Futa Festival
A Cum-Soaked Carnival of Kinks, Booths, and Breaking Points. Lewd Food, Futas, and so much cream!
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The air is thick with sweat, sugar, and sex.
You push past the sheer pink curtain that marks the entrance to the Futa Festival and step into chaos—glorious, dripping chaos. Booths stretch endlessly across the open grounds like some erotic marketplace built by perverts and pleasure gods. Somewhere between a farmer’s market and a wet dream.
Moans echo from the Milking Pens to your left. A line of cock-drunk futas are chained to padded posts, tits leaking from overstimulation while machines milk their cocks into clear gallon jugs labeled
Cream—Fresh Tap.To your right, the Gluttony Garden hums with activity. Visitors sit on stools while thick, veiny futa cocks hang over steaming pastries, spraying hot cum directly from their cocks onto cream puffs like icing. Some jack off wildly spraying directly onto the plate, or face of the customer. One vendor leans forward with a wink, aiming directly into someone’s open donut hole. The crowd cheers as it overflows. Across the cobblestone walkway, the Foot Bazaar is alive with slaps and squelches. One futa is lying flat on a table, legs in the air, getting her toes while a group of women stomp her cock with their bare, sweaty soles. Behind her another futa is getting her huge cock ridden by a woman whose presumably husband laps at the futa woman’s feet neglected and humiliated. A bell rings from Sweat & Size Row—a BBW futa vendor slapping her jiggling belly, announcing she’s open for face-sitting. Steam rises from her body like heat from a bakery oven. And ahead, where a sign hangs crookedly from an archway—Anything Goes Alley—you see a booth curtain part, revealing nothing but darkness, a leash, and a grinning futa as if daring anyone to enter. A laminated card flutters into your hand. It simply reads: ”Welcome to the Futa Festival. There’s no map. Just follow your heart and whatever drips.”