Fam and Futanari Ch. 01: Willow

Shortly after turning eighteen, my littlest sister announced to all the world that not only was she madly in love, but also pregnant. For anyone who knew Lydie, this was hardly a shock, but it was a matter of concern. This new love-of-her-life was George, a photogenic young soldier in his late twenties who wedded boyish charm with the seriousness of one who has served overseas in these hellish times.

George was not the marrying kind, though that did not stop Lydie's increasingly wild plans for a grand wedding. The rest of us - her sisters and parents - knew perfectly well that it would end disastrously, with my parents having inevitably to raise yet another child. (Despite an obviously frisky youth that had led to five daughters in quick succession, they had decided after Lydie that enough was most certainly enough and my father had had a vasectomy.)

Fortunately - in the sense of every cloud having a silver lining - my paternal grandfather had just recently passed away, leaving to my father not only a significant sum of money (after tax) but also a good-sized house just south of the River Tyne, coincidentally close to George's next posting. My father decided, for the sake of everyone's sanity, to buy George's undying affection by paying off his gambling debts and putting the house in trust for the impending offspring.

This outrageous generosity did not extend to the lavish wedding of Lydie's dreams, but like a star in the heavens she glowed with unfiltered happiness as she documented the burgeoning of her belly daily via her Instagram. Next to her often, of course, was George, whose apparent contentment with his fate had perhaps less to do with Lydie and more to do with Katy. The two sisters had always been inseparable, and it seemed this extended even to the marriage bed.

"Do you think she's pregnant?" I asked, squinting at the latest photos in the feed.

"Of course she is, silly," Mum said. "She's due in April."

"No," I said patiently, "not Lydie. Katy."

Mum peered over my shoulder at a photo of George with his arms about both grinning sisters. "Huh, maybe."

"Quite the ménage à trois."

Mum sighed. "If I were ten years younger..."

I scowled at her. "Don't even say it," I said. My mother's strict diet and self-care regime had blessed her with a body that defied her age. Not only did she often dress like my sluttier friends, she was able to pull it off too. My father clearly enjoyed having this flirty, energetic woman as his wife, but I really didn't need to hear her enthuse over George. I really didn't need a picture in my head of her in a ménage à quatre with two of my sisters.

"You look good, by the way," I added as a peace offering. She did too. She was wearing a glittery gold dress and knee-high black leather boots. Her blonde hair was styled and tied up, and her make-up subtle enough to seem almost natural. You could see in her exactly where my older sister Jane got her looks - none of which I myself inherited.

"Thanks, Lizzie," she said, practically beaming. "Your father's taking me to the theatre. He'll be here any moment. Are you sure you'll be alright?"

"I'll be fine," I assured her. "You guys have fun."

Ten minutes later she was gone and I was all alone. Not for the first time, I wondered where Jane was. She was supposed to be here. After all, she was the one sister who still lived here, even if she was away so often with her work. Photoshoots all over the world - although work had dried up for her over the past year. It was a cruel irony that I saw her more often in magazines than in real life, dressed in sexy lingerie and gazing seductively into the camera.

Jane was blessed with infinite patience and a good nature, and there was always something in her photos that made her look like a virgin on her wedding night, at once dressed for sex and entirely innocent of the act itself. The reality, of course, was a little different. Being a model got her invites to all sorts of posh parties, and for the past year she'd been dating a footballer called Charlie who not only earned a million a year but also probably spent it.

No doubt she was out with him somewhere, but I had hoped she would be at home.

This would be the first Christmas we weren't all home together on the day. Mary had accepted her younger sisters' invitation to spend Christmas up north, and I hoped that didn't mean I would soon have three sisters all pregnant by the same man.

Although I doubted it. Mary might be an anarchist (political and relationship) but being aromantic she was probably safe from George's seductive charm.

I made myself dinner, alone just when I had hoped not to be. The past year had been hard and lonely, what with the lockdowns and everything, but I was nearing the end of my doctoral thesis. I had been looking forward to spending time with Jane, gossiping about her men and my women - not that there had been any of those recently.

Indeed, my sex life of late had consisted mainly of visiting porn sites and putting my vibrator through its paces, and I wasn't about to gossip about that.

Sighing, I resigned myself to a solitary evening of Netflix and social-media doomscrolling. I even drifted off for a while - but suddenly I was wide awake...

You know how when you know you're alone in the house but you hear noises that you can't identify? And you panic that there's an intruder, or a ghost, or something? This was like that. Not helped by it being a big house outside of town, an old farmhouse with creaky timbers.

To suit a family with five daughters, the house had been redeveloped extensively, with what had once been the servants' quarters now a secluded downstairs bedroom suite for our parents, and upstairs (first floor and attic) were now five bedrooms and three bathrooms. The sounds were coming from the first floor, from Jane's room. Maybe she'd left the window open. Maybe it was just the wind - although I'd stuck my head in at lunchtime when I arrived, hoping to find her there, and didn't remember there being an open window.

A sudden cry dispelled that idea. A cry muffled by the thick wooden door, but unmistakably a human cry. If Jane were to cry out in distress, it would sound like that.

I charged in bravely, unsure what exactly I would find - and found what I could not have imagined.

This was in the early days - or, to put it another way, it was only two weeks after that notorious asshole post ("AITA for dumping my gf of 3 years cos she has a cock?") that was widely dismissed as a hoax; and a full three months before the famous Cosmo article, "Meet the REAL Chicks-with-Dicks!" As such, I had seen maybe one or two Twitter threads about cis women waking up to the shock of their lives, but I was far from believing it.

And I was entirely unprepared for what awaited me: Jane, reclined naked on her luxurious double bed with its fairy-patterned white-and-pink linen, her bare, beautiful breasts streaked with what was unmistakably cum from the erect cock pulsing weakly as it dribbled the last of its bounty onto her belly. A cock that had not been there before, and that had no right being there now. Sprouting obscenely from her vulva above a gaping, glistening, hairless pussy.

*

It had been a long day for Jane. After the trauma of waking to the horrifying discovery that her petite clit had transformed overnight into a monstrous cock (in the more literal sense; its dimensions were little more than the average for the male member), she'd rushed secretly to A&E - an adventure that had proved both humiliating and, ultimately, fruitless. Returning home, she'd slipped back into the house as quietly as possible.

Unable to face our parents, and unaware of my presence, she'd resolved to stay hidden in her room for as long as possible. In the soft, warm embrace of her luxurious bed, she gave way to the solace of tears and prayed that her magical genital transformation would be undone just as magically.

In the evening, she peeked out the curtain to see her parents drive off, dressed for a night out, and had believed herself alone in the house. Empty at last of tears, she studied her singularly changed body in the mirror, and this act of self-contemplation became an act of self-discovery, and in due course an act of self-pleasure. The cry that had brought me anxiously into her room was not, as feared, a cry of alarm, but a cry of ecstasy as she crested that so elusive precipice.

*

We stared at each other in shock. A second passed, maybe two, maybe an eternity, and then she screamed at me to leave, even as she wrapped herself hastily in fairies. I was already leaving, backing out of the doorway, giving her privacy, but it was too late. The damage was done. The image was burned into my mind, like a scene from an intensely erotic porno, my sister the blonde starlet absorbed in self-pleasure, splashed with cum and in desperate need of a hard cock.

My sister she might be, but I was undeniably aroused. I might not have believed the stories circulating on social media, but I would be lying if I said the thought of a girl with a cock did nothing for me. Indeed, lesbian trans porn and futanari hentai were two of my guilty pleasures.

I sat at the kitchen table, nursing a herbal brew as I tried to stop my imagination drifting back to my sister's room. I tried not to think about sucking on her cock until it exploded in my mouth. I tried not to think about teasing her nipples with my lips as I licked her cum from her soft, perfect breasts. Jane was probably terrified of what this change meant for her, and it was wrong for me to turn her into a lurid sexual fantasy.

I returned to her room, knocked quietly. "Can I come in?" I asked quietly.

No answer. No sounds from within. I waited. "At least tell me you're okay in there," I said.

Silence for another long minute, and then: "Come in, Lizzie."

She was in bed, fresh sheets (white with blue and yellow flowers), pale blue pyjamas. Her cheeks were flushed red with shame, and she avoided looking at me. Stripping down to my underwear, I climbed in next to her and hugged her tightly, suppressing a guilty desire to do more. Perhaps I only imagined the lingering smell of cum beneath her soapy fragrance. "It changes nothing," I said. "You're still my beautiful, sexy sister."

She made a sound that may have started as a laugh but ended as a sob as she burst into tears. I held her firmly and made soothing noises, and she calmed gradually. "Charlie won't think so."

"Fuck Charlie," I said.

Jane squirmed uncomfortably in my arms, and I released her, sitting back to study her scowling expression. "Is it bad that I want to?" she asked quietly. "Is it bad that every time I imagine him looking at me in disgust, it makes me want to force him to kneel before me and suck my new cock and swallow my cum? Fair's fair, after all." She sighed angrily, and swore. "Fuck. I'm hard again already."

Indeed, the tenting of the linen had not escaped my notice. "Can I see it?" I whispered.

She hesitated a moment, but then pulled the sheet aside and awkwardly pushed her pyjama bottoms down to reveal the swollen member. I wrapped my hand about the hard shaft, and Jane flinched as if she had received an electric shock. "Lizzie!" she hissed. "What are you doing?"

It was pretty obvious what I was doing. Ignoring the question, I stroked the eager length gently and said only, "Tell me to stop."

And of course she didn't, although her eyes were bright with alarm as they met mine. I took that as permission to do more, and bent to wrap my lips about the soft head. It wasn't the first cock I'd sucked, and it wasn't the biggest, but it was the first to belong to someone I actually found attractive. Even if she was my sister and it was wrong to be doing this at all.

Jane certainly wasn't complaining. There may have been an echo of denial in her whimpered pleasure, but she made no attempt to move me away as I bobbed hungrily up and down on her beautiful cock. The familiar, salty taste of precum was a delight, as was the aroma of her aroused pussy. I teased her labia with my fingers as my tongue swept about her smooth shaft.

"Oh, God, Lizzie," she murmured, "that feels amazing." Her fingers coiled restlessly through my hair, and I wondered if she was fighting an impulse to force my head down. I had never deep-throated an actual cock before, but one of my exes had taught me how. Seeing me unable to breathe because my mouth was stuffed with a dildo that was fresh from my cunt had been a real power trip for her.

"Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!" Jane said as she felt the tight constriction of my throat. Her fingers tightened their grasping of my hair, and the pressure holding my head down intensified. Unable to breathe, unable to move my head much at all, I eased two fingers into her, finger-fucking her slowly in time with her mantra. "Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!"

I could tell she was close. Her breathing was rapid, her cock hardening noticeably in my mouth and throat. "Oh fuck," she said, adopting a new mantra between breaths. "Oh fuck! Oh fuck!" My need for air was growing urgent, my heart pounding loud in my ears, but I held on, slipping a third finger into her sweet and very wet centre.

And then she was there, crying out as she surrendered to pleasure, her whole body convulsing as her cock pulsed fiercely within my throat's firm grip, her vagina clamping down around my fingers as her cum erupted into me.

It was all too much for me. I tore myself off her, simultaneously gasping for air and fighting off a sudden nausea, but not so quickly I escaped a last virile jet of cum that splashed across my cheek. The nausea passed swiftly, thankfully, and my breathing calmed, but the oozing sensation of her cum inside me, and on my skin, was a lingering reminder of the perverse and illicit act we had just enjoyed.

Jane's cheeks were flushed bright red and she was yet to meet my eyes. Her clean pyjama top was splashed with cum, and she stared down mournfully at the mess. The offending member was now at half mast, twitching as it wilted and became ever more unappetising. "I can't believe you did that," she said.

"Well, if Charlie's an idiot and dumps you, just remember your little sister never will."

At last she looked at me, her guilt-ridden eyes widening in shock at the sight of her cum on my face. "You've, ah," she started.

I interrupted her with a kiss, more experimental than passionate. I'd never had sex - even oral - with someone I hadn't at least kissed first, and hadn't kissed after. That she was my sister made it a little weird, and I sensed her startled hesitancy, but she didn't pull away, and with my eyes closed I was able to enjoy the soft warmth of her lips the way I might with any new lover.

I resisted the temptation to run my hands across her skin, to cup her breasts and tease her nipples, to awaken the slumbering beast and ride it to my own satisfaction. Jane might have climaxed, but this had just been foreplay for me. I wanted so much more.

But it was late, and our parents would be home soon. They didn't need to find their two eldest daughters entwined in incestuous sheets. I broke the kiss, and pulled away with a melodramatic sigh. "I wish you were mine," I whispered, and slipped away, out of her bed, out of her room, glancing back only the once from the doorway.

Jane's mouth opened, but no words formed, and I didn't wait. And a good thing too. Even as I crossed the landing to the bathroom, the front door opened and familiar voices filled the air.

*

So that was Christmas Eve. Santa may not have come but Jane certainly did, and the following day was as perfectly normal a Christmas as you could imagine. Jane emerged from her room, wearing jeans rather than her usual leggings, was evasive to our parents' voiced concerns, and towards me she was excessively polite. Whenever our eyes met she looked away hastily and blushed most delightfully.

But otherwise a normal family day with Christmas Dinner and opening presents and watching too much television. We even had to endure a visit from Charlie. He sat with his arm possessively about Jane, who looked so tense and miserable I was amazed no one else could see it. He tried to lure her out of the house, no doubt hoping for a more intimate present from her, but she resisted.

Boxing Day was the day of revelation, starting in the morning with a long, awkward, weepy confrontation with Mum and Dad, and ending rather abruptly in the evening with a short, intimate confrontation with Charlie. I didn't need to be in the room to know how it went. I glared blackly at him as he unceremoniously exited her room and the house, then joined Jane whose tears were as much rage as anguish.

I brought ice-cream. The TV was on and we pretended to watch it. I kissed her and hugged her, and perhaps if we'd been alone in the house I would have done more, but we were sisters first and that's what mattered. "Fuck him," I growled. "His loss."

Later, calmer, she asked, "What if it's contagious?"

Maybe it was (and of course it is, but we didn't know that then), but that wasn't what she was really asking. "You mean, what if I wake up with a cock too?"

"Uh, huh," she said quietly.

"Would you like that?" I asked curiously.

"No!" she cried in immediate protest.

"Liar," I said, chuckling at her guilty expression. Part of her had to at least welcome the idea of company in misery, the relief of an affliction shared, but I teased her by saying, "You just don't want to return the favour."

Her eyes widened in shock as she realised what I meant. "No- I- That-" she stuttered. She peered down at my crotch as if trying to penetrate the cotton of my pyjama bottoms and underwear, no doubt imagining a hard cock sprouting from my dark, trimmed pubes.

I burst out laughing and she glowered at me. "Fuck off, Lizzie," she muttered, but offered a tentative smile in its wake.

I kissed her goodnight and returned to the sanctity of my room. For the third night running, I had some serious tension to work through.

*

Was it contagious? Good question. I went into serious research mode. Now that I understood that the phenomenon was real, it was easier to track down genuine resources.

Opinion was divided. Certainly it was spreading, but the source was still something of an enigma. The alt-right conspiracy theorists were convinced that trans people were putting something in the water supply. Some posited theories of government experiments to boost fertility, a side-effect of microplastics in the environment, or dangerous hormones in beauty products. An article in a medical journal proposed a candidate pathogen, but could not convincingly explain the symptoms or the transmission vector. Whatever the cause, incidences were rare, although likely under-reported, especially in parts of the world where social stigma against non-binary sex was more extreme.

On the internet, there were advice forums for the afflicted, and at least one dating site that distinguished between 'trans' and 'futa'. Because of course that was the label. What was once a popular fantasy of animated porn was now the lived experience of a not insignificant number of women.

Poor Jane, ever the princess, ever the good girl, cishet to the core, was now a futa, and seduced too by her lesbian sister.

*

The following day, we were alone the whole afternoon. Dad was at work, and Mum had gone out shopping with friends after spending the morning fussing over Jane in every imaginable way. "Are you sure you'll be okay?" she asked for the umpteenth time before we more or less forced her out of the door.

And then it was just the two of us. "Wanna watch something?" I asked, curling up on the sofa and scrolling through Netflix's suggestions.

"Sure," she said, joining me on the sofa but strategically at the far end.