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 firstname.lastname@example.org.
by Edith Bennett Bellamy
Through a fog of narcotized pain I gaze up into the mirror to see that my delicate and sensitive lips -- both pairs -- are stretched and thinned almost to tearing, and that my whole shaven and orange-painted bottom is bulging outwards like a cantaloupe melon. My thinned lips are parted in a narrow vertical ellipse from which a shock of wet pale blonde hair -- not mine -- protrudes: the top of my baby's head! I stare in mesmerized fascination.
"Where's Doctor Blake?" yells Pam. Someone says, "She's just finishing a C-section. She should be here any minute." Another contraction: I see the ellipse abruptly expand, revealing more wet blonde hair. It is the color of young corn silk. Pam puts her hand on the baby's head and pushes against it, to keep it from coming out uncontrolled. "Where's Dr. Blake?" she yells again. The contraction wracks me. I hear myself scream.
* * * * *
In a burst of sudden resolution, I spring from the bed and dash back to the bathroom for the Styrofoam container. My hands lightly trembling, I remove the ten unbroken vials, snap off their necks one by one and pour the contents of each into an empty tumbler. I go to the fridge, get another can of Sprite (no ice needed now), fill the glass and eagerly drain it, disregarding the bitterness. Then I get back into bed, pull the covers up to my chin, and wait for Calvin to return. Our visit to Foster Farms Feed Mill Number Two is now definitely off -- for good.
Within minutes my transmutation is complete, remarkably painless except for a fine tearing sensation, like the rending of silk, as my hips broaden. I take only a quick peek at myself in the bathroom mirror because I want to be in bed to surprise Calvin when he returns, and it is nearly eight-thirty. One quick peek is all I need... Well, OK, a few quick peeks, then.
The only thing that has not changed is the length of my hair, which is still closely cropped, but now darkly blonde, without any gray. I am smaller, shorter, lighter, two decades younger and a thousand percent female. My features are still recognizably mine, though softer and of altered proportions. I have an attractive face, which betrays less than a towering intellect: fine arched eyebrows and thick lashes above large brown eyes; a petite nose, its tip slightly upturned, set off by cheeks sprinkled with remnants of freckles; a smallish mouth with full lips lightly parted, imparting an air of mild, breathless surprise. My neck is white and graceful, my shoulders soft and rounded. My breasts are high, pert and not pendulous, globular below, with that enticing concavity above that slopes down to each nipple like a diminutive ski jump. A high waist as well, fanning out to hips not excessively wide, which frame a broad, white belly, slightly protuberant as if in promise of fecundity. My little cleft mound is the same as I have already described, save that now, set into a thoroughly female framework, it no longer appears freakish. Au contraire: it looks elegant, adorable. My derriere is womanly without being obtrusively large; when I look over my shoulder to inspect it in the mirror, I am pleased to see I have those twin dimples on either side of the base of my spine, like the curlicues cut into a 'cello. Long, shapely legs, small feet, a soft, swaying gait dictated by the altered camber of my hips.... In short, I far exceed my own former ideal of a fuckable woman. I find myself looking forward with lively anticipation to losing the virginity I have just so lately acquired.
I get back into bed to await Calvin's return, glad now for the satin sheets, which titillate my smooth, hairless skin. My only regret is that I had not instructed Calvin to buy me some elegant panties. Boring white cotton ones no longer suit my mood. Now I crave being stroked through something silky and sheer.
* * * * *
Calvin breezes in at exactly eight thirty. I am sitting up in bed, sheets drawn up to my chin -- and smirking. He pushes the door shut and advances towards the bed. The moment he sees my face, he realizes what the bedclothes now conceal. To tease him with a little preview, I let the sheet slide part way down, exposing one breast with its brick-red nipple already erect. For the second time that morning, Calvin freezes, his jaw drops and his eyes seem to start from his head. He tosses the Walmart bag on the bed and stares, open-mouthed, at that one lovely breast.
His lips contort into a leer, but just for a moment. Then he says, "You drank all the other vials, Geoff, didn't you?"
"Couldn't help myself, Calvin, I had to," I reply, hearing my young woman's soprano for the first time. "After you went out, I made myself come. Once I did that, I couldn't face ever giving up this vagina, so I drank every drop. As you can see for yourself, that seems a lot less likely now. Look..."
And I let fall the sheet, exposing myself all the way down to the top of my mound. Calvin's eyes widen further. His lips are evidently dry; he nervously licks them, then, fingers stiffly spread, begins running his hands up and down his sides as if to keep them from doing something else.
"Let's see that mirror and flashlight," I say, pulling down the sheets all the way, revealing my nude female self to a man for the very first time. "I want to see exactly what I've got before I let you fuck me. Will you help me get a look?" I shift my long legs, sliding one knee up; a faint, wet, smacking sound, which we both hear but choose not to discuss, issues from you-know-where.
Calvin looks me over hungrily, licks his lips again and stops rubbing his hands up and down. He abruptly reaches for the bag and empties it out onto the bed. Everything is there, and much more: Calvin, using his uncanny instinct, has bought out half the Walmart lingerie aisle, it seems. There must at least two dozen panties in all cuts and fabrics, including three pairs in plain white cotton -- without dainty rosebuds.
Staring unblinkingly into my eyes, Calvin silently passes me the hand mirror. I lie back, slide my heels up towards my rump and spread my legs. He flicks on the flashlight, aiming the beam right at my slit. I tilt the mirror until I have a good view, then angle it this way and that to inspect myself from every perspective the mirror allows. I am amazed by the extent of my slit: from where it begins in my mons clear back to the cleft of my ivory-white hairless buttocks must be five or six inches, perhaps longer. I spread my thighs a bit further and am rewarded by a glimmer of my vibrant pink penetralia. Calvin leans a bit closer. I quickly close myself with the protective instinct of a penetrable creature.
"Now for the shoe horns," I say. "Go wash them off first."
Calvin begins to demur. "Geoff, this is going just a little too far. Are you sure you want to do this? You'll have plenty of time to look at it after we...." I cut him off. "Don't argue. Just do it," I say, so he puts down the flashlight, takes the two plastic shoehorns and heads for the bathroom, where I hear him washing them off. He returns, sits on the bed beside me and asks, "OK, what do we do now?"
"First we put the K-Y jelly on the shoehorns," I say. "Then I'll hold the mirror and one of the shoehorns. You take the flashlight and the other shoehorn." "OK," he says, so we slather the shoehorns with the jelly, I open my legs wide again and we each gingerly insert our shoehorn at either end of my slit, mine above, his below, and try to pull them apart, but they encounter resistance. I relax another unfamiliar muscle or two: my tissues soften, then succumb to the pressure of the makeshift speculum, the blades of which now slide effortlessly into me. As my vagina gapes, I feel the cooler air of the room against its walls. Calvin directs the flashlight beam up inside me. My vagina is ridged and furrowed and frighteningly deep, disappearing right up into my very core. Its wet pinkness glistens in the light.
"Pull yours further down," I say, as I pull mine further up, and then we see the end of the tunnel, my gray-pink nulliparous cervix, like a little dome, or, more accurately put, a miniature, pink-glazed doughnut with a tiny hole at its center. We stare wordlessly, I into the mirror, and Calvin, his face next to the mirror, into me. After perhaps half a minute I say, "I've seen enough now." I slide out my shoehorn and gently push Calvin's hand down and away, slipping his shoehorn out of me, too. I reach over to the bed table, put down the mirror and shoehorn, grab a kleenex and wipe the excess K-Y jelly from my lips, restoring as much dignity as my position allows, which is to say, not very much.
"Thanks for the show," says Calvin. "Looks to me like it'll work just fine, so, for God's sake, now are you going to let me fuck you or not? You're just stalling, Geoff."
"Fuck me?" I echo, with bland innocence. "O, right! I remember now. Sure. Just give me a sec, Calvin." I can't suppress a certain perverse pleasure in putting him off, in whetting his edge. Twenty-something men are so damned eager, they see a girl and right away all they want to do is fuck her! But I want to get into some sexy panties and have a bit of foreplay. "No vagina should be fucked until it's been properly stroked through sheer panties," I tell him, adopting a Serious Professorial Tone. "That's always been my motto, Calvin, and now that I have one of my own, I am certainly not going to let you fuck it until you stroke it through a nice silky pair. So why don't we pick some out."
Calvin rolls his eyes heavenwards as if seeking forbearance. "OK, OK!" he says, "Have some panties, then!" He bends over the soft heap of panties and starts rifling through them, scattering the plainer ones to the far corners of the room. I am on hands and knees watching him. Walmart is not Victoria's Secret, but Calvin has managed a reasonable selection. I know nothing of women's underwear sizes. "What am I, a six or a seven? Isn't that about a medium?" I ask, snatching a nice pair of shimmering, champagne-colored Lycra briefs in mid-flight. I flick out the size tab. It says M.
"These should do the trick nicely," I say, so I bite through the plastic tie holding the price tag, remove it, stand and step into them. I give a little gasp of pleasure as I pull them up all the way and feel the downy gusset snuggle my lips -- one softness caressing another. The panties hug my curves like a second skin. I smile beatifically and release the scalloped waistband with a crisp little snap. The waistband, no wider than my pinkie (now not very wide), has a tiny satin bow in front, right below my navel. I am enchanted. Calvin is by now quite red in the face.
...An ethereal wood nymph (in panties), I whirl away from the bed and dance a bacchanal in unfettered celebration of what I am about to receive. I pirouette, curtsey and flit, cup my breasts and spin.
...A brazen cabaret dancer, I roll my belly, gyrate my hips, wriggle my bottom, all the while making come-hither gestures with my hands (and other parts). I regret I have no bump-and-grind music to accompany me and no tasseled pasties to twirl.
...A supermodel, I indolently stroll down a runway -- expressionless (save for disdain), distant and frigid, with the blank eyes of a doll. I strike a pose with one hip sharply cocked.
I feel utterly female. I am utterly female.
After this highly gratifying exhibitionist interlude, I return to the bed, where Calvin is sitting on his hands and gnawing his lower lip. I execute a decent approximation of a ballerina's swan bow, arms flared out behind me, palms upwards, fingers splayed, face only inches from the carpet. I am thrilled at my extreme flexibility. Then I plant myself before him, chin high, hands defiantly knuckled on Lycra-clad hips, shapely legs spread astride -- like a petite colossus -- so close to him that my breasts are almost brushing his face. I feel his breath on my nipples. It tingles deliciously.
"OK, Calvin," I announce with studied nonchalance, "Now I'll let you fuck me, if you're still interested, that is." In point of fact, I am by now almost frantic to be serviced.
* * * * *
TO BE CONTINUED
© 2001 Edith Bellamy. All rights reserved.
READ CHAPTER 1
READ CHAPTER 2
READ CHAPTER 3
READ CHAPTER 4
READ CHAPTER 5
READ CHAPTER 6
READ CHAPTER 7
READ CHAPTER 8
READ CHAPTER 9
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