The Futanari Virus: Dirty Girl

By Veronica Sloan

"Everything changed in the spring. We all went a little crazy. By the middle of spring quarter, most women in Hapi knew about the Futanari Virus. That didn't stop it from spreading, of course..."

With these words, Professor Joan Moneta begins her personal account of the Futanari Virus. Transformed during the initial outbreak, Joan sees her futanari body as the perfect business opportunity. Her new anatomy makes her irresistible to the desperate housewives of Hapi, Delaware. Maybe it's immoral to offer "the futanari experience" to women that are already in relationships, but Joan is delighted to be their dirty girl. In this erotic autobiography, Joan describes her most salacious encounters...

This naughty futa tale is 24,000 words and recommended for adult readers.

~~~ Excerpt ~~~

When she worked up the courage, Stacy would ask me if I was psychic. That's one of the many powers that futanari are rumored to possess. I tried to be mindful, and not laugh, when I replied that, no, that's just silly. I don't know what women are thinking, but I do listen and I do care. Some women refuse to believe that. They like believing that futa are magical, that they're the answer to their fear, their horniness, their boredom.

The answer couldn't be a sympathetic woman, so it must be something else. The popular opinion among the suburban tiger moms that made up my clientele was that a futa wasn't a lesbian. A futanari like me is an oddity, a break from the norm. A bored housewife can forgive herself for sleeping with a futanari because it's strange and new. If she stepped out of her marriage for another woman - well, that's a different story. It's not the story they want to tell themselves...

Here's my kinky confession: I didn't mind being their fetish. I had a thing for confused straight girls even before the Futa Virus hit town. Some lesbians will tell you they hate those girls. Not me. They're my fetish.

That was why I never charged women like Stacy for the first date. If we did nothing but talk, or hold hands, she would leave with the knowledge that I was with her because I wanted to be. There's a thrill to playing things soft and slow, to being naughty in plain sight. I wasn't the one cheating, I was the thing she was using to cheat. That meant, no matter how pretty I was or put together, no matter how sweet or patient or kind, I was her dirty girl.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Veronica Sloan
• Release date: Jul 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005244149

Veronica Sloan

Veronica Sloan writes dirty stories and naughty romances. Her erotica is explicit and steamy, and no topic is too taboo. A Chicago girl at heart, Veronica graduated from the Columbia School of Journalism with every intention of writing very important things about very important people. Currently, she spends her days writing about pop culture and her nights writing about lusty men and women and their naughty predilections. She loves big dogs, hot yoga and songs that are stupidly catchy. Visit her at https://www.veronica-sloan-erotica.com/home/.

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The Futanari Virus: Dirty Girl

© Copyright 2018, Veronica Sloan, All Rights Reserved

NOTICE: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer: This story contains explicit content, including graphic descriptions of sexual intercourse. It is intended for adults only. All characters depicted are over the age of 18. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Cover designed by Veronica Sloan. Cover Photo © Can Stock Photo / mtoome.

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Prologue

Everything changed in the spring. We all went a little crazy.

By the middle of spring quarter, most women in Hapi knew about the Futanari Virus. That didn't stop it from spreading, of course, and it soon became impossible to hide from the men. Most of them were shocked, all of them were resentful. They wanted to know what they were supposed to do with wives and girlfriends whose cocks were bigger than theirs...

I thought it was hilarious, until things started to go all Mad Max.

For a week or two, the city teetered on the brink of collapse. Stores closed down en masse. City Hall was overrun with red-eyed spouses demanding some kind of solution or, barring that, compensation for their wounded manhood. The men lost control and the women lost themselves in their most salacious fantasies. It was rumored that the President was going to call in the National Guard, or bomb Hapi to save the rest of the state. But then the insanity sort of just...stopped.

From the harbor to the county line, women woke up to discover their cocks had vanished. Maybe the virus ran its course, or went dormant like a volcano. It's unclear how it happened and I'm certainly not the one to say. My doctorate is in literature, not biology.

If there was an official account of the Futanari Virus, it would say that it began in the spring of 2018 and ended in mid-May. Between you and me, that's not strictly true. Some women reverted from frisky futanari to happy homemakers again, but some couples prefer not to discuss the matter. They say it's nobody's business who has what parts and where they go when they're behind closed doors.

Some girls, like me, kept their extra anatomy and learned how to earn a little money on the side. I guess that makes me an entrepreneur.

Strange as it sounds, there are women in my city who are disappointed that they missed out on this weird, wild moment in our history. The town council wants to sweep the whole futa mess under the rug, and meanwhile scores of women are stepping out of placid marriages in search of hermaphrodites. They want to experience that chemical high from breathing in another girl's pheromones. They want an excuse to fool around with something beyond their understanding. And they want to risk contracting the virus.

Is it irresponsible? Yes. Is it reckless? You bet. But I don't blame any of them. It feels like nothing else, being filled by another woman - to know a woman's kiss and a woman's tongue, a woman's hands and a woman's heart, while her beautiful cock seals that lonely place between your legs. They say futas do it better and I have to agree. If youth is wasted on the young, a penis is wasted on a man. A man thinks it's the be all, end all, whereas a woman considers it one of her many erotic instruments.

That's why I started my little business: to give Hapi's ladies a taste of what they're missing. I'm not proud to say my name is scrawled on a few bathroom walls, but it keeps my phone ringing. My weekends were a lot less interesting before I started offering the futanari experience.

Judge me if you want. It's not easy to earn a living as an adjunct professor of classic literature. My salary is probably half that of your neighborhood kindergarten teacher.

I've been advised by my editor to change the names in this account, to protect the innocent and the not-so-innocent. You can call me Joan, since that's what I asked my clients to call me. Book slut that I am, I wanted to go with Juno, but Francine told me no one would get whatever obscure joke I was making.

"And anyway, she added, I don't get it. And I'm, like, really smart."

She's the Roman goddess of love and marriage, I said.

And you're helping horny housewives find love outside of marriage. Is that the joke?

More like I'm helping them appreciate lust outside their marriage. The joke is that I'm not doing what Juno is supposed to do. I'm the opposite of Juno.

That is the opposite of a good joke, she said.

I disagreed with Francine, but that's nothing new. Our disagreements are so numerous they could fill another book entirely. I've tried to limit my selections to just half of this one.

Chapter 1: Francine's Bad Habit

What does it feel like? she whispered. Her nails dug into my arm and her lips were wet against my jaw.

Fortunately, her desperate plea went unheard by the rest of the party. Max was pontificating on the President and Donna was rolling her eyes; Steve was laughing and Sara and Lana wanted to change the subject. While Mary asked if someone would split a piece of bread (she was supposed to be off bread this week), Rahim attempted to engage Ben in a side conversation about the merits of denuclearization. We all looked like adults and talked like adults and had lofty, adult opinions - except Francine, who just wanted to cuddle and whisper like a child.

I pretended that she'd said something funny and laughed into her hair. Beneath my breath I gently reminded her that she was doing it again.

She just held my arm tighter. Please, Joanie. Tell me what it's like. I could feel her body beneath her silk blouse, her heat and her enticing softness.

It made Ben uncomfortable when his wife got that close to me. Is my wife bugging you, Joan? he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

Of course, I said, just as lightly.

Francine glared at her husband and whispered fiercely in my ear, I'm talking about Stacy.

I know, I intoned, and pretended to laugh again.

Joanie, she moaned in my ear. What will it feel like when you put your cock inside her?

She was my best friend and she had the worst habit. One drink over the limit and she started to ask dirty questions. The trouble was, Francine's limit shifted like the tide. If everything was peachy I might not hear a peep from her all night. If she'd taken a pill before going out because she and Ben were having a disagreement, she could go from sweet to sloppy before she finished her first glass.

The questions were bad enough when she knew I was sleeping with Sara's