Roommates

Roommates

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

This is a work of erotic fantasy fiction presented for the entertainment of adults only. It is purely imaginary and nothing in it represents any real-life people, events or medical conditions. If reading this kind of material is unlawful where you reside due to your age or whatever, don't read it. This story contains explicit futanari (hermaphrodite) content, and if that's not your thing, don't read it. Not to be reposted anywhere without the author's express permission. This story is copyright ©2004 the author.

~~~

1.

Lucille Kobaleski snapped off her electric shaver and brushed away the dust of shorn hairs from her pubis. She surveyed herself critically and decided her bikini line was perfect -- a tiny triangle of sparse black pubic hair surmounting her bare vulva's neatly folded split. She was gleaming smooth all around it, and the triangle looked as precise as if drawn with rulers. She allowed herself a small smile, and then pulled up her bikini bottoms. Not a single hair peeked out of place. Her bikini was sunny yellow and über-tiny. The top barely covered her nipples, the bottoms were like a triangular beer coaster in front, and the back was a G-string thong. She would never in a million years wear something like this to a public beach; she had a more sensible (some would say stuffy) one-piece for that, but this was perfect for a little private sunbathing out on the roof of her house.

She tossed back her long, straight, inky-black hair and looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes were blue, her nose stubby, and her mouth small and ruminative. She was in great shape, all those crunches had paid off with a tight, smooth belly, but she still wished her hips were a little less naturally broad, and her bosom less conspicuous. What she wouldn't give to go down a size to a more discreet B cup.

She turned and looked at herself from the back. The string back disappeared completely between the projecting globes of her bum. She sighed. Jamoca Almond Fudge defeated her every time. She just couldn't seem to shake that pear shape.

She collected her sun block, sunglasses, beach towel, and paperback novel. She headed out onto the roof, where the blazing August sun waited to toast her peachy skin to a deep, buttery gold.

She rented a house in the inner city with four other young women. She was the only career girl of the bunch. The others were all students or artists working hourly-wage jobs. With one exception, she liked and got along well with all of them.

Lucille lived in the attic room, which had several perks. The third floor had its own bathroom and the storage room across the hall had a door that opened out onto the roof. Their house was the oldest and tallest on the block, so one could go out onto the roof and enjoy a great view of the city's skyline in total privacy...assuming the people in all those distant high-rises didn't have telescopes, of course.

Lucille spread out her towel, applied her sunscreen, and stretched out. She sighed, enjoying the warm caress of the sun. After a while, she turned onto her belly, and, after a furtive look around, undid the back of her bikini top.

She was dozing, pleasantly woozy with the heat, contemplating turning over again, when she heard one of her roommates come up the stairs. She recognized the tread.

Oh no

, she thought.

Not her

.

Chloe Dawson stepped out onto the roof. To Lucille's dismay, she was wearing a bikini that was every bit as miniscule as hers.

Chloe was at least forty pounds overweight. Her belly wasn't so bad, even though it tended to strain at the pants she wore, but her butt was a pair of mated beach balls. Her breasts were enormous, and once when Lucille pulled one of Chloe's bras out of the laundry by mistake, she counted a least 3 D's on the sizing label before hurriedly dropping it. Surprisingly, Chloe was quite pretty, with a cherubic, wide-mouthed face and great masses of curly blonde hair. Her eyes were big, sea green, and completely disarming.

The gaudy sunflower-print bikini she was wearing was so small, it seemed to disappear into her big body, and for a horrified instant Lucille thought she'd walked out naked. Her breasts swayed and her ass and thighs jiggled as she walked. Lucille could see blush of her areolas spreading out beyond the tiny cups of her top, and even a wisp or two of gingery pubic hair seeping out the sides of her bottoms. Lucille couldn't take her eyes off her, and felt a burning, angry flush that had nothing to do with the sun heat her face. She was glad she was wearing sunglasses. Chloe had a careless manner that set meticulous, controlled Lucille's teeth on edge.

"Hey roomie," said Chloe cheerfully.

"Hi Chloe," said Lucille. Chloe looked around, and Lucille quickly retied her top.

Chloe laid out her huge Tequila logo beach blanket and flopped out. Parts of her kept moving long after the rest of her was still.

"Damn," she said, "I forgot my sun block."

Lucille sighed silently.

Of course

. "Here, take some of mine."

"Thanks, you're a pal."

Lucille tried not to snort as she handed over the bottle. Chloe was great friends with the other girls in the house. Her easygoing way allowed her to bond with people in a way Lucille never could. Her lazy, relaxed style always grated on Lucille though, and no matter how hard she tried not to be bitchy and judgmental, she just couldn't help it. Chloe was forever forgetting to pick up after herself; she seemed to move through the house leaving a trail of debris in her wake. Lucille liked order. Chloe, from her sloppy ways to her overgenerous body, which always seemed caught in the process of bursting out of whatever she was wearing, seemed to be Disorder Incarnate.

She wasn't a bad roommate, really. She paid her share of the rent on time. She always did her share of the household chores, and did it happily, singing along with the blasting radio while the others always acted like they were serving out a sentence for the half-hour a week they had to spend cleaning. Even so, Chloe did her chores in such a ... lackadaisical way. It irritated her.

And she's a slut as well as a slob

, thought Lucille spitefully. Even if her manner

was

all perky and innocent. On nights when Chloe went out, Lucille never knew

what

she might find at the kitchen table the next morning. She'd seen different men of different ages, some old enough to be her father, some so young they looked like they'd need a signed permission form from their mothers to spend the night, all cheerfully buttering their toast with Chloe the mornings after. A few times, it had been women, and that had

really

floored Lucille. One of them, a dusky Goth girl with black-rimmed eyes, had batted her extended lashes flirtatiously at Lucille and she'd fled back up to the attic. Once, she had been astounded to find three young men, members of a college football team from the look of them, horsing around down there in their underwear. All the while Chloe sat there, sipping her morning coffee, sloppily spooning fruit loops into her mouth, and cheerily chatting as casual as could be.

The part that

really

bugged Lucille about Chloe's sex life was that Chloe's room was directly underneath hers. The old system of vents in the house gave Lucille an auditory front row seat for everything that went on in her bedroom. Every moan, groan, and graphic whisper came through loud and clear and it was really more than she wanted to hear.

There was

nothing

Chloe didn't do sexually, it seemed. Nasty wet noises from activities Lucille couldn't even identify crept up to Lucille's twitching ears every other night. It stirred her in ways she didn't want to be stirred. Even when Chloe was alone, a river of solo moans and grunts drifted up into Lucille's room, often until very late in the evening. It was like she couldn't stop masturbating. The woman was a sex maniac.

Lucille would eavesdrop while her emotions bubbled in a volatile mixture of anger, repelled fascination, and jealousy. It would always take ages for her to get to sleep after overhearing one of Chloe's sessions.

"Mind if I go topless?" Chloe was squinting over at her, smiling. It was a rhetorical question. She was already pulling the strings of her top open at the back.

"Uh ... sure, go ahead."

Her top dropped away and her breasts fell with a shake. They were so big and heavy, it seemed a miracle of physics they could point forward so firmly. Her nipples were bright pink and as fat as a man's thumbs, the areolas as wide as saucers. Lucille stared from behind her shades.

Melons

, she thought.

That's what guys would call those. Big watermelons...jugs...ripe milk fruit...

Lucille gave herself a little shake. That was another thing. Chloe had to be the least modest woman on the planet. Lucille was always stumbling across her painting her toes in the den in her panties and bra, or calmly walking naked from the shower back to her room, everything just swinging every which way.

Lucille watched morosely as Chloe dumped half her bottle of expensive sunscreen over her torso. She massaged it in, and Lucille felt her breath catch as Chloe's hands moved over her breasts, squeezing and rubbing. She lifted them, mushed them together, smoothed her hands down between them, and then went on to oil up her arms, legs, butt, and tummy. Lucille had to admit that Chloe had great skin. Unlike Lucille, who tended to freckle, Chloe had nary a blemish. Even her big thighs were like polished walnut.

Lucille felt herself flushing more, and to her shame and horror, felt an echoing heat in her loins that had nothing to do with anger.

Chloe lay down on her stomach, her buns sticking up like geodesic domes, her breasts squashed underneath her like air bags. She handed the bottle back to Lucille.

"Do my back?"

"Uh ... sure."

With great trepidation, Lucille poured a line of lotion down Chloe's spine. She rubbed it in, moving her hands in widening circles. Chloe's skin felt as sleek as it looked. It was warm and satiny. It sparkled as Lucille's fingers spread the sunscreen around. She had the urge to grab great big handfuls of her and squeeze.

Chloe was watching her touch her. Her eyes were mild and unreadable. Lucille realized her hands were stroking down her back, coming dangerously close to the slopes of her rump, fully revealed by her thong. Lucille suddenly realized her pulse was pounding and her breath was short. Her body felt suffused with dangerous, languorous warmth. She snatched her hands away.

"Well, I'm about done. Have a good time."

She prayed she sounded casual and cheerful. She quickly gathered up her things and fled back into the house.

"See ya," Chloe's voice followed her inside.

Lucille charged into her shower. There was an excited pulse between her legs. She felt wet and swollen, and there was a needy ache deep within her. She knew that if she hadn't stopped when she did, the pulses would have grown and the electricity would have started. She would have been unable to conceal her arousal from Chloe.

Without taking off her swimsuit, Lucille jumped in the shower and turned the cold water on full blast. She bit back a shriek; it was brutal, punishing, but it was what she needed. She forced herself to stand under that arctic torrent until her fires were thoroughly doused.

Calmer, Lucille dried herself and changed into a T-shirt and track pants. She opened her laptop and forced herself to finish some inconsequential office work she'd brought home. She was a number cruncher for a large insurance company and there was always extra work to do. When that was done, she changed into her evening clothes and went out the back way, avoiding everyone, especially Chloe. She took a bus out to the local multiplex and sat through two movies. It was very rare for Lucille to treat herself this way, but she really needed to take her mind off things at home.

The people at work (Lucille didn't really have friends there) thought it was odd that Lucille took the bus to work, when everyone else in her department owned vehicles. Lucille could certainly afford one on her salary. If they had known, they also would have found it odd that she rent-shared such a cheap house with four other people, when all her co-workers had condominiums or houses of their own. If they had asked, she would have told them she was living cheaply so that she could save up for a dream home. She would have talked about her distaste for mortgages, and they would have accepted this. She would have been lying, of course. She was saving up for an operation.

Lucille Kobaleski was healthy as a horse, and any doctor could verify this. That was why she needed money, and lots of it, to bribe some suitably corrupt physician into performing an operation on her. The problem was to find a doctor who was both competent enough to successfully perform the procedure, and discreet enough to keep his mouth shut about it afterwards. The desire for this procedure -- and it was radical, unorthodox surgery -- was the driving force behind her whole lifestyle. About a quarter million should do it. She reckoned she would be ready after five more years of austerity.

She told no one the exact nature of the surgery; she hardly dared admit the details to herself, in her own heart of hearts. It was the buried, secret center of her life.

2.

That night, Lucille dreamed. She dreamed she was at work, busy in her office, and as always, she felt completely at peace. She took deep comfort in the order and harmony of her stochastic projection algorithms, the calm perfection of higher mathematics. Here, and only here, she felt in control.

She was printing a page and noticed her printer was low on toner. Humming a happy tune, she strode down the hall to the supply cabinet and got more. When she got back, her computer was gone. In its place, Chloe Dawson was sitting naked on her desk.

Lucille dropped the toner.

Chloe's legs were crossed demurely and all she had on was a pair of glossy pink high heels. They had little hooker-straps across the ankle and the toe of one was drawing idle circles in the air.

She was leaning back on her elbows, and her breasts spread out to the sides. Her nipples and areolas were a bright pink, a shade darker than her pumps, contrasting with the deep tan of the rest of her. They pointed perkily up at the ceiling. Her enormous butt spread out beneath her on the desktop. She was smiling; a warm, inviting smile that widened as she slowly uncrossed her legs and opened them.

In real life, Lucille remembered Chloe had a wild, unkempt bush. In this dream, she was shaven as bare and smooth as a baby's bum. Her vagina was open and shone with wetness.

Lucille felt her breath escape her. Chloe crooked a finger at her, and she moved forward helplessly.

"Looo-cy," she crooned teasingly, her imitation Ricky Ricardo echoing in this weird dream space, "you got some fucking to do."

Chloe reached between her legs and with two fingers, spread her vulva open, revealing moist, inviting pinkness. It was the most graphic, sluttish invitation Lucille had ever seen or even dreamed of, and she felt a terrible ignition take place deep inside her.

Her loins throbbed with itchy, yearning heat, and she could feel her own wetness trickling. Her skin felt tight and hot, swollen with fever.

She seized Chloe's bare thighs, sinking her fingers in hungrily, and felt the electricity shoot through her. She felt the erotic charge surge up her spine with its horribly familiar thrum, tearing away all her self-control, and it felt so

good

, so

right

, and that was what made it so

wrong

--

Ooooh

...

Lucille woke with gasp. For a moment, she didn't know where she was or what happened. Then she took stock of herself.

"Oh

shit

," she groaned.

Her body was still tingly and sparkly in the aftermath of her orgasm. It was dark and foggy outside and she blearily turned to see the digital display on her bedside clock read 3:42AM.

She groaned again. Her nightie and panties were soaked and sticky. The bed sheets under her hips (she'd been humping it) were wet as well. Her nipples were still stiff and her belly felt swimmy, but the rest of her body seemed back to normal.

Cringing with disgust, she heaved herself up, peeled off her nightclothes, and flung them into the hamper like they were toxic. She tiredly considered taking a shower, but decided it would only wake her up more and make getting back to sleep even more difficult. She cleaned herself with wet wipes instead, patted herself dry with a hand towel, and changed into a fresh nightie. Then she changed the sheets. She could never get back to sleep with a mess like that under her.

As she dozed off, she thought,

God I hate Chloe

.

She had at least one nerve-wrenching, ego-thrashing wet dream about her a week.

3.

Sitting tired and crabby on the bus the next morning, Lucille thought seriously about moving. She imagined the Herculean task of scheduling

that

would be, and sighed. She didn't own a car. She'd have to rent a cube van for all her stuff, load it and drive it all by herself, and no way could she afford movers on her budget. She sighed again, and plucked moodily at the tight bun of her hair. A lock or two always seemed to escape and dangle across the left side of her face.

The ridiculous thing was that it wasn't as if she were some kind of closet lesbian. To the extent that she thought about sex at all, Lucille's usual idle thoughts were about the teenage boys playing shirts-and-skins soccer in the high school playing field that her bus passed every day. She never intentionally fantasized along

any

lines, however. Sex was a powerful, frightening force in her life, and she tried to distance herself from it. She hated the loss of control that came with sexual arousal, the things it did to her body. She hated it more than anything else in the world.

Once she had her operation, she would never have to worry about it again.

The day got worse as it progressed. Shortly after lunch, her office suffered a critical system crash that sent everyone home early. Lucille was in the habit of backing up her work hourly, so she hadn't lost anything, but it was still annoying. There'd be that much more work to do tomorrow.

It was another hot day, so as soon as she got in, Lucille went straight to the kitchen and chugged a big glass of icy cranberry juice. She thought of taking a shower and changing. There was still time to catch a half-price matinee.

As she was going up the stairs from the second floor, she noticed that the door to Chloe's room was open.

She stopped, frowning. Chloe's room was always shut; she tended to sleep in, so it was never open when Lucille left in the morning. Chloe typically didn't get in until late (if she came home at all), so it was always still shut when Lucille got in. Lucille had never once seen the inside of Chloe's room, and, up until now, she was happy with that. Just now though, she'd seen a flash of some bright color on Chloe's wall, and it tweaked her curiosity. Surely, it couldn't hurt to take a quick peek.

God, I bet it's a total disaster zone. She's such a slob

.

Lucille walked over and pushed the door open. She froze in her tracks.

The color came from a giant poster taking up most of one wall. It was done in a Japanese anime style, fantastically detailed, and it showed a huge-breasted woman brandishing a samurai sword. She was wearing an abbreviated red leather outfit and her breasts strained against the plunging cleavage-top. She was naked from the waist down, and that was what transfixed Lucille.