The World’s First Futa 11 – Futa’s Wild Presidency Chapter 2: Futa’s First English Delight

The World’s First Futa – Futa’s Wild Presidency

Chapter Two: Futa’s First English Delight

By mypenname3000

Copyright 2018

April 17th, 2047

Adelia played the clip. It appeared on a large screen on the side of her studio. The audience grew hushed as the Sky News logo appeared with a reporter, a brown-skinned man with a close-shaved beard and, I supposed, a chiseled chin.

“Prime Minister Lockwood had a few bold words to say about the ingratiation of President Becky Woodward today,” he said in that posh, British accent. It gave him more of an authoritative tone. “She was speaking before parliament in the wake of the first ever election of a futanari—the world’s first futanari—to the highest office in the United States.”

The screen cut to Phillipa Lockwood. She looked not much different then she did when I saw her yesterday, her face a little younger, her lips a little fuller. She stood before a podium in a gray pantsuit, a pink scarf about her neck giving a spot of color to her. She stood tall, her blonde hair pulled back into a bun.

“I am announcing before parliament and our mighty nation, that I will not be a doxy for the lusts of the American’s new president.” Her blue eyes flashed from right to left as she surveyed the crowd behind the camera, her diction precise. “I will not be her whore. If she thinks she will conduct diplomacy between the U.S. and the U.K. in the bedroom, then she is sorely mistaken. Now, all women are driven into a state of an amplified sex drive, eager to be a slattern for the sex-starved hussy whom the Americans have chosen for their leader.”

I arched an eyebrow. Even now, my blood boiled.

“To prevent myself from being a slave to my uterus, I am taking an experimental drug to suppress my sex drive. For so long as she is in office, I will be immune to the whorish lusts she inspires in other women. She will have to negotiate with me honestly like adults, not like a pair of sex-mad students pawing each other in the back of their parents’ Ford Prefect!

“I will show Becky Woodward how a female leader conducts herself. Not as a whore, but a person with self-worth!”

“Bold words from our prime minister,” the anchor said, the feed cutting back to him. “Now we go to—”

The footage ended.

Adelia turned to me, her caramel face looking serious. I shifted in the seat, my heart pounding. “Bold words indeed.”

“Yes, to think she believes a woman who enjoys the pleasures of her body has no self-worth.” I smiled. “I had to educate her. I spoke with my advisers, and we devised the perfect away to deal with her. Christina researched the drug while Bethany and Danielle came up with our attack plan.

“I would show her that being a whore was a wonderful thing in the world while her entire country watched on.”

“You never did put up with BS,” Adelia said, a smile growing on her lips.

“Not even from America’s greatest ally.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January 29th, 2037

“The arrangements are finalized, Mom,” Bethany said as my limo drove us through the streets of London past the cheering crowds lining the sidewalks. Many held American flags, waving them alongside the U.K.’s banner. Others held up pictures of me or signs showing their support of me and condemnation of their prime minister.

“These have plenty of worth!” a woman had written across her large, pillowy breasts. She shook them at me as we passed, violating the decency laws of her country.

“Good, good,” I said, smiling at Bethany.

My daughters were all in the limo with me, my core team. They were joined by my intern Jen, her engagement ring glinting on her finger. I couldn’t wait for her wedding to my daughter Lola.

“And she was amendable?” I asked.

“More than amendable,” Bethany answered.

Danielle, her sandy-blonde hair spilling in a wild splash down the right side of her head, gave a wicked smirk. “Oh, she sounded like she was gagging for this. I don’t think she’s happy one bit with Lockwood’s decision.”

“I know I wouldn’t be,” Leah, my press secretary, said. “I hope this works, Mom, or it will be quite the embarrassment.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“This will work, Mom,” Christina said, pushing up her glasses. Even though she was only Chris’s adopted daughter, not his biological one, she had picked up so many of the nerdy guy’s mannerisms. I was glad he was a wonderful father to my daughter. “All the literature says this will do it.”

“Good, good,” I said.

“Did you go over the comments I prepared,” Lola asked. She was my speech writer.

“I did. There’s one I am really hoping to use. The uterus one.”

Lola beamed at me. My eldest daughter, though only by a few hours, had skill as an author. Though eighteen, she was a brilliant girl. They all were. I was the luckiest person to have so many wonderful daughters. And this was just a small fraction of them. There were so many more out in the world.

Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. And they were coming of age. Glory Olson announced she was pregnant right before I left, and she married on my daughters back in August. I didn’t feel any where near old enough to be a grandmother.

I was only thirty-seven and still hot. I didn’t have wrinkles or any gray to my hair. It was still my natural blonde.

“Okay, we’re getting close,” Rebecca said. She was my chief of staff, the daughter who did the organizing. “You can do this, Mom.”

“Oh, yes, you can,” Bethany said. She kept up morale. She nodded her head, her face beaming with joy.

Jen giggled. “You do got this, Mom.”

“Mom?” I asked her.

She blushed and cuddled up to Lola. “Well, in a few months you’ll be my mother-in-law.”

I smiled at her. “I can’t wait. You’ll be so beautiful in white.”

“We both will,” Jen said, squirming against Lola.

The cheers grew louder and louder. I was meeting the Prime Minister in Trafalgar Square before a huge audience. I glanced out the windows, smiling as a young man flipped up the blouse of the woman with him. He held a sign in his other hand that said, “Breed my wife, Madam president.”

They were a lovely pair of breasts. I wish I could. But I had to meet with Phillipa Lockwood and deal with her attitude problem. She had to understand that I would unite us one way or another. After today, America and United Kingdoms would be as close as two nations could be. She would have my baby, binding us together.

The first step towards my dream of a united earth. Everyone happy and loving and living in peace.

Police held back the crowds of enthusiastic young women. They were more women. Topless, eighteen-year-old girls with firm, young breasts who were standing next to hot, mature cougars shaking their pillowy mounds at me. Despite the January chill, a plethora of tits flashed at me, nipples hard.

I groaned as we passed a block of girls all flashing their asses at me, their pussies shaved, peeking between their thighs. They wiggled them at my limo. A few had words written on their butt-cheeks: “Fuck me here, Becky!” and “Breed my pussy, Madam President!”

“I wish I could,” I groaned, my girl-dick so hard.

“Uh-huh,” Danielle moaned, her face pressed against the window. “Damn, they are friendly here in England. We’re going to get so much pussy, Bethany.”

“So much,” Bethany moaned.

Even Christina let out a whimpering moan of eager delight.

The police escort brought us around the square. It was full of people. A sea of supporters. A cheer rose through them. It thundered around my limo. I straightened, beaming in delight. I loved it. All these shining faces. They weren’t my responsibility, technically, but I wanted to make a future bright for the English as well as for my fellow Americans.

Finally, the limo reached the end of the square, passing through a cordon of British police wearing their florescent vests, their bobby caps on their heads. They looked gentler than the police back in the States, not as tough or ferocious.

A secret service agent named George opened my limo, a tall man, shoulders broad, body thick with muscles. He had an ear piece and RayBan sunglasses on in addition to his cheap suit. He nodded to me, holding out his hand.

I took it, stepping out in my tight pencil skirt and low-cut, pink blouse. The crowd’s thundering cheers swept around me, embracing me like a lover. I shivered as I mounted the stage to where Phillipa Lockwood waited, her face tight. She wore a red-brown pantsuit today, her hair in that tight bun, making her look even older.

Though her face was still smooth and lovely. She was young to be a prime minister, two or three years my junior.

Warmth billowed up around me. The stage floor was heated, keeping the area safe from the frigid January that gripped the rest of the city. Those women flashing their tits and pussies at me were brave. I loved this technology. It meant I could have my fun in public and not worry about my cock being too cold to get hard.

And that would spoil all my fun.

I sauntered across the heated stage, smiling and waving to the crowd. Women pressed on the cordon of police, screeching in delight like I was one of the Beatles and not a politician. I shivered, my futa-cock tenting the front of my skirt. I paused, blowing them a set of kisses.

Phillipa’s jaw set.

I reached her a few steps later. “Madam President,” she said, extending her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Not yet it’s not,” I said, giving her a wink while taking her hand, feeling her delicate fingers.

They were cold. I studied her. She had not a hit of lust to her. Her cheeks didn’t go pink. Her eyes weren’t dilated. Her body didn’t shudder. Her nipples weren’t dimpling the white blouse she wore beneath her blazer. The medicine worked.

For now.

“There won’t ever be the sort of pleasure you’re insinuating,” she said, her voice low. She was smiling like she wasn’t as angry as a nest of wasps who just got stepped on.