The Wrong Side of the Tracks

This is a sequel of sorts of "Futa Goo." While it stands alone, the tie in at the end may be of interest to those who enjoyed Futa Goo. All characters in this tale are adults.

Few people gave much mind to the three or so blocks of squalor that lay just west of the main line railroad adjacent to the stream bisecting the town. The area was seedy; the homes decrepit, with front porches that sagged from rot and siding that had not seen paint in thirty years. Each and every administration that had taken control of the city mayor's office promised to clean the area up. The entire area seemed to resist change, as if it were a living entity unto itself.

If one were so inclined to think this way, one might think that the entire area had some sort of repellant charm that kept everyone out. Citizens of the city would not transverse the area using the central road predictably called Central Avenue; despite it being an additional half-mile and encountering three extra light-protected intersections, practically no one even gave a thought to driving down Central. Like if they did, they would catch a disease or be incarcerated in that area of town, never to be heard from again.

It was a small area that time just seemed to forget. The locals all worried about it every four years during elections because the challenger to the incumbent would always raise hell over that desiccated stretch. The incumbent would thump his or her fist on the podium and blame City Council. In the outlying districts, the City Council politicians would thump their fists and blame the Mayor (the inept mayor if he or she was from the other party). With a solid foundation of circular finger-pointing in place, the wrong side of the tracks never changed.

***

"Fuck," I said tiredly. In a deep valley with a cold-water stream rushing alongside the road, all I knew for sure was that I had no way out of that deep valley except through yet another grueling climb. This was the thirteenth day of my planned twenty-one day biking trip that was going to put over one thousand miles on my bike when it was all said and done.

The problem today was that it dawned cool for summer and definitely rainy, and then the winds preceded the arrival of the cold front, and that same cold front had dumped flood-creating quantities of water on the land. That stream to my right was now a frothing boil of chocolate milk water, looking decidedly lethal if a human dared even dip a toe into that cauldron.

There was some dumpy-ass little town up ahead that held little in the way of interest for me, except that using that road while adding about twenty miles overall to my day's planned end point would cut out at least two major climbs. It had to be the cold; my legs were well attuned to biking through tough climbs but I had no intention of taking the shorter and more grueling route. I felt sapped of strength.

Hence the oath.

The chill in the air sank into my body and bones, and I felt forced to get back in the saddle. My legs did their usual protest until the muscles relaxed and got back up to speed and the exertion restored my core temperatures. The ride was very pretty, if rugged; there were few cars and those who did pass me at least gave me a wide berth.

My cellular-based map would freeze for long minutes while I rode through a dead zone, then go crazy trying to catch me back up to my current location. I started seeing road signs, and mileage notes as to the distance to this town. I did not ride any faster or harder, though I felt a sense of relief that I was getting closer. My gut gnawed at me, demanding sustenance. I'd started riding an hour earlier than usual and had less than usual for breakfast; the lunch was going to be a big one, heavy on fuels for the afternoon portion of my trip.

Finally, the steep valley gave way to a slightly broader one, and from the rise I was on, I could look down into the town proper. I saw that on the left side of the stream and railroad tracks what looked like your standard town. The buildings, typical of this part of a more rural area of the country, were cold, gray stone. On the right side of the tracks, the buildings looked even worse. The curiousness of the split of the town did not remain in my mind; all that was on my mind was food.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in a booth that featured cracked, green vinyl and springs in the cushions that had gone soft decades earlier. The coffee I had ordered was presented in a cup that was so permanently stained from use that sandblasting would not have restored its original pearly white color. The air was thick with grease and the lighting cast a slightly yellow pallor around the diner. And yet, it was packed. Conversations bubbled around me; mostly it had to do with the vicious storms that had passed through earlier that day.

Not unusually, I was a curiosity for the locals. It wasn't often that a skinny, ropy-muscled bicyclist chose their town through which to pass. I was wearing the skin-tight lycra clothing that made for more comfortable riding, and anyone who looked outside could see my pannier-laden bike locked up carefully. I ignored the locals for the most part; I'd done this sort of thing before and had lunched at places like this. I was an outsider, and outsiders were treated with casual distrust.

The food came and it was good. Not great, certainly not something worthy of even three stars on a Yelp review. But it was good, and tasty and though the air smelled of grease, this was not overly so. I ate slowly, chewing deliberately. I let the taste hit my tongue and the food fill my belly. While the hot coffee had started the purge of the inner chill left over from riding in imperfect elements, the good food completed that process. I felt my vitality restored.

I consulted my map system while waiting to get the check. I saw that the most direct route was to go through that Central Avenue. Okay, I thought. I paid the bill and walked to my bike. No one paid much attention to me. That was fine. I got on my bike and got to the big intersection in the center of town. Not a car was turning right; no cars were coming into the town from that Central Avenue. I looked right and left, and rotated the pedals and pushed forward over the road that spanned the rushing stream and the main line railroad. I peered ahead, looking at the decrepit buildings, and shook my head.

"Some city planning," I said aloud as I passed over the tracks and entered the wrong side of the tracks.

There was absolutely no reason for me to make the second left and go down Second Street. None. But it was as if a hand had rested on my lower back, and gripped my left wrist gently and turned the handlebars so that I rode down Second Street. The road was exceptionally poorly paved, with cracks traversing the width of the road in existence long enough for grass to begin growing in them, and potholes that were I to hit one on my bike, I would be kissing the pavement with my face a moment later.

There was even less reason for me to apply the brakes in front of a house on the left that was easily the largest on this street. No reason for me to hop off of my bike and lean it against a rusted metal fence that guarded a front yard that had not been mowed any time in the last decade. There was no reason for me to walk through the gate that should have shrieked in rusty protest but which swung inwardly easily.

I should have been terrified. My heart should have been thudding in my chest. I should have been experiencing an adrenaline dump that would send me fleeing to my bike and pedaling as fast as I could, putting this horrific place behind me.

I had never felt so calm. Nor had I ever felt so serene. The past three years of my life had been turbulent, to say the least. Orphaned when my parents died young. My ex-wife choosing to divorce me for a hotshot doctor with a big cock. Me losing my job, and then losing another. The marital debts falling to me. The bankruptcy. I had thought once or twice about suicide but it was never really a serious thought. More like an intrusive thought that hit during the depths of despair. The only thing that had kept me going was riding my bike; for some reason, the only time I felt well and truly at peace was while I was in the saddle, and riding. And it was the only thing that I managed to retain as my life crumbled all around me.

This should have put me into the same black mental state under which I had lived for the past three years. Yet as I walked past the grasses knotted in age, and tread up the rotted steps, somehow I knew to stay to the left because nothing would support weight any longer on the right. It was if that door that was easily ten feet tall entering into a house built hundreds of years ago had opened up for me, without me having to knock. And I never, ever entered a place without announcing my presence; I stepped into the house already knowing that my presence was announced.

The door closed behind me with a solid thud. Why I knew that the door was suddenly sealed shut, in fact the entire house was sealed shut not permitting entrance or egress was beyond me, but I knew it. And like so many other things that should have happened, that knowledge should have terrified me. Instead, it provided comfort.

She walked out.

"My god," I said aloud.

Her lips, painted red but dark like blood, not bright like a fire engine, twitched then formed a smile. "You know me," she stated. Her voice was high on the register, soft, which was just another thing about her that made no sense. She stood what, six-six? She weighed what, two-fifty? I knew for a fact that fifty of her pounds were in that chest. Thick, broad, impressive and utterly imposing, this was the biggest-breasted woman that I had ever seen. Yet on that frame, anything less than those breasts would have been flatly wrong.

I swallowed. "You've only been in my dreams every night for the past three years," I told her.

"Oh?" she asked with some surprise, and definite interest. "If you know me, what is my name?" she trilled quietly.

"You are N'rith," I stated. "But you prefer Nara," I told her.

"And you are Warren," she said as she stepped forward. "And you are expected," she smiled warmly. Her hands extended. "Do you see?" she asked.

My hands went to hers automatically. I was struck by a physical force of warmth - not heat. But a golden-glow warmth that filled me, from my big toe to the last follicle of hair on my head.

"Ah," she said as if final confirmation was received. "We are happy to have you join us, Warren," Nara told me.

"Us?" I asked. I had never before dreamed of anything but her.

She smiled. "Our clan."

"You live here?" I asked; the memory of the squalor remained strong in my memory.

Her smile was sly. "You will see," she assured me.

It had gotten to the point where those nights that I did NOT dream of her felt empty. It had always been this moment. This tall, regal beauty with dark red lips and a long, flowing dress that clung to her massive cleavage and hugged her narrow waist came out from the kitchen. She would smile, and walk towards me. Sometimes I heard the dialogue, but not always. I always remembered the almost alabaster tones of her skin, so white against the deep black of her dress. How her beauty was beyond anything that I could imagine calling my own.

I had started thinking of her as the Queen. My dreams never went beyond meeting this Queen, in this very foyer. I had never envisioned how I would get there. I had never envisioned walking into the home. I only ever saw me standing there, realizing first that the home itself was sealed from the outside and also to prevent escape from the inside. Then she would present herself, the blood red lips and the black dress and the massive cleavage and thick, wavy hair. We would exchange names, and how she had expected me and how I knew that upon placing my hands in hers that I would feel that rush of warmth.

The dream had always ended precisely there, at that moment of the transfer of heat from her to me.

Each and every morning I woke from that dream - which over the past year had been practically nightly - I was compelled to masturbate to orgasm. I simply did not understand why, and after a while it became so predictable that I no longer felt any curiosity about that obsession.

The only thing that stopped both the dream and the morning masturbation was riding by bike. The thought now occurred to me, that did I ride my bike to escape whatever lie in wait for me? Was I doomed?

And it further occurred to me, that since the start of this particular ride, that although she had come to me, I had not awakened in the morning with any compulsion to masturbate. Why had I not thought of that? After spanking it in the shower nearly daily for a year, the past two weeks or so I've not as much as reached down to adjust my balls in my pants, let alone take my shaft into my hand and stroke myself.

"Will you follow?" she asked.

I looked up, shaken from my realizations. "What will happen to me?" I asked.

"That is up to you," she told me. Her smile bewitched me. "We do not keep prisoners," she stated.

I frowned. Meaning? But such doubts were not spoken. "I will follow," I told her.

Her hand outstretched again; I was hit by a hard sense of deja vu. This...this moment. This I had seen. Not often. But I had. And my hand slid into hers and she squeezed, and it was not painful but protective.

She began walking. I followed. The skirts flowed smoothly around her legs; she must have worn heels given how each step created a sharp clack on the smooth wooden floors. We walked. The house, from the sky, was what, forty feet deep? We walked, my hand in hers, for a solid five minutes.

It was a shimmer at first. Then slowly it came into focus. We walked, the smooth wood floors, the steady clack of her heel on the floor. The door was red, smooth, utterly without markings. We came to a wall that was otherwise golden, also without markings. A smooth wall going forever up and to the sides, this red door a portal to...another dimension?

Yet I knew what I had to do. I squeezed her hand, and looked at her. Her magnificent head turned to me, and her eyes glittered with anticipation, and she nodded with affirmation as I held my hand out, my fingers splayed. With unerring accuracy I put my hand to the invisible lock, and the red door turned to mist. It was gone, and I was not sure whether there was pure darkness or pure light beyond.

We took two steps forward, hand in hand, through that portal.

***

"Oh," I said as I pressed the heel of my hand to my right eye. There was a throbbing pain there, a horrible agony that immediately upon waking, forced me into a series of dry heaves. I had never been as badly hungover. The excess of consumption distorted the passage a time, a minute being a day as I dealt with this pain. But time passed as I lived through that agony, coughing with the worst aftertaste in my mouth. But the pain, slowly but steadily, abated.

I felt weak. I did not want to sit up. There was no compulsion to sit up; I did not feel forced to. No, I wanted to. I sat up.

The bed in which I slept was an antique; a four-poster bed with the posts so darkened with varnish that they were nearly black. The quilt was some off-white color, an intricate pattern of pink and red roses woven deftly throughout the top. The sheets were the most sheer, delightful sheets I had ever felt on my naked body, and my vision slowly swam into focus.

There was a mirror at the foot of my bed. I stared at it. My head turned to the right and I saw my Queen standing there. She was nude. My vision went back to the mirror and I stared.

"This is the moment of truth, W'rya," she said softly. "I know that you know what you must do. I will leave you to it, to allow you to decide," she said. My eyes swung back to her, and I watched her walk off, turning a corner and disappearing. Her nude body in motion was grace personified, sexuality conceived in person. My eyes swung back to the mirror, and I slowly let the sheets fall from my body. I already knew what I was going to see.

***

There were eight chairs, seven of which were taken. The center one, the one with the tallest back, was unoccupied. In the center of the circle of chairs was a thick cushion.

Seven pairs of eyes took me in. I saw a measuring of me. An excitement, in some. One was fidgeting unconsciously in her seat.

Seven women. Any one of whom I would have stated that, in my opinion, she was the most gorgeous woman on earth. Her body would have been perfect to me. Her looks, divine. One was blonde, with glasses. Another sported the thickest, curliest head of red hair that I'd ever seen in person, and somehow it went perfectly with her green eyes that sparkled. Her skin was pale and her emerald green dress the only choice for her to ever wear. The next one with dark chocolate skin that seemed to glimmer. White, brown, black, pale. Red, blonde and brunette hair. With a hand signal, all seven stood and then Nala walked to her space in the center, and palm-up offered me to take my place in the center.

Outside of the ring, I bent and untied the biking shoes that I still wore. I peeled the socks from my feet, the veins on the top of my feet rising through the thin layer of skin. The floor was not cold. I stood erect and walked through and took my place in the center. Kneeling.

Wordlessly, Nala held her arms out and stepped forward; each of them did the same until there was an unending circle, hand to hand, woman to woman. Thusly connected, all eight of them suddenly unleashed great cries, the sounds of sexual ecstasy that we men could only hope to foster in our women. As they cried out, their dresses fell or perhaps dissolved away.

Plump thighs. Thick, full breasts. Nipples engorged and one and only one, Nala's one herself, tipped with a single droplet of milk. Cocks. Enormous cocks that even flaccid hung down nearly to mid-thigh. Not a one was erect. Futa.

Nala spoke softly. "Warren has come to us, purged of all of his earthly desires and human wants. He has been discarded, as we were once discarded. He has been cast into despair, and through stubborn determination, has emerged unscathed. He has no ties to the earthy world. When he left upon this journey that brings him here, to us, he told no one person. In fact, Warren did not even pay his rent," she said, pausing to let that item of significance settle into me. "His parents are gone. He has no siblings. Both of his parents were only children. They were the only children, of only children. As it has been written, the third such in a line is one that we may find."

Her words were somber, imparting the significance of this.

"We have visited him, in his mind, during his slumber. We know what he is capable of being."

There was a soft murmur of assent at this. For my benefit?

As for me, I was rapt; I had not thought of any of this. And yet, she was not entirely wrong in her interpretation of these past three years.

"But as you know, we have chosen this clan. Though we were found, we chose this path." Nala's words hung heavily in the air.

"Warren, you may rise," Nala commanded me.

I stood, feeling foolish. I was skinny, standing roughly five-ten. My wife before she had left me for the big cocked doctor had impugned my size. I was a grower, when erect I was five inches long. But flaccid, my cock would often be only an inch or so in length. There were times when I had to be careful when urinating, for failing to hold myself in the proper fashion meant that I would literally piss on my balls. I was not anything or anyone special. My parents had drilled that into my head my entire life. My ex-wife had added that final nail when she dumped me for the doctor; I don't even recall what it was that had originally attracted her to me.