A small town man begins to learn that a little tolerance towards others may not be such a bad thing.

Warning: this story has sexual content of a somewhat explicit nature.

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My name is Thomas, but most folks around here call me Tommy. Seems right, as it’s a name that you might give to a guy who isn’t quite grown up, despite being thirtysome odd years old. My attitudes towards some folks in this little town (and a majority of people outside of it) have been somewhat less than mature. However, that all changed not all that long ago. My head is still reeling from what happened, and I can’t quite figure out how it came to be. All I know is that I have a whole new outlook, and I can’t say that I am sorry about giving up my past views.

I’m probably what most folks would have called a redneck. I’d ride my dirt bike or quad through town at all hours. My friends and I drank and partied at the drop of a hat. We hunted and fished with total disregard to the laws about seasons and quotas. Why should we have cared? The local cops didn’t bother to enforce the rules. Hell, half the time one or the other of them was out there with us, spotlighting deer or shooting from the road.

But being a redneck isn’t just about breaking whatever laws we felt didn’t apply to us, or being a general pain in the ass to our quieter neighbours. It is about attitude. A total intolerance of anyone or anything that is a bit different from what we thought was “right”. Didn’t matter if it was something as minor as wearing the wrong colour of shirt, or something as major as driving the wrong kind of quad or pickup truck. And sexual “abnormalities”? Oh man, we had endless comments and jokes about gays and lesbians and guys who wanted to be girls and vice versa. So, when a “girly-boy” named Francis moved into a house just outside of town, we had enough cannon fodder for hours of entertainment.

Francis was maybe 5’ 9”, thin, and could only be described as pretty. He had long strawberry-blonde hair, and a light coloured skin. There was nothing manly about him; neither in the way he walked (a bit of a hip sway), or the way he talked (quietly, in a fem voice), or the way he dressed. He wore what one of my buddy’s girlfriend’s called ‘blouses’, which usually were in girl colours. He even drove a baby blue Hyundai — a girl’s car, if there ever was one.

Hell, it took us a while to figure out that he was a ‘he’. At first, we thought he was just some flat chested chick. Doc Henderson set us straight on that right quickly, though, when a bunch of us were at the bar one night.

Apparently, Francis had hurt himself one day while chopping wood, and needed medical attention. As the injury was near the groin, he had to drop his drawers. The doc said he nearly went into shock when he saw that Francis had a bigger schlong than he did. “Damn nearly shit a brick, I tell ya. However, I attended to the wound — doctors are sworn to treat anyone that is in pain, even if they are as queer as a three dollar bill. In fact, I’m not even supposed to tell you boys about this, so keep it under your hats, ‘kay?”

We were all laughing at his story, but swore we’d keep our traps shut. Yeah, right — rednecks keeping something like this quiet. It was too good not to tell a few folks. Who told a few other folks. And so on. Pretty soon everyone in town knew what Frances really was.

So, whenever ol’ Fran came to town, they were catcalls, and comments, and jokes, and the occasional joking sexual offer. Some people would cross the street to avoid him, as if he had some disease that they might catch. Some folk openly stared. He was refused service at a few stores, and charged extra “tax” at the grocery store. The one place where he didn’t get any flak was at the bank — apparently the manager there had no problem keeping Francis’ money safe for him. We pressed Bill for details, but he refused to say anything. We figured Francis must be well off — the house he bought was pretty decent, and the guy never seemed to work anywhere.

Still, for all the grief that everyone caused him, he never stopped coming to town to pick up supplies. The grocery store stopped charging him extra. After about a year, folks were starting to leave him be about his business. Some were even saying “good morning”, or actually having a chat with him. The local women were the worst offenders — they would talk to Francis for an hour sometimes. One of our group, Cory, was ashamed to find out that his wife and her friends had gone for coffee with Francis one morning. No amount of threats from Cory would make her stop. In fact, the nervy chick said that she was going to do the same thing next week.

After hearing that, we all decided that enough was enough. Francis had to go, and quickly, before he corrupted the entire town. We needed to send a message to this queer, and we needed to do so right away. So, we hatched a plan, and set it into motion the next night.

A couple guys in our group were pretty good bow hunters. With a bit of work, we turned a few arrows into “fireshots” (think Dukes of Hazzard). The idea was simple — we’d ride up to Francis’ house, and torch his garage, shed, and firewood pile all at the same time. If that didn’t get the message across, we’d have no option but to do the same to his house at a later date.

Four of us rode up the hill to his place on our quads, with our lights out. No problem — we knew the trails like the back of our hands, having ridden them hundreds of times. As we approached his place, we killed the engines and finished approaching on foot. Cory and I acted as lookouts, while George and Frank got into position. There was just enough moonlight for us to see each other. With a last look at the house and surrounding area, Harry signaled the “all clear”. A few seconds later, I did the same from my spot ten feet up a spruce tree. A moment later, I heard the distinctive sound of arrows flying trough the air. They hit their targets, flared up with a bright flame, and then…. fizzled out like matches.

“What the hell?” I whispered to myself. They should have worked — we tested five or six arrows, and they set even wet wood on fire in seconds.

I looked over a Cory, who just shrugged. George and Frank looked equally confused. I signaled them to fire two more. Same effect. I pointed to the house, and signaled them to shoot again. They both hesitated, not sure if they wanted to take the plan to that level so quickly. I signaled again, and whisper-shouted “Just do it!!” They each notched another fireshot, pulled back their bowstrings and let them fly at Francis’ house. Same damn thing — the arrows hit the siding, burst into flame, and then… just went out. Magnesium was not supposed to do that.

I gave the sign that we should leave. We silently stalked quietly towards our quads, all confused by what we had witnessed. When we got to our machines, we started them and headed back towards town, with me being last in line.

About a mile down the road, I was slowly riding around the only switchback when I noticed a very large silhouette on the trail. It took me a second to figure out it was a bull moose, the kind of animal you want to avoid. “How did they not see that?”, I wondered, as I gently nudged the handlebar to the right to avoid it. Not gently enough — I the right side wheels dropped off the edge of the trail, and the quad started to roll. I let go of the bars, and jumped clear to avoid being caught underneath. In doing so, I banged my head on a tree, or a rock, or something equally hard. My vision exploded in a world of stars, and all that I felt was pain.

It was then that I swear I heard a voice say, “And now you get to see the world from another point of view.” Then, thankfully, I blacked out from the agony.

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I came to, walking down a hallway that I didn’t recognize. I tried to stop my steps, and take stock of where I was. I quickly found out that I couldn’t do that — my body kept going.

“Must be a dream”, I thought, as I turned entered a bathroom. My hand turned on a light switch. I took stock of the view in the mirror — an attractive woman in her mid twenties looked back at me. “Okay, this is not a dream — it’s a frickin nightmare!”

The woman took off her robe, and walked closer to the mirror. She ran her fingers through her long black hair. She checked her cute face carefully, for who knows what, and then slowly scanned the rest of her body. Her eyes briefly stopped on her breasts (maybe B cups, but perfectly shaped), and she hefted one in each hand, briefly tweaking her large nipples. It felt incredibly good. I tried to control those hands, to get them to do it again. No luck.

She (I? We?) continued the evaluation. Her belly was taught, and her hips were nicely curved. Her legs were long, and well shaped. Her hands reached down and gently grasped each side of the black satin panties she was wearing. It was like I could feel what she was feeling, and she wasn’t looking forward to this part at all. She pulled them down far enough for them to drop to the floor on their own, and then reached between her legs and pulled out… a penis!! What the hell! Bad enough that I was trapped in this body, but did it have to be the body of a …freak?

I could feel her sorrow and revulsion as she looked at her member. I could hear her sigh, and whisper to herself “Two more weeks. Just two more weeks. Then I will be as complete as they can make me.”

It took me a few seconds to clue in to what she meant. Then it dawned upon me — she was getting it “chopped off”. Geezus — I felt nauseous. This was just getting weirder with every passing second. I really needed to wake up, and get out of this bizarre nightmare. Bad enough that I was stuck here, but to not have any control over her (his?) actions. This was just too much.

She walked over to the shower, and turned the water on. After checking the temperature, she stepped in, and pulled a shower cap over her hair. She began to wash herself. I have to admit, despite my fear, the physical sensations were incredible. Her skin was amazingly sensitive, and she seemed to be intent on giving herself a lot of pleasure. Her penis, while being quite small, eventually became erect. She stroked it with one hand, although I could feel that she was not pleased with having to resort to that. Her other hand wandered over her nipples and breasts and occasionally her ass cheeks.

Then, she reached over to the shower caddy. Hidden behind the shampoo and gawd only knows all what else women keep in a shower was… a purple dildo. My fear returned, more so than ever. Once again, I tried to stop this body, and once more, I failed to exert any influence. “Oh please,” I begged in my thoughts, “not that! Anything but that!”

She ignored my protests, and carried on. She opened a small bottle of something, put a small amount on the head of the dildo, and then replaced the bottle. She bent over as much as she could in the shower, and slowly penetrated her rectum with the toy cock. I was hyperventilating in my mind. I’d never stuck anything up there, and even avoided going for check ups because I feared the rectal exam so much.

Still, there was no stopping her. As the dildo entered, her level of excitement increased. For each additional inch that was buried in her, she felt more and more aroused. Soon, it was in right to the hilt. She held it in place for a few long seconds, feeling… fulfilled, I guess. My personal revulsion was being overridden by her emotions and the physical sensations.

Then, she started to let the dildo slide out of her on its own. Just when it was going to pop out, though, she thrust it back in. She repeated this a few times, moaning softly. Then she began rhythmically moving the dildo in and out her ass. She occasionally moved it from side to side, and back to front. The pleasure she was feeling (and that I was therefore feeling) increased. My nausea at being anally violated was diminishing by the second, being replaced by new and incredible sensations. Even if I was suddenly allowed to control her body, I don’t know if I would have (or could have) stopped.

The hand that was stroking her cock had since moved to her breasts, which she massaged expertly. It was amazing how good it felt. She was getting weak in the knees, and I knew that she was going to have to finish pretty soon, or risk not having the strength to step out of the shower. It was then that she sent herself to even further heights of ecstasy. She started moaning out a name. “Marc”, she whispered, “Oh, yeah, Marc! Fuck me hard!”

Her lust for the man was apparent — as her climax was approaching that much faster. I couldn’t read her thoughts or see who she was thinking about, which was probably a good thing. I tuned out her increasingly loud cries for her lover as best as I could, and tried to focus on the physical sensations. My gawd, any sex I had ever had paled in comparison to what she was feeling. The pleasure intensified so much that it was amazing that she could still remain on her feet.

Finally, with one last “Oh, Marc!” which should have disturbed neighbours two blocks away, she came. It went on and on and on, burning through her and me, for what seemed like hours. It was pleasure that I didn’t think was possible to experience, in any of my wildest dreams.

She sagged against the shower wall, kneeling on the wet floor. After a few minutes, she regained enough strength to pull herself into a standing position. She rinsed off her body and washed her toy, putting it back behind the shampoo bottles. She then stepped out of the shower, and patted herself dry with a fluffy towel. Pulling the cap off and hanging it in the shower, she then walked into the hallway. She entered a bedroom, and looked at the clock on the nightstand.

“Only 7:30 a.m.?” she said quietly, “I have plenty of time. Might as well grab a quick nap.” And with that, she climbed under the covers and quickly fell asleep. As her consciousness fled, so did mine. Just before it did, I heard the voice from my quad accident, saying “This was a pleasant episode. The next sequence may not be so pretty.”