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“I made a wish, and the futa-fairy answered it.”“A...fairy?” I couldn't keep my skepticism out of my words. “Like from Sleeping Beauty or something?”“Or more like from a Midsummer's Night Dream,” Dr. Rita moaned. “Her name is Leanan Sidhe, and she made me into a hermaphrodite. What she called a futanari. She gave me a clit that turns into a cock between sunset and sunrise. And my cum heals anyone who touches it. It's why my daughter's is fluffing my cock in case an emergency comes in. Then I can have my futa-dick ready to go.”“So you're claiming to have magical cum that heals anyone?” I didn't hide my doubt. This was ridiculous. She worked at a real hospital and said this BS. And yet she had that big, beautiful, ebony shaft buried in her daughter's hungry mouth.I licked my lips, my nipples aching in my bra.“Not claiming. I do heal people. There are plenty of people I've helped.” She shifted. “We do keep a stockpile of my futa-jizz on hand, able to be administered to any patient,. Can I touch it, Adam? as one, both their voices rang-out in with a sing-song quality. I turned and looked at my dad. Id never seen such a huge grin on his face and he nodded. So I nodded. Two soft hands gripped my hard dick and started feeling all over it. I cried-out and jumped-back. Joe and Marie both jumped-back too, sitting quickly back on the bed. I heard Dad chuckling a bit louder. That was close, wasnt it son? Dad asked under his chuckle. I tell you want, let me help out a bit. And with that, he told Marie to lay-down on the bed and, saying that since Id already played-around with another boy, he told Joe to go sit in a chair. Ok, Adam, and the big grin was still there, Hop up on the bed with her and do whatever you want. If you want to kiss her again, do it. If you want to touch her, touch her. My only advise is to try and keep your dick from touching her for a while. The longer you can go without blowing your wad, the better its gonna be. So I kissed Marie again. I leaned.
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Evelyn’s curse was due, and it was always heavy. And no sooner should she be clear than my diary told me I would be starting. All we could do was wait and be patient. *************************** In the end, it was several weeks of frustration, until opportunity arose from an unexpected quarter. One of the major orchestras had recruited the latest heart-throb conductor, a thirty-year-old Pole with a lock of dark hair that fell across his forehead to be tossed back dramatically whenever he was summoning a fortissimo from the brass. He had been hired for a cycle of the Beethoven symphonies; our chorus were required for the finale of the Ninth. At rehearsal, the wonder boy wasn’t happy. His problem was with our contribution to the last movement. He put down his baton, leaned on the podium and surveyed us, flopping lock, dark eyes sweeping along our rows. “Listen,” he said, “I know you can sing the notes. So why do you give me no passion? All the pictures we see of Ludwig make him look.

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