«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.