Chapter 3: Ginny’s Naughty Futa Revelation

July 22nd, 2037 – Christina Franks

Everyone was staring at me.

I felt the cameras on me, my cheeks growing redder and redder. I didn’t like being in the spotlight. I preferred being back at my office in the White House, analyzing situations and reporting them to my mother, the president of the United States. It was what I was good at. Not talking to people. Why did I agree to do this interview?

Leah pressed me to do it. My half-sister, squirming between Lola and Rebecca on the other seat, had arranged this. She was our futa-mom’s press secretary. She dealt with the media. It was her idea for the six of us, the futa-daughters who arranged our mother’s political campaign, to appear on Adelia Tash’s successful afternoon talk show.

The caramel-skinned host was one of those staring at me.

Bethany patted my thigh. She was sitting between myself and Danielle on this couch. The cameras were pointed at me. This was being live-streamed to the world. Everyone was watching me. My heart pounded faster.

“I was reading a book ... at first,” I said, not wanting to reveal the intimate and private things I did at our shared eighteenth-birthday party last year. While Rebecca and Lola were swapping their female mothers and losing their virginities, and Danielle was playing her naughty game with Bethany and Leah, I was experiencing something amazing.

“Yes, but what happened while we were having fun?” Danielle asked, sticking her head out past Bethany to stare at me. Danielle’s sandy-blonde hair swayed as she grinned at me. She looked similar to me and yet different. Our futa-mother, Becky, had stamped her look on all of us in some ways. “Come on, spill it.”

“Fine,” I sighed, pushing up my glasses. “Philippa came out and—”

“I don’t remember Philippa even being there,” Bethany interrupted.

“I invited her,” Lola said, her hand clenching her new wife’s hand. “But I didn’t think she’d show up. She’s so quiet, and she’s always practicing ballet.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think she did anything else,” said Rebecca, her flaming hair dancing around her face.

“Oh, she does,” I said, my face burning. My clit-dick throbbed in my panties, growing hard for the first time. My pussy was soaking wet right now. “So she came up to me and we started talking...”

July 22nd, 2036

I savored the feel of real paper beneath my skin. Real books were getting rarer, but they were just so lovely. They had a weight to them. A substance. All those words meant something when they were printed out on something solid. The scent filled my nose, mixing with the sweet delight coming from the nearby honeysuckles growing up a trellis in Lola and Rebecca’s backyard.

Inside, everyone was cheering and shouting. It sounded like Danielle’s contest was beginning. It was such a vulgar thing. I was sure my mother loved it. She was, by her own words, a futa-slut. She was so glad my half-sisters were turning eighteen. She was eager to cuckold my step-father, my namesake Chris, with futas again since she rarely got to see my futa-mother, Becky.

My step-father didn’t mind. He seemed to find it hot to share his wife with a futa.

My inclinations went in other directions. I didn’t like sharing.

I pushed up my glasses and then turned the page. I was reading a favorite of mine: Jane Austin, Northanger Abby. It would be so wonderful to live in Victorian times. To wear those elegant dresses, all those layer of petticoats. A more genteel time. Not that vulgarity going on in public. I identified greatly with Catherine Morland. She, too, wouldn’t have approved of wild orgies breaking out at a birthday party.

I would have to accustom myself to that sort of behavior. I knew these sort of orgies would happen. Our futa-mother would crave them. Bethany and Danielle would set them up. My other half-sisters would join in the fun.

But not today. I wanted to enjoy my birthday my way.

The sun kissed my face. A gentle breeze caressed my skirt. A sweet perfume filled my nose. I had a good book on my lap.

I turned the next page, my heart beating faster and faster as I read the—

A shadow fell over the pages. I frowned and looked up to find Philippa Sanderson standing over me. She was a slender girl in a proper dress and not tight jeans and a crop top. It was a sundress, light and airy, the skirt swirling about her lithe legs in the gentle breeze. It was yellow and adorned with white humming birds, little absences of color, negative space adorning her gown. Her black hair fell loose about her face, an errant strand fluttering against her cheek. She was petite, like me, graceful.

“You’re all alone, Christina,” she said, her voice melodic. “Not joining the ... festivities inside?”

I shrugged.

“But it’s your birthday,” Philippa said. “You shouldn’t be back here.”

“I’m happy being alone,” I said. “I’m not like my mothers or sisters.”

“Oh, should I go?” Philippa asked, shifting. Her hands played together before her as she squirmed. There was an anxious catch to her tone.

“No, no, stay,” I said. There was something ... appealing about her. The way she acted. Demure. I closed my book. “Sit.”

She sat down beside me at once, adjusting her skirt. She wore sandals, her toenails painted a soft shade of pink. Her legs were pale, calves toned from ballet. She had a light, sweet scent behind her, not a perfume, but maybe a body spray or her soap.

A tingle started in my pussy, a certain idea crystallizing in my mind. She sat with such alacrity.

“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” I asked her.

She nodded her head. “The breeze feels great.”

“And the honeysuckles smell delicious, don’t they?” I asked.

She glanced at the trellis and inhaled deeply. A smile crossed her pink, glossy lips. She nodded her head, her black hair swaying. “They are. I see why you’re here.”

She scooted just a little closer to me, glancing down at my book. “Oh, Jane Austin, I love her. We read her in English last year, and everyone hated it. All the girls were complaining there were no futas doing any screwing. So were the guys.”

“Philistines,” I said, voice tight. “You had Mrs. Oberon for English.”

Philippa nodded. She scooted just a smidge closer. Her sweet scent was starting to overpower the perfume of the flowers. My heart raced, pumping hot blood through my virgin body. My clit-dick swelled harder in my panties, pressing up against my book.

“You’re not like the other futas,” said Philippa. “You’re not as...”

“Horny?” I asked.

She blushed. “Well, I didn’t want to put it so coarse. Not as ... exuberant.”

I smiled at that. “No, no, I don’t feel the need to slide into every pretty, little thing that drops her panties before me.”

Philippa squirmed. “I hope you don’t think...” She swallowed. “I mean...”

“Things need to be done properly, don’t you agree?” I asked her, my dick throbbing against my book. My pussy was heating up, my juices flowing.

“Properly?”

“You know, in the right way. I think that’s important.” I glanced over my shoulder, sighing as the cheering inside grew louder. “I imagine I’ll have to do those sort of things for the campaign.”

“Your mother’s presidential campaign?” asked Philippa. “Are you six really doing it?”

“We are.” I gave her a curious look. “Has Bethany been asking you to be an intern?”

Philippa’s cheeks were a beautiful hue of scarlet. “She promised I could ... lose my virginity to your futa-mother.”

“And?” I asked, suddenly breathless for her answer.

“It didn’t feel like the proper way to do things,” she said. She licked her glossy lips. “I want to do things the right way. My first time has to be ... special.”

My heart raced in my chest. “And what do you think would make your first time special?”

Her hand brushed mine resting atop my book. Her fingers were hot, like silk. Her stroking touch sent a shiver through me. My futa-dick pulsed and throbbed. I licked my lips, my heart screaming in my chest.

“I ... I think that depends on whom I choose,” she said. “How they ... think it should be. It’s the partner, right, that sets the mood for the girl? That’s how things are properly done.”

“Do you want to give me your first time?” I asked, my heart squeezing in my chest.

Philippa nodded, her hands squeezing my mind. “What’s the right way ... for me?”

“Us,” I said. I swallowed. This was happening. My fantasies were coming to life. But I had to know she was the right one. “You are a virgin, yes? You have an intact hymen despite ballet?”

“Yes,” she said. “I am lucky. Most girls break theirs, but mine never did.”

“Prove it.”

She blinked her dark eyes.

“Prove that you’re a virgin,” I said, my voice commanding. “Strip.”

“Here?” she gasped, glancing at the wall.

“They’re all busy inside,” I said. “They won’t likely see you. But if you want this done right, if you want to lose our virginity the proper way—my way—then strip. I have to see if you’re the one. I have to know I’m giving myself to the right girl and not making a mistake.”

She swallowed. A shiver ran through her body. Then she stood. Her sundress rustled behind her. She trembled. It was such a beautiful thing to behold. Her eyes were wide, her face flushed scarlet, her little breasts rising and falling beneath her bodice. She reached behind her, fumbling, her forehead furrowed.

A zipper rasped.

I licked my lips as Philippa’s dress grew looser about her. The eighteen-year-old girl had such a blush rosying her cheeks as she slipped her left shoulder and then her right out of the dress, exposing the straps of not just a bra beneath. She wore a cream satin slip.

“That’s so beautiful,” I groaned as her sundress came down, revealing the slip that fell down to her upper thigh. It clung to her body. “How many girls our age wears slips?”

“None,” she said, stroking the cloth over her belly. “It just feels...”

“Right?”

She nodded her head.

My heart exploded in excitement. My pussy was on fire while my futa-dick throbbed in my panties. “Continue,” I moaned. “Keep stripping. Show me you’re a virgin.”

Let her be telling the truth.

She grew even more demure as she drew up her slip, slowly exposing more and more creamy thigh until she revealed those innocent, white, schoolgirl panties, a dark stain centered on her crotch. I groaned, staring at them as she pulled her strip higher. I hardly noticed her smooth belly, entranced by her panties.

Then her bra appeared cupping her small breasts. It was a delicate bra, with a strips of ruffled lace crossing her cups. All pristine white. I groaned as her black hair spilled around her shoulders as she finished removing her slip.

“Gorgeous,” I groaned, loving how beautiful her bra was.

Her cheeks were flaming. “I’m glad ... you approve, Christina.”

My tongue wetted my lips. “I do. Now the bra. Show me your breasts. I want to see how perfect they are.”

She nodded her head and reached behind her. My heart clenched as I held my breath, trembling in anticipation. With another shy shrug, she worked her straps off her shoulders. She held her cups to her tits, hiding her breasts as long as she could as she one by one slipped her arms out of the straps.

Then, taking a deep breath, she whipped her bra away and exposed them.

Small, perky breasts topped by puffy nipples. Pink and suckable. Her areolas were swollen with her excitement. I shuddered, my clit-dick throbbing in my panties, begging to be unleashed as she shivered there, her arms twitching like she wanted to cover herself.

Didn’t.

“The panties,” I croaked, almost losing control. I needed to be in charge. “Remove the panties.”

“Yes, Christina,” she said, so submissive, so obedient. Her thumbs hooked her waistband. Her eyes squeezed shut.

Philippa shoved her panties down her thighs. She rolled them off, her body shaking. Her firm, little tits jiggling. She bent over, black hair curtaining her blushing face. I whimpered, catching just a glimpse of her trimmed bush, her pressed tight thighs hiding her. She stepped out of her dainty panties.

Rose.

Juices soaked her bush. Her dark hairs were matted by her excitement. I groaned, my heart thundering in my chest. It was all I could do not to pounce on her. I ached to press her down and thrust my futa-cock into her cunt.

This had to be done right.

“Turn around,” I said. “Let me see your ass.”

“Yes, Christina,” she moaned and obeyed.

She turned with all the grace of a ballerina, pivoting on the ball of her right foot. Her toned legs flexed. Her ass was tight, shapely, almost like a heart. I licked my lips, just seeing her black bush beneath.

“Spread your legs apart,” I ordered. “Further. Further. Yes, just like that.”

I groaned at her Now I could see her bush, her ass tensed more, her legs flexed. She was limber. I breathed in, smelling a new scent. Spicy. Her pussy. It was intoxicating. The urge to feast on her like a starving beggar at the queen’s banquet table seized me.

I fought it back. I ruled my body.

“Bend over,” I moaned, “and spread your pussy lips apart. Show me that virginity.”

“Yes, Christina,” she squeaked, her voice tremulous.

Philippa bent over, her pussy almost thrusting at me as she shifted. It was right at my eye level, her slit tight even with her legs spread wide. Her hands reached between her thighs. She slid fingers through her black bush. Her fingers pulled her labia open, revealing her inner pinkness, glistening and juicy.

And there, guarding the entrance to her pussy, was that delicate membrane. Her hymen. She was a maiden. My dick throbbed in celebration. I bounced to my feet, hands clenching my Jane Austin novel. I fought my perverse desires.

This would be done right.

“Follow,” I said and marched around her, my skirt swirling about my thighs.

We left the vulgar sounds of my half-sister’s naughty game behind as we crossed the lawn. She followed after me, her feet whisking through the grass. I could feel her excitement quivering through the air, a mix of predatory fear and wanton lust. I led her to the shed, hoping that Mr. Albertson would have what I needed in there.

Mr. Albertson would have it. I was sure of it. He seemed the type of man who took pride in his yard. His house. He would have the tools I was looking for to make this special. I reached the wooden shed and opened it.

“This is simple,” I said. “If you ever feel like I’m going to far, that you’re too scared to continue, say red light and I’ll stop. If you love it, say green light. If you need me to slow down, yellow light. Understand?”

“I ... don’t. What are those?”

“Safe words,” I said as I stepped into the shed. It had a musty scent mixed with the sharp tang of oil. It was orderly. Light filtered through holes in the wooden walls and gaps of the planks. My gaze slid around it, searching for just the thing.

A bright coil of orange robe. Not good hemp, but serviceable. I had studied this for years. Ever since I first came across bondage and BDSM. It had captured my imagination. I liked to picture the girls of Jane Austin being slowly stripped and tied up, their nudity revealed before they were loved.

My dick was so hard.

I glanced up and smiled at the rafters. It was perfect.

“What is the rope for?” asked Philippa as I took it down.

“To tie you up,” I said as I uncoiled it. “Now arms before you and wrists together.”

I studied her. She swallowed then thrust her arms forward. A pulse twitched in her swan neck. There was a glassiness to her eyes, her lust consuming her while fear trembled through her body. She rubbed her thighs together.

“No red light?” I asked, bringing the rope to her wrists.

“Green light,” she said. “For you, Christina.”

I shuddered and wrapped the rope about her wrist. I did three full wrappings around her, the cords rubbing against her and her flesh. She shuddered, a little wince crossing her face as the rough fibers abraded her gentle skin. Next I shoved the rope between her wrists, looping it around the three bands squeezing them tighter about her before I threw the rope over the rafter.

I pulled hard.

She gasped as her arms were yanked up into the air, fingers twitching, firm breasts jiggling. She quivered as I pulled tighter, stretching her arms taut. I stared at her armpits, freshly shaved. Her sweet body spray and spicy pussy musk filled the air, driving back the dusty scent of the shed.

“Look at you,” I said, my dick throbbing. “Just so beautiful.”

“Thank you, Christina,” she moaned, her voice a sweet dulcet that made my heart ache. I shuddered and then anchored the rope to a heavy, metal shelf, tying the knot with expert skill, the rope taut, her arms yanked up in the air. She shifted on her feet, almost on her tiptoes. I loved it. Her legs quivered, her breasts jiggled.

“Yes, you are just gorgeous,” I said, walking around her, reveling in the sight of her. That peachy ass tensed, her supple back trembling. I ran a finger up her spine.

She whimpered.

“I’m going to have so much fun with you, Philippa,” I moaned. “Did you think this would happen?”

She shook her head, black hair dancing.

“But you wanted it, didn’t you?” I purred as I came around to stand before her.

She nodded her head. “I wanted you, Christina.”

I shivered, my fingers flying to the front of my blouse. Philippa’s dark eyes latched onto my digits as I worked my top open. Button by button, exposing my chest, the straps of my bra, my small breasts cupped in the sky-blue satin. My nipples were so hard.

I shrugged out of my blouse as she licked her pink lips. Her hips wiggled, her pussy juices trickling down her thighs. The rope creaked as she shifted her stance, watching as I unbuttoned my skirt then unzipped it.

It fell to my feet, my panties bulging with my futa-dick. They matched my bra, the same soft blue. She whimpered, her eyes locked on my cock. It twitched with my heartbeat, begging to be released to love her.

“Please, Christina!” she moaned. “I want to see you naked, too.”

“How many times have you masturbated to that?” I asked, standing there in my underwear.

“Many times!” she moaned. “I hump my pillows all the time thinking about you.”

I shivered, picturing this cutie grinding her pussy on her pillow, her firm tits jiggling. Her nipples were just so pink and puffy. She would look so wild with her black hair swaying about her shoulders. I would love to hear her gasp and moan.

“You will show me tonight,” I said, looking at her hard. “I want to watch this.”

“Of course, Christina,” she said, her voice breathless.

The way she said Christina ... It was so submissive. It was full of her need to obey. It wasn’t the way anyone else said it. I could almost hear another word in its place. Mistress. But if she called my Christina, no one would know I was her futa-domme.

My clit-dick throbbed in my panties.

Her eyes were locked at my crotch. She licked her lips. My cock twitched again. A wet sport formed at the top of my satin panties, my precum bleeding through. I shuddered, aching to get out of my panties. Though they were cut to accommodate a futa’s big dick and still look sexy, they were tight with me at a full erection.

“Do you want to see me naked?” I asked.

“How else can you take my virginity, Christina?” she asked.

“Lots of ways,” I said. “I could use my fingers. A dildo. I could grab a stick and shove it up your cunt until you howled out in rapture.” I cupped her face, lifting her gaze to my eyes. “You didn’t answer my question. You’ve had your eyes locked onto my crotch this entire time. You are panting like a filthy slut in heat, your pussy juices trickling down your thighs. You’re on fire. You’re dirty cunt wants my cock in it so badly. You want to see my dick, don’t you? Because you’re a wanton whore, aren’t you?”