Here, for your reading pleasure, is the final part of Edith Bellamy's Elphinstone Formula. This is much shorter than the previous sections being only a little over four pages in length. It has been my pleasure to return this great story to the world wide web and it saddens me a little to be done with it. To that end, I have delved back into the depths of the old internet and dredged up more of Edith's old stories. If you haven't yet, please check out the poll to the right and vote on which story you want me to post next. Here's the epilogue, I hope you enjoy it.
Vaudin did not, however, realise with awful finality that he was irrevocably a woman, not even after he begged Colonel Fitzmorris to rip off his panties and take him. Not even after the Colonel had mercilessly reamed him seven times that first night, making the little transmute's eyes bulge from their sockets at the indignity of being pinned to the bed by a merciless cock, his legs spread wide, his softness passively yielding to the Colonel's brusque penetrations. Not even when he felt the hot semen seven times flood him to overflowing, the excess trickling between his buttocks to form a clammy spot on the bedsheet beneath him. Not even when, pearly fluid coursing down the insides of his thighs, he betook himself to the bidet between sessions to wash himself out. He was constrained — like any woman — to spread his nether lips with his fingers so that the burbling fountain could rinse his female recesses clean as he sat astride the cool porcelain bowl, his knees gripping the indentations in the sides of the rim, fashioned precisely for girls like him who had just been serviced.
No, with Gallic pigheadedness Vaudin refused to admit he was a woman despite the irrefutable evidence that he was one. He, of course, quickly came to relish being fucked (what woman doesn't?) — and despised himself for it. By his second night of being raffled off as a whore he began to respond to his partners instead of lying passively on his back with his thighs spread apart — he found he enjoyed being fucked far more when he rolled his wide hips in time to the client's thrusting or when he wrapped his legs tightly round the man's torso. He learned to tilt his pelvis just so to grant the man maximum penetration. He became an astute judge of thickness and length and of how well this man or that would fill his vagina. Vaudin even began getting on top whenever the man allowed him to. He loved skewering himself ever-so-slowly until his whole weight came to bear on the man's cock, like a spool on its spindle; he learned to control tempo, direction and depth. He achieved climax on every occasion, regardless of position. And the whole bordello knew when he did, for he took to emitting a trademark cry at the moment of release — high, thin and piercing, like a seabird wheeling far above the waves.
Vaudin came to crave the penultimate melting a woman feels just before going over her edge and quickly learned to prolong it for minutes at a time, like a ballerina fluttering en pointe as she is twirled about by her partner. Of course, his self-loathing increased in proportion to his ever-higher peaks of sexual gratification. But still he did not succumb, stubbornly persisting to consider himself a man temporarily enchanted by some evil freak of black magic, taunted mercilessly by the magnificence of his womanly orgasms.
He resolutely believed he would wake up one fine morning to find his male self completely restored. If getting fucked seven times a night by the likes of Colonel Fitzmorris was the price he had to pay in exchange for that fine morning, well, then, he was quite willing to pay it, particularly as getting fucked felt so divine! He looked forward to his nocturnal duties starting the moment he awakened each morning, secretly relieved to find himself still female... relieved that his return to maleness had been postposed just one more day. And each morning he would become aroused just thinking about having his panties torn off again, of spreading his legs for yet another client, of feeling the unparalleled slickness of a man's cock sliding into his tummy as high as his little, dimpled navel. And each night at work he was astonished afresh that he could accommodate even the largest of men without the least difficulty, taking their cocks so wholly into himself that it felt as if they were tickling the base of his throat from below. O! How perfectly lovely to be a cleft and vulnerable creature, to be fucked by men, to feel his vagina ripple and pulsate as it swept in their life-giving seed many times a night! O! How perfectly lovely — And, O! How perfectly horrible at the same time!
Alas! Poor Vaudin so adored being fucked that he became hopelessly addicted to being a woman even as he denied he was one. And the more he denied it, the more addicted he became. His panties were forever moist; he spent all his waking hours in a perpetual haze of female arousal, puncutated by frenized copulation and fits of remorse.
He got so good at his job that clients began praising his talents. The raffle was abandoned after a week, the French Maid outfit retired, the leash unclipped. He was permitted to choose his own lingerie and frocks, like the other bordello girls; he dressed himself stylishly, with a penchant for pastel crêpe de chine dresses and demure pleated blouses that minimized his ridiculous bustline. He strutted about flawlessly in five-inch heels, which not only compensated for his diminutive stature, but drew attention to his luscious derrière. Soon Vaudin was commanding 150 Rupees a night for his services.
Yet he often wept girlish tears when he was alone, that he, a man, had been turned into a receptacle for the sexual satisfaction of other men; or, to put it another way, that he, a man, had been demoted in the Great Hierarchy of Existence to a weak and penetrable female — a mere sexual plaything sentenced to lift his skirts on demand.
His bitterest tears were reserved for whenever he admitted how much he cherished his female anatomy. Though Vaudin tenaciously believed he was still a man, he could not avoid worshipping his vagina: it became the sun, the center, the pinnacle of his existence. He was never more content than when he had a stiff cock inside him, which was quite often indeed. Yet it was precisely this hopeless adulation of his vagina, the delight in hiking his dress, the frisson of having his panties slowly (or violently) pulled down, the irresistible compulsion to spread his thighs wide to take a man into himself — and the sickening disgust at his very penetrability — that caused him to weep. At such times, his only consolation was, paradoxically, the certainty that he'd be soon be fucked again. And then he'd detest himself for aching to have a cock inside him, even as the thought of it made him insanely wet. It was really quite a vicious cycle: he was either in the throes of sexual ecstasy or abjectly miserable, with no middle ground.
Vaudin's stubbornness in considering himself a man persisted after he missed his first period... and his second... and his third. It persisted after he could no longer deny the fine brown line that now ran from his navel down the center of his hairless tummy to his furred love-mound, like the seam on a bean. It persisted after his pudenda became swollen and dusky in colour — and remained that way. It persisted even after he began to show and his oversize breasts became even fuller and he had gained more than twenty pounds — a lot for his slight womanly frame. Frenchmen are known for their mulishness in such matters: Vaudin could not possibly admit he was pregnant. To do so, he would have had to concede that he was a woman. Such a concession was impossible. Absolutely impossible, for Vaudin considered himself as masculine as any Frenchman, despite the temporary derangement of his anatomy and the undeniable evidence of his pregnancy.
But one fine morning — instead of finding himself changed back into a man — Vaudin felt his baby quicken, felt his protuberant tummy tented outwards by elbow, fist, knee or heel. That very morning he asked one of the other whores to teach him to knit. He began knitting bootees, bonnets and blankets with skill and devotion, imminent maternity having compelled him to start feathering the nest for his baby as it compels any expectant mother — and so Vaudin finally assented to be a woman in mind, spirit and soul as well as in body. It was as simple as that.
In the full flush of pregnancy, Vaudin now insisted everyone call him Michelle. And so they did, not, however, without various mutterings such as, "It's about bloody time!", "I was wondering when she'd finally come round," and suchlike.
But Michelle was not the only transmute to have missed her period. In the heat of action on the night of the Great Palace Coup, no copper bows had been inserted into Georgia, Leona.... nor into Sandra, all of whom had been impregnated by Vaudin before his own transformation. Not only that, but Daphne, craving maternity, had contrived, with Iris's assistance, to have her own copper bow removed on her fifth day as a girl. She, too, immediately became pregnant and began to show not much later than the other four. Thus, the Elphinstone had five pregnant transmutes at once, an unprecedented number.
The five took to gathering in the refectory each morning after breakfast for a couple of hours, where they would chirp brightly like a flock of canaries, comparing notes about their pregnancies and picking out names for their babies, while they knitted booties, bonnets and blankets in every shade of wool except blue (transmutes conceive only girl babies). By October of the year, all had been readied downstairs in the clinic for the expectant mothers' confinement. A sunny, east-facing room on the fifth story had been converted into a nursery. All the Elphinstone whores were looking forward with keen anticipation to the arrival of five baby girls. By the end of November the prospective transmute mothers were all groaningly heavy with child and leaking colostrum; they now only wished their pregnancies over and done with, so uncomfortable were they. And like all primiparous women, they worried about how much childbirth would hurt, though each bravely kept her worries to herself and did not share them with the others.
On December 3rd, Leona went into labour. After six hours, she was delivered of a healthy baby girl. Baby girls followed for Georgia (on the 7th) and Sandra on the 12th, and another, for Daphne, on the 21st. Michelle did not go into labour until Christmas Eve, but her baby was a shoulder presentation, that is, undeliverable. An ambulance was summoned and Michelle taken to Central Bombay Peninsula Hospital, where she and her baby died before a Caesarian section could be performed.
Michelle's tragedy was overshadowed by the great joy attendant on the delivery of four perfectly adorable baby girls; the fifth-floor nursery became the center of the bordello's attention for the next week, the whores in constant attendance on the new mothers and their babies. The eunuch twins, Ghulam and Ghopal, were no less delighted. That the four new mothers sitting up in their beds, suckling their babies at the same time and chattering gaily about their plans as new mothers will do, had all been men, was beyond all imagining. Nor could the transmute mothers imagine it, either.
After six weeks of maternity leave, the four returned to their concubine duties, the other whores looking after their babies in shifts. Sandra did indeed remain together with Gladys as an inseparable lesbian couple; Sandra's compulsive need to be fucked by men every day did not interfere with their relationship. In the last months of the war, when it was clear victory lay within the grasp of the Allies, Georgia and Leona married two stalwart sailors from the good old Intrepid. In the summer of 1945, the by then demobilised sailors sent for them (and their babies) and they emigrated to England, where they settled down to lives of blissful domesticity. Daphne married an admiral in May, 1945 (not Pinkie, of course). She wore an extravagant wedding gown of white satin and tulle, like the ones she had always dreamed of. In early June, 1945, the admiral spirited her and her baby back to England as the only woman and child aboard the battleship he commanded. Daphne subsequently bore him three daughters of his own.
And what about Iris, you ask? Iris enjoyed her whorish duties far too much to relinquish them in favor of matrimony or maternity. She went on to become the Elphinstone's main attraction, assiduously saved her money and retired to London in 1966, where she established a successful escort business, with more than 300 girls on her books. She herself engaged in countless liaisons with men until 1975, when she sold her business for £250,000 and retired to a cottage in Surrey. She soon missed the city, however, and moved back to London the following year, when she finally married, at age 56, accepting as husband none other than the tall, tired-looking officer who had had such a penchant for transmutes, one Commander Brentwood by name. They had a delightful (if childless) marriage. Brentwood died in 2001 at age 89. Iris barely survived by a year, dying in early 2002 at age 82. By then Iris had been a woman since 1942 — sixty years! — and regretted not a moment of it.
Thus ends the saga of the Elphinstone Formula, which had changed so many lives, most of them for the better. All except for poor Michelle, who was buried with her baby in Bombay's only Catholic cemetery, her plain headstone reading, "M. Vaudin, 1917-1942, and Infant Daughter."