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She That Is He By Chidi Emmanuel Chinonso

POSTED 05/16/2018 15:07:13
2699 Reads She That Is He By Chidi Emmanuel Chinonso, story on Tushstories
Distinct wafts of perfectly blended scents from a grave-worth collection of body-care products; Mom's splendid choice, zoom into the petite nostrils of my nasal orifice, my pupils dilate instantaneously to regulate the rude rays of light fucking into my eyes from the dazzling walls of my crystalized e-bathroom as I trudge in without footwear. It had been a long day in which all I had to do was sit and ensure that those workers at Mom's boutique, whose wild misbehavior came in random spates, did things right.
At forty and oozing thorough intellectual plus physical pulchritude, Mom is propped on ambition's sure chair and coursing the aerial dimensions of business advance. Given her strict business principles, I sometimes wonder how she came about having such lousy bunch with fine faces and no tact for workers, folks who had to be pulled like puppets to effectively persecute a task. I didn't have to wonder for long; Mom is humane to a fault! Aside the shrewd interface with which she floats her bloated business, Mom has another side. A lighter side that actually reeks of philanthropy and altruism.
At very regular intervals per year, she would vie into rural communities to harvest young, idle and willing young people, then she would sponsor whatever skill acquisition or educational goals they have. She retains some to work in her vast, diversified business and help the rest to wed gainful employment. Those who happen to work at the Kubwa branch of Mom's boutique are just a bad pick, lack professionalism and misbehave so annoyingly that you literally feel your life span drain as you shout your guts out on them. Sadly, they act very normal when Mom is around.
My name is Tugress, a certified Business administrator and I'm Mom's only child, she was artificially inseminated to have me 20 years old. She doesn't want a husband because, according to her, her dreams are too big to chunk attention from. And it is wicked to gift only a part of your time to anything you claim to cherish...but that is exactly what she does to me!
All the while as she trots the globe, I have to make do with managing her boutique in boring Kubwa where we live and occupying the palatial two storied edifice of our home. Mom would hear nothing of letting me find a worthier and more engaging job, she'd rather have me writhe in inertia and sniff the awe-inspiring aura of her banked billions which is of course, my unalienable inheritance.
Mom isn't usually around to share my thoughts, was never around to calmly smash the ephemeral heads of my childish fears, whims or rinse the first crimson stains of menstruation from my underwear. I had others, those she provided but who can never replace her, do my bidding. Because I feel different and deeply insecure, I have no friends.
Glistering, inviting and terribly soothing is the romantic language of my drenched bath-tub but I ain't gonna rush it. I shudder to upset the balance of my lingerie's thread-like hook and it very reluctantly gives way, like the labored limp of a wounded cat. I tap a queer-shaped button that slip the door's latch into place, then gradually disengage my nude feet from the amorphous heap of my divorced cladding. I square my shoulders and walk to the bath, stark naked, the same way only queens do.
I lift and incline my right foot like one afraid to test the waters, resting it delicately on the bath's beautiful contour while I let a finger brush an imaginary speck of dirt from my full laps to the part that is conventionally ascribed to Achilles. A spray of breath is lightly exhaled and like the poised bow of the Greek legend my nipples toughen up in silent haste, slightly swaying my voluptuous breasts in the process.
I depress another button by the bath's side that quickly mutate the harsh white light into a blue, twirling one. "All I Can Be" by Steve Dachuq filter into my ears from unseen outlets, urging me into the pond and my world of Fantasy. I hiss through clenched teeth as my aroused body adjust to the nerve-easing heat of the mini pond.
Two fingers peep into the slurpy mounds of my vulva, initiating a tremble that kick off at the posterior end of my spine and spread to the rest of my being. In spite of my head thrown back, eyes that tightly shut out every distraction et al, I know that I can't attain fulfillment without tending to an erect oddity; my penis!
Yes, I don't just have a penis, I have a 4-inch (when flaccid), very dense and meaty one. As a child, I'd envisaged how, when and even where I'd get fused in conjugal addition to some rich prince with broad shoulders that could pillar the world, height like the good ol' Methusaleh's days, toe-curling notes for a voice and a pair of eyes that challenge the sun's glow but that isn't to be.
I wasn't born 'mixed', it all began at 13. A stump had begun to grow just above my pussy, I was alarmed and afraid but it didn't stop. Mom doesn't know and I can't bring myself to tell her or anyone. She doesn't care. No one does. I yearn for love from a man, any man most times. And at other times, my penis needs a pussy that isn't mine. Several times a day, male and female hormones of need will surge through me, sentencing me to a term of wanton wanking once I get home.
Mom comes home periodically to meet a cheerful face and pseudo smiles from her beautiful yet restless 'daughter.'
Though beleagued I don't want to hurt Momma. This is my life, but it's the life I don't wanna live.
I'm s/he that will never completely be a s/he.
The end.

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