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
Now the male genitalia are not too aesthetically pleasing if you're a normal heterosexual man, but at least they are visible, definite, usually dry and rather forthright, especially, of course, when you're excited, the fact of which cannot be concealed. A vagina, on the other had, is none of those things, because, except for the outer lips, it's all protectively tucked up inside you. It's secretive, hidden, dark, damp. Apart from the mons veneris -- which is as neat and trim as the downy-soft breast of a thrush -- it's crammed full of folds, membranes, layers and ridges, far more intricate, say, than a complex piece of origami. It's very hard to see into because it's so deep and stays closed most of the time, sort of like a little Plato's cave, full of sacred mysteries.
In fact, it's not easy to make your vagina open without spreading your legs apart or sitting Indian-style, except if you yawn, then it opens only a little and closes up right away. And even when it gets all turned on and sloshingly wet, it still doesn't "show," though the damp stain on your panties might give you away. It's your intimate feminine secret, unless you decide to let someone in on it by your body language or by telling them outright, or by letting them shove their fingers, or, even better, their cock inside you. It's actually a rather sensible arrangement, if you ask me.
Another intriguing feature of a vagina is how smooth and moist it is inside, like the lining of your cheeks, (but rather more sensitive), and just as bright pink, too, although it has a little pigment in places, faint brownish blotches, which sometimes only show up when you're pregnant.
A vagina's most striking aspect, though, isn't its concealed intricacies or its moistness, but how incredibly soft and sensitive it is, particularly the lips and the clitoris and the first inch or two of the tunnel part, which I think is called the vestibule. The outer lips are at least as velvety soft as a rose petal or a butterfly's wing, if not even softer, especially if you have meticulously shaved them (which, just take my word for it, is not all that easy to do). Men haven't got the slightest notion of how very delicate your vagina is, no matter how often you tell them they have to use a light touch -- they go right to work on you like they are sanding a boat or filing a saw.
But the least little brush of your own fingertips along your lips, just about half-way down, can set you off, or sometimes merely crossing your legs and shifting them just so. Riding a motorcycle also serves tolerably well, particularly if it's a bit out of tune, or simply leaning up against a washing machine during the spin cycle, which works miracles in taking the boredom out of doing laundry. With just a little imagination and a few simple props, a woman can keep herself going all day.
And as for your clit, well, it's not too good an idea to touch it directly, not at first, though when you are really hot, it likes to be touched by the head or the shaft of a cock. It likes that a lot, believe me! But most of the time, your clit much prefers to be very lightly fingered through its little hood of soft skin. My advice is, don't ever let a man touch your clit with his fingers. Try to teach him to use his tongue on you instead. Some men actually like doing it! But I am getting ahead of myself.
At the moment, however, despite (or because of) all these erudite reflections, my own vagina, the more I poke around in it, is getting moister by the second -- downright boggy, in fact. It definitely likes having my fingers in it. And that brings me to another important point: whether merely moist when it's at rest, or sopping wet when it's aroused, your vagina pretty much always has this peculiarly vulnerable feeling, not really an emptiness, but a nagging desire to be penetrated, to enfold. It's like a hunger pang, really, a trifle unpleasant unless it thinks it's about to be satisfied right away, in which case the hunger actually intensifies and it just can't wait to get something warm, smooth and firm up inside it, something preferably at least eight inches long and two inches thick, if it can be at all arranged. The longer and thicker, the better.
Of course, I am discovering all these interesting particulars myself for the very first time, relishing each novel sensation as it comes along. I have always been a quick learner, so after a few minutes I am rhythmically stroking my lips up and down with brief excursions of the third and fourth fingers of one hand, while massaging my clit though its delicate hood, in a circular motion, with the middle finger of my other hand. I interrupt the rhythm every now and again by plunging my fingers deep into my wetness to renew their lubrication. I can literally stir myself like a warm pudding.
I have had my fingers in vaginas before, to be sure, but never in one that is actually mine, the main difference being that this one is reciprocally feeling my fingers inside it, and is busily shooting enervating shafts of intense pleasure up through my belly, followed by expanding circlets of glowing liquefaction. It's kind of like a little internal fireworks display: brief, clustered explosions of brilliant white sparks alternating with slow bursts of long colored streamers that fade.
Very soon my vagina is so wet that it starts making those funny little smacky-kissy sounds each time I reposition my legs or dip in my fingers and stir them around. I can even smell my own musk. When I bring my fingers right up to my nostrils and sniff them, I suddenly find myself teetering deliciously on the knife edge of what can only be the World-Famous Female Orgasm that's perpetually featured in almost every women's magazine, so I abruptly stop, put my arms at my sides, clench my hands and lie still, savoring the excruciating intensity of the teetering itself. But I can't take this drawn-out sexual suspense for too long, I must rush over that edge, so my hand steals back, and this time I use my forefinger gently to retract the hood over my clit, and with my middle finger, ever-so-softly roll the glans round and round, like a diminutive pea, flicking it one way and then the other beneath my fingertip. I begin to moan. My clit loves the soft pressure and little pop of release when it rolls out from under the pad of my finger.
That does it: my legs start jerking by themselves and all my muscles contract spasmodically as if a thousand volts are zapping my body. A sweet wet warmth surges through me and the world goes magenta. My innards start to undulate in expanding waves of brilliant ripples.
"Unhhh, unhhh, unhhh, unhhh, unhhh!" I grunt in time to the ripples. As I slowly relax, it's as if a floodgate has opened, releasing a rush of warm, honeyed milk through my arteries, suffusing every part of my body, even to the tips of my fingers and toes. I groan as my membranes flutter, quiver, then at last settle down. Stunned, I lie on the bed for perhaps five minutes, gasping in shocked disbelief at what has just happened: the World-Famous Female Orgasm is definitely not overrated.
"O, God," I finally say out loud. "What have I been missing all my life?"
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© 2001 Edith Bellamy. All rights reserved.
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