My Nursemaid (futa on female, interracial, futa on male)

Story by jokermon

Here's the newest story, and it's a doozy.

My Nursemaid

A Novella by J.K. Ermon (jokermon)

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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©2026 J.K. Ermon.

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(Editor’s note: First serialized in three parts in Femmestrüdel, issues #114, #115, #116, May, June and July 1957.)

1.

Like most upper-middle-class children born in 1930’s Arkansas, I was pretty much raised by our colored maid. Her name was Evangeline Waller and she was a stunning, big-bosomed woman with a dark mahogany complexion and a sweet personality. She started working for us when I was in fourth grade. I was a junior in high school before I discovered she was also Hag-bred.

Throughout my childhood and teens, I had a rocky relationship with my mother and we never reconciled until my college years. I’m glad we did. She told me that she and my father came close to firing Evangeline several times since she was simply “too damned attractive.” She was an incredibly hard worker, though, and an absolute sorceress in the kitchen. The meals she conjured were so delicious, and her manner so patently humble and inoffensive that my family couldn’t bear to part with her. Not to mention our house was so clean it sparkled.

I grew up adoring the woman. I was a spindly, shy and sickly little girl; my time in public school was typified by frequent trips to the doctor and endless tests. After she came to work for us, however, I blossomed. Her warm encouragement gave me confidence and her sumptuous cooking gave me Junoesque curves. I became healthy and robust. A little too robust; my tiny-titted mother was aghast as we bought new bras for me in ever-increasing sizes right up until I left for college. Evangeline (or Vangie as I called her) was just pleased as punch.

“Girl with breasts like these,” she once told me, giving one of my triple D-cup bazooms a playful squeeze, “never want for a husband.”

I would always glow whenever she goosed me like that. Vangie had a bawdy side that she only ever shared with me. It was our special secret. Her occasional naughty touches—and the approval they signified—meant the world to me.

She had a positive impact on Momma and Daddy as well. Before her, my mother was always of a nervous and prickly bent, my father distant and tight-lipped. Vangie brought them out of their shells. While they never became as warm and touchy-feely as her, over the years they both relaxed considerably. When I was a sophomore in high school, I stumbled upon my parents making out in the garage. I was shocked and tickled. I couldn’t imagine them carrying on like that when I was younger.

I had no brothers or sisters. My birth was difficult and Momma couldn’t have any more babies after that. I always wondered if that was why she resented me so much.

When I was in high school, Momma prohibited me from dating until the spring of my junior year. I wasn’t happy about that, but Vangie told me I had to abide by my mother’s wishes. The second I was old enough, Vangie announced it was time for what she called an Important Talk.

It happened on a Saturday afternoon. My parents were away at their country club for a round of golf followed by a testimonial dinner. They wouldn’t be back until late.

It was an unseasonably hot spring day and I was swimming laps in our backyard inground pool. I was taking the opportunity to wear the scandalous little two-piece bikini that Momma didn’t know I owned. Vangie helped pick it out for me at Campbell-Bell’s. I modeled it for her after we got home, and the way her eyes lit up made me happy all the way down to my toes.

My beautiful nursemaid was sitting poolside at a patio table in the shade of its umbrella, playing Lifeguard in her much more modest old-fashioned black-and-white maid’s uniform. She had high, imperious cheekbones and the jawline of a movie star. I liked the way she studied me swimming back and forth. She had a way of looking at me that made me feel admired and beautiful.

“Come on, Vangie, swim with me,” I wheedled from the water. I would have g

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