Chapter 3: Futa’s First Harem Treat

April 17th, 2047

“So meeting with King Njam bin Mohammad ibn Saud was not what I expected,” I said to Adelia, the cameras rolling.

My interview was almost over. We were in the final stretch. It was wonderful to tell, but I was feeling the mental strain now. Still, it was a wonderful way to spend my forty-eight birthday by looking back on my life. We were talking about my first year in office as president.

“In what way?” she asked.

“Well, I hadn’t expected such a warm welcome from the leader of one of the most conservative countries in the world,” I said. “He was jovial, friendly, and eager to cater to me.”

“Really?” Adelia said, leaning forward. I’d never publicly discussed my meeting with King Njam before, mainly to protect him. But ten years later, the world, especially the Middle East, had changed so much. “You mean, he offered you pussy, right?”

“Yep, pussy,” I said, grinning, remembering that feeling of shock when Ayishah had appeared.

February 17th, 2037

King Njam bin Mohammad, head of the House of Saud, King of the Saudi Arabs, swept into the antechamber in flowing robes of white belted about his waist. He wore the red, checkered turban, called the keffiyeh, particular to the Saudi Arabs. A leather cord bound it about his temple. He was in great shape though age was graying his close-cropped beard.

“President Woodward,” he said, embracing me with more warmth than I expected. His beard tickled my cheeks as he planted a welcoming kiss on each one. “What a pleasure to see you.”

I let out a nervous laugh as I shifted in the dark-blue dress I wore, the blouse far more conservative than anything I would normally wear, the skirt falling down to just below my knees. “A pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty.”

“Please, please, call me Njam,” he said, breaking away.

“Becky,” I said, giving him a smile. An anxious flutter ran through my guts. I had to win his support. He controlled the largest coalition of Arab countries. If I could get him, Jordan, and Egypt on my side, I would have a chance to make changes in the Middle East.

But how?

“So, I hope you’re not offended that I am not wearing a veil or hijab,” I said.

He waved his hands. “You have a cock, so that makes you more man than many I know.”

That shocked me.

“But come, come, let us talk and enjoy pleasures,” he said, sitting down on a divan covered in gold damask. “Coffee?”

“Yes,” I said, taking a seat across from a polished, marble table. Around the room, our bodyguards stood, all in suits though his wore the same keffiyeh that he did. Other than that, you couldn’t tell his from my secret service agents. “Thank you. I’m eager to build a relationship between our countries.”

“Oh, yes, I saw the relationship you built with England and France.” He smiled. “Did the President of France truly offer up his wife to you?”

“He watched,” I said. “Then he enjoyed her when I was done. They were quite ... happy. I have that effect on couples. I help ... lubricate things between them.” I arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps you and your wives could use that sort of...”

My words trailed off when I saw the girl who entered with our coffee on a golden tray. She was dressed like a harem girl straight out of a perverted fantasy, her slender, dusky body clad in black silk that was so thin her flesh bled through. I could see her small breasts and the tight cleft of her shaved pussy. Her legs were lithe as her pantaloons rustled. Her veil was equally transparent, her eyes dark and smoky over them.

“Oh, my,” I said, my dick going hard as the girl set the golden tray on the coffee table. Steam rose from a carafe while beside it rested two porcelain cups flanking a sugar bowl. “That’s ... I didn’t...” I couldn’t think. The last thing I expected was this. “Who is she?”

“Ayishah,” he said. “I ... engaged her services. For you. I know your ... appetites.”

“She’s a hooker?” I blurted out before I remembered my diplomacy. I was just so ... off-balanced by her youthful presence.

“No, no, prostitution is illegal in the Kingdom,” he said. “She’s my wife. A ... pleasure marriage. What we call a nikah mut’ah.”

“She’s your wife and ... you want me to ... But I thought... ?”

“No, no, she’s my temporary wife. When her services are complete, I will divorce her and some other man can marry her and enjoy her beauty.” He smiled at her. “Then we do not violate Allah’s prohibitions, you see?”

I nodded my head, staring at her. “And me?”

“Well, you are different,” he said. “You have that affect on women. You are clearly Allah’s gift to the world, something to invigorate it with new blood. A ... change, if you will. Look at Ayishah, already her lusts are upon her. Look, look, her silks are growing wet.”

I stared at the girl. She couldn’t be much older than eighteen. Her nipples poked hard against her tight, silk blouse, and the black silk grew damp around her crotch. She licked her plump lips behind her veil, her eyes smoky as they stared at her.

“I have yet to enjoy her pleasure,” he said, his hands undoing his belt. “I thought we could share ... Enjoy your style of diplomacy.”

I nodded my head as I drew up my skirt. The girl let out a whimper, her hips swaying from side to side. “President Futa,” she moaned. “You truly have big cock.”

“Yes,” I groaned. “I have a big cock.”

“Cock,” she repeated, saying the word slowly. “You are making me so ... so...” Her words trailed off as she squirmed.

“Don’t be shy,” I said, exposing my gray, silk panties cupping my girl-dick. I so loved these new style of panties that clothing manufactures now made. “Say it. Tell us how wet you are.”

“Yes, my sweet Ayishah,” groaned the king. He stood up and pulled off his robes, exposing a compact and muscular body beneath. He kept himself fit. His cock tented a pair of western style boxers. It wasn’t ‘nearly as big as mine. “Don’t hold back your passions around her.”

“You make me very wet,” the girl moaned. “My ... my...”

“Pussy?” I suggested.

She nodded her head. “My pussy is so very wet and...” She licked her lips. “You will fuck me? I never fuck cock so big before.”

“Absolutely,” I groaned, then glanced over at Njam as he shoved down his boxers. An idea popped into my head. “We’re going to share you. Doesn’t that sound exciting?”

She nodded her head, her dark eyes dancing. This prostitute was so delicious. I’d never been with one before, at least not knowingly, and I didn’t care. Not with her in this delicious harem outfit. I wanted to rip down those pantaloons and go to town on her.

“You know how to give a blowjob?” I asked, standing up, my futa-dick thrusting out before me.

Her hand squeezed my shaft, her fingers soft as silk. “You want me suck your cock? My mouth give good pleasure.”

“No, no, your husband’s cock,” I moaned, “while I breed your tight pussy, Ayishah.”

She shuddered. Her eyes went so wide. “Oh, that is naughty, President Futa.”

The king grinned at me. He clearly approved, stroking his cock and staring at his prostitute-wife.

“Go,” I told her. “Fall to your knees and blow him while I take care of that hot cunt of yours.”

“Yes, President Futa!” The girl moved with such grace, all willowy delight like Barbara Eden from I Dream of Jeannie.

She sank to her knees before King Njam, her hands stroking up his hairy thighs. She thrust her rump at me, the curves of her dusky butt-cheeks bleeding through the the transparent fabric of her pantaloons. I groaned at the sight, my dick throbbing in need, my pussy so wet.

As the king groaned, Ayishah sucking on his dick, I sank to my knees behind her. I ripped down her pantaloons and exposed her cute tush and the tight slit of her shaved pussy. She had a virginal quality about her that made me ache.

“Yes,” groaned the king, one hand dug into her hair as she bobbed her mouth up and down his shaft. She still wore her veil, but she must have lifted it to swallow his dick. “That’s it. Ooh, you are such a little slut.” He growled something in Arabic.

She moaned and wiggled her hips. A line of her clear pussy juices ran down her inner thighs.

Groaning, I brought my cock to her juicy twat. I pressed against her snatch. Her labia stretched around my thick tip. I groaned as her wet silk engulfed me. Despite her coy, virginal act, she had no hymen. I sank into her depths with ease, her twat clenching around me.

I buried to the hilt in her, my hands gripping her hips. Then I drew back and slammed into her again and again. I groaned, the pleasure spilling through me. This was such a wondrous visit to the Saudi Arabia. An absolute delight.

“Yes, yes, yes, Ayishah,” I panted. “I’m going to breed this hot cunt. I’m going to fill you with my cum.”

She moaned about the king’s dick while her pussy squeezed down on my withdrawing cock.

I thrust back into her, the silky friction washing over me. “I can tell how much you want my futa-cum firing into you. You’re just so eager for it.”

She moaned again.

“You really turn women into sluts, don’t you?” he said.

“I do,” I groaned. “Into sluts that please their husbands after I’m gone.”

He groaned, his hands gripping the prostitute’s head, fucking Ayishah’s mouth up and down his shaft. “Lucky husbands.”

I grinned at him, thrusting harder and harder into Ayishah’s tight cunt. Her juicy snatch stimulated me. My orgasm built in my pussy. Every thrust into her tight depths spilled rapture down my shaft to my hot cunt.

As my twat grew hotter, my ovaries grew tighter. They absorbed the heat, exciting my cum in them. My tits heaved in my blouse as I slammed into the prostitute’s snatch, loving how that ache built at the tip of my girl-cock, that wondrous need to erupt into her snatch and fill her with blast after blast of my jizz.

It would be incredible.

“Becky, she is sucking so hard,” he groaned. “She wants my cum, too.”

“She’s a slut now,” I groaned. “Just like any wife I bed. Mmm, imagine that. Having slutty wives loving you, eager to do wicked things to you.”

“Yes, yes, maybe I keep Ayishah!” he grunted as I plowed the girl harder.

“Maybe,” I said. “Imagine all the delights?”

His head leaned back as I fucked into the girl’s pussy harder. She whimpered, a sound of wanton delight. Her hips wiggled, her dusky rump jiggling every time my crotch smacked into her tight tush. It was such a wicked sight to behold. I loved it.

My futa-cock ached as I churned her snatch to a hot froth. I plunged over and over into her. I groaned, growing dizzy with delight. That swelling ache built and built. I shuddered, gripping her flesh, so close to erupting into her.

“Kess ikhtak!” the king groaned. His bearded face twisted in rapture. “Drink it, Ayishah! You dirty slut! Drink it all!”

The girl’s pussy squeezed down around my plunging cock as she swallowed her client’s jizz. I buried into her and she squealed. Her twat convulsed around me. My eyes widened. It was incredible feeling the prostitute-wife’s tight snatch massaging my cock.

“Yes, yes, you want my cum!” I moaned as I buried into her. “Oh, you’re such a naughty slut for it!”

“Cum in her,” groaned the king, staring at me, lust shining in his eyes. “Make her utterly into a whore!”

I shuddered and buried into her. My dick erupted into her convulsing depths. Her writhing snatch milked my cock. Pleasure slammed through me. A dizzy passion rippled around me. I swayed, holding onto Ayishah’s hips as such delights melted my mind.

Her hungry pussy ached to be bred. She worked out every drop of me while my body rejoiced. My pussy juices flooded down my thighs. My own cunt convulsed, sending waves of rapture lapping into my mind, mixing with the bliss firing from my dick.

“Oh, yes, Ayishah, you’re just our little slut,” I moaned. “Mmm, you’re going to be such a naughty lover.” My eyes flicked to the king. “And she’s not the only wife you can have that’s a slut in bed.”

“What?” he panted.

“Imagine Queen Hana and Queen Basira writhing in bed together. Loving you.” I grinned. “Loving each other.”

“Mithlyya,” he groaned, the word thick. “That is ... You are a wicked futanari, Becky.”

“I know,” I said. “But just imagine your two queens loving you. Hungry for your cum. I can give you that.” I arched eyebrows. “I can make them into your personal little whores. They will give you such delights. Why pay for it when your wives can give you so much more.”

“You are temptation made flesh,” he groaned. “Maybe it was not Allah who sent you, but Shaitan.”

“I’m here to unite the world in love,” I said. “End of wars. Of strife. Isn’t Allah a God who values peace? ‘If you save one man, it is like you have saved all of mankind,’ I said. Isn’t that how the sura goes?”

“You have read the Koran?”

I smiled at him. I hadn’t. Only parts.

He snarled something in Arabic. “You will breed my wives. They will bear your futa-daughters.”

“A union between us,” I said. “A joining of our two countries in a way they’ve never been allied before.” I licked my lips. “Queen Hana and Queen Basira in your bed, licking you, kissing you, devouring your cum out of the other’s pussy. Have you ever experienced that treat?” I shuddered, my dick still buried in Ayishah’s pussy. I could fuck her again. “It is an exceptional delight.

“A delight fit for a king.”

He laughed, his muscular chest, as hairy as a shaggy carpet, heaved. “You are wicked, Becky. So wicked. Allah forgive me, but I want that.”

“Shall we?” I asked, pulling my girl-cock out of the girl’s pussy.

He glanced at the waiting guards. He barked at them in Arabic. One saluted and then vanished. He rose, pushing Ayishah’s head from his lap in the process. He held out my arm. “Shall we retire to my chambers so you can make my wives into whores.”

“Into your own personal harem of sinful delights,” I said, taking his arm.

“Just like you promised in that debate last November.”

“I never lie,” I said. “I say what I’m going to do, and then I do it.”

“You are a rare thing, Becky,” he said as we moved through the antechamber. “Do not let this sordid world of politics crush you.”

“I’m having too much fun fucking to let that happen,” I told him and winked. “It’s a far, far better way to conduct diplomacy.”

He nodded his head in agreement.

We moved through the luxurious hallways of Qasr Al Hukm, the royal palace. It wasn’t far to his chambers. We passed busts of previous kings rendered in marble and rich oil paintings of Saudi oil princes dressed in their fine robes, looking like Bedouin’s tent bedecked in riches. His personal rooms held a large bed, an ornate hutch left open that held a TV but could be hidden to give an illusion the room was straight out of the 7th century. The furniture all was carved into works of art, the sheets silk interwoven with golden thread.

I stripped naked, my round breasts still firm as I approached my thirty-eighth birthday. I shuddered, my pussy juices soaking my blonde bush. My dick hard. He settled down in a chair that almost resembled a throne, the top carved with rearing stallions. He stroked his beard, waited.

The door opened.

Queens Hana and Basira entered wearing light, silk robes, the type a woman would wear when coming to her lover’s, or husband’s, room. They wore no keffiyeh, their black-hair falling loose. They made it in two steps before they noticed me standing naked.

Hana, the older of the two, gasped. She was my age, mature and lovely. Clearly she had used the resources of her husband to keep herself looking beautiful, her face adorned with subtle makeups, her mascara thick, making her dark eyes more exotic. Her large breasts swelled as she sucked in a deep breath.

Basira, a decade or more younger than me clasped slender fingers, adorned with jeweled rings, over her mouth. Her eyes were so wide, her dusky cheeks going dark with a blush. Her slender, almost girlish, frame trembled beneath her robe.

“What is this, Njam?” demanded Queen Hana, her eyes flashing to her husband. “Why is the president here? Were you...” Her eyes widened, seeing him equally naked.

“No, no, not with her,” he said.”

“With that slut you married to fuck?” Basira said. “And now...” Her eyes widened as she stared at me.

“You cannot mean for us...” Queen Hana shook her head, her dark curls spilling about her face, her eyes so wide. “Husband!”

“What?” I asked, shaking my fut-dick at them. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about me.” I licked my lips. “Never wondered what it would be like for the world’s first futa to slip into your bed while your husband was away, Hana. Or was with Basira?”

The older woman stiffened. No, older was the wrong word. Mature. Like me. I used to think someone in their thirties was old, now that I was nearing forty I knew how wrong that was. She glanced at Basira, the younger wife primping, nipples poking against the soft silk of her robe.

“You’ve never ached to know what it would be like. You’ve heard of me. How women flock to me. Ache to be bred by me and my holy seed.” I slid my hand up my dick. I could feel the bead of precum forming their, glistening.

Hana’s tongue flicked across her lips.

“Yes, you have,” I said. “And you, too, Basis.”

“I have,” Basira said. The younger woman threw open her robe exposing a sensual negligee below. Clearly, she dressed to please her husband. Her breasts were small handfuls cupped in the soft purple of the silk, a fuzzy fringe running along the seam. She pulled that off next, exposing her pale-dusky breasts, her brown nipples hard and long. “So many times. Come, Hana, this is what our husband wants.”

“Filthy pig that he is,” Hana muttered, glaring at him. “Huh, Njam?”

I arched an eyebrow. She was a lot more ... expressive than I thought Arab women acted. Weren’t they all supposed to be submissive to their husbands. But she had defiance burning in her eyes as her hands ripped at the ties of her robe.

“If you can tame that one’s tongue, I would appreciate it, Becky,” Njam said.

Queen Hana snorted, thrusting off her silk robe to expose a pair of naked tits, their size artificially enhanced. Another shock. Her breasts had that overripe plumpness of silicone implants, masterfully done. They jiggled with her every movement. She hooked her fingers in the skimpy panties she wore, shoving them down.

“I will fuck you, Becky,” Queen Hana said, stepping out of them, her pussy shaved as bare as Ayishah’s.

I thought Muslim women would have thick bushes. Even Basira turned out to be shaved, her pussy lips tighter than Hana’s, the more mature queen’s labia thrusting out thick from her plump vulva. I licked my lips in delight as Queen Hana sauntered to me.

A moment later, Basira darted forward, rushing past the mature queen, to fall to her knees and grab my futa-cock. She stroked it, loving it while licking her lips. Her dark eyes smoldered as they stared up at me before she nibbled on the tip.

“Sharmota,” spat Queen Hana. I didn’t know what the word meant, but I knew an insult when I heard one. She was jealous of the younger queen. I bet Queen Hana’s boob job, the plastic surgery, all of it happened after her husband married this nubile beauty sucking my dick.

“Stop that,” I said, pulling my cock from her mouth.

The Arab queen blinked her eyes. She flicked her tongue across them as she stared up at me. “What? You don’t want me suck it?”

“She doesn’t want to bed a whore,” Queen Hana said, stopping before me, her large, fake tits quivering. She licked her lips, her eyes running up and down my body. “Do you, President Woodward?”

“Becky, Your Majesty,” I said. “I think we can be on first names, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, fondling my cock. Her nipples were so hard. Juices gleamed on her inner thigh. “If my husband wants me to do something so degrading, I can at least enjoy it. But...” She pressed closer. “You are a futanari of taste. I can please you more than little Basira there can.”