Edith Bennett Bellamy has been writing elegantly prolix transgender erotica for the past five years. Her works appeared sporadically on various TG web sites until last May, when she opened Pink Gladiolas, her own site, which hosts all of her stories and also features current reviews of high-end TG and erotica sites. Edith lives in the Far North and may be contacted at email@example.com.
by Edith Bennett Bellamy
Click here to read Chapter 1
I haven't always been like this, you know. That is, I haven't always been pregnant. But, no, that's not quite true, either: I have always been pregnant, actually...
O, sorry, I see I'm confusing you, so let me start over and make myself perfectly clear: I've been a woman only nine months, which is exactly how long I've been pregnant, so I suppose I've always been pregnant since I've been a woman, and vice-versa. O, sorry again: I see you're more confused than ever. All right, then, as frightfully embarrassing as it is, I really ought to begin... at the very beginning. Then you'll understand how I ended up here having this baby and looking at Pink Gladiolas...
* * * * *
It all began with chicken feed. That's right, you heard me correctly: chicken feed...
I was once what scientists call an applied genetics engineer, which means I did not work for a university, but for private industry at five times the salary -- manipulating DNA for .... greater profits. My name used to be Geoffrey Rathbun. I'm a Harvard grad with a Ph.D. in recombinant genetics. Or make that "was," as I have forgotten most of the detailed technical knowledge I ever learned when my Y-chromosomes translocated, or whatever it was they did that night. Don't ask me, I don't know a thing about that anymore!
I was forty-six years old, married, with two kids. I worked for NutriGen in Raleigh, North Carolina. My job was to develop potent chicken feed additives that would put lots of weight on birds fast and at the lowest possible cost per ton of feed. Our goal was to bring a fryer from egg to market in twenty-seven days. Chickens are a seven billion dollar-a-year industry in the U.S., you know, so lowering the cost of production by only a few fractions of a cent per pound can be worth a lot of money to huge chicken conglomerates, like Perdue or Foster Farms.
You've probably heard the controversy about how we put estrogen into chicken feed back in the '80's, and how upset everyone got. A chicken's metabolism completely breaks down estrogen, of course, so none ends up in its eggs or its meat, but it was an emotional, not a scientific issue. It put one of our competitors out of business, in fact: GenFowl, Ltd. By tweaking isomers and carbon bonds, and altering an amino acid sequence or two, NutriGen was able to market a non-estrogen additive we named NutriBird-32, that, as far as chickens were concerned, was as good as the real McCoy, but could be shown to have no in vitro activity on human cells, so it could not be classified as an estrogen and was therefore able to garner Department of Agriculture approval. It brought birds from hatchery to market in 32 days, not quite our target, but pretty close.
We never tested NutriBird-32 on living people, of course -- we didn't have to, since it was an animal feed additive, not a pharmaceutical, hence did not fall under FDA jurisdiction. I had my own doubts, based on what it did to male laboratory rats -- they lost their aggressiveness and libido, put on more brown fat and yielded food and females to untreated males. But I kept quiet, of course. NutriGen's profit sharing plan was too attractive, my stock options worth far too much to raise even the whisper of a doubt.
It's nighttime. Calvin and I are in Modesto with twelve vials of NutriBird-27, the entire yield from our latest lab run. The only difference from NutriBird-32 is two extra adenosine molecules at the gamma-118 cross-linkage junction, but this little change is supposed to increase its potency several-fold. Next morning we have to show up at eight o'clock sharp at Foster Farms Feed Mill Number Two, where they'll blend the NutriBird-27 into the day's run of feed.
Calvin is my lab assistant, twenty-eight, blonde, tall, strapping and single. A farm boy from Asheville, he's not overly bright but stolid, reliable and with a fine sense of intuition about carrying out my experiments. Calvin started working summers in my lab while he was at Duke; he did so well and the money was so good that he interrupted college for a year after his second summer and never went back. Nine years later, he's still in my lab.
We're staying at the Modesto Ramada Inn out on West Orangeburg Avenue. Our connection was canceled, so we rented a car in Oakland and drove. We get in at nine-thirty. There's a Safflower Oil convention in town, so the place is packed, but we manage to get, of all rooms, the bridal suite. Can you imagine anyone's starting a honeymoon in Modesto? There's a heart-shaped king-size bed with pink satin sheets and quilted spread, with a matching quilted headboard. Pink moiré satin wallpaper and drapes, thick plush wall-to-wall carpet in a slightly clashing shade.... In the bathroom (all pink-tiled, to be sure), an old-style French bidet to keep the bride fresh and dainty. I'm the boss, so I get the king-size heart. Calvin's the assistant, so he gets the rollaway.
Calvin puts the little styrofoam container with the vials in the fridge, one of those dwarf ones, where you have to bend down to see in. "Put it on top of the ice trays," I tell him. I take a shower, stretch out on my bed in my bathrobe, start surfing channels while Calvin takes his. I find a John Ford western just starting, so while the credits are running, I go to the fridge for a Sprite. Damn, they must have just pulled the champagne and re-stocked the fridge ten minutes before we checked in: the cans are all still warm. So I slide out an ice tray, twist its spine and dump the undersize cubes into a tumbler, pour in the Sprite, carry it back to the bed. The wagon train is just pulling into Monument Valley, right on schedule, as the director's name fades from the screen.
Calvin comes in from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his midriff, and plumps down on the bed. We watch the film. I finish two more Sprites, and when Henry Fonda kisses Linda Darnell for the last time, I feel sort of queasy, feel my guts turn over. Calvin's already asleep, so I nudge him with my elbow and send him off to his rollaway, turn off the TV and the reading lamp and drift off, still feeling an odd churning in my lower abdomen.
I awaken at six-thirty, my bladder full to bursting, a queer, humid feeling, not wholly unpleasant, between my legs. But no nausea, no more churning. Scratching my head, I stumble off to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door. Standing at the toilet, I pull aside the elastic leg band of my jockey shorts with the automaticity of a lifetime... but my fingers do not find that which for a lifetime has been there. Instead, they feel a firm mound, a mound softly cleft straight down its center like a... like a...
I must still be asleep and dreaming! This can't possibly be! But it is! I frantically trace the cleft downwards. My fingers encounter a moist aperture which they plunge into with little resistance. At the same instant, this preposterous and insanely sensitive aperture feels... that is, I feel... my fingers' abrupt entry into... me. A sickening pause... they are softly gripped, then coaxed deeper inside by some primordial muscular reflex beyond my control. Shocked and immobile, I stand there, like a bizarre statue, my fingers thrust deep inside what can only be a... No! My mind balks at the word. This can't be happening to me!
I jerk my fingers out of my body as if they've just touched a hot stove. My heart turns over and misses a beat. I tear off my jockey shorts, look down and gasp to discover a perfectly contoured mons veneris, crowned by a tuft of wispy, amber hair, sparse enough so that the appalling cleft I have just probed is readily visible. Of what I formerly possessed between my legs no trace remains: I now wear the perforate badge of femininity...
The ice! Ignoring my full bladder and now fully awake, I bound back into the bedroom and yank open the fridge, grab the styrofoam container and return to the bathroom, where there's light. I slice the tape between the two halves with a fingernail and rip off the top. Two of the twelve little vials sit lower than the others. I grasp the tip of one, extract it from its cavity: it is smashed. So is the other. I hold up the container to inspect its bottom -- each cavity has a tiny drain hole; the Styrofoam is slightly damp around the ones where the broken vials are.
By now I am soaked with clammy perspiration. I don't need a Ph.D. in recombinant genetics to figure out that at least some of the vials' contents must have leaked onto the ice cubes. And each vial is enough to treat eight tons of feed! Picogram amounts are all that is needed in chickens and I might have ingested milligrams, a billion times more! I spin around towards the mirror over the sink, relieved to see my own reflection unchanged -- except for the mound at the base of my belly with its blunt-rimmed, fleshy groove coursing downwards, like a mutilating wound, to vanish between my thighs. Its very presence is instant demotion to an inferior station in the Timeless Hierarchy of Existence, for it brands me as female -- a weak, passive, inconstant, sentimental, capricious, foolish, insecure, vapid, vain and imperfect creature -- subject, as she is, to the vagaries of the moon. A bleeder, bearer (and suckler) of babies, doer of laundry, mender of clothing, wiper of bottoms and snotty noses, soother of tears... and a scatter-brained gossip besides. Overnight, I have been transformed into that insignificant fragment of Adam's unnecessary rib, gullible plucker of apples, despoiler of Eden: The Second Sex. What a cruel reversal of fate!
I struggle to weigh the extent of the damage, just as a soldier must do when he's been hit in combat. "This could be worse, far worse. I'm still basically me, at least I can still pass as a man until this can be fixed," I reassure myself. The wave of nauseating panic recedes, displaced by a cold, gnawing dread about my immediate future.
Speaking of which, I now, for some odd reason, recall Calvin, plumping down next to me on the bed last night after his shower, clad only in a scanty motel towel. But why am I thinking of Calvin? I'm the one with the problem, not he! Then I feel the insistent pressure of my full bladder again: mindful of a humiliating rearrangement in bodily plumbing, I lower the toilet seat and sit like a girl, straight-backed, hands primly folded in pathetic inducement of calmness. After a few moments' hesitation while I seek out the right muscles to relax (believe me, they are different!), I release my urine, which, to my mortification, sprays diffusely (though with audible force) against the porcelain inside the front of the bowl with a high, girlish fssssssss. "Aaaah," I sigh in relief. Another long fsssss, and then Calvin lurches in through the bathroom door, buck naked, just in time to catch the end of that long, tell-tale girlish fsssss and the two short terminal fss's as I expel the last bit. He freezes, eyes popping, jaw agape. I spread my legs and daintily pat myself dry, amazed at my sudden aplomb, then stand and flush. We are facing each other, eight feet apart, speechless. We've been racquetball partners for years: Calvin knows what I have. I mean, had.
* * * * *
A masked face pops up out of the blind spot between my legs. "Hi! I'm Pam," it cheerily announces, "one of the delivery room nurses. I'm going to prep you now. Then I'll set up the mirror so you can watch baby come out. Only if you want." I nod feebly. I feel Pam slosh about a pint of cool Betadyne solution over my lower abdomen, shaved vulva and perineum. The drips plash on the shiny floor. She scrubs me thoroughly with gauze four-by-fours caught up in a hemostat. "The first one is always the worst," she prattles, pushing one knee a bit farther outwards to expose an unswabbed crease in my groin, "but it gets a lot easier with the others. I have five." My belly gets rock-hard again and I think I shall explode with the pain. "Oh, look! You're about to crown, dear," Pam chirrups, in the universal tone one reserves for small children, invalids and mental defectives. "We'll just have to hurry. Doctor will be here in a minute."
While I suffer my worst contraction yet, Pam drapes my legs and belly with green paper sheets. Then she swivels a large ceiling-mounted mirror into position and adjusts it, coming up to me and putting her face next to mine several times to look up into the mirror from my perspective, and re-adjusts it until I have a clear and unimpaired view. "How's that?" she asks. She expects -- and receives -- no response.
Copyright © 2001 Edith Bellamy. All rights reserved.
TO BE CONTINUED
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