Mind Caviar

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 ebellamy@pinkgladiolas.com

Pink Gladiolas
by Edith Bennett Bellamy

Click here to read Chapter 1 
Click here to read Chapter 2
Click here to read Chapter 3
Click here to read Chapter 4
Click here to read Chapter 5
Click here to read Chapter 6


Without a word, Calvin stands, picks me up as if I were light as a feather and tosses me, on my back, into the middle of the big satin heart. The force of my fall causes my thighs to part. I do not bring them together again; in fact, I spread them even more widely. Calvin undresses in haste; already majestically erect, he lies down next to me and nuzzles my breasts. I search out one of his hands with mine to draw it down between my tremulous thighs. My other hand finds his cock, encircling it -- barely. "Go softly now," I whisper, and he begins to stroke me through my panties, not expertly (I have to lift his hand away once or twice and reapply it to show him the right pressure), but adequately enough. After a few delicious minutes, I feel myself flood and realize I have soaked clear through the gusset.

I, On the other hand, know just how to stroke him. He moans in response and begins nibbling my nipple. He quickly brings me up to that delirious edge, faster than I want to get there. I want him in me for my next come, naturally. "No, no, no, no, no," I say, "not yet!" I disengage his hand, raise up my bottom, peel off my panties, flicking them away with my toes. To confirm just how ready I am, I briefly dip into myself: I am frictionlessly molten.

I spread my thighs to the limit my hips will allow, which, I am pleased to discover, is considerably farther apart than I could ever spread them before. I am open, ready, palpitant. "OK, Calvin," I say, "now we can try it out." He crouches over me, knees between my legs, and lowers himself. I steer the head of his cock towards me so it slides over my clit, itself now unsheathed and daintily erect in defiant (if risible) mockery of its Brobdingnagian male counterpart. The smooth skin of his shaft is so soft against me as it glides back and forth. I press his cock down against my clit as he moves: the satiny friction drives me wild. I think of a violinist plying his rosined bow over the instrument's strings...

But now I simply must have him inside me, so on his next backward stroke, I angle my hips slightly upwards: when he slides forward again, he must penetrate me. And so he does, dead center, in one long, excruciatingly smooth, gliding plunge that makes the walls of my vagina tighten around him in a reflex I neither can, nor wish to, suppress, drawing him deeper into me. He impales me fully until the tip of his cock is pressing against my cervix. I gasp at the unexpected sensation of being entered and filled by something so large, smooth and stiff.

I lift my head and look down: my inner lips, distended in a perfect "O," encircle Calvin's shaft at its root. As astonishing as it is, I have actually taken this man, so appallingly huge, inside my belly as a scabbard takes the sword: his cock, which seemed so threatening in its dimensions only moments before, is wholly ensheathed within me. But I am mistaken! After a lull, he pushes yet another inch into me. A slight twinge of pain: I emit an involuntary squeal at the shock (and rapture) of my ultimate penetration, then we hold still and I possess him. What ecstacy, I think, with that small part of my brain that is still rational. I grip his shaft more tightly with my lips and breathlessly await The Motion.

I am not kept waiting long: as if on cue, Calvin begins a slow, rhythmic thrusting, deeper with each stroke, until I think he is practically up in my chest. He has the precise tempo of slow '40's swing music; my hips assume the same rhythym. My vagina tightens around him each time he thrusts, drawing him in peristaltically, then reluctantly releases him each time he pulls back, in a kind of sexual respiration, which, in fact, soon mirrors our breathing.

I have no idea how long we continue copulating like this -- one minute, ten, sixty -- for I lose all sense of time. Finally, with near-perfect instinct, he grasps my nipple between his thumb and forefinger while with his other hand he begins squeezing my knee in the way that usually tickles. Only this time it doesn't tickle: it's the final straw, I am pushed over the edge. My body is thrown into rhythmic spasms more intense than when I brought myself off earlier. My heels, already drawn up and almost touching my bottom, rise high off the bed. My vagina, with a will of its own, starts milking his cock.

That does it for Calvin: he comes in a shuddering series of long and almost agonizingly slow spurts, each of which jets against my cervix -- almost imperceptibly, to my surprise (the man thinks this part of the act should be the woman's ultimate pleasure, but your cervix is actually pretty insensitive); his cock, pulsating within me, feels divine. My intimate tissues sweep rhythmically inwards like some form of undulant cylindrical sea life ingesting its prey; deeper within, I feel a fimbriate fluttering.

"Unhhh, unhhh, unhhh, unhhh, unhhh!" I grunt, all over again, only now in tempo with Calvin's spurts and in a feminine register. I brim, then am overfilled, with warm semen, which leaks out in retrograde fashion from the force of each spurt to trickle down the cleft of my buttocks, spreading a warm, wet stain on the bed. Calvin, spent, now covers me: his weight flattens my breasts and pushes me deep into the mattress. I wrap my legs around his waist, locking my ankles to keep him within me.

* * * * * 

The delivery room doors hiss open and Dr. Blake enters. Pam pushes harder against me. "You're just in time, Dr. Blake," says Pam, "she's already crowned." Dr. Blake heaves into view in the mirror, in cap and mask, holding the tips of her scrubbed fingers together like a steeple. She calmly regards the shock of flaxen hair protruding from my vagina. "We still have time," she says. "I'll go gown and glove up. Just keep good pressure on that head, Pam."

I hear the rustling of a paper gown being donned and the by-now familiar snap of surgical gloves being pulled on. A few moments later, Dr. Blake replaces Pam and a firmer hand presses against me. "Bring over the Mayo," Dr. Blake says. "Unwrap the tray, give me a ten cc Luer-lock with a one and a half inch twenty-two needle and pour me out some two percent Xylocaine with epi, then go warm up the isolette and call pediatrics. Tell them it looks pretty routine and there's no need to hurry."

Off to my left Pam drops a syringe and needle from their blister packs onto the Mayo stand. She pours the anesthetic into a stainless steel medicine cup. She wheels the stand out of my sight, but it immediately reappears in the mirror. Dr. Blake draws up the solution directly into the syringe, locks on the needle and, holding the syringe straight up, expels the air until a few fine droplets spurt from the tip of the needle.

* * * * *


Copyright © 2001 Edith Bellamy. All rights reserved. 



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