping his face averted, Jimmy muttered “I’m supposed to clean up the back room.”

The bouncer rumbled, “Howie’s already in there.”

His heart skipped a beat, but then he swallowed and nodded. “I’m supposed to help. Big mess, they said.”

The big man chuckled. “You ain’t kiddin’. Alright, go ’head.”

The bouncer drew back the bolt and opened the door.

It revealed a flight of steps, which Jimmy promptly descended. He heard the door close and the bolt click behind him.

There was a doorless archway at the bottom. It opened to a smaller performance area, maybe a quarter the size of the main room. It was circular, as was the stage, and the walls were all painted a garish and somewhat dingy pink. Three round tables ringed the small stage and the bar was little more than a lemonade stand with a beer keg.

Jimmy went in, acutely conscious that he’d gotten further into this establishment than anyone in the history of his school.

Senior boys often tried to brazen their way into Redd Rooster’s. They usually failed. It was a place where men were allowed and boys weren’t, which meant all the boys under the legal drinking age of twenty-one were dying to get in there. To them, it was a place of secrets, a grotto of sacred masculinity.

As an inner sanctum, the place looked somewhat unremarkable until Jimmy noticed the battery of stage lights. They were off and the room was lit by plain overheads. The show was over. He imagined when the house lights were down and the stage lights up, it was a different story.

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