The stuff we write in erotica class.
…
I was a hermaphrodite, and I have a story to tell. My family is a liberated lot, and I am the only child. My parents teach Sex Liberation disguised as a yoga class in a city I wish not indicate. They teach men, women, and third genders alike, about tantric sex, animal sex, kamasutra, fellatios, cunnilingus, bacchanalias, and other sorts of strange sexual acts; my father the instructor, my mother the executioner. Sometimes they do it in front of the class, sometimes with the class, in a glassed building, at the top floor of a high rise. Sometimes they do it at our den, or some place else they wouldn’t tell me—out in the wild, the forest, the mountain, the beach, but I gather no specifics. Most of the time I catch my mom and dad at home, doing it in every place, on every furniture, with various toys and objects, and oils and lotions and sorts of potions they’d lather on their bodies. But this story isn’t about my parents; it is about me.
Two years ago when I was fifteen, we went to a secluded side of a hill about a hundred kilometers from were we live. We were to have a picnic, to set up a small tent with grills and sandwiches and sweets on a mat just beside it. It was a late afternoon, about four. The air was still, the weather was cool and damp, and the grass was moist. There were several hills and knolls around it, pecked with bushes and small shrubs, and in a short distance, there was a shallow stream with smooth rocks and running water, and beyond it, the ground was filled with pebbles then rocks then boulders, then the dense forest which my mother told was magical. My parents had been here before, back when they were young and innocent, ignorant of the gratifying pleasures they now teach. They brought me here for the very reason that had brought them here—to cleanse myself by the stream, drink water from it, and enter the forest. I was afraid of animals and wild beasts, plants whose thorns would prick my skin, or grounds that trapped preys or paths that lead astray. “But you are an angel,” my father said. “No one and nothing will hurt you here. Why we do the things that we do, there lies the answer in the forest,” he said.
My parents peeled their clothes off, a few steps away from our settlement, right beneath the shadow of a tree. They lay on the lush grass, my father kissing my mother’s neck, both of them stroking each other’s sex. I watched them for a moment, as I lay on the mat, my head propped on the palm of my hand. My parents are a weird couple; they’d make out in front of me, yet prohibit me from entering their class, dating other people, or even examining my dual genitals. They had always called me an angel, a blessing of their union, and they considered me such because angels were always androgynous, me being both a masculine girl and an effeminate boy. They say other people wouldn’t consider such a thing normal, and they themselves couldn’t figure out what gender I had.
I gazed out at the distance, at the horizon rising up to cover the orange bubble that colored the sky pink, magenta, and purple. My parents had fallen asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms. They had told me to wander wherever I want, as long as I bathe from the stream and drink the water from it. Whatever that would happen next would be up to me, they said; whatever that the water would provoke in me, I just had to follow my instincts. I stood up from the mat, strolled around the hills, and watched the rabbits and squirrels scurry from bush to burrow to rock. The wind blew and my clothes clung to my skin.
I sauntered to the stream that shimmered and gurgled with melodic waters splashing and frothing over smooth stones. I took my clothes off and dipped my toe into the cool water. The wind blew harder, and I heard the water laugh. I drew back my foot and scanned the peripheries. I didn’t know what direction the sound came from; it was like a fairy laughing underwater inside my head. I stepped into the water and waded halfway through, water circling my ankles. Except for the mysterious sound, the stream was then nothing but ordinary.
The stones were slick and smooth beneath my feet, and I moved further across where the water reached my knees. The water was fishless and clear, save for the foam that gathered around the stones and around my knees. I sat there and felt something comforting my body. The water reached my chest, and I cupped my hands to wash my face and hair. In a moment, the stream rushed heavier, the water tightened around my skin, massaging my flesh like tiny fingers, caressing my back and chest, my arms and thighs, and those in between my legs. I was relaxed and soothed. It was a tranquility that intensified and made feel a part of the water. The sun had disappeared from the horizon, pulling with it the sky’s majestic colors. I cupped my hands to drink from the stream. The water ran down my throat, and an indefinable sensation spread from my chest to my arms and fingers, to my neck and face, to my stomach and legs and feet. I stood up and waded across to the other side, my skin covered with a pale blue sheen that reflected the moonlight.
I reached the banks and wetted the pebbles and stones with my footsteps. The wind blew cold, the hair on my skin stood on end, but I was warm inside. As the gurgling of the stream grew softer, the sound of the forest grew louder. The cicadas buzzed, the leaves and branches swayed, beckoning me, whispering a siren’s song that enchanted my ears and lured me to enter. I reached the border of the forest, a dense thicket of leaves. The leaves touched my fingers and stroked my arms. An arched pathway opened right before me, revealing a dead-end tunnel lit with tiny cylinders of moonlight from the rifts in between the leaves. I stepped inside and the leaves shifted. I took another step, then another, the leaves shuffling, twigs snapping, the tunnel extending back or forth whichever way I moved. I figured the tunnel’s extension changed, depending on the direction of my footstep. I could walk around and wander, and the trees would move aside, the leaves would flatten like a wall, and the rocks and boulders would roll aside to give me way.
I walked for a while, following the beautiful song of the enchantress. And as I moved closer to the sound, the scent of the forest grew thicker and more familiar. It was the smell that clung to our house, to our furniture, to our couch, to the bed sheets, to the mattress, to the floor and tiles, to the sink in the bathroom, to the wooden table in the kitchen. It was the smell my parents exuded, the smell that rank stronger from my parents’ unwashed pants. Then with one slow step, a strobe of dim light appeared from the end of the tunnel. I took another step, and the light grew wider, the end of the tunnel no longer extending, but widening, widening to reveal a round clearing that had no trees nor rocks nor leaves on the ground—just soft white stuff that filled the ground like a thin film of snow. And right there at the center was a white, naked creature curled on the ground. I stepped closer, stepped into the round open space, and the pathway behind me closed like it was never been there before.
The white man fluttered his eyes open, and looked at me startled. He had white hair, white eyebrows, white eyelashes, and his skin was white and pink with blood, almost translucent. He rose and crawled towards me and kissed my feet, my ankles, and legs, and kneeling, wrapped his arms around my waist. He raised his face to look at me. His eyes had the lightest shade of gray. I stooped down and kissed him on the lips. His mouth was soft and wet. It tasted like nectar. “I will make you a woman,” he said ominously. “What do you mean?” I said. “It is given for a hermaphrodite,” he explained, “to choose between the two sexes from which he/she derives pleasure best.” It didn’t occur to me that I was a ‘hermaphrodite’ until that moment. I had been ignorant of the term to call an unnameable creature such as myself. I had known what it is to be a man, a woman, a homosexual, and a lesbian, but no, not a hermaphrodite. “How did you know I wanted to be a woman?” I asked him. “I don’t even know if I want to be one.” “Ah, that is always the question,” said he. “But you will know once you get a taste of it.” He smiled and a dimple appeared momentarily. “You can call me Arman.” I introduced myself as Pelope. “What a beautiful name,” he said and beckoned me towards him to the wet ground. He cradled me in his arm and told me the story about a young man named Hermaphroditus. And as he narrated his tale about this son of Hermes and Aphrodite, he took my hand and guided it stroking his flaccid white penis. He placed his fingers beneath my scrotum and groped for my female genital. We stroked each other tenderly as I listened dreamily with my eyes closed to how Hermaphroditus’ body blended with Salmacis’ body in the water, merging magically into one intersexual form. I wept and thought it was beautiful.
There was a peaceful silence. I let my hand fall, unable to focus on giving him pleasure, while he continued stimulating my clitoris. I felt it harden like a pebble and as he sensed this, he removed his arm around my shoulder and knelt in between my legs. His white head descended towards my vagina. He lifted my balls and licked the sensitive pebble behind it, slowly up and down. “That feels so good,” I moaned. I held his head and let my legs spread wider. I should be a woman, I thought. What could be more pleasurable than this? He kissed my pubes and licked his way up my navel, my stomach, and my underdeveloped breasts. He had freckles all over his body, and his nipples were light pink like his lips. He kneaded my clitoris, my pussy slick and wet. I stroked his penis, growing hard and distended, its pink head swelling stiff. Yes, I thought, I shall be a woman. He raised his face over mine, curling his lips into a lustful smile. He held his penis, removing my hand, and glided its head on my vulva. “I would like to enter you,” he whispered. “I haven’t been penetrated before,” I said. But as much as I wanted to become a woman, I let him. He pierced his pink head into my tight hole, and I gushed a muffled scream of pain. “It hurts,” I cried. “Oh, I am in pain.” He placed a finger on my lips and slid his engorgement gently into me. He rode me slowly, rocking up and down, the pain intensifying, lacerating my hymen apart. Right then I changed my mind and said, “I couldn’t possibly be woman. The pain is unbearable I might as well be a man.” He withdrew his penis and said the pain is temporary, it will go away as soon as Narcissa lathers a soothing ointment on it.
In a moment, the leaves shifted, the trees moved, then a pathway opened, revealing an unclothed dark-skinned woman with great black wings that stretched from her shoulder blades. Arman and I gazed mutely at her exquisite beauty. She had large, round eyes, and protrusive brown lips. Her hair flowed in thick waves behind her voluptuous shape. She walked towards us and smiled at Arman, revealing her fanged incisors. “Give me the ointment,” Arman said to her. She smiled wickedly and said in a raspy voice, “I assume you have done it?” She walked around us with an air of splendor, her wings spread out, her shadow casting over us. She drew a small vessel from beneath her wing, laughing at Arman, “You have begun without me!” She laughed manically, throwing her head, and the moonshine lit the spindly wormlike tongue peeking from her mouth. Arman stood up in front of her, his eyebrows furrowed in anger, his breath heaving at her face. He lifted her leg and drove his penis into her. His whiteness starkly contrasted with her dark silkbrown skin. They rose and fell in unison, Arman thrusting his hips upwards. She laughed shrilly, loud and strident, and released the glass vessel from her hand. The vessel broke on the ground and the white emollient oozed from it. Arman threw her beside me and knelt before the broken vessel. “Oops I’m sorry,” she snarled coyly on the ground, her venomous tongue snaking out her mouth. Arman swabbed his finger on the emollient. And as he was about to lather it on my bleeding vagina, the winged woman jumped on me. She pressed her wet cunt on my limp penis and hissed, “You’d rather want to be a man.” Her breath smelled of black ants and fresh animal blood. Her breasts were round and pendulous, her areolas large and black, her nipples stiff. I wanted her to ease me from my pain, so she let Arman crawl behind her to soothe my vagina. The moment Arman applied the ointment, she dug her talon fingers into the ground and kicked him from her behind. Arman flung to the wall of the clearing with claw scratches on his chest. He collapsed in the darkness mending himself.
Meanwhile, the winged woman turned to me and lowered her face towards mine. “Narcissa is my name,” she said. “I turn women into lesbians, faggots into men, and men into spectacles of virility.” Despite her entrancing beauty, I was afraid of her. I quivered and shrunk beneath her, and my penis balling inward like a cowardly worm. “Do not be afraid, little one,” she said. She stroked my curly brown hair with her sharp talons and continued, “I do not know how a man feels pleasure, but once you know it I assure you you’ll become one.” I had yet to know what it feels like to be a man. I had played safe growing up, wearing asexual clothes and behaving androgynously. There were times that I had been more feminine, times I had been more masculine, but still, I couldn’t tell. One sex is no more powerful than the other, and perhaps it is only through the act of sex with either side of my sexuality that I would be able to distinguish one more pleasurable than the other. She licked my ear, her fangs tracing my neck. She kissed my chest, my flat stomach, and wormed her tongue into my navel. Eventually, she was in between my legs.
She first licked my balls, sucking my scrotum one at a time. I was afraid she’d pierce her fangs into my skin, but she sucked them gently, her eyes closed. She held my slack penis, moaning while she licked the underside of my shaft. I felt a familiar sensation, similar to what Arman had done to my clitoris, except that the clitoris was more sensitive. She put my penis into her mouth by licking beneath the shaft and running the head on her palate. From a spineless worm, my penis erected stiff, throbbing for pace. I wanted her to fellate me faster, but she took her time. And in between sucks, I had a fleeting yearning to be sucked again, and again, and again. As it swelled to a maximum, she glided her hand and breathed rhythmically with the suckage of her mouth. I moaned considerably loud, the strength of my penis spreading to the extremities of my body. I had nothing to lose being a man. I was without pain—with but sheer orgasmic bliss. “Yes, I prefer to be a man!” I cried out loud. She moaned with pleasure and sucked me rather ravenously.
A shadow glided over us. Upon opening my eyes, Arman threw Narcissa to the ground and penetrated her forcibly. I stood up, hurled Arman away like I was Hercules, and took his place before Narcissa. She hissed and snapped, spreading her legs wider and raising one leg to my shoulder. I thrust into her. I rammed into her in complete invincible force and consummated her with a passion. She shrieked and bit my shoulder, scratching her talon fingers at my back. I slapped her face and blood spurted out her mouth to the white ground. Narcissa fell silent and became more submissive. I had tamed the winged she-beast and I had never felt more like a man than that moment of domination.
Suddenly, the leaves shook again, another pathway opened, and there, a centaur appeared, with his back arched and his hirsute chest held up high. We stopped abruptly, and the three of us looked at him. He introduced himself as Maximus, leader of the great maned centaurs, son of a whore. He had a fierce handsome face, a bare trunk, and a body of a majestic horse. He trotted towards us, and gazed closely at my face. “Who is this man,” Maximus addressed no one in particular, “who dares trespass our territory? Why, that whore before you is my mother!” I stood up before him and Arman raced in between us. “Maximus,” Arman said, “this is Pelope, a hermaphrodite.” “Is that so,” said Maximus. He stooped lower, an inch before my face, smelled me, and said, “You are scentless! I assume you haven’t had your first orgasm, male ejaculation or otherwise?” “I was almost there,” I replied contemptibly, “until you came along.” “Ha!” he interjected. “Only a horse like my royal father and myself can give that blasted woman ultimate pleasure. But you!” He grabbed my jaw and clenched it almost broken. “You are but a man!” “But he is supposed to be a woman!” intervened Arman. “I was to turn her into a woman until Narcissa changed our plan and fellated his dick!” Narcissa idiotically slobbered about on the ground, her breasts and legs wide apart. “What have you done to her!” yelled Maximus, jabbing my chest with his palms. “What have you done to her!” he screamed louder, spittle pelting at my face. I stepped back and he pushed me again. I fell to the ground, back to the weakling that I was. “A woman!” repeated Arman. “She is to be a woman!” The centaur threw his weight at me much as I tried to crawl back on my palms and feet. He spit at my face and slid his humongous length into my pussy so painfully sweet, my penis shrunk and shriveled, my vagina pounding to ineffable ecstasy. His penis thrust and jammed my innards up my stomach, and I wailed in sadomasochistic pleasure. I licked his horse chest and sucked his horse nipples. I felt a momentous sensation swelling and intensifying inside. My heart throbbed faster, my breathing quickened, my vaginal muscles tightened, and I couldn’t repress myself from moaning in sorrow and grief and pleasure. “You are a woman!” Maximus cried. “Say it! Say it!” he spat at me. I am a woman! Louder! I am a woman! Louder! He rammed his entire horsecock full-blown fucking hard up my stomach. I am a woman! I choose to be a woman! And then, I came, fresh white cum shooting in a trajectory that smacked and added to the whiteness of the ground. I am a woman. My body felt momentarily rigid, then relaxed limply on the wet, white earth, satisfied. I am a woman.
The leaves stirred again, the branches cracked, and the trees shifted. Another arched pathway yawned wide open before us, and there stood naked my mother and father. Each of their arm wrapped behind the other’s waist. They looked like an image from the Bible, the first couple treading the ground of Eden. They watched the four of us lying there at the center, moonlight glistening our sweaty faces and sweaty bodies, all about smeared with cum from the ground. “Come,” my father said, extending one hand. “Come,” my mother repeated.
