The World’s First Futa’s Daughters – Futa’s First Arab Passion

Chapter One: Nova’s Cuckolding Wedding Night

By mypenname3000

Copyright 2019

December 23rd, 2038 – Nova Alfarsi

“What was it like to be the first futa to enroll in King Njam bin Mohammad program to introduce futas to the Arab world?”

“Terrifying,” I answered, shifting in the seat, my hijab wrapped about my face. It was a colorful affair, chosen by Wahida. “But also eager. I wanted to help my futa-mother out. She had this dream of futas being accepted everywhere.”

“Yes, President Woodward is very eager for it,” said Adelia. The talk show host shifted as she sat beside me. She was a beautiful woman with caramel skin, her black hair swaying about her face. I was being interviewed on her afternoon show. Our talk was being streamed across the world. “Do you have a close relationship with your mother.”

“No,” I said. “Not my futa-mother. But, well, she has so many daughters, she can’t know us all.”

“Is that hard?”

I shook my head. “I understand. And I had a great life growing up. My mother told me stories of her time with my futa-mother on the cheer squad.”

Adelia smiled. “I think we all remember those games.” She shifted as I heard the audience giggle. “So, Nova, did you convert to Islam as well?”

“Of course,” I said, smiling. “It was partly what motivated me to accept the offer to go to the Middle East and marry into Talib Alfarsi’s family. It’s been a wonderful experience.”

“Even with what happened to you?” she asked, her eyes pouring into mine.

I raised my chin and answered with confidence, “Yes.”

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July 23rd, 2038

I trembled as I cleared customs at King Khalid International Airport. I slipped my passport into my dress, my heart pounding in my head. I was here. In the Kingdom. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. I must be insane to be here, but…

I couldn’t help but admire the Arab women moving through the airport. They all had this air of mystique. Graceful and lovely as they were covered up in long dresses, hijabs wrapped around their heads if they weren’t in the full burqa covering every bit of them but their hands and the small slit in their veil showing their eyes. Unlike the West, women here didn’t show off their attributes. No tits spilling out of low-cut blouses, no asses clad in shorts so tight they might as well be painted on, and no wanton eagerness to be noticed.

These women were all mysteries. What were their breasts like? Their asses? Legs? I had no idea. It was a thrill to find out. My clit-dick throbbed in my panties, my pussy itching with excitement as I gripped my luggage, wheeling it out through the airport.

This was my new home. I was so far away. My mother thought I was crazy, but my futa-mother wanted this. The King of Saudi Arabia had promised to protect any futa who “married” a Muslim man who had at least one wife. Talib sounded excited to have a futa for a wife.

“The miracle from Allah,” a man said.

My head turned around to a young, tall man with a goatee. He wore the white headdress with the red pattern on it that you saw on Saudi men, a band holding it tight to his head. He wore a suit besides that, a blend of Western culture and his own. He smiled at me.

“Oh, Nova, what a treat to see your radiance in person,” he said as he reached me. He grabbed my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks, his goatee rubbing on my flesh.

“Talib?” I asked.

“You sound unsure,” he said, taking my luggage from me. “Don’t I look as handsome in person as I do when we video chatted?”

“Yes, yes,” I said. “It’s just been a long flight. This is all overwhelming.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, hooking my arm with his. He led me through the airport. “I am glad you are here. My cousin is eager to make this whole plan work. He’s excited that I am marrying you.”

“King Njam is really your cousin?” I asked.

“Third cousin,” he said, nodding his head. “It’s hard to get a job in the oil ministry if you’re not connected to the royal family. So have no fear, your safety is guaranteed.”

“There’s… a danger to my safety?” I asked.

“Some are not… as enthusiastic of futas entering the Kingdom,” said Talib. “They do not accept the miracle of your mother, or think she’s from Shaitan.”

“Ah,” I said, swallowing. I lifted my head. Well, I had made my choice. I was here to support my futa-mother’s ideas for a world of peace and tranquility. I would be an ambassador, leading the way. I hoped more and more of my futa-sisters followed.

“Now, I know you must be tired, but my cousin wishes to get the formalities out of the way,” he said as we exited the airport. “I’m afraid we must have our wedding today before anything can… get in the way.”

“Of course,” I said.

I almost wilted at the heat that washed over me. I gasped as we left the air-conditioned airport into the blistering sunlight of the desert. I had never felt the temperature so hot. The sun almost pounded on my head through my hijab. I swayed for a moment, held upright by my husband-to-be. Before us was a dark town car. He opened the rear door for me.

I climbed into blessed cool. I groaned in delight as he closed the door. I shifted in my sight as he stowed my luggage in the trunk. I blinked my eyes and looked around. We were in a Mercedes. The interior was leather, smooth. My hand touched it, feeling the rich texture as he slipped into the driver seat.

“Karimi Mosque,” he said to the car and then he turned around. “I was one of the first to adopt Mercedes’s self-driving car. Many men in the Kingdom don’t want to give up control, but they’re popular with our women.”

The car pulled from the airport curve. “Because they aren’t technically driving? I thought women could drive in the Kingdom.”

“Technically,” he said. “But, again, some are not nearly as enlightened as me. Allah willing, your presence and those of your futa-sisters will change that.”

I nodded, glad I was doing my part for the world. I rubbed my hands together.

“Nova,” he said. “That is an exploding star, yes?”

“Yes,” I said. “My mother thought I would be more radiant than her, and since her name is Starr…”

“It’s a beautiful name,” he said.

I smiled and nodded, my eyes going to the tinted windows. I gazed outside at the passing streets. More women in veils and burqas and hijabs. It was so exciting. My clit-dick tingled again as I glanced at them, my heart beating faster and faster. I couldn’t wait to make love to an Arab woman.

To Wahida.

Despite my tiredness from the flight, I was young. Eighteen. An eagerness shot through me. This was my wedding day, and it was so unlike anything I had imagined. I rubbed my hands on my long skirt, a brown fabric dotted with white flowers. My breasts rose and fell in my bodice, my nipples tingling in my bra.

The car parked itself in the narrow street before the mosque. It stood out from the surrounding buildings, the exterior almost a pristine white. The roof was domed and had a tower thrusting above it topped by minarets. It had a special feeling about it.

I licked my lips. It was different from the Mosque back in Tacoma. This place felt ancient. Like it had been here since the start of Islam. A thousand or more years. I trembled as Talib moved around the limousine. He opened my door and offered his arm.

“Thank you,” I said, my heart beating faster and faster.

He led me inside, and I gasped to see that there were cameras here. It looked like reporters, including a few women, had waited at the mosques antechamber. The cameras flashed around me. I smiled, trembling. I was the ambassador of futas. I had to be perfect.

It was all such a blur for the next hour. I just kept smiling and nodding. My Arabic was rudimentary. Talib spoke English, but many others didn’t seem to. I met Imam Hoosam Karimi, the man who had written the fatwa finding that futas were the divine product of Allah sent to transform the world. Then Wahida appeared, wearing a maroon hijab and blue dress, her delicate face smiling.

My heart beat fast as I stared at my future sister-wife. She was Talib’s wife, the woman whom I would unite with. My clit-dick swelled to its full girth as she gave me a chaste hug. I felt the warmth of her body through her dress. She felt petite. I couldn’t wait to unwrap her.

To find out how beautiful she was beneath her dress. It would be such a treat to explore.

I wanted to kiss her lips. They were so delicious looking. I wanted to just claim her, to thrust my tongue into her mouth. But we weren’t alone here. There were the reporters. The imam and his wife. It would be a mistake for us to do anything.

Before I knew it, I was kneeling down and marrying my husband. He held my hands while vows were declared. I promised to be his wife, to love and honor him, while he promised to take care of me. It made my heart pound to say these words.

I wasn’t thrilled to seal our marriage with a kiss, I wasn’t into men. I was into women. Into Wahida. I wanted to do wicked things with her. I wanted to just enjoy her. It would be amazing. My heart pounded with the excitement, eager to leave the Mosque and arrive at my new home.

Of doing naughty things to my husband’s wife.

“Isn’t she just perfect?” Talib said when we were married. He had his arm around my waist, holding me tight while the cameras rolled. “King Njam has seen the future. Futas are part of Allah’s plan. They are here to revitalize the world. Only fools would not accept it.”

“And it doesn’t bother you bringing a hermaphrodite into your house?” asked a reporter. “With your wife.”

“With our wife,” said Talib, smiling. “That is the point. Our own King shared his queens with President Woodward. Futas are not bound by the same laws as us humans. They are divine beings. This is Allah’s will.”

“To be cuckolded?” asked the reporter.

“It is not cuckolding,” said the imam.