Chapter 2: Futa’s First English Delight

April 17th, 2047

Adelia played the clip. It appeared on a large screen on the side of her studio. The audience grew hushed as the Sky News logo appeared with a reporter, a brown-skinned man with a close-shaved beard and, I supposed, a chiseled chin.

“Prime Minister Lockwood had a few bold words to say about the ingratiation of President Becky Woodward today,” he said in that posh, British accent. It gave him more of an authoritative tone. “She was speaking before parliament in the wake of the first ever election of a futanari—the world’s first futanari—to the highest office in the United States.”

The screen cut to Phillipa Lockwood. She looked not much different then she did when I saw her yesterday, her face a little younger, her lips a little fuller. She stood before a podium in a gray pantsuit, a pink scarf about her neck giving a spot of color to her. She stood tall, her blonde hair pulled back into a bun.

“I am announcing before parliament and our mighty nation, that I will not be a doxy for the lusts of the American’s new president.” Her blue eyes flashed from right to left as she surveyed the crowd behind the camera, her diction precise. “I will not be her whore. If she thinks she will conduct diplomacy between the U.S. and the U.K. in the bedroom, then she is sorely mistaken. Now, all women are driven into a state of an amplified sex drive, eager to be a slattern for the sex-starved hussy whom the Americans have chosen for their leader.”

I arched an eyebrow. Even now, my blood boiled.

“To prevent myself from being a slave to my uterus, I am taking an experimental drug to suppress my sex drive. For so long as she is in office, I will be immune to the whorish lusts she inspires in other women. She will have to negotiate with me honestly like adults, not like a pair of sex-mad students pawing each other in the back of their parents’ Ford Prefect!

“I will show Becky Woodward how a female leader conducts herself. Not as a whore, but a person with self-worth!”

“Bold words from our prime minister,” the anchor said, the feed cutting back to him. “Now we go to—”

The footage ended.

Adelia turned to me, her caramel face looking serious. I shifted in the seat, my heart pounding. “Bold words indeed.”

“Yes, to think she believes a woman who enjoys the pleasures of her body has no self-worth.” I smiled. “I had to educate her. I spoke with my advisers, and we devised the perfect away to deal with her. Christina researched the drug while Bethany and Danielle came up with our attack plan.

“I would show her that being a whore was a wonderful thing in the world while her entire country watched on.”

“You never did put up with BS,” Adelia said, a smile growing on her lips.

“Not even from America’s greatest ally.”

January 29th, 2037

“The arrangements are finalized, Mom,” Bethany said as my limo drove us through the streets of London past the cheering crowds lining the sidewalks. Many held American flags, waving them alongside the U.K.’s banner. Others held up pictures of me or signs showing their support of me and condemnation of their prime minister.

“These have plenty of worth!” a woman had written across her large, pillowy breasts. She shook them at me as we passed, violating the decency laws of her country.

“Good, good,” I said, smiling at Bethany.

My daughters were all in the limo with me, my core team. They were joined by my intern Jen, her engagement ring glinting on her finger. I couldn’t wait for her wedding to my daughter Lola.

“And she was amendable?” I asked.

“More than amendable,” Bethany answered.

Danielle, her sandy-blonde hair spilling in a wild splash down the right side of her head, gave a wicked smirk. “Oh, she sounded like she was gagging for this. I don’t think she’s happy one bit with Lockwood’s decision.”

“I know I wouldn’t be,” Leah, my press secretary, said. “I hope this works, Mom, or it will be quite the embarrassment.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“This will work, Mom,” Christina said, pushing up her glasses. Even though she was only Chris’s adopted daughter, not his biological one, she had picked up so many of the nerdy guy’s mannerisms. I was glad he was a wonderful father to my daughter. “All the literature says this will do it.”

“Good, good,” I said.

“Did you go over the comments I prepared,” Lola asked. She was my speech writer.

“I did. There’s one I am really hoping to use. The uterus one.”

Lola beamed at me. My eldest daughter, though only by a few hours, had skill as an author. Though eighteen, she was a brilliant girl. They all were. I was the luckiest person to have so many wonderful daughters. And this was just a small fraction of them. There were so many more out in the world.

Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. And they were coming of age. Glory Olson announced she was pregnant right before I left, and she married on my daughters back in August. I didn’t feel any where near old enough to be a grandmother.

I was only thirty-seven and still hot. I didn’t have wrinkles or any gray to my hair. It was still my natural blonde.

“Okay, we’re getting close,” Rebecca said. She was my chief of staff, the daughter who did the organizing. “You can do this, Mom.”

“Oh, yes, you can,” Bethany said. She kept up morale. She nodded her head, her face beaming with joy.

Jen giggled. “You do got this, Mom.”

“Mom?” I asked her.

She blushed and cuddled up to Lola. “Well, in a few months you’ll be my mother-in-law.”

I smiled at her. “I can’t wait. You’ll be so beautiful in white.”

“We both will,” Jen said, squirming against Lola.

The cheers grew louder and louder. I was meeting the Prime Minister in Trafalgar Square before a huge audience. I glanced out the windows, smiling as a young man flipped up the blouse of the woman with him. He held a sign in his other hand that said, “Breed my wife, Madam president.”

They were a lovely pair of breasts. I wish I could. But I had to meet with Phillipa Lockwood and deal with her attitude problem. She had to understand that I would unite us one way or another. After today, America and United Kingdoms would be as close as two nations could be. She would have my baby, binding us together.

The first step towards my dream of a united earth. Everyone happy and loving and living in peace.

Police held back the crowds of enthusiastic young women. They were more women. Topless, eighteen-year-old girls with firm, young breasts who were standing next to hot, mature cougars shaking their pillowy mounds at me. Despite the January chill, a plethora of tits flashed at me, nipples hard.

I groaned as we passed a block of girls all flashing their asses at me, their pussies shaved, peeking between their thighs. They wiggled them at my limo. A few had words written on their butt-cheeks: “Fuck me here, Becky!” and “Breed my pussy, Madam President!”

“I wish I could,” I groaned, my girl-dick so hard.

“Uh-huh,” Danielle moaned, her face pressed against the window. “Damn, they are friendly here in England. We’re going to get so much pussy, Bethany.”

“So much,” Bethany moaned.

Even Christina let out a whimpering moan of eager delight.

The police escort brought us around the square. It was full of people. A sea of supporters. A cheer rose through them. It thundered around my limo. I straightened, beaming in delight. I loved it. All these shining faces. They weren’t my responsibility, technically, but I wanted to make a future bright for the English as well as for my fellow Americans.

Finally, the limo reached the end of the square, passing through a cordon of British police wearing their florescent vests, their bobby caps on their heads. They looked gentler than the police back in the States, not as tough or ferocious.

A secret service agent named George opened my limo, a tall man, shoulders broad, body thick with muscles. He had an ear piece and RayBan sunglasses on in addition to his cheap suit. He nodded to me, holding out his hand.

I took it, stepping out in my tight pencil skirt and low-cut, pink blouse. The crowd’s thundering cheers swept around me, embracing me like a lover. I shivered as I mounted the stage to where Phillipa Lockwood waited, her face tight. She wore a red-brown pantsuit today, her hair in that tight bun, making her look even older.

Though her face was still smooth and lovely. She was young to be a prime minister, two or three years my junior.

Warmth billowed up around me. The stage floor was heated, keeping the area safe from the frigid January that gripped the rest of the city. Those women flashing their tits and pussies at me were brave. I loved this technology. It meant I could have my fun in public and not worry about my cock being too cold to get hard.

And that would spoil all my fun.

I sauntered across the heated stage, smiling and waving to the crowd. Women pressed on the cordon of police, screeching in delight like I was one of the Beatles and not a politician. I shivered, my futa-cock tenting the front of my skirt. I paused, blowing them a set of kisses.

Phillipa’s jaw set.

I reached her a few steps later. “Madam President,” she said, extending her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Not yet it’s not,” I said, giving her a wink while taking her hand, feeling her delicate fingers.

They were cold. I studied her. She had not a hit of lust to her. Her cheeks didn’t go pink. Her eyes weren’t dilated. Her body didn’t shudder. Her nipples weren’t dimpling the white blouse she wore beneath her blazer. The medicine worked.

For now.

“There won’t ever be the sort of pleasure you’re insinuating,” she said, her voice low. She was smiling like she wasn’t as angry as a nest of wasps who just got stepped on. “I won’t be a slattern with you.”

“Well, that’s fine,” I said. I turned to the microphones set up. The cameras were rolling. “Thank you, thank you for your warm, and even naughty, welcome.”

A squeal raced up from the women pressing on the cops. A few flashed their tits at me, crying out for me to breed them. Their arms were outstretched, fingers twitching as they bounced and jiggled. Some of them were my age. Older.

“Your prime minister has made it quite clear that she won’t be my slut.”

A great boo rumbled from the crowd. Phillipa bristled beside me.

“And that’s okay,” I said, glancing at her. “You can keep your uterus free of my seed. I don’t enslave anyone. I want people to voluntarily unite with me. To come together with me and love me as we build something new. Something fresh.

“People like your wife, Phillipa.”

Phillipa blinked. Her forehead furrowed.

“I know the U.K. is proud to have their first lesbian prime minister,” I said, pausing as a cheer burst through the crowd. “However, Phillipa’s lovely wife, Maurice, is not happy at all having a frigid woman in her bed. No sex drive for Phillipa means no sex for the poor woman either.”

“What are you doing?” Phillipa demanded, her face tight.

“Why, just telling them about how your decision impacts the person you love,” I said. I shook my head. “No sex for the next four years at least? Maybe eight if I win re-election. That’s a cruel thing to do to your wife.”

“She’s fine with it.”

“Is she?” I asked her, feeling the crowd watching in rapt attention. What did they think was happening up here? A soap opera playing out for them live? “Or is she frustrated with you for making the decision for her.”

“We made it together,” she said. “What are you doing? This should at least be held in private, not before the entire world.”

“But shouldn’t the world know that your wife wants to be bred by me?” I asked. “That she’s desperate to have a daughter. A daughter from a woman.”

“Stop this!” Phillipa snapped. “My wife is a private citizen. She’s not a part of any politics. You can’t do this.”

“Surely you watched the debates,” I said, my futa-dick throbbing. “Surely you understand that this is how I conduct diplomacy. After all, it’s why you took that foolish pill and killed all the passion in your life.

“And that’s sad, because you could be sharing that passion with me. With your wife. You could join in the fun.”

“Fun?” Her eyes narrowed. “What fun.”

My fingers seized the fabric of my tight skirt and drew it up my thighs. I exposed more and more of my flesh. A moan rose from the women up front. It rose with my skirt in pitch, becoming more and more feverish until I unveiled my red-white-and-blue panties to the world, my cock cradled in them, hard and erect.

Feminine moans surged over me. The police fought to keep the horde of horny women at bay while I faced the British prime minister. Her eyes flicked down then back up. Not a hint of lust in them. Not a lick of her lips. Even women who were infertile felt something even if they didn’t go in heat.

This drug was impressive. What if Christina was wrong?

“I already told you, my uterus won’t be a slave to your futa-seed.” She smiled at the cameras. “But show the world how you act, President Woodard. Let them all see how your nothing more than a slag with a huge cock aching to fuck. You have no self-control at all.”

“Oh, I have self-control,” I said, itching to slap her face. “But I don’t see the need to deny myself my pleasures.”

I shoved my panties down. My futa-cock popped out, bouncing and throbbing before me. The women shrieked. A tidal wave of passionate need washed over me. My girl-dick twitched to my heartbeat, my pussy juices dribbling down my thighs.

“Really?” asked Phillipa. “Keep embarrassing yourself. I am not going to fuck your cock. I won’t even give you a quick handjob. This is such a waste of time. You’re going to lead your country to disaster.”

“I’m going to elevate the world with love!” I said. “And besides, you’re not the person who’s going to suck my cock.”

“Who?” she asked. “One of those virgin skanks you fuck during rallies?”

“She’s going to fuck me, Phillipa,” a quiet voice said, almost drowned out by the passionate cheers of the crowd.

Phillipa’s face went ashen. She whirled around to see the naked woman with coffee-brown skin, her breasts round and firm, mounting the stage. The woman was just crossing into her thirties, her youthful twenties still shining about her. She fidgeted, rubbing her right hand up her left arm, her tits quivering. She had a round face and dark eyes, her nose cute above her plump lips.

“M-Maurice,” Phillipa stammered at the sight of her naked wife.

“I’m sorry, Phillipa,” Maurice said, her English accent melodic and thick, giving the Black girl an even more exotic feel. My girl-cock throbbed before me. “But I’m just not going to suffer four years of no sex just so you don’t get fucked by Becky.”

“But I have to be a symbol,” Phillipa protested as her wife advanced.

“I know,” Maurice said. “I get that, but ... I want her so badly. Why don’t you? Before you took those blasted pills, I bet you did.”

“It’s not proper,” Phillipa said. “What’s she’s doing ... Who she is ... Who I am ... It’s just not the way things should be done.”

“Wouldn’t it be better though?” she asked. “Imagine if leaders of nations made love instead of fought. If they came together in the bedroom, their bodies heaving together, united in mutual passion. Imagine the understanding that could be gained.”

I smiled, nodding my head in complete agreement. “Unite with me, Phillipa. Let’s make something magical while your nation watches.”

“FUCK HER! FUCK HER! FUCK HER!” roared from the crowd.

Phillipa swallowed while her wife came closer to me. Maurice was just gorgeous. Her eyes locked on my cock. Her tongue flicked across her lips. Her nipples were so hard, thrusting dark brown from those lush, round breasts.

The Prime Minister of the United Kingdoms grabbed her wife’s arm. “You can’t have sex with her here. This is Trafalgar Square. You shouldn’t even be naked! You’re breaking the law!”

“FUCK HER! FUCK HER! FUCK HER!”

“Maybe it’s time to change the laws so I can do this,” Maurice said, wrenching her arms free from her wife’s grip. “America got rid of its decency laws before us. America! They’re the most puritanical country in the world. They invented the word puritanical. Now I’m going to love her cock. I want you to join me.”

“Yes, yes, join us,” I said as Maurice reached me. I fell to my knees, my ivory hand grabbing her darker hips. I pulled her close to me, bringing her shaved pussy towards my mouth. “Please, Phillipa, love your wife with me.”

“I ... I...” The prime minister shook her head, her blue eyes darting back and forth. There still was no color in her cheeks.

I hoped this would work.

“FUCK HER! FUCK HER! FUCK HER!”

“Please, please, don’t forget about passion,” Maurice said, looking over her shoulder at her wife as I pulled her pussy to my mouth. She gasped as I licked and moaned at her snatch. Then she groaned, “I miss you doing this to me. Eating me. You’re so good at it, Phillipa.”

“FUCK HER! FUCK HER! FUCK HER!”

I shuddered as my tongue slid through her pussy folds. I licked and lapped, driving through her folds, loving the flavor of her. She tasted so good, a rich and tangy cream that poured into my mouth. I groaned, my futa-dick throbbing.

I slid my hands around her hips, gripping her rump as I feasted on her before her wife. Before her nation. It was so wonderful. I was conducting the most intimate negotiations between world leaders ever. My tongue plundered deeper into Maurice’s snatch and fluttered through her folds.

“FUCK HER! FUCK HER! FUCK HER!”

“Oh, Phillipa, I wish you were joining her,” she moaned, her hips wiggling from side to side. “Loving me with her.”

“I ... I don’t need to,” Phillipa said.

“This isn’t turning you on at all?” asked Maurice.

“Not even a little.”

I parted Maurice’s butt-cheeks, hoping Phillipa was watching, before I moaned into Maurice’s juicy snatch, “Don’t you want to rim your wife’s asshole?”

“You love giving me a dirty rimjob, Phillipa!”

Phillipa didn’t answered.

“FUCK HER! FUCK HER! FUCK HER!”

I kept licking and flicking my tongue through Maurice’s folds. I would get Phillipa so turned on she would join. I ached to unite with her, to bring America and Great Britain so close together. It would be so wonderful.

Pussy juices poured down my chin as Maurice moaned. I stared up at her dark breasts heaving. Her face twisted with passion as I feasted on her. She gripped my blonde hair while grinding her hot snatch on my licking tongue.

“Oh, Madam President,” she panted. “Oh, that’s so good. You’re tongue ... Ooh, yes, yes, you’re loving my pussy! Getting me ready to be bred!”

“FUCK HER! FUCK HER! FUCK HER!”

“I’m going to fill you with my spunk!” I moaned, my futa-dick throbbing, the crowds roars energizing me. I nuzzled into her pussy. My tongue flicked through her folds. I teased her. Loved her. I drove her wild. “I’m going to pump so much cum into you. You’re going to love it.”

She shuddered, nodding her head. She gasped and moaned as she ground on me. Maurice whimpered, her hands cupping cute, those coffee-brown breasts. Her fingers kneading them as she rubbed her shaved snatch on my hungry mouth.

I feasted on her. Her tangy cream flowed into my mouth. My fingers slid into her butt-crack. I couldn’t tempt her wife to eat her asshole, then I would play with it. I would tease Maurice and drive her wild with all the passion I could give her.

“FUCK HER! FUCK HER! FUCK HER!”

“Becky!” she gasped as my finger found her asshole. “Ooh, that’s naughty. Are you watching, Phillipa? The President of the United States is about to finger my asshole.”