Cuckolded by the Futanari

By Veronica Sloan

Amanda just wants this miserable party to end. As far as her husband Bernard is concerned, she's a pretty prop that should be seen and not heard. It isn't until she meets the beguiling Joni Folsom that the dull night begins to sparkle. Joni is infatuated with Amanda and wants to put her proud husband in his place, so she offers the man a rare opportunity: a seat at her girls-only poker night. If Bernard wins, Joni will let him run the company. If Joni wins, she and her friends can do whatever they want to his wife.

Now Amanda's guilty heart is racing. She wants Bernard's feisty female colleagues to have their way with her, and that's even before she learns their shocking secret: Joni and her gang are futanari! When Bernard loses, he's going to be cuckolded by each and every one of them...much to his wife's delight.

This erotic futa tale is 23,000 words and recommended for adult readers.

~~~ Excerpt ~~~

Bernard pointed an accusing finger at Joni. "You told me five-thousand!"

Joni shrugged. "I'm sorry, Bernie. It must have slipped my mind..."

"I don't understand," Amanda said. "Does that mean Bernard can't play?" She looked at each of the women and then her husband. Bernard was an island, male and red-faced and big hands clenched into knots.

"Of course he can play," Joni said peaceably. "It just means he has less to play with."

"I'm sure he's used to it," Bobbie chuckled.

Nasty drew near to Amanda, hugging her with her body. "It is not as good," she explained. "Joni is always betting big."

"So the game is poker?" Amanda asked.

"We play all sorts of games," Joni replied. "Poker, pool, truth or dare..."

Bernard shook his head. "I knew it. This whole thing was just to make me look stupid. Nice, Joni. You're a real class act. Amanda, let's go."

Amanda was caught between her husband's angry scowl and the curious faces of Joni and her gang. But before she could set her drink down, before she could even move, Joni raised an elegant hand. Her voice lifted above the soft music that wafted in from the bedroom, her tone confident and seductive. "Why don't you pour a drink?" she suggested. "Sit down and I'll explain the stakes."

"No," Bernard said.

"Okay," Joni said, without an ounce of his bitterness. "You can stand and I'll explain. What we do here is trade favors. That's the real prize of the night. If you win, I'll do something for you. If I win, you do something for me."

Bernard arched a skeptical eyebrow. "Just like that, huh?"

"Absolutely like that," Joni replied. "Remember Vanessa Hugh? That lovely little redhead that was always jetting off to Hong Kong?"

"Yeah," Bernard said. "Now she's running the eastern office. You're saying that's because of you?"

"A good word with Joni goes a long way," Bobbie said.

"So if I take the pot," Bernard went on, "you'll give me whatever I want?"

"Within reason," Joni said. "I assume you want me to step aside and let you run the company."

"That's a big ask," Bernard said.

"But easy to do," she replied cheerfully. "When the old man retires, all I have to do is keep my name out of consideration. I'll give you a recommendation and let you put your best foot forward."

Amanda held her breath. Joni's casual offer was everything that Bernard wanted. For years he'd clawed his way to the top of Ludibrium's food chain, making deals and currying favor with all the right people. He hit a wall with Joni because he had nothing that she wanted. Tonight, the stars must have aligned. If there was the slightest chance that Joni was telling the truth, that she'd stand aside and let Bernard ascend to the topmost seat of the company, Amanda knew her husband would jump at the chance.

"Okay," he said slowly. "What do you want?"

Joni drew her fingertips over her crimson lips and glanced briefly at Amanda. When she smiled, Amanda was compelled to smile back. "I'll thin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Veronica Sloan
• Release date: Sep 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005847807

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/.

Book preview

Cuckolded by the Futanari

© 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 & Wisky.

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Chapter 1: Smoke Through Crimson Lips

Amanda wasn't alone at the party, but she felt alone. She was surrounded by sharp-eyed men in even sharper suits, women that signed million-dollar deals for breakfast, and enough combined wealth to buy a third-world country. She was a working-class girl from the midwest who used to save her change in a coffee can. That was before she married Bernard. Now she had a savings account and a diversified stock portfolio and her mother couldn't be happier. Nice to finally get some ambitious blood in this family, she told Amanda on her wedding day.

But watching Bernard hobnob from across the glitzy ball room didn't feel nice. It had been a long time since they'd been out together, even longer since he'd let her go to a real party, and she thought he wanted to show her off. He told her this was an important event, that she had to dress up, to make an impression, and she wanted to please him. She always wanted to please him. She could see the fear in people's eyes when Bernard headed their way--the young upstart cutting throats and taking names--and for a moment she let herself believe that she was a part of that, his raw, masculine power. Amanda wasn't a corporate raider like him but she was his wife, his muse (so he said), and didn't that mean something?

Did it mean being left behind at their table while he slapped backs and downed drinks with crusty old millionaires and their greasy-haired protégés? She'd been to the salon, allowed him to wrap her in this splendid dress, worn the earrings and the lipstick he liked, all for what? To be a splendid potted plant? She didn't know anyone, couldn't even match the faces to the names he was always ranting about. She stood awkwardly by herself while the important people chatted about important things and ignored her.

This is part of the job, Amanda told herself. You thought he was going to introduce you to his colleagues, find a way to include you in the conversation, but this is just another kind of negotiation. She knew what her mother would say: Keep your mouth shut, Amanda, and let the man do his thing. You don't know how lucky you are to have him.

Lucky me, Amanda sighed. She glanced into her purse and fought the urge to check her phone. That would be tacky. If Bernard saw her do that, she'd never hear the end of it. Well, what did he expect her to do?

She wished he'd make the barest effort at courtesy, like, Excuse me, honey, this is so-and-so who works with so-and-so and I'll be back in a moment, or, Why don't you join us? It's shop talk but I'm sure the guys wouldn't mind looking at your pretty face.

It used to thrill her, meeting new people, but now she just felt trapped. She couldn't compete with any of these high rollers, neither for charm nor worldliness. She'd never traveled until she met Bernard, and these people shed timezones more frequently than a snake shed its skin. Her heart was thumping like a running rabbit and she could feel the warm sweat on the soles of her feet. I hate these heels, she muttered.

Since no one was watching, it was easy to disappear through the balcony doors.

Once out of sight, she carefully bent at the waist (not easy to do in the form-fitting gown) and removed the perilous heels. She sucked at her teeth as her bare toes made contact with the chilly concrete. It was a wintry September evening, made even colder by the altitude and the steady breeze that funneled through the skyscrapers of downtown Pittsburgh. She crossed her bare arms, all covered in gooseflesh, and sighed. The air was bracing. It soothed the awkward flush of her cheeks, the angry heat that crawled up the backs of her ears. And the view was spectacular. From the 46th floor of the Sarajevo Hotel she could see all of Pittsburgh below. Neon signs twinkling like electric candy, toy cars drifting through the evening traffic... Amanda tried to let her anger go and just bask in the urban wonderland. Once upon a time, she could only enjoy this town from a worm's eye view.

Across the street, the BNY Mellon Center rose like a mountain of glass and granite. In a handful of windows the lights were still on. Amanda studied each one. Secretly, she hoped to discover something strange or naughty going on inside. It was a juvenile game--no doubt the result of watching too many thrillers--but it, like the evening's chill, was a welcome diversion from the anxious knot in her stomach. Bernard wanted her to wear this sparkling midnight gown, he bought her these pearl earrings for just this occasion... but he didn't want to show her off. He just wanted to be seen with her, to have someone to leave and come back to when more important matters were concluded. She was a prop.

It's fine, she sighed into the wind. She knew this about Bernard when they got married. Half of what he did was just for show, wearing the right clothes, being in the right place at the right time. He did it for her, he claimed. But you're already so successful, she argued. Six figures, a condo in the city, the best tables at the best restaurants, Amanda couldn't ask for more. It was never enough for Bernard. If Amanda could ask for more, it would be for more Bernard, more time with her husband, more time to enjoy the spoils of his great success.

His success. Amanda's champagne was still fizzing in its glass, hardly touched. She set it on a patio table and watched the bubbles glide to the surface. She remembered the day he mentioned, so casually, that there was no reason for her to work anymore. You hate the commute, he said, "and who wants to sit in a cubicle all day? I want you to stay home. I want