The A.V. Club - Ch. 21

A Novel by J.K. Ermon (jokermon)

Chapter Twenty-One: In-Depth Training

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©2016 J.K. Ermon.

~~~

Since I was still pretending to have a job, I had to head out Saturday morning. I got in my car, started the engine and realized I had absolutely no idea where I was going.

I headed out anyway. At first, I drove aimlessly, playing the radio and humming along. I saw a guy working on his car in the front yard and decided to drive over to Radakovic Auto Body to hang out with Mark and Donnie.

When I got there, Donnie was doing an oil change on an old Caprice and Mark was seated behind the counter, perusing the August 1963 issue of Joint.

Joint was a sausage mag that specialized in 'local talent' rather than glamorous big-name dickgirl stars. It was known for its raw, unpolished look. Most of their photospreads were shot at actual sausage joints. They were careful to show only the faces of the dickgirl performers. The faces of the audience members were always blurred. The rest of their pictorials were homemade, sent in for money by aspiring DG performers trying to build names for themselves. Mark liked it for what he called its 'sense of verisimilitude.'

"Jesus, Mark," I complained. "What if your dad sees you reading that?"

"Hell," snorted Donnie, "what if a customer sees him reading that?"

Mark rolled his eyes.

"(A)," he said in such a way that I could hear the parentheses, "What's he gonna do, fire me? And (B), what customers?"

"So what brings you here, Tallboy?" Donnie asked, leaning over the Caprice's exposed engine.

"Oh, you know," I said, scuffing my shoe on the floor. "Unemployed, can't be home. Don't have to be anyplace for hours."

"Where's Emily?" grunted Donnie, twisting something in the guts of the car.

"Out with Marianne. Won't see her til after three."

"Hell, if you need a job," said Mark, "you could make a run into Kentucky. Dad and I were gonna visit Roessler Auto Salvage in Buckner today, but something came up."

"You want me to pick up parts for your dad?"

"Hell, no. Dickgirl mags. There's a great little adult bookstore just down the street from Roessler's. It's called Chuck's. It's the best. They sell used."

He opened the cash register and took out a couple fives.

"See if you can get the October '59 issue of-"

"Broadpoles," Donnie and I said together. For Mark, Candi Gatling's last known photoshoot would always be the Big One That Got Away.

"Yeah, yeah." Mark rolled his eyes as I took the money from him. I figured, if nothing else, it would give me something to do for a few hours.

"Here." He handed me a well-worn Kentucky road map. "Roessler's is marked."

"Thanks," I said. "See you guys." I headed for my car.

"See you," grunted Donnie.

"Have fun," said Mark laconically.

Minutes later I was driving over the Carson-Edison bridge into Kentucky.

~~~

Buckner, Kentucky is sprawling little town just outside Louisville. It used to take three or four hours to get there from Point Pleasant, but ever since they finished work on the new I-71, it took about an hour and forty minutes. I'd have plenty of time to browse.

I found Roessler's easily enough. There was a cluster of little shops on the corner past it, where the junkyard's tall wooden-plank fence ended. There was a small appliance repair shop, a closed grain and feed store, and a shop with no front window whose sign read Chuck's Books and Magazines, New & Used!

I opened the door and it let out a godawful scraping noise as the bottom dragged on the floor. The cheery jangle of the door-chimes was superfluous.

The smell of old books enfolded me. I breathed it in.

Ah, that's the stuff, I thought.

For me, the smell of an ancient bookstore was almost as intoxicating as vitamin J.

It was dim and dusty in there and my eyes had to adjust. There was a magazine rack by the door filled with regular stuff like Time, Life, and Popular Mechanics. Bookshelves lined the walls and revolving wire racks filled the floor space.

The place was quiet. You could almost hear the whisper of pages and the creak of bookcase lumber. It was meditative, monasterial.

There was a cashier's desk set midway down the left wall. A bearded man in his late twenties was behind it, inventorying a stack of Louis L'Amour westerns. He had the longest hair I'd ever seen on a man in real life, at least down to his shoulders. He looked up as I came in and we traded nods. He went back to his work.

Each spinning bookstand and section of shelving was labeled with a large hand-written placard. History, Mystery, Romance, Thrillers. My pulse picked up when I saw Fantasy/Science Fiction.

Tolkien, Asimov, Howard, Heinlein, Herbert. It was like meeting old friends in a strange place.

I snapped up an untouched-looking copy of Dune. I'd already read it, but Emily hadn't. There was a Heinlein there I'd been meaning to get - Stranger in a Strange Land. I snapped it up, too.

Several minutes later I had an armful of paperbacks and realized I'd forgotten why I was there. I looked around. Mark had described the place as an adult bookstore, but it looked pretty normal to me. There were James A. Micheners and John le Carrés as far as the eye could see. There was an unmarked doorway with swinging saloon-style wooden doors in the far corner. Next to it, a kid with a backwards-turned Cincinnati Reds baseball cap was crouched loading ancient hardcovers into a big cardboard box.

I took my books to the cashier and he rang them up with a desultory "thanks." My dad would have called this guy a freak or a hairbag, but to me, he looked like any bored guy at work. He went right back to stocktaking as soon has he'd bagged my purchase.

I cleared my throat. I was absurdly reminded of buying condoms from Ernie Rittenhouse.

"Do you have, um...sausage mags?"

"Yup." The longhair didn't even look up from his sorting. He tilted his head towards the saloon doors. "Back there, on the right."

"Thanks."

The boy in the baseball cap didn't look up either as I went past him. The wooden wings swung open to a short hallway. There were some unmarked doors on the left, but to the right was an open double doorway with a multicolored beaded curtain.

I went through and stopped cold.

Holy shit. Jackpot.

The room was bigger than I thought it would be. It was about half the size of the main shop floor.

The building must extend back a lot further than the storefront would suggest, I thought faintly.

I'd never seen so many sausage mags so openly displayed. They were a rare commodity in Ohio, something to be treasured. The AVC had subscriptions to the big three: Hungbunny, Boobfürter and Babewurst. That was all we could afford. Frank, as Correspondence Chief, maintained the subscriptions through postal money orders and whenever new mags arrived at our PO box, always got first peek. A week later we'd draw straws to decide who got them next. I had notoriously bad luck with the sausage lottery; by the time I got the latest issues, they were always pretty sticky.

The AVC had a vigorous underground economy in trading, bartering and buying these magazines off each other. We were like kids with baseball cards.

I was looking at a room the size of a high school classroom filled with brand-new and mint-condition magazines. I was unprepared for the sight of such riches. It was like stumbling onto Smaug's hoard.

I thought of all the times Mark had invited me to come along on one of his buying excursions. I was always too chicken.

I have been missing out. Scratch that - I have been a colossal dickhead.

The lighting was a lot better in there. There were multiple magazine racks on every wall. There were four large tables in the middle. Each one was edge-to-edge with cardboard cartons filled with used magazines. There were even three spinning wire book stands packed with pornographic dickgirl novels, called sausagebacks.

Each magazine rack had its own placard on the wall over it and each sign had exclamation points: New! Unsold Back Issues! Staff Picks! Imports!

Each table had a little sign on a stand: Used Magazines in Excellent Condition!

I shuffled forward and began to browse. I'm sure I looked like a gawping pilgrim at the Vatican. I saw every dickgirl mag I'd ever heard of in that backroom, and many that were new to me. There was a magazine dedicated to black DG's called Hard Chocolate and one in Spanish called Vergachicas.

A big sign on the wall caught my eye. It was handwritten in magic marker on posterboard.

No Sexual Activity Allowed on Premises. This is a Place of Business. Once You're at Home, That's Your Business.

I blinked. Wow, I thought. How many cats got caught whacking off in here to make a sign like that necessary?

I shook my head and got back on track. I went to the Used! tables and found the box for Broadpoles.

I flipped through it. I was impressed. Every magazine had its own little plastic sheath and an eight-by-ten cardboard backing. A lot of comic book stores weren't even doing that yet.

The issues were even in chronological order, with the most recent first. Not only were they all in great condition, for many months they had multiple copies.

I flipped through the box, and then muttered "Shoot." Regrettably, that wasn't the case for 1959. All they had was January and December, and only one copy each. They were still classics (the 1959 Christmas issue had a blazing hot threesome with Dicksey Gurley, Dazey Woodcock and Ingrid Stürmer in Santa hats) so I set them aside.

I browsed through more of the Used! boxes and my stack of purchases grew. It seemed like I was discovering some long-lost treasure every few minutes. I had a more-than-decent boner going and I was glad I had the place to myself.

I went over to the Imports! rack, which was a lot smaller than the others. These issues weren't individually packaged. A lot of them weren't even in standard American magazine sizes. Some of them were almost as big as Life magazine, others were the size of trade-sized paperbacks, although much slimmer. When I began flipping through them, they were mostly pictures; there was little text and it was all in German or Danish.

I whistled. There weren't just solo pictorials of dickgirls, but also dickgirls with men and women. This was absolutely verboten in sausage mags produced for the domestic market. Dickgirl-on-dickgirl was fine, but not dickgirls and what the law considered 'actual people.' You could not get subscriptions to these titles in America.

I thumbed through the pages of Spermawerfendefrauen hungrily. My dick got harder. I recognized the Hammersmith sisters and their pretty boyfriend.

"Oh, yeah," I breathed. They were sucking his dick and licking his asshole and then fucking that asshole, both individually and together. The pictorial was full of tight, well-lit close-ups. It ended with shots of his gaping anus clogged with sperm. I had to resist the urge to stick a hand down my pants. I began to understand the necessity of that prohibitive notice on the wall.

One of Frank's dickgirl pen pals had given him the scoop about imports. Since AXA didn't exist anywhere else in the world, all the pictures for these magazines were shot here in the states by local photographers. They would then sell the negatives for staggering sums to overseas publishers. Only a trickle of these magazines ever made it back here. They were only ever sold second hand. It was a safe bet I was looking at the biggest collection in the sausage belt.

Shit. No wonder this place is Mark's favorite.

The prices reflected their rarity; the imports averaged four-fifty per issue. I winced. In those days, a brand spanking new Playboy hot off the newsstand was seventy-five cents. I didn't care. My stack of magazines got taller.

I went over to the standing wire racks. The novels had standard lurid paperback covers with sultry femme fatales or wide-eyed ingenues in revealing attire, except they all wore sporrans. They had titles like Hag-Bred Blackmailer, Dickgirl Babysitter, Sausage Slaves, and Satan was a Dickgirl. I picked up a few.

I continued to browse. On the Unsold Back Issues! rack, I discovered an old copy of Femmestrüdel with a Haley photoshoot I'd never seen before. A real gem of a find. Then I went to the New! rack and sifted through the Hungbunnies and Babewursts. I made my way to the bottom of the rack and stopped cold.

The latest issue of Joint was there. Pauline was on the cover. It was just a portrait shot of her from the shoulders up, but I recognized the Christmas lights and barn rafters behind her. I even recognized the photo. I'd taken it.

The blurb alongside her face read, Polly Pole Poleaxes Ogilvie's!

I snatched it up, checked the editorial masthead page where the contents were listed, and whipped through to Pauline's set.

"Holy shit," I whispered aloud.

It was a fifteen-page spread and every picture came from the rolls Claire and I shot at Ogilvie's that night. It seemed like years ago instead of weeks.

There was Pauline, stepping out, looking radiant in all of her oily naked glory. There she was, shimmying and shaking amid the blurry shadows of raised hands clapping. There she was, ejaculating into the crowd. Claire had captured it perfectly. Lens flares flashed along the undulations of her streamers, mid-air. There was the shot of all those male hands appearing out of the darkness to grope her breasts. I recognized my own hands among them. There was the shot of four hands stroking her cock, each from a different man. There was the rafter-reaching cum fountain that followed.

I gulped. Joint was really pushing the limits with this pictorial. They were known for that. It was one of the reasons Mark liked it so much.

I was four pages in when the customers' faces began appearing. They were all anonymized with narrow black redaction bars across their eyes.

Wait a minute, I thought stupidly. That's it? What happened to blurring out their entire faces?

I turned the page and damn near dropped the magazine. There was a shot of Pauline on all fours with my dick in her mouth. I knew it was me because my face was in the frame. I remembered Claire taking that shot. My eyes were hidden, but you could still see my mouth hanging open in an expression of remarkable idiocy. My sense of the black bars being inadequate tripled.

Jesus, I thought dizzily. You can't show this. Did they change the rules and nobody told us?

I stared at the glossy images and slowly went from page to page. It only got worse (or better, depending on your point of view). There was the shot of Pauline beaming into the camera and showing off her mouthful of my cum. There was the shot of her swallowing, and then another of her open, now-empty mouth. There were all the rest of the customers, Allen and all my friends with their blacked-out eyes, getting sucked off after me. They were likewise stupefied with ecstasy, heads tilted back and their mouths wide open.

I had to admit, it was one of the hottest pictorials I'd ever seen. My dick pounded in my pants even as panic and chagrin made my heart pound in my ears.

Could I...could we get recognized from this?

I turned a page, and the real shock came. There was Claire, completely uncensored, sucking Pauline's great post. Her unbarred eyes were closed in bliss.

I took that picture, I thought. And now here it is in print.

Absurdly, I felt proud. I had captured not only the dick in Claire's mouth, but Pauline's face above, looking down delightedly.

I had immortalized Claire's first taste of emergent dick.

I slowly turned the pages. It was quite possibly the most vividly documented blowjob in the history of sausage mags. It was certainly the most beautiful, though I may be biased. A third of the entire pictorial was devoted to Claire slurping and slobbering away on Pauline's cock. I'm not being egotistical when I say the pictures were excellent. I had gone through several rolls and I knew they just cherry picked the best ones. I had no doubt there was a lot of dreck.

I was, however, a little impressed that I was able to get such a clear shot of Claire's face mashed up into Pauline's vagina. Not to mention the ones of her sucking and pulling on Pauline's ball sack with her mouth. They were pure gold.

I wasn't able to capture the same kind of sparkle on Pauline's ejaculation, but I imagine Claire was playing with shutter speeds and the like. It was all I could do to just point and shoot. There were some dynamic, albeit blurry action shots of her cum arching over Claire's head.

It ended, of course, with the last picture I took - Pauline and Claire sharing a very messy kiss.

I noticed there was a caption near the lower margin of the page.

"Featuring the Joint debut of Trixie Truncheon, a never-before seen dickgirl from Merrie Olde England. She took home a very special souvenir from her time as an exchange student in Topeka. Regrettably, Trixie says she has no intentions of turning pro but wishes Joint's Rabid Readers all the best. Say it ain't so, Trixie! Come back soon!"

I flipped back through the pictorial. None of the shots revealed Claire from the waist down.

I began thinking, very fast and very hard.

I gathered up every copy of that issue of Joint (there were five in total) and took them and all my other purchases to the counter. It took two trips.

I tapped the topmost issue of Joint in the pile. "Do you have any more copies of this, in the back? I'll take them all."

He shook his head. "Just what we had on the shelves."

"Fine." I paid. The manager had to load all my magazines into two cardboard boxes. There were too many for bags.

"Andy," he called to the kid in the baseball cap, "could you help this man with his goods?"

The kid nodded and hoisted a box without complaint. He carried it out behind me, keeping the bill of his ball cap down over his face the whole time.

I put the bag with my sci-fi books in the front seat. Andy and I put the boxes full of dickgirl smut in the trunk.

Even as I walked and carried, my brain was putting it together. Claire and company needed money for their movie venture. They sold the Ogilvie photos to Joint. It made sense.

To circumvent the rules, they claimed that Claire was a dickgirl, since there was no photographic proof otherwise. The name Trixie Truncheon had Claire's sly wit all over it. So far, so good.

Logically, she would assume the editorial staff at Joint would blur out anything unlawful. I'm sure Claire and company had no idea the magazine would take this opportunity to push the envelope that hard. While the men in the photos had their eyes obscured, their penises were completely unredacted. You could see Pauline's lips wrapped around them and everything. It was really hot stuff. Hot, as in illegal. And also, to be fair, hot as in erotic.