Fetish & Fantasy: Futanari Collection

By Sally Bend

This 40,000-word collection is my second compilation of Fetish & Fantasy stories, focusing on the theme of Futanari.

Slip into your favorite pair of panties and submit yourself to the whims of big, beautiful, ample-breasted, well-hung futanari goddesses. Discover the deliciously depraved things they can make men do in the name of lust, and find out the fantastically feminine things they can make of men in the name of love.

These stories have been polished, revised, updated, and expanded. I’ve taken the opportunity of assembling this collection to give them more depth and detail, steering them away from the darkness and into the realm of happily ever-after.

Caution: this Futanari collection is intended for adult audiences only! Inside you will find graphic accounts of Bisexuality, Body-swapping, Crossdressing, Futa Domination, Feminization, Genderbending, Hucows, Hypnosis, MTF Transformation, Sissification, Sissy Submission, Threesomes, and more!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sally Bend
• Release date: Jan 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005374297

Sally Bend

Sally Bend is a nonbinary author, editor, and reviewer. Although shy and polite (she is, after all, Canadian), she loves to boldly and boisterously express herself through stories that bend the binaries of gender while exploring submissive sexuality.A lover of fetish, futa, feminization, femdom, and fantasy, she is most content when confined in a collar and corset. Oh, and she tends to have an affection for alliteration, in case you haven't noticed!When she's not curled up somewhere with a book and a bottle of Coke Zero, Sally can be found online at http://sallybend.com.

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Fetish & Fantasy: Futanari Collection

Sally Bend

Published by Sally Bend at Smashwords

Copyright 2022 Sally Bend

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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Table of Contents

A Queer Sort of Queen

FutaGlamazon

A Better Woman

The Perverted Perils of Purloined Panties

Afterword

About the Author

Connect with Sally Bend

A Queer Sort of Queen

Brandi. The melodic tones of the Queen’s voice – powerfully erotic in the way they vibrated through my body – rang out through the cold, silent halls of the palace. It was a massive, labyrinthian place, full of many rooms that were still unfamiliar to me, even after a year of service. Its exquisite marble floors, twelve-foot arched ceilings, and odd little alcoves and statues created such seemingly impossible acoustics that it was as if the entire palace had been built to obey her beck and call.

Which, I knew better than anyone, probably wasn’t that far from the truth.

I froze in place, carefully bent at the waist, with my well-rounded ass in the air. My tight, binding corset did not allow for much freedom of movement, but it was a small price to pay for the stunning curves it so deftly accentuated. Some would say created, but that would be to deny the Queen her proper credit. It was a regular diet of her futa cum that had shaped my body into something to be accentuated, turning a flat chest into full C-cup breasts, a pair of boring butt cheeks into a plump ass, and an embarrassing little bulge into something soft and smooth. What the corset did was emphasize the cinching of my waist and the swelling of my hips to complete the image of femininity.

Your presence is requested in the throne room.

A delicious thrill raced down my spine. The only time she ‘requested’ my presence was when there were foreign dignitaries in attendance. They came from all over the world to see the Islands for themselves, and to meet the mysterious people whom both science and nature said should not exist. For the friendlier dignitaries, I served as something of a tease, a promise of what was possible with the assistance of the Queen and her community. For those who were less than friendly . . . well, they tended to see me as a cautionary tale of what such ungodly, unnatural perversions might inflict upon their world.

I hated being a part of the latter, for there was nothing to fear from Island life, but I adored being part of the former.

With one last wipe of the mahogany bookcase, banishing the stubborn dust from the bottom shelf, I laid the pink feather duster aside. It wouldn’t do at all to keep the Queen waiting, but I knew that appearances were important, especially before such important guests. As such, a moment to straighten my skirt, another to adjust my naked breasts, and one more to fluff my long, naturally – some might say unnaturally – pink locks, was entirely warranted.

How delightfully curious this all still was! The novelty, I was beginning to believe, would never wear off.

I hadn’t known what to expect of the Queen upon my arrival in the Futanari Islands as a diplomatic ‘gift’ of the Canadian government from whom her tiny nation had claimed its new homeland, but I had come to look forward to the surprises of life under her rule. There was still so much the world did not know about her or her kind, and I took great pride in being the first – and, so far, only – outsider to be granted secondary citizenship as a submissive of the Empire.

It was not just my duty, but also my pleasure, to obey. Not quite what the Canadian government had expected of me, but I’d long since left old loyalties behind.

I hurried down the spiral stairs, the sound of my three-inch, silver-tipped stiletto heels tapping daintily upon the cold marble floors announcing my presence long before I arrived. There was a trick to walking quickly and daintily in such heels, obeying the urgency of a summons while also obeying the dictates of my femininity, but in my eagerness, I’d proven to be a quick learner.

You called, my Queen? I halted just inside the door of the small, sumptuously decorated throne room. The Islands themselves were a place of protocol, and the Queen’s palace was the pinnacle of those teachings. There were rules for how one should such as I should present myself when in the company of citizens, administrators, guests, dignitaries, and – of course – the Queen herself. One did not simply rush into a room with panicked abandon.

And so, I curtsied deeply, lifted my leather skirt high enough to reveal the black satin panties beneath, and waited with my head bowed slightly, but my eyes upon the Queen. I’d made the mistake of looking to the floor my first few times in her presence, feeling myself unworthy of her gaze, but she’d quickly addressed that flaw in my perspective. Protocol was not about me, but about those above and before me, and they deserved my full attention.

Hmm . . . smooth, no bulge, but I do believe that you are wet. There was no mistaking the knowing glint in her eye. Is it fresh, Brandi?

I blushed deeply as my fingertip brushed against the damp spot. While I was prohibited from pleasuring myself – unless commanded to for the amusement of others – some measure of excitement was expected in her presence. Yes, my Queen.

It was funny, but even with everything I had seen and become during my time on the Island, this was the one custom that I still found somewhat awkward. I enjoyed it. I thought it a delightful alternative to the meaningless pleasantries and games of handshake dominance back home, but it still felt somewhat taboo. As custom dictated, I approached the throne and held my finger up for the Queen to lick the spot of pre-cum from the tip, intimate proof that it was indeed wet and fresh, and that I was indeed delighted to be in her presence.

Very good. Her own fingers grazed the massive bulge beneath her skirt and presented me with three fingers that weren’t just damp, but literally coated with futa pre-cum. As taboo as I still found my half of the custom, I quite enjoyed this part.

I happily opened my mouth and sucked those fingers, one-by-one-by-one, taking my time to ensure each was left shiny and clean. Judging by the taste, not only was she delighted to see me as well, but she was excited about whatever it was that lay beneath my summons. The futanari were perpetually aroused, always leaking some degree of nectar from between their legs, but the degree of their arousal changed the taste and consistency of their fluids. Despite having hardly been a connoisseur of fine dining back home – my palate knew little more than the difference between not enough salt and too much ketchup – I’d quickly learned to differentiate the subtle differences in how futanari both smelled and tasted.

With but a sniff of their beautiful bulges, I could tell whether I was merely needed to lick up a mess, serve as an oral condom for the afternoon, or ride one of their incredible shafts to exhaustion. A single lick could tell me whether I’d be going back to my rooms with futa cum swelling my belly, glazing my body, dripping out of my ass, or all of the above.

Our introductions complete – I smelled an afternoon of exhaustion but tasted an excitement I couldn’t place – she dismissed me with a wave of her hand. You may prepare for our guest.

I curtsied low in gratitude and immediately set to work.

The first step in my carefully laid-out protocol was to make sure that the heavy, pink velvet curtains of the throne room were perfectly pleated and symmetrically seated in the burnished silver holdbacks to either side of the massive picture window. As much as the Queen loved her view of the lake, especially on these dark autumn evenings, she insisted that it be perfectly framed. The moonlight on the lake was really quite stunning, and its glow suited her complexion. She said it recharged her.

While gauging the Queen’s arousal and intentions was a matter of smell and taste, determining her mood was one of careful observation. The way in which she had waved her hand spoke volumes. It had been a quick, almost looping motion, which told me that whatever anticipation I had tasted was to be formal in nature.

I stole a quick glance towards the throne and confirmed my immediate impression upon first entering the room. The Queen was dressed primarily in a dark burgundy this evening, with lace accents of scarlet. That told me this was to be an intimate affair, as did the unusual absence of her thigh-high leather boots. It only struck me now that she didn’t appear to be wearing any leather at all – a first in my experience. I was truly curious as to who our guest might be.

Her velvet dress was full length, with a high neckline, revealing only a glimpse of radiant flesh where the sleeves ended, and her matching gloves began. Her makeup was sparse, yet elegant, as always, but her jewelry was rather subdued. I sensed that she wanted to impress, but also wanted her guest to be comfortable in her presence.

I carefully followed the prescribed lighting protocol, setting the white candles of the room alight and banishing the harsh fluorescents of the day lamps in the process. As always, I started in the far corner of the room, replacing the lighting there, and then gradually ushered the flames into the Queen’s glorious presence.

As my hand hovered above the final candle, though, I paused.

The Queen chuckled softly. Is there a problem, Brandi?

It was only now, as I held the burning match before me, that I could see the darkened figure sitting deep in the corner of the throne room. This was certainly something new. I had cleaned every corner of the palace more times than I could count, and there had never been a chair there before.

I . . . please forgive me, my Queen. It shamed me deeply to think I had ignored and neglected a guest. Had it not been for her chuckle, which suggested the surprise was deliberate upon her part, I would have feared dismissal. I did not realize your guest had already arrived.

The surprise of a guest was only half the reason for my pause – the other half was that I had immediately recognized the Queen’s guest. It would not be polite of me to gossip, but as First Ladies of the world’s governing bodies went, she was one of the last people I ever expected to