My Life as a Futa

My Life as a Futa (Part 1)

By SamanthaK (futa-female)

As one of the older girls at Brookwood Academy, I’m assigned as a Big Sister to several of the ‘freshmen class’, as we call any newbies that join our group. It’s a big change for them and I spend a lot of time comforting those who are having a rougher than usual time adjusting to their ‘condition’.

I could tell from the full bucket by the sofa that Jane had suffered one of the ‘attacks’ that afflict all of us to one degree or another. The darn hormonal surges are almost like seizures – you can feel them coming on, but there isn’t a darn thing you can do to prevent them or stop them once they start, all you can do is hang on and ride it out the best you can. This one must have been pretty bad for Jane to have left a nearly-overflowing bucket sitting there. She was usually so fastidious about keeping her room neat, including taking her discharge down the hall to the protein recycler. When she walked over to hug me hello, I noticed that she seemed a bit unsteady on her feet and her embrace felt a bit stand-offish. I knew then that she’d just had an attack and her girlcock must still be sensitive from the attack and perhaps even sore from the vigorous rubbing she'd had to give it so she could get the relief she needed. When she eased her tush onto the sofa with her knees held apart, I knew that the pair of obviously-swollen balls bulging under her pleated skirt must be very tender as well. I empathized with her condition. It's hard on late-blooming futa when our second set of genitals matures and the explosive growth stage hits. After years of being able to hide or disguise our differences, we suddenly have to deal with these enormous cocks dangling between our legs and these heavy sacks of inconveniently-sensitive testicles crowding our groins and ruining the line of our clothes.

Only a couple of years ago, when I was Jane's age, I was overjoyed to find that I was finally filling-out on top, and happy to trade my old training bras for the real thing now that I finally had something to put in them other than wads of tissues. I also remember being furious that all of my skirts and dresses were suddenly unwearable because things had got big down there as well and I could no longer arrange myself in such a way that would conceal my condition. I totally missed the irony of that, but I vividly recall the moment when