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
Calvin rubs his eyes, shakes his head briskly to further waken himself, for what he's just witnessed seems impossible. He gives a low whistle and points accusingly at Exhibit A, as if a crime has been committed. "What the hell's going on, Geoff?" he asks. "You've got a cunt."
"If you don't mind," I say, bristling indignantly, "I believe it's officially called a vagina." "OK, whatever," he replies, raising his eyebrows; Calvin comes closer and bends forward, hands on his knees, to get a better look. His right hand makes a tentative twitch, as if to reach out and touch me there. I recoil a step, but he restrains himself. "Where'd it come from?" he asks, straightening up.
I show Calvin the styrofoam container and the broken vials. As I explain, he nods in understanding and finally closes his mouth, but his gaze can't keep from stealing back to my bush every few seconds. His eyes assume a lascivious glint, then he blushes and self-consciously tears his gaze away. I think I see his cock stir. Perhaps it's only my imagination, but, as much as I want to, I dare not look again, just as he is trying is trying his best not to look at my little cleft. We both glance warily downwards anyway -- with unaccustomed interest.
I have never looked at a man as I find myself looking at Calvin, nor has any man ever looked at me the way he is now. I'd never really noticed just how well-hung he is, but from my freshly altered perspective, I can see that he's definitely north of large (a draft horse springs to mind), whereas I am .... I am now soft and defenselessly penetrable. No sooner do I realize that I can be penetrated just like a woman (or even raped, for that matter), than I feel an odd thrill down there: a little surge of moisture radiates up through my belly like a dark stain in absorbent white fabric -- a sensation wholly inside me, alien but recognizably erotic.
We remain facing each other in a grotesque tableau vivant. My pulse races. I feel another, more urgent, stirring -- an incipient melting, like a wax figure softened in hot summer sunlight that has just lost its well-defined edges before commencing to flow. The sensation is overwhelmingly delicious. It makes me inhale sharply through dilated nostrils and close my eyes 'til it passes. I can guess readily enough where all this is leading: suddenly, my incomplete metamorphosis no longer seems quite so repellant.
"I know what you're thinking, Calvin" I say, having just visualized the obvious possibility. We are standing very close now, looking straight into one another's eyes. "You're thinking of fucking me, aren't you?" I ask. Almost imperceptibly, he nods in the affirmative and I break out in goose bumps. The very concept of my lab assistant's fucking me is wildly absurd, but its physical feasibility is palpably real: we both feel the sexual tension between us.
I swallow hard and say, "OK, I might be willing to let you, but...." I glance down at Calvin's endowments again, this time to gauge the probable fit of things, and hastily add, "but only if you let me call the shots and promise to stop right away if I tell you you're hurting me."
The glint in Calvin's eyes returns, intensifies. Promising nothing, he says, "What about Feed Mill Number Two? We're supposed to be there at eight."
"Call them at eight-oh-five and say we're still in Oakland. Tell them our flight got in late. Tell them anything you like. See if you can reschedule for the same time tomorrow. And be sure to tell them we have only ten vials of NutriBird-27, not twelve."
I retrieve my jockey shorts from the floor and pull them on in dubious deference to feminine modesty, for they are ludicrously baggy at the crotch. I return to the bedroom, followed rather closely by Calvin, who seems to be panting a bit. There's just no accounting for a man's sexual preferences! I pull open the drawer of the writing table, remove a pad of paper, then sit, grab a pen and begin making a list.
Three pairs of plain white cotton panties, in different sizes, at least one of which is bound to fit me. A box of tampons. A box of maxi-pads in case I can't get the hang of tampons right off. A box of pantiliners -- any brand. (I am a very fastidious fellow and always take every precaution: the very thought of actually bleeding from this ... this new orifice of mine is horribly repugnant.) A mirror with a handle. A flashlight. Two plastic shoehorns, the long kind. A tube of K-Y jelly. And, last, a dozen condoms. Bare Essentials.
I hand the list to Calvin. "What do you want me to do with this?" he asks, glancing over it.
"You're going shopping for me. Here's fifty dollars," I say, taking a bill from my wallet and handing it to him. "There's a Walmart on South 9th. They probably open at seven thirty. Get everything exactly as on the list. And no little rosebuds on the panties -- just plain, white cotton ones, OK? I don't think I can face little rosebuds quite yet. Oh yes, the condoms -- you can pick out any kind you want, even ribbed ones. Call Foster Farms from a pay phone. And be back by eight-thirty. We can try it out as soon as you get back, to see if it actually works the way it's supposed to, and then go down for breakfast. I've always been curious to know what a woman feels when she's getting fucked. This might be my only chance, so don't be late. No telling how long this vagina might last, though right now I have to admit that it feels kind of....." and my voice quavers a bit, "..... permanent."
"Yup, it looks like it'll keep a good while, but I'll hurry anyway," Calvin replies. He disappears into the bathroom (closing the door), but I can still hear the sound of his forceful stream -- a poignant reminder of what I have lost. After brushing his teeth and washing his face, he returns to the bedroom, dresses as fast as a fireman, and rushes out, shoes still unlaced, leaving me with the admonition, "Don't go away, now!"
And me? What do you think? The moment he's out the door, I head for the bed, pull off my jockeys again, lie down on my back and begin to explore my new acquisition. What else do you expect me to do?
So I prop myself up on pillows, part my legs and tentatively slide my hand down along my belly until I reach my incipient groove, then cup myself firmly, my mound and points south already beginning to radiate heat.
* * *
© 2001 Edith Bellamy. All rights reserved.
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