Pleasing His Futa-Wives

by Relm Jayne

  Pleasing His Futa-Wives

  The Futa Virus 44

  by

  Relm Jayne

  Copyright © 2019 by Relm Jayne

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Published in the United States of America, 2019

  All characters depicted in this work of fiction are over the age of eighteen (18).

  Cover Model © darkfreya — Depositphotos.com

  Biohazard Symbol is from publicdomainvectors.com

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  Pleasing His Futa-Wives

  Sizzling Excerpt from “Pleasing His Futa-Wives”

  Other Tales of the Futa Virus

  Pleasing His Futa-Wives

  Sizzling Excerpt from “Pleasing His Futa-Wives”

  It was blessedly cool inside, the AC bathing his face. “Djamila. Husni. I'm home.”

  “Husband,” a languorous voice purred.

  He glanced into the sitting room where they had their TV. They had a Western-style couch and even a recliner, which he loved after a long day in the oil fields. His two wives were naked, their dusky bodies gleaming with a sheen of fine perspiration. They were entwined in a passionate way. The way he'd seen Western whores in lesbian pornos. Their black hair fell about their flushed faces.

  Husni cuddled Djamila. The first wife lay on her side, her breasts cupped by Husni's hands. Djamila had a nice pair of round breasts, firm and pliant while Husni's were larger, softer. Both had dusky-brown nipples, Djamila's hard as she quivered in delight.

  “Oh, welcome home, husband,” moaned Djamila. “We were just napping after making love.”

  Ataullah was surprised that he wasn't angry. He blinked at that strange impulse. Why should he be angry? They made each other happy. They had loved each other, shared such wanton pleasures, and now basked in the afterglow of their orgasms.

  He smiled at them. “I can see that. I am glad you found ways to keep yourselves happy while I was away.”

  “Mmm, we did,” purred Husni. Her hand slid down Djamila's belly and Ataullah witnessed something that shocked him.

  Thrusting from the shaved folds of his wife's pussy—Arab women traditionally shaved for hygienic reasons because of how hairy their bushes were—was a massive cock. It dwarfed Ataullah's own. It was half-hard and swelling fast as Husni's hand engulfed it. The first wife's dick seemed to thrust from where her clitoris lay, that little button Ataullah had always ignored when fucking his wives.

  Read on to find out what happens next!

  Other Tales of the Futa Virus

  Futa Patient Zero (The Futa Virus 1)

  Airplane's Futa Outbreak (The Futa Virus 3)

  Futa Stewardess Gone Wild (The Futa Virus 9)

  Naughty Futa Layover (The Futa Virus 13)

  Futa Scientist's Naughty Lecture (The Futa Virus 27)

  Futa Loves the Hot Arab Wives (The Futa Virus 28)

  Arab Futa-Wives' Passion Spreads (The Futa Virus 39)

  Pleasing His Futa-Wives

  The Futa Virus Outbreak DAY 6

  Ataullah Abdulrashid felt the intense heat of the desert sun pounding on him. It fell on him as he moved around the oil derrick pumping crude out of the vast reservoirs of oil that blessed his country of Saudi Arabia. His skin, darkened by the sun, glistened with a sheen of sweat. He wore the traditional, white-and-red checkered headscarf called a ghurta wrapped around his head and a long-sleeved shirt tucked into jeans. He had a short-trimmed, dark beard that covered his face in thick, black whiskers.

  He kept thinking about his wives as he moved around the site, marking off notes on his clipboard. More specifically, his second wife, Husni. She had been passionate this morning, initiating their love-making with an aggressive need and moaning out for the entire house to hear as she orgasmed beneath him.

  She'd achieved her pleasure thanks to his virility. He had spilled his seed in her, half-drunk on the strange, spicy perfume she wore. Even now, the scent lingered in his nose. He wanted to be back at home so he could fuck her. And fuck Djamila, his first wife.

  They were the same age. He'd married them at the same time, but one wife had to be the first. He chooses Djamila to be his first wife because, of the two, she was more refined and submissive. Husni had a rebellious streak to her.

  Her passion was startling, but his wives had just returned from a two week trip to Germany visiting Djamila's brother and his family. Husni must have missed me a lot. His back still throbbed from her scratches.

  Her passion had been inspiring. He'd much rather be in the arms of his wife than here at this hot, dirty, smelly sight marking off check marks on a pointless report that would be filed with the oil ministry and promptly forgotten.

  Ataullah just wanted to make sure that his wives were fine. That they didn't need anything. That desire swelled and swelled in him as he moved around the oil derrick. This one looked as good as the other massive pumps at this site.

  He sighed. The summer heat baked around him. He found shade in the side of the derrick and pulled out his phone. Were his wives okay? He normally didn't think of them this much, and he certainly didn't worry if they needed anything.

  Sighing, he had to check in on them. Make sure they were fine. That they didn't need him to do anything. He just wanted to make them happy. It was a new impulse for Ataullah. He had no idea that when he made love to his wife this morning, she'd infected him with a virus.

  A mutated strain of the futa-virus, one that had a peculiar effect on men. It was increasing his sex drive, of course, ensuring that every load of cum he fired infected any woman he fucked with the transforming disease, but it was also affecting his brain in other ways than making him horny and relaxing his judgment.

  It was affecting the part of his brain that controlled his dominance, lowering the serotonin levels in his brain.

  He called the house number, pressing his phone to his ear.

  It rang. And rang. And rang.

  His stomach squirmed the longer the phone rang with no one answering. He began to pace in the oil derrick's shadow. This queasy writhe shot through him. What if they were in trouble? What if they needed him and he was here doing his pointless job.

  It rang again and again.

  Panic floated through him, an emotion he'd never felt concerning his wives. They were young, healthy. He'd never had a moment to fear or doubt for them. They were good women. Faithful women. He had no idea that they'd cheated on him with a futa in the airport bathroom in Munich. That while he was at work this day, they'd had an orgy at a bathhouse, fucking a dozen women.

  “Hello,” Djamila said when she picked up ten rings later. Her voice sounded breathy. “Abdulrashid residence.”

  “Djamila,” he said in relief.

  “Oh, husband,” she said, delight in her voice. “Mmm, this is a pleasant surprise. Do you need something? Did you want something special for dinner?”

  He was about to ask a question when he heard what sounded like sucking over the phone. “Is Husni there?”

  “Yes,” moaned Djamila. “She's enjoying a treat right now. I made it for her.”

  “Oh, it sounds like...”

  “Just a Popsicle,” said Djamila. “She's sucking on it hard.”

  “It is a hot day.” Ataullah shifted. “Um, is there anything you need?”

  “Need?” she asked. The sucking sound grew louder. “I
don't understand, husband?”

  “For dinner. Anything you need me to pick up on the way home or...”

  “You want to shop?” The shock in her voice was incredible. The sucking sound stopped. “Well, I mean, yes, Husni and I have been pretty busy today.”

  He heard Husni giggle then the sucking resumed. Djamila let out a throaty moan of delight.

  “Mmm, yes, yes, if you want to pick up some lamb and rice, then that would let Husni and I enjoy our new additions.”

  “Okay,” Ataullah said, eager to help them out. He'd never shopped since getting married. He had wives to purchase groceries, but he wanted to make sure they were happy. “I'll do it.”

  “Sounds wonderful. Thank you, husband.”

  “I just want to help you and let you know that I love you,” he said. It wasn't a word he used a lot. He married them because it was arranged. He'd never met either girl before their betrothal. They were fine women, beautiful beneath their clothing, and Husni was even a delight in bed.

  Maybe he had grown to love them. To feel that passion for them. That was why he was suddenly acting differently. “I'll be home around six.”

  “Wonderful,” moaned Djamila. “I love you, too, husband.”

  Right before she hung up, he heard a loud moan come from her. It sounded almost orgasmic. Then the line went dead. He smiled, thinking that he had made her so happy she made that wicked sound. It energized him.

  He liked this new feeling.

  It felt good to be helpful to his wives. Ataullah continued on with his work, his task center in his mind. Not inspecting the oil derricks, though he did his job, but on making sure his wives were happy. He had to buy the lamb and rice.

  “You are out of it,” his friend, Ibraheem Nejem said. They worked the same job, splitting up the derricks they had to inspect.

  “Hmm?” asked Ataullah, coming out of a daze. He hadn't realized his friend approached.

  “You, my friend, are daydreaming. You look like your in love. Has one of your neighbor's wives attracted your attention? Do you want to slip into her husband's bed?” Ibraheem laughed. “That is a treat, my friend.”

  Ataullah shook his head.

  “Then perhaps a young and nubile daughter of a good friend.” He grinned. “Are you hoping to deflower her before her wedding night?”

  “No, no, thinking of my wives. Djamila and Husni.”

  “Oh, Husni, yes, she's a beautiful woman,” said Ibraheem. “You look love-struck. By your wives? Miss them that much while they were in Germany.”

  “I guess,” Ataullah said, shrugging. “Well, I have to finish work.” I have to get to the market for my wives. I can't waste time.

  “Oh, sure, actually do your work today.” Ibraheem shook his head. “Go with God and get back to your lonely wives. Else one of your neighbors might slip into your bed.”

  Ataullah chuckled at how impossible that would be as he headed off to his work.

  Finally, he finished his last inspection and drove back to Riyadh. He soon found himself in the market. The rice was easy, he bought a large bag of it, certain it was something his wife would buy. The merchant had started to haggle but, after a minute or two, he relaxed and became a nicer man.

  “Something smells delightful,” the merchant said as Ataullah paid for the rice with several riyals he pulled out of his wallet.

  Ataullah breathed in. “My wife's new perfume. She was quite passionate with me earlier. It's lingering on me.”

  “Ah, fortunate man,” said Ataullah. “My wife is not so... energetic.”

  Ataullah gave a polite smile. “Peace be with you, brother.”

  “And with you.”

  Rice in hand, he went to a butcher and picked up a hunk of mutton. The man was also genial, hardly haggling at all. He just kept breathing in that spicy scent wreathing around Ataullah. It does seem to be stronger around me than it was after leaving Husni, he mused. I wonder why it has grown in potency?

  He didn't think too much more about that idea. He was just enjoying picking up the food for his wives, doing something nice for them. Instead of ordering them about, he was serving them. It felt nice. He didn't have to be dominant and strong at all times. He didn't have to assert his authority over them.

  He might not even have to beat them. Why hurt them when I could just love them?

  He smiled at that thought as he drove his car through the busy streets until he reached their modest home. He should have two homes, technically, one for each wife, but they had their own bedroom and personal room to work on whatever crafts or projects they had, their own space to take care of and retreat to have privacy. He whistled as he stepped out of the car and carried the food up to the front door.

  It was blessedly cool inside, the AC bathing his face. “Djamila. Husni. I'm home.”

  “Husband,” a languorous voice purred.

  He glanced into the sitting room where they had their TV. They had a Western-style couch and even a recliner, which he loved after a long day in the oil fields. His two wives were naked, their dusky bodies gleaming with a sheen of fine perspiration. They were entwined in a passionate way. The way he'd seen Western whores in lesbian pornos. Their black hair fell about their flushed faces.

  Husni cuddled Djamila. The first wife lay on her side, her breasts cupped by Husni's hands. Djamila had a nice pair of round breasts, firm and pliant while Husni's were larger, softer. Both had dusky-brown nipples, Djamila's hard as she quivered in delight.

  “Oh, welcome home, husband,” moaned Djamila. “We were just napping after making love.”

  Ataullah was surprised that he wasn't angry. He blinked at that strange impulse. Why should he be angry? They made each other happy. They had loved each other, shared such wanton pleasures, and now basked in the afterglow of their orgasms.

  He smiled at them. “I can see that. I am glad you found ways to keep yourselves happy while I was away.”

  “Mmm, we did,” purred Husni. Her hand slid down Djamila's belly and Ataullah witnessed something that shocked him.

  Thrusting from the shaved folds of his wife's pussy—Arab women traditionally shaved for hygienic reasons because of how hairy their bushes were—was a massive cock. It dwarfed Ataullah's own. It was half-hard and swelling fast as Husni's hand engulfed it. The first wife's dick seemed to thrust from where her clitoris lay, that little button Ataullah had always ignored when fucking his wives.

  Why does their pleasure matter, was what he always wrongly thought.

  “That's a... a...” He struggled to process this, the bags he was carrying shaking.

  “Oh, husband, put the lamb in the refrigerator,” said Djamila. “You don't want that bag to leak and stain the carpet.”

  “Yes, Djamila,” he said, his voice strained from shock.

  He felt like he'd gone mad as he stumbled out of the room. His wife had a cock. He knew she shouldn't have that. That it was impossible for her to have grown her clitoris that big. It was three times as long as his own and twice as thick.

  “My wife had a cock bigger than my own,” he groaned as he reached the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He shoved in the lamb and then left the rice bag on the counter. He turned around. “Am I going mad?”

  Thinking the long day in the sun might have addled his brains, he headed back to the living room, his own dick painfully hard. He adjusted himself in his jeans as he returned and found them kissing, their bodies shifting. Djamila was on her back now, Husni's hand fisting up and down that thick cock and...

  Husni had her own cock. It thrust out from her crotch and over Djamila's belly. Another huge shaft that was bigger than Ataullah's own. He groaned, his face burning. He swallowed as he stared at his wives and their dicks.

  “You...” he croaked.

  Husni broke the kiss. “I think he's noticed.”

  Djamila nodded her head. His submissive and shy wife gave him a bold and hungry smile. “Do you like our girl-dicks, husband?”

  “We're futas now,” purred
Husni. “We have big clit-dicks. They are just the best. We've been fucking and sucking each other all day.”

  “Mmm, yes,” Djamila moaned. “Don't be shy, husband. Do you like our girl-dicks?”

  His first wife rose, breaking away from Husni. Djamila stood before him, her futa-dick throbbing. Her cock thrust out before her, pulsing and throbbing. His eyes fell on her passion. He swallowed at how engorged she was. Her dick was just incredible. It was a wicked and wanton sight to witness. His heart tightened. His cheeks burned.

  “You... that's... I mean... It's a lovely cock.” He blinked at that, shocked he could compliment his wife's cock. He certainly never liked men or dicks but... This was a woman's cock. His wife's cock. He swallowed as he stared at it. “It's beautiful.”

  He realized he meant those words.

  Husni rose, standing beside Djamila, the second wife's girl-dick thrusting out beside the first's. His heart pumped hot blood through his veins as he stared at those thick and hard dicks. They pulsed and throbbed as his two women stood there.

  They look like they're in need, he thought. He'd often wanted to ask his wives to blow him like the American or European whores did in porn. He never did, though. Good Arab women, Muslim women, would never do that. They would just lie beneath you while you rutted atop them until you satiated your lust in them.

  If you wanted blowjobs and anal and all that stuff, you had to find a whore. His brothers had gone to Europe and told him about how sexually adventurous the women of the west were. How they were eager to let an Arab man fuck them and satiate their wanton and sinful nature.

  Now he wanted to please his wives. He wanted to fall to his knees and suck on their dicks. He licked his lips.

  “Do you want to suck on our cocks, husband?” Husni asked.

  “You both look like your in discomfort,” he said, his dick hard. “I know what it's like being erect. I just want to make you happy and love you.”

  “You do?” Husni asked in shock.

  “That is very generous of you, husband,” said Djamila. “I just want to love you, too. Will it make you happy to suck on our dicks?”