The World’s First Futa’s Daughters 04 – Futa’s First Arab Passion Chapter 3: Nova’s Hot Wife Passion

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

Chapter Three: Nova’s Hot Wife Passion

By mypenname3000

Copyright 2019

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.