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
Click here to read Chapter 7
Click here to read Chapter 8

The Final CHAPTER 9.

It's like I threw a switch, as if changing from Geoffrey to Genevieve finally brings home to Calvin that I really am a woman now, and most likely no longer his boss, either. As if fucking me hadn't given him a clue. Men can be so dense sometimes, it makes you just want to scream.

So the moment I'm Genevieve, Calvin gets this alpha male-in-charge look on his face, takes control, comes over, turns off the taps and pulls me up off the bidet by one arm. "That's enough now, Gennie," he says. "Either I've knocked you up or I haven't. We'll know in a month, won't we?"

"I'm not sure exactly, Calvin," I say, taking a towel and squatting a bit, so I can dry myself off down there. "I could start my period tomorrow, I guess, then we'd be pretty sure I'm not. And if I am, then one of those drug store home test kits will tell me in two or three weeks. We can buy one and read the directions while we're out shopping in San Francisco this afternoon. I need more than just panties now."

"San Francisco? We can go back to Walmart," he says, "right here in Modesto."

"Are you kidding, Calvin? I am simply not going to get my first wardrobe at Walmart," I protest indignantly. "OK, I agree it's a good idea to stop there on the way out of town to buy me a bra, some jeans, a top and some tennies, so that at least I'll look plausible shopping at Magnin's. Besides, we're not going to Foster Farms Feed Mill Number Two tomorrow -- or ever -- so we can get out of Modesto right after breakfast."

Calvin asks, "What're you going use for money? You can't use your credit card now. You don't look like a Geoffrey Rathbun."

"Then I'll use my ATM card," I say. "I have plenty of cash in my accounts, enough to outfit me in Paris fashions if I want and go to Europe for a year and live like a princess. And that doesn't even touch Elaine's account or the kids' trust fund."

The idea is sinking in, I can see. Calvin brightens up. "I could get into this," he says. "Dressing you from scratch could be fun. Then we can check into a really nice hotel and I can fuck your brains out all over again." Calvin is a very concrete thinker.

I step into fresh panties -- sedate white cotton ones this time -- and struggle into some soft chinos that are now loose in the waist but too tight in the hips and the bottom. "That'd be fine with me, Calvin," I say, buttoning my oversized shirt and leaving it untucked to cover the ill-fit of my trousers. I put on three pairs of thick socks so my loafers won't fall off, then Calvin and I go down to breakfast. I am soothed by the obligatory sway of my hips as we walk down the corridor, and by the pleasant jounce of my breasts swinging free under my shirt. While we are waiting for a table, Calvin surreptitiously grabs my ass -- and a bit more as well; it actually feels nice to be grabbed by a man. I could have my brains fucked out five times a day, every day, for a year and not get tired of it, I reflect, as we are shown to our table. And if I lose a few brains in the process, I'll probably be the better off for it. The waitress pours our coffee. I'm getting wet again, but attempt to ignore it: my mind races ahead to the afternoon's shopping. I imagine all the lovely things I shall buy. My brain seethes with visions of lacy undergarments, of elegant dresses and delicate footwear, of subdued makeup, costly perfumes, nailpolish and pearls. I cross and re-cross my legs under the table and speculate how nice it'll feel in a dress, wearing nylons -- which only makes me wetter. I forget entirely about the prospect of pregnancy. I'm glad I'm a woman.

A kernel of my former male self, like a fly embalmed in the amber of my femininity, flickers into momentary consciousness. It sees me through horrified male eyes with cut-crystal clarity, sees me strapped down on a delivery table, feet in stirrups, sees a baby's head protruding from my vagina -- sees that I have just become a mother -- sees utter and eternal defeat. The feeble consciousness dims, wavers like a guttering candle .... and vanishes. I am Gennie again, now and forever.

Dr. Blake runs a finger through the baby's mouth to clear out any obstruction. She asks for the suction and inserts a thin red catheter first into one nostril, then into the other. Supporting the head with one hand, she says, "Good girl, Gennie, good girl! That was a great push! Now, on your next contraction, push real hard again, we'll get the shoulders out and then it'll be as good as over. OK?"

I feel my next contraction begin. I thrash my head and grit my teeth again, but this time the pain is not as intense, so I feel no impulse to scream. "Push one more time, Gennie, push!" the doctor commands. So I push as hard as I can and watch, to my amazement, as a complete baby emerges from my distended vagina, like a heavy liquid, in a continuous and releasing slither.

* * * * * 

After breakfast, everything goes exactly as planned. We stop at Walmart for basics, then drive to San Francisco. We go shopping in Union Square; by the time were are finished, some six hours later, I am dressed to the nines and have been stunningly made up by the Expert Ladies at the city's best cosmetics counters. I even have pearls (but, wisely, no heels). It's after eight when we at last check into the Mark Hopkins, trailed by three bellhops staggering under my purchases, just like in the movies. We have reserved .... the bridal suite, naturally, with a stunning view of the Bay. We have champagne and dinner served in our suite, then Calvin fucks my brains out, as promised, not once, but five times. We forget about condoms again (five times!), and this bathroom has no bidet. In two weeks we are married. In three weeks, I confirm that I'm pregnant.

* * * * *

So that's how I ended up here having this baby and looking at Pink Gladiolas.

* * * * *

A thin and tentative cry, a sharp intake of breath ... then a squall of rage fills the room. Dr. Blake proclaims, "It's a girl."


Copyright © 2001 Edith Bellamy. All rights reserved. 



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