The World’s First Futa’s Daughters 01 – Futa’s First Naughty Birthday Chapter 3: Christina’s Naughty Birthday Gift

The World’s First Futa’s Daughters – Futa’s First Naughty Birthday

Chapter Three: Christina’s Naughty Birthday Gift

By mypenname3000

Copyright 2018

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.