Chapter 3: Nova’s Hot Wife Passion

August 27th, 2038 – Nova Alfarsi

I strolled through the market with Wahida, people talking around us. Vendors hawked their wears, displaying fruits, vegetables, trinkets, cookware, and more. People, men and women both, bustled through, shopping, laughing, enjoying life. There was a spicy scent in the air from a booth dangling with cloves of peppers and sticks of cinnamon. It was so different from America.

So much more alive.

My wife walked beside me, both of us wearing dark dresses, mine a midnight-blue, and hers a deep maroon. We had on our hijabs, modestly covering our hair like proper, Muslim women. Of course, I was a futa. My clit-dick was twitching in my panties, hidden by the bulky folds of my dress. Other than the pale features of my face and my blue eyes, you’d hardly know I didn’t belong here.

“Look at her,” Wahida whispered, nodding to a woman moving through the crowd in a full burqa, the black cloth hanging over her body. It was clear she was a willowy woman even wearing the bulky clothes. Her hands looked delicate as they peeked out the sleeves. She turned her head, dark eyes peering out through the slit of her veil. “Imagine what sort of underwear she has on beneath that.”

“Lacy bra and panties,” I purred.

“Mmm, maybe a thong,” Wahida answered. She had changed since my marriage to Talib. She was such a wicked thing now that she had blossomed. She had shared more than a few women with me, including the imam’s two wives. The last month had been amazing.

Wahida was pregnant, maybe with my child, and so was Fahima, the imam’s young, naughty wife. I hoped they were both mine. I wasn’t my randy futa-mother. I didn’t breed every woman on the first try. But I hoped so.

I was so glad to be an ambassador of futas to the Arab world. Imam Karimi was a big supporter. He had written the fatwa that declared futas to be a miracle from Allah and the Muslim world should embrace us. More than a few husbands found it kinky to watch me fuck their wives, to pump my cock in and out of their pussies and turn them into my slut.

Then they would enjoy the sloppy seconds.

I hoped more of my futa-sisters would come to the Arab world. I was the first one to accept King Njam’s invitation. The Saudi Royal family was fully behind this move. After all, several of his wives were raising my little futa-sisters, products from my mother’s visit last year.

“Let me go speak to her, my wife,” purred Wahida. “See if she’s interested in the charms of a futa.”

“Wonderful,” I purred.

My futa-dick swelled harder, growing to a slab of iron in my pants. I stood there, trembling as I watched her navigate through the crowd, heading to the burqa-clad woman as she browsed the stall of a merchant selling dates. I licked my lips, my pussy growing wetter and wetter. I was so ready for this fun.

Behind me, traffic flowed down the street. Cars honked at each other. Someone shouted out in angry Arabic, the words understanding lost. I was still mastering the language, but getting better every day.

Wahida reached the stall. She struck up a conversation with the woman. They were nodding to each other. I smiled, my futa-dick throbbing in anticipation. I knew we would have a wild time. We could find a cozy place to love each other.

Tires squealed behind me.

The sound drew my attention. I turned to see a beige van stopping right behind me. I frowned as the side door flung open, clattering on its rollers. Then I gasped at the sight of the two men with black turbans, the cloth wrapped around their faces to hide all but their eyes. Fear surged through me.

I screamed before a strong hand clasped over my mouth. Then I gasped as the second man seized my waist and hauled me into the van. I kicked, shouting into the hand clapped over my mouth. I landed on the musty floor of the vehicle, held down by the men. The van lurched forward, the bazaar speeding past before the door was slammed closed.

Terror seized my heart as a rough bag was pulled over my head. I shuddered, unable to breathe. It was so hot and stuffy in here. I squirmed and thrashed as the men barked at me. Blood screamed through my veins, pounding hot in my ears. They flipped me over, pulling my wrists together. They were so strong. I couldn’t resist them.

Rope went about my wrists. It pulled tight, biting into my flesh.

I cried, sobbing in the bag as they held me to the floor, a knee in my back. What were they going to do to me? The van drove, bouncing over the crown. I trembled, struggling to breathe through the heavy cloth over my head.

Tears spilled down my face. My body shook. Hiccuping sobs rippled through my body. I didn’t know what they wanted. Why they had kidnapped me and...

Kidnapped me...

Were they terrorists?

I sobbed to Allah to protect me as the van drove and drove. When it stopped. My stomach clenched. What were they going to do to me? I trembled as the men lifted me by the armpits and dragged me out of the van. The toes of my shoes scraped across gravel then hit the threshold of a house. I was carried inside, feeling carpet beneath my shoes.

A door open.

I was thrown to the floor.

“Please, please, don’t hurt me,” I moaned in Arabic, struggling to speak. I sat up and heard the door slam shut.

August 29th, 2038

Two days later, and I was still locked in the room. I had a cot and a large, porcelain bowl to relieve myself in. They changed it twice a day when the brought me food. The window was boarded over, only trickles of light peeking through.

I was numb with fear. Two days, and I didn’t know what was going to happen to me. I just lay on the cot, resting my head on the hard pillow they gave me. I still wore the same dress and hijab as before. They hadn’t hurt me, but they wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t tell me what they were going to do to me.

Would they kill me?

The door opened, and I flinched. I sat up and curled my legs to my chest. Was this it. I blinked raw eyes and licked chapped teeth. I needed more to drink. A man walked in, all in black, his turban wrapped about his face to hide his identity. He held a tray with food steaming on it. It looked like spiced lamb wrapped up in pita bread with some rice on the side and a large glass of water. I swallowed and relaxed a bit.

If they were going to hurt me, they wouldn’t feed me right before they did. Right?

I slid my feet to the floor, the old carpet rough beneath my bare feet. The tray thrust at me. I took it, staring into the man’s eyes. They were the only part of him I could see. I stared into them and frowned. There was something familiar about them.

“Imam Karimi?” I said, furrowing my brow.

The man stiffened. “No, no, not this man.” His voice was gruff like he was trying to lower it. “Mistaken.

“No, no, it is you, “ I said, shocked by the fact he was here. “I thought you liked futas. You married me.”

“You fucked my wives!” he spat out, his eyes going wild.

“But you wrote the fatwa saying it wasn’t adultery for a woman to lie with a futa,” I said. “You said—”

He darted out of the room, slamming the door behind him. I leaned back against the wall, shocked by this revelation. I thought he enjoyed it when I fucked his wives. He always stroked his cock as he watched, furiously masturbating as I pleased his wives. As I made them cum and cum and cum.

My world reeled.

September 1st, 2038

Another two days passed in boredom. I thought about every time I was with Imam Karimi’s wives over the last two months. From the first time when he walked in on me fucking Rizwana from behind as she ate out Fahima, to the last time the day before my kidnapping when he jerked off his cock as Fahima rode my mouth and Rizwana my cock. I left the older wife full of my cum as she begged me to breed her.

“Yes, yes, give me a child like you gave Fahima,” she’d moaned. “I want a baby. I need one!”

“Yes, yes, breed my wife!” the imam had moaned and came as he jerked his cock, crying out in pleasure.

It baffled me. He seemed to like being cuckolded. I remember him fucking Fahima so hard once after I finished with her. His wife was mewling with delight then smiled as her husband mounted her. She had this big, satiated grin on her face as she enjoyed a delicious dessert after the feast I’d given her.

The door opened. It was time for me to eat. I sat up and blinked. It was the imam again. His shoulders were hunched. He didn’t look at me. I hadn’t seen him in two days. I thought he wasn’t coming back, that shame had driven him away.

For a moment, anger surged through me. He must have been the one to arrange my kidnapping. He knew what I looked like. He might have even been in the van. Maybe he grabbed me that day. I should let him feel the brunt of my anger. I was still American. I wasn’t a meek, simpering woman.

Rage boiled through me, but ... That wouldn’t get me out of here.

“Imam Karimi,” I said. His shoulders tightened. “How are your wives doing?”

He flinched, the plate covered in rice with chicken shook in his hand. I heard him swallow as he approached me.

“Fahima is pregnant,” I said. “Probably with my child. Rizwana might be, too. You should be happy.”

“Why?” he growled. “Why should I be happy that you bred my wife?”

“I thought you said that I was Allah’s special miracle,” I said. “A gift to mankind. That every Muslim woman should be honored to bear a futa-daughter. That every Muslim man should marry a futa so that she may breed his wife.”

“I did say those things.” He handed the tray to me and then shifted on his feet. I wanted to press him more, but he seemed on the verge of flight. His eyes were bloodshot. Dark bags looked beneath them. I took a sip of my water, struggling to work out my next move. What I should say.

“What is going to happen to me?” I asked.

“We’re negotiating with King Njam to have him ban futas from the kingdom.” He shifted his shoulders. “They want me to retract my fatwa.”

“You haven’t?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Until the king changes his position, I can’t change mine.”

“Right, don’t want to look like you were behind this,” I said.

He shrugged.

A chill ran through me. I knew Karimi was with the kidnappers. Would they ... dispose of me.

“So it’s jealousy, huh?” I said through the fear bubbling through me. This cold dread that I wouldn’t survive. It angered me. I was just trying to spread love and joy. To give passion to all these women that lacked it. “That’s it? You are just such a pathetic man that you couldn’t handle me fucking your wives.” He looked down. His feet shuffled from side to side.

“They enjoyed me!” I said. “You know that. Your wives are happier. You were happier. You were enjoying them as much as me.”

“I...”

“Don’t lie. I saw you jerking your cock. And I know how much you enjoyed my sloppy seconds.” I shook my head. “But you’re such a pathetic man, you grew jealous of a futa. You couldn’t follow your own teachings. How sad is that?”

“They are my wives,” he whispered.

“And?” I stared at him. “Talib has the balls to enjoy me making love to Wahida. Shafaqat asks me to come over and fuck Duha. He wants to follow your words. To be a good Muslim man, but you ... You had a guest kidnapped.”

He flinched back at that.

“I was invited to Saudi Arabia by King Njam,” I said. “I am a faithful, Muslim futa. I worship Allah and believe Mohammad is his prophet. I plan on making the Hajj and see the Kaaba. I follow the pillars!” I rose, my anger burning through him. “You welcomed me! And then you betrayed me! What is going to happen to me, truly?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, looking away.

A terrible chill rippled through me. “They’re not letting me leave here alive.”

He backed up.

“That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” he said, retreating faster. He reached behind him for the doorknob.

“You do!” I said. “You can do something about it, too. Can’t you.”

“I can’t.”

“Bullshit!” I glared at him. “You welcomed me in your home, and you’re going to let them harm me? What sort of Muslim man are you, huh? Let alone an imam!”

“I’ll be in trouble,” he said, staring up at her. “You know who I am.”

My stomach rippled. That cold chill shot through me. His eyes were desperate, afraid. “Then what if you saved me. What if you set me free. I can tell the authorities that you forced me. That you didn’t have a choice. They threatened your wife.”

“Why?” he asked, staring at me, his eyes wide.

“Because I like your wives. They like you. I don’t want them to suffer.” I swallowed, reaching out. “‘O My Devotees, who have committed excesses against their own selves, do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Surely, Allah forgives all sins. Indeed He is the most Forgiving, the Merciful.’” I spoke the words of the Quran with confidence. “That’s Sura 39:43. Right? It is not too late to do the right thing.”

He trembled.

“You’ll never get to see me with your wives again,” I purred. “I know you found it hot. That’s why you turned me in. You were shocked by how much you enjoyed seeing your wives cumming on my dick. I know you loved it. You fuck your wives so hard after I’m done with them. You’ll miss out on that. You’ll regret that.”

“It is too late,” he croaked. He turned the doorknob. “I am sorry, Nova.”

He darted out of the door, slamming it shut. The lock clicked a moment later.

My legs sagged. All the passion I felt deflated out of me. I stumbled back and sank to my cot. I stared at my food, the steam rising up. I was starving before he entered, but now ... My stomach felt so cold and empty.

They were going to kill me. I wouldn’t get to see my Wahida again. Or Talib. He was becoming my friend. A wonderful person. Fahima and Rizwana, Duha, Shazi, Fathiyya ... I would miss them all.

Tears spilled down my cheeks.

September 2nd, 2038

The sounds of shooting brought me out of my sleep. It was early the following day. I groaned, feeling groggy. I had such a hard time finding rest. I kept thinking those dark thoughts. Bleak, depressing, hopeless thoughts. I wanted to get out of here. I wanted to see my futa-daughters being born. I wanted to hold them in my arms.

Angry shouts echoed. I trembled. Something had gone wrong.

My door exploded open in a burst of splinters. I screamed, kicking at my covers and pressing into the wall. My blonde hair swayed loose about my shoulders. I should cover myself. That strange thought screamed through my fear-addled mind as the dark shape rushed at me, looming, swathed in black.

He shouted something in Arabic and grabbed me, throwing a hood over my head.

This was it. I groaned as the man hauled me out of the room. I wanted to be strong, but the terror was so great. More shouts echoed. I heard the pops of guns. I cringed, my shoulders hunching inward. The strong hand guided me forward as the tears spilled down my face.

I was pushed against something cold. Metal. A car. The door was wrenched open and I was shoved into the backseat. The man hopped into the driver seat. The car started as I shuddered in the back. More gunshots erupted behind me as the car drove forward.

“A-are you... ?” I trembled. “I...”

“It’s okay,” the man said, his voice soft. It sounded like the imam. “Take off your hood, Nova.”

I pulled it off, blinking. It was still night. Flashing lights danced behind us. I turned to see cop cars before a building. Figures were surging in. Gunshots cracked inside. I gasped and then looked ahead to see the imam, his shoulders hunched.

“I ... I made a mistake. I didn’t know they planned on hurting you. I just wanted you to leave. To never come back, but...” He swallowed and stared back at me with raw eyes. “You were right. I felt jealous. Inadequate. You are so much more than me. Allah created you futas to replace us men. I see it now. We’re too brutal. Too violent.”

“That’s just being human,” I said. “I don’t know if us futas are any better.”

“Your mother, President Woodward, seeks to unite the world. She wants to make peace. End the violence. It is a good idea. That was why I accepted King Njam’s possibility. I wanted a world of peace, but one where Islam survived. It will, through your children. Allah sent your mother to change the world. For all of us. I believe that. I should have embraced it, but I was weak. Scared. I am sorry, Nova.”

“You did the right thing,” I told him, my body trembling. Everything shook. I came so close to ... I didn’t want to think about it. “You realized what you were doing was wrong before it was too late. Thank you.”

“No, no, don’t thank me,” he groaned. “This is all my fault. I listened to those men. I ... I helped them. Not out of fear, but cowardice. Jealousy.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. I squeezed him. “We all make mistakes. We all do the wrong thing, but ... today, you did what as right. I meant it. I will say you were forced. That you didn’t have a choice. I will see you protected.”

His shoulders shook. Then I realized he was crying. He stopped the car and pressed his face into the steering wheel. It wasn’t long before I joined him. I leaned back into the car seat and shuddered, the tears spilling down my cheeks.

I almost died, but he found his way back to being a good man. He made it right. I had to work hard to be a shining example. I had to show the world that futas were important. That we were going to bring about a change. Maybe Allah did send us.

It was as good a reason as any other.

I emerged from the bathroom bathed and refreshed. It was hours later. I had an emotional day. I had to speak to the police and tell them what happened. Then I saw Talib and Wahida for a few moments before I had to appear with King Njam and his queens, standing with them as he gave a speech about the importance of futas and not letting the fundamentalist hold Saudi Arabia in the past.

Imam Karimi was there, looking stunned. He stammered through an address and wept as he was thanked by the king. I would keep the man’s secret. I wouldn’t tell anyone. Every one of us had that dark jealousy in us. Every one of us could make such a poor decision that might not hurt people physically, but emotionally...

Forgiveness was something important.

Now I was feeling alive. The shock was wearing off. I spent five days as a prisoner. I wasn’t abused, but I was terrified. I thought I would never see my family again. I emerged wrapped up in a dressing gown, my blonde hair wet. I felt alive.

Talib was there. My husband cupped my cheeks, staring into my eyes. “I was so terrified. I had my cousin ripping apart the Kingdom looking for you.”

“He didn’t sleep for days,” Wahida said. She had such a gentle smile on her lips. “When I saw that van drive off...” Tears beaded her eyes.

Talib kissed me on both cheeks then stepped aside. Wahida threw her arms around me. She held me tight, trembling against me. Our lips met in a deep kiss. I held her tight, loving the feel of her against me.

I broke the kiss and stared in her eyes. “I’m here. I’m safe, my Wahida.”

“My shining Nova,” she said, still holding me.

Beyond her, Fahima and Rizwana held each other, staring at me with wide eyes. “Our husband won’t talk about it,” said Rizwana. “They took him, too?”

“To force him to recant his fatwa,” I said. “But he refused. He helped me escape. He was a hero.” The lie came easily. I had forgiven the imam. I didn’t need to cause him more pain. He had saved me, tipped off the police and pulled me out before they could arrive so I wouldn’t be in danger during the raid. “He’s a hero.”

“Wow,” said Fahima.

“I know,” said Rizwana. “Our husband...” She smiled so brightly, such pride in her eyes.

I could never tell them the truth. It would break them. He made a mistake, but he fixed it.

“You must be tired,” said Wahida, taking my hand and pulling me towards the bed. I noticed then that she was wearing a light nightgown, the linen clinging to her dusky body, her flesh bleeding through in spots. Her nipples were dark shadows, and the flesh of her hips and thighs darkened the fabric as the cloth hugged her curves.

“Well, I am tired, but...” My futa-dick throbbed, pressing against my own dressing gown.

“Well, I shall let you rest and leave you in the hands of our wife and our friends,” Talib said. He had a twinkle in his eye. He wouldn’t watch me make love to Rizwana and Fahima out of respect for the imam. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you, my husband,” I said, smiling at him. He was a good man.

“My heart, take care of her,” he said to Wahida.

“Always, my husband,” Wahida purred, smoky passion in her eyes.

He shuddered then slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him. The click of the latch made me shudder. A wicked thrill ran through me. My eyes flicked to the three women. Already Rizwana and Fahima were pulling off their hijab, revealing their silky, black hair. So different from my blonde locks.

I didn’t get my futa-mother’s hair coloring, but I got her lusts. My futa-dick was hard now. It had been so many days since I had orgasmed. Not since I discovered the joys of masturbation had I gone longer than half a day without erupting.