Loving Yvonne


This is a story about futanari.

Yvonne and I first met in the summer before my senior year, in the woods behind my family's property. It was kind of embarrassing. She caught me lying naked on a mossy log by the stream, beating off in a single-minded frenzy. I've made better first impressions.


I was masturbating in the woods because I didn't dare do it at home. I grew up in a very conservative household. My parents had a strict no-porn rule, and I was prohibited from having girlfriends or engaging in 'acts of self-abuse'. If you think that kind of ban is unenforceable, then you don't know my parents.

It amazes me that people so sexually phobic were able to procreate. It also amazes me that I accepted their regime as normal for so long.

While I wouldn't describe my parents as evil or abusive (they provided as best they could), when it came to sex, they were just...weird. For instance: I had stripped naked there in the woods to ensure no evidence would accidentally spatter my clothes. My mother would carefully inspect every article when doing the laundry, and I would have to explain any mystery stains. I'm not kidding. At night, they would listen at my bedroom door, sometimes for hours. If so much as a bedspring creaked, they would fling open the door to "just make sure everything's all right."

I won't go into all the other neurotic little tactics they used to restrain my burgeoning sexuality during those hellish teenage years, but they were all equally extreme. None of them actually stopped me from masturbating of course, but I had to go to ridiculous lengths to get my private time. And I would feel so guilty about it afterwards that it would be days before I would get desperate enough to do it again.

Sadly, they didn't have to work too hard to prevent me from dating. At that age I still hadn't properly filled out, or attained my full height. I was a nervous runt with no social graces. The girls in my hometown couldn't be bothered with awkward clods like me. Our town hosted a big, prestigious university and the girls only had eyes for the male students. Every year a new crop of old-money boys from upstate would come to town, all destined for bright futures elsewhere. My fellow townie boys all learned to say "fucking stuck-up college-groupie" before they learned to say "pass the salt." My virginity had no end in sight.

Masturbation, however, was well within my grasp. Even with all my parents' moaning about hairy palms and blindness, I couldn't be stopped. I was at that age where my penis would stiffen up of its own accord several times a day, and it was too tempting not to play with it.

I loved the nasty images that came into my head as I masturbated. Visions of naked, beautiful women and men doing exciting sexy things to each other, and sometimes to me, would just spontaneously appear. The exact details were always vague, as I had no sexual experience beyond masturbation, and precious little visual material to draw upon. The imagination is a wonderful thing, though, and as I rubbed myself, the pleasure and those sexy thoughts and feelings would rise to an awesome peak. When I shot my load all over the bushes, it was pure heaven.

Not much was fun or pleasurable in my life in those years. Masturbation took me someplace else, and that made it an Unquestionable Good.

My parents worked long hours during the summer break, and fortunately, that summer there was only part-time work to be had for students. I had whole days to myself. Our house was out past the town limits, on the edge of a state conversation area, and we had no neighbors. While the house was a sexual no-fly zone, there was plenty of opportunity to fool around naked outdoors. I knew lots of secluded little dells where I could strip and play with myself in complete privacy.

In retrospect, I guess it seems obvious my home life was a pretty repressed, miserable existence. In my young naïveté, I thought everybody lived like this. Yvonne taught me differently.


So there I was, sprawled out nude on a log in the woods, happily whaling away on a very respectable teenage stiffy, when a girl I'd never seen before strolled into my line of sight.

"Hello," she said politely.

Someone gave my heart a brutal squeeze. The air wheezed out of me, along with all rational thought. I gaped at her.

She wore round, wire-frame glasses over large, pale-blue eyes. That was the first thing I noticed. She had the most disconcerting eyes. You looked into them and whether you were looking for it or not, you saw right to the very bottom of her soul.

I remembered I was naked. I remembered I had my dick in my hand. I let out a horrified yelp and fell off the log. I landed face-down in the muck of the riverbank with a loud splat. It was pure luck I remembered to close my eyes at the last instant.

"Are you okay?" She asked.

I was unhurt, but embarrassed nearly to death. I was covered from brows to toes in mud. My dick speared straight into the muck, and as discomposed as I was, it still felt kind of good. If I weren't overcome by shock and horror I might have been tempted to give it a few humps. As it was, I had absolutely no idea what to do next.

"Are you okay?" she asked again. I peeled my face up out of the mud and looked at her. She just stood there and regarded me with polite concern. As a definitive moment of one's worst nightmare realized, it was somewhat anticlimactic.

"I'm okay," I answered at last. My voice had a funny hoarse sound, like it was breaking again.

"I'm Yvonne," she said. "Hello."

Her name didn't suit her. That's all I could think in that moment. With her plain round face and long straight hair, she looked more like a Mary or a Barbara. I belatedly remembered my mother mentioning earlier in the week that a family had moved into the old Peddimore farm. It hadn't sunk in that we were no longer alone in our rural little corner of nowhere.

"Hello Yvonne," I answered stupidly. "I'm Martin. Marty."

"Hi Marty. Do you need a hand there?"

I fought off hysterics.

"No...I'm good."

I realized she wasn't going to freak out, and some of my panic subsided.

I needed to wash the mud off me. That was my first imperative. My second imperative was not exposing myself to this strange girl any more than I already had. After a moment's deliberation, I stayed on my belly and crawled backwards into the stream. I suspected I looked even more ridiculous that way, but I wasn't about to stand up and give Yvonne another front-row seat to my persistent boner.

The water was cool and pleasant on such a hot day and came up to my chest as I knelt on the riverbed. It rushed quickly enough to obscure my submerged nudity. I wiped away the clinging mud as quickly as possible.

"I think I've seen you before," she said. "Your family lives in the gray house just over there, right?" she waved back in my home's general direction.

Oh that's just great. I closed my eyes. She knew where I lived. I had visions of her showing up with a housewarming casserole. Hello Mr. and Mrs. Wozniak, I'm Yvonne and my family just moved in down the way. I've already met your son and boy, can he ever spank the monkey.

I could feel the warmth rushing into my face. My vocal cords seemed frozen. She didn't seem to mind the silence.

"We just moved in last week. We're a couple bends down the road from your place."

I was clean inside a minute. This ushered in a new problem. My clothes were still on the bank.

I was too uptight to just stroll out of the river naked in front of her, but it seemed lame beyond description to ask her to turn her back.

I cleared my throat. "Could you throw me my clothes, please?"

She looked puzzled, but shrugged and said, "Sure."

She tossed them to me, and I put them on underwater. Then I walked out of the river, dripping wet, feeling more like an idiot than ever. I stood on the bank and stared down at my waterlogged self.

"What?" she asked.

"I can't go home all wet like this." Inside my head, I was cursing my stupidity.

Today was my parents' day off, and they were home, expecting me back soon. They thought I was at work, and there was no way to sneak in without them noticing me. If I walked in as soaked as I was, a full-bore interrogation would ensue. I was still fairly easily browbeaten in those days; even if I didn't crack under questioning (by no means a sure thing) my parents would still be more suspicious than ever. I'd have even less freedom. Hell, I wouldn't have put it past them to stick me with an electronic ankle bracelet. All my covert jackoffery would be on hold indefinitely. My dismay at that prospect overshadowed my current humiliation.

I thought about just staying out until I was dry, no matter how long it took, but coming in late would just as surely trigger a parental water-boarding.

"What's wrong, Marty?"

Yvonne wasn't having hysterics or even agitated. She was unruffled, almost serene, and when I came out of my self-absorbed funk, I saw she was still studying me. This set her aside from most of the girls I went to high school with, who considered the mere existence of local boys a gross personal affront. They would have been freaking out in her place. Scratch that; they would have been running in her place, and gibbering all the details of my transgressions into a cell phone as they ran. Yvonne just sat there on a rock with a small Mona Lisa smile curling her Cupid's bow lips.

It was hard to feel embarrassed or upset in Yvonne's company. She seemed to radiate a disarming, inclusive calm.

"My parents...they'd be pissed if they knew I fell into the river." I looked down at myself. "Our dryer's on the fritz." It was humiliating to have to lie. I was always covering for my family in those days.

"You could use ours," she suggested. "We have a big dryer. Your clothes would be done in half an hour. You could dry off in the bathroom. We've got...hairdryers, towels, all that." She shrugged.

I looked at her. "That's okay? Your folks wouldn't mind?"

"They're out. They won't be back until dinnertime. But they won't mind. They're really nice."

For a moment I was bemused at hearing a teenager describe her parents as 'really nice'. The kids I went to school with described their parents as assholes, if they ever spoke of them at all. Mind you, most of the kids at my school were assholes themselves.

"Thanks," I said. "That would be...really great."

Within minutes we were on the path to her place. We chatted as we walked, and I was able to look at her properly for the first time. She wore her brown hair parted in the middle, and had the slightest double chin. She wasn't overweight, though - she just hadn't yet lost what my parents would call her puppy fat. Her short, sleeveless dress smoothed over the faintest bulge of girl-tummy and flared out, swirly tennis-skirt style, above her knees. Her legs, what I could see of them, were sleekly well-fleshed.

She was in her teens, like me, and like me, had the awkwardness of one who still hadn't fully grown into their body. Her breasts and hips, while showing definite potential, had yet to blossom to their fullest.

Yvonne wasn't pretty, but she was...attractive. It didn't take me long to be compelled by her mild, nonjudgmental demeanor. I felt I could say anything to her. To me, that was a new and wonderful quality in a person, and it made her attractive as hell. Within twenty minutes of meeting her, I knew I wanted to be around her a lot.

"Do you like beating off outdoors? Are you an exhibitionist?"

It was a matter-of-fact question, spoken with nothing but genuine curiosity.

"No," I answered, opening the gate to Yvonne's backyard. "I just...I can't do it at home. My folks don't like me...beating off," I almost stumbled over the phrase, never having spoken it aloud to anyone before, never mind a girl. "I'm not supposed to do it at all." I couldn't believe I just admitted that.

"Why not?" Again, no hint of mockery.

"It's..." I caught myself about to parrot my father's party line about sin and masturbation. I shrugged instead. "They just think it's wrong."

"Do you think it's wrong?" The funny thing was, my answer seemed important to her.

"Maybe. I don't know. I just like doing it."

It was weirdly easy to talk to her. Even though I'd known her less than an hour, and she was a girl and all, I felt comfortable with her.

I couldn't help noticing the gigantic metal fridge in the kitchen and the huge flat screen TV in the living room. Yvonne's family had kept a lot of the old wooden furnishings but added all new and expensive-looking appliances. They sure weren't hurting for money or taste.

She told me her parents were engineers (mother chemical, father aerospace), and they had moved here to work at the local university. Both had scored prestigious research fellowships. I saw photographs of her parents on the mantel. Her Dad was tall and wore glasses like her. Her mother was a brunette knockout with a stunning, large-breasted figure. She smiled prettily in a couple of holidays-at-the-beach shots, wearing a revealing bikini that my mother wouldn't have worn at gunpoint.

Yvonne gestured toward a wooden door. "That's the guest bathroom. You can dry off in there. Just chuck your clothes out the door and I'll take them down to the dryer. There should be a spare bathrobe, too."

The bathroom was twice the size of any in my home. I stripped, opened the door a crack to hurriedly pass my soaking pile of clothes to Yvonne, and then shut it. On impulse, I jumped in the shower and gave myself a quick soap, shampoo and rinse. Blow dryers were considered a vain luxury at my house and it startled me how much volume it gave my hair, and how much better I looked, dried and combed and cleaned.

I put on the bathrobe -- another soft and fluffy extravagance -- and opened the door to find Yvonne smiling and waiting and for me.

"Would you like a soda, Marty? The dryer will take about half an hour."

"Sure," I said.

We sat at the kitchen table and resumed our conversation. She told me things about herself: her anxiety about the move and the isolation of her new home. I explained about the virtues of seclusion and the general breathing space out here. I told her the country could be beautiful and she'd come to love it if she gave it a chance. I didn't mean to, but I found myself admitting how I felt more out-of-place in town, surrounded by people, then on my own in the woods. I had no connection with the other kids my age. This brought the conversation back to me jacking off in the woods.

"You do know there's nothing wrong with masturbating, right?" she asked. "My brothers and I do it all the time."

This was a bomb. I almost choked on my drink.

"You...they...?" I didn't know how to finish the sentence.

She misunderstood me. "Yeah, but they don't live with us anymore. They're all at college out west."

"How many brothers do you have?" I desperately hoped I sounded casual.

"Three. Randy's the oldest. Joe and Zack are twins, they're in the middle. I'm the youngest." She smiled at me, a beautiful, unselfconscious grin. "Mom says she kept trying for a girl."

"I guess she got her wish."

Yvonne shrugged. "I guess."

At the time, I took that to mean that Yvonne was a tomboy, and her mother wanted a more feminine daughter. I was really more interested in the whole beating off thing. I wanted to get back to that.

"So...you and your brothers...masturbate together?"

"Oh yeah. Mom and Dad don't like us talking about it, but they're okay with it."

"Uh...yeah, they're right about not talking about it, your Mom and Dad," I said fervently. "Look, Yvonne, you really don't want to just...admit something like that around here. People around here are muy uptight. They'd freak."

"Are you uptight?"

She had the most inoffensive way of asking penetrating questions. This was already the most meaningful conversation I'd ever had. I didn't mind opening up to her at all, though. Yvonne had that gift.

"No. This place...it's not me."

"You plan on leaving?"

"Oh yeah. After this year. I've got some money saved. And I've been studying my ass off. I should be able to get a scholarship at some college or other. Whoever gives me the best deal. I don't care which one. I can't get the fuck out of here soon enough."

The fervency in my own voice took me aback and I paused, blinked, and tried to get things back on track.

"So...how would you and your brothers...beat off?"

"Oh, you know, we'd get some magazines and stuff, sometimes a DVD, look at them together in one of our rooms. You know."

I didn't know, and that was the problem. I was rabidly curious.


"You know, porn. Naked people. Sexy stories and stuff. Don't you have any porn?"

"Are you kidding?" I blurted out. "If my folks caught me with anything like that..."

I shut up. My family embarrassed me. So did my dearth of sexual experience and sophistication. I liked Yvonne, but I didn't want her to pity me.

"Well," she said carefully, "would you like to see some? My brothers left me a pile."

My heart was pounding loud enough for me to hear it in my ears. "S-sure." I hated that I couldn't keep the stutter out of my voice, but at that point I didn't care.

Yvonne took me upstairs. She had the whole third floor to herself. Most of it was an open rec room deal with old bean bags and posters of bands I'd never heard of on the walls. She even had her own bathroom. I envied her space.

"In here," she said, holding aside the bead curtain to her bedroom area. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I heard an excited little catch in her voice.

It wasn't hidden or anything. There was a milk crate filled with glossy magazines next to her bed and she just hauled it up onto the spread beside her. I sat down next to it and began to rummage.

It was the fucking mother lode. I couldn't believe my eyes. The local stores only had Playboy, and maybe Penthouse. One of the gas stations carried Hustler for a week before they were forced to remove it. Yvonne's crate brimmed with lurid and exotic titles I'd never heard of, and would never see on any of the local magazine racks. My dick was already as rigid as a telephone pole when I lifted out the first magazine. A girl's big round rear end filled the cover, her privates barely concealed by a neon-orange G-string. Bright, jolly lettering arched over her bottom and spelled the magazine's title: Assgasm.

"Randy likes that one," Yvonne said with a fond smile. "He's an ass man." She sat casually, leaning back on her palms with her legs crossed at the knee.

I opened it, and my eyeballs bulged. Holy shit. There were men and women licking, fingering and fucking glistening asses on every page. I had never seen hardcore, and all these good-looking people doing it -- doing it for real -- blew my mind. I was shocked at how big the guys' dicks were, and how the pictures actually showed them penetrating all those wet, pliant anuses. It also took me aback how genuinely beautiful the women were. From the neck up they could have been the models from my Mom's Sears catalogues. They all had fantastic curvy bodies and every photoset had them naked except for a shiny coat of oil. Asses bounced everywhere, and it forced out a laugh of pure delight and disbelief.

Yvonne chuckled with me. "Great, isn't it?" she asked. I could only nod.

I was salivating over one particularly round and sassy butt when I realized there was a glistening ballsack below the pink, attractive anus. It was a guy! In my raging heat it didn't even matter. I realized the guys were feeding my excitement too, with their huge smooth balls and muscular, jutting butts. I turned a page and gulped at the sight of a gorgeous female pushing an enormous greasy dildo up a handsome man's ass. My own anus squirmed, and not unpleasantly.

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