Transracial M2F cop story

[thisnofa]

Pretty sure I read it on Fictionmania years ago. Started with a white cop during a drug bust and getting stuck by one of the needles. Surprise, it's a serum that turns in him into a black woman. His partner is a black man who eventually he falls in love with. At the end she recaps how happy she is as an old black mama. Any help greatly appreciated.

[bazza170]

I def remember reading this story in fictionmania, going back a bit now though. Will see if I can dig it up...

[thisnofa]

Bump. I'd really like to find this again! I've searched through their archives multiple times to no avail. Does anyone have any hints or clues they remember about this?

[nniuqs]

I'm pretty sure the author you're looking for is Sharonna, she removed all of her stories awhile back, but she did a lot of them with people turning into black women

[EcmJ7Ra3]

Adam and Yvette
by Sharonna

The mail seemed routine this sunny Saturday. After sleeping late I strolled out into The bright sunshine in baggy blue jean shorts to my mailbox. I pulled out the electric bill, a statement from the city updating me on my retirement account (twenty-two years to go!). Some charitable solicitations, for the circular file, as usual. And there was a small lilac- colored envelope containing a card of some kind. No return address. My name, Mike Koronski, and address were written in what looked like a feminine hand. The card inside said:

Dear Mike, Please don't be too upset, but I've taken an interest in you and the Parole Department. Think of me as a concerned citizen. As a recent immigrant from Haiti, I believe the city should be doing a better job for its minorities who get into trouble. When you go to work on Monday, no one will notice anything different. You will have some explaining to do to a man named Adam, however. And I will be here to help you adjust. With Love and Concern, Marie

Now what is that all about, and who in hell is Marie? She must mean Adam Lincoln, that hard case. Explain? The only thing I should explain to that black bastard is that he's headed back to prison. The hell with it. Probably some girlfriend of his he put up to write that crap, just to spook me.

Mike tore up the card.

While asleep Sunday night, I dreamed that I woke up and felt long, soft chestnut hair tickling my shoulders. I dreamed that I went to the toilet, squatted, and hiked up a brief, lacy sheer nightgown to pee. I turned on the light in the bathroom to pour a glass of water and dreamed I saw a young caramel-skinned woman, lovely beyond all imagining, in the mirror. I seemed fully awake. It was no dream. The woman in the mirror screamed long and loud.

'Good morning, ' I said timidly to my boss, Abel Berkowitz. I wouldn't play my hand until I was sure he recognized me. The Assistant DA, Dave O'Malley, also was here today. 'FREEMAN! I need those stats on the last quarter by noon today. And where's your writeup on that big spade Lincoln?' 'Spade? Abel, I think that term is hardly -' 'Awright, don't get your panties in a wad! And since when do you call me Abel?' I didn't get it. Mike Koronski had always called him Abel . Maybe the black Yvette Freeman wasn't allowed this familiarity. 'Did you make the coffee, yet, Freeman?' 'Boss, I never made coffee.' 'What the hell do you mean? Yvette always made the coffee. Now get your pretty little Foxy Brown ass in there and do it!' I would pick my battles. 'Yes, Mr. Berkowitz.' He and O'Malley grinned. I made the coffee like a good girl.

I nervously rounded the corner to Juana's cubicle. Juana Garcia- Hernandez was a fine babe from the islands, a Dominican I think. She's a competent parole officer, a gorgeous Latina and I've been trying to score with her for a while. But she looks to have a thing for Spanish and black guys, and I never even got to first base. Will she know who I am? Well, nothing to do but see. I set my briefcase downand peered at her. Juana had her sexy big-girl legs crossed at the ankles on top of her desk in that maddening way she has. It's bad enough that she wears short skirts all the time. Well, I guess we would relate somewhat differently now. As soon as Juana greeted me, as with Berkowitz and the guys, I found out that it had always been different. That bitch Marie, whoever she was, had transformed my whole past. 'HEEEY, SISTA GIRL,' she cried out in her Spanish inflected screech, 'HOW COME JOO DIDN'T MAKE MY HOME INTERIORS PARTY THIS WEEKEND?' Hmmm, I thought, I had other things on my mind. I was afraid of this. She didn't remember Mike either. I was, had always been, a female co-worker and friend of hers. Imagine that, Yvette Freeman and Juana Garcia-Hernandez, two ghetto girls turned civil servants sharing the same cubicle. I had come (down) far. I wondered if we shared boyfriends and makeup, too! 'I'm sorry, Juana. I felt a little sick on Sunday.' Actually, it was today that I felt sick. 'Hokay, girlfriend, but joo need to get out more. And not just weeth us girls. Joo need a boyfren.' She shook her large mane of dyed brassy red hair and laughed loudly. The same uninhibited Juana. And I would never get any. I now had the same kind of furred moist pussy as I imagined hers to be, no cock for her to tease any more. I sat heavily at my desk facing hers. I studied a framed photo of a pleasant-looking, somewhat light-skinned black couple in their fifties. My parents, I knew doubtlessly. A few feminine ceramic figures and crystal paperweights decorated my desk, too.A triangular wood nameplate with a brass plaque read: MS. YVETTE FREEMAN. I panicked for a moment, seeing a couple of photos of cute black infants stuck under the glass of my desk, but I found out later that they were girlfriends' kids. I tried to get in character. 'Thanks, girl, but all I meet are convicts. You know how it is.' The voluptuous Hispanic swung her big stockinged legs down off her desk and leaned over to me. 'Jes, leetle seester, but they are young, dumb, and FULL OF COME!' Take advantage of eet!' 'Juana!' I felt my face flush. My light chocolate skin probably took on a reddish tint. She had never had time for conservative, white Mike Koronski. A douche would probably flush a lot of black and Latino ex- convict cream out of her right now, the big bitch! I hope she gets pregnant with an Afro-Cuban baby! Well, I was still a parole officer. I had work to do.

The big midnight black ex-con outweighed me by fifty pounds and I only stood chin-high to him now. And he was all prison muscles. I had brought my gun and handcuffs to the meeting, but Adam could have easily relieved me of them had I tried to subdue him. I made a mental note to leave them home next time. I would have to use feminine wiles on him, much as the thought disgusted me. He was soft-spoken and intelligent for a man of his background. 'Mike, I heard of the Community Service program from a friend named Calvin. He said his girlfriends Tanya and Wyetta used to be white guys. They're the cutest and friendliest sisters now, too. Real frail foxes with long soft hair and big brown eyes like you! . Did those crazy scientists make you a pussy too? I'm sorry, I mean, was it them who turned you into a girl?' 'I don't think so. I got a strange note in the mail signed by some Marie, that's all I know,' I said glumly. It improved my mood a little just to have someone to talk to. 'Well, can it be so bad? Almost all black women would give anything for your looks.' 'That's just it, Lincoln. I had to give up my -- myself.' I wanted to say my manhood, and white manhood, too. But Adam Lincoln was being a good listener, and I didn't want to antagonize him. There had been no love lost between Mike and Mr. Lincoln. 'Man, you are very much a pretty sister. I think it's a big improvement, Yvette!' 'Mike - Mr. Koronski, to you,' I answered. 'I'm still your parole officer.' 'Well, I think I'll look forward to your visits now,' he laughed. Parole officer or not, now I have some fine female company. And a lightskin, too!' I balled my little brown fists in frustration.

Lincoln was my only active case. I had put all my other black brothers back in jail for various parole violations, and two had died from drug overdoses. This guy, I thought, better watch his step. Black woman or no, I was no pushover. One of the first things I had to do with Adam was watch him provide a urine sample for drug testing. Despite our new difference in gender, I was still required to do this. He grinned at my embarrassment as he fished his penis out of his pants and shook it preparatory to filling the little cup. I felt my breath catch as the size of his purplish organ became evident. I had observed close-up other ex-convicts' dicks before, but it felt strange this time. I was very conscious of being Yvette Freeman, and felt like he was teasing me as he sprayed a steady thick yellow stream into the clear cup, and aimed the rest into the urinal at the department, the piss spraying powerfully and noisily. The Yvette part of me wondered what other thick fluid might spurt out of that heavy black salami. He shook the last drops of pee from the tip, and I swear his johnson began to thicken and stiffen as I stared, mesmerized. I caught myself and ordered, "That's enough, Lincoln. You can tuck it away.' 'You sure, Miz Freeman? I been told that this big old chocolate lollipop can make a woman mighty happy. And since you used to be a white guy, it can even right the wrongs of slavery.' 'Very funny, Adam. I'm not ready for a black baby.' I don't know what made me think of that, but there it was. I felt my face blush warmly. As the days passed into months, I obtained another realization. I was surprised to learn that I hadn't changed that much after all. Being a black woman did not make me some alien monster. I still ate, slept, laughed (more and more often), enjoyed my job and my days off, and, well, adjusted. Dressing in Yvette's clothes was now natural, chatting with her mom (my mom) on the phone was fun, and life felt good again. Maybe better than it ever did, somehow. Adam taught me to rollerblade and we frolicked at the beach on Coney Island. The skimpy leotards I wore while skating and my two-piece swimsuits made me feel like a regular cute African-American girl (or should I say woman?) We laughed, hugged, and once, as we snuggled on the beach after the sun went down, me shivering from the chill, Adam leaned forward and suddenly pressed a kiss on my surprised, parted lips. For a moment my mouth and body enjoyed the moist, intimate sensation, then I just as quickly broke contact, pulling away. 'Adam! What are you doing? You know I'm Mike, your parole officer! You -- You can't just kiss me like that!' He was a petty criminal and I was a law enforcement officer, but more so, we were both normal, heterosexual men. For the time being I might look like a black glamour girl, but I didn't intend to give up my original heritage, no matter what spell had been cast on me. He spoke forcefully. 'Mike -- I'm crazy about you. I love you! Please be Yvette Freeman for me. Be the woman I've always wanted, and I'll be all the man I'm capable of!' My heart fluttered at this, but I fought the sensation. I wasn't some queer being taken advantage of by a streetwise black stud! I didn't notice that he was still gently holding my small wrists. There was a lot of body contact between us that I hardly noticed anymore. Last week when he took me to see a scary movie, 'The Blair Witch Project,' I spent much of it nestled and quivering against him. If I was Mike Koronski I sure wasn't showing it. He allowed our lips to part, but moved his strong hands to the back of my head and held my face only inches from his. I felt his warm clean breath mingling with mine. His intense black eyes bored into my light brown ones, seeming to search my soul for a yielding female. I felt like a pretty, fragile tropical butterfly trying to unfurl moist brown wings inside a stiff white cocoon.. Suddenly Adam kissed me again, deeply this time, and I felt our mouths opening. His tongue sought mine. I tasted his saliva, and felt my girlish loins tingle and tremble. I summoned the last of my willpower and what womanly physical strength I possessed and pushed him back. 'Adam, dammit! Let me go!' I squirmed out of his grasp. 'Just leave me alone!' I was furious. I felt like slapping him but that would've been too female a gesture, and I couldn't make much of a fist because of my fairly long sculptured nails. Besides, socking the big powerful guy with my little soft hand would have been silly. We would probably both have laughed out loud if I tried that! He looked so hurt! I decided to compromise. 'Okay. Give me some time. You're making me feel like a rape victim here. NO means NO, alright?' 'Fair enough, Yvette.' 'Mike,' I corrected. 'I'll be a complete gentleman if I can call you Yvette.' 'Alright then, call me Yvette if it makes you happy.' The guy was so persuasive. I felt like a chessplayer on a losing defensive, my weaker forces being pushed to the corner of the board.

Anyone watching us would see what appeared to be a handsome black ex-college football player and a creamy brown girl with a near-exact resemblance to Robin Givens, the actress and ex-wife of Mike Tyson. In fact, Adam reminded me of a Tyson with brains, and a more manly voice. And I now had the same light milk-chocolate skin as Ms. Givens, the cute flared African nose, wide, intelligent brown eyes and merrily expressive pouting mouth, my face always made up to television beauty standards. And I had the same small stature, only five feet four inches and weighing 120 pounds, yet a perfectly proportioned young African- American, curvy and with ample legs and behind. A classic Black Urban Professional woman, or BUPPIE as we call ourselves.

Yet still I fought my new exterior. I would not give in to Adam's enticements. In my rational, Mike-controlled moments, which predominated, we were still a white male law-enforcement officer and a black male parolee. I was no lady and nobody's girlfriend. Sure, I seemed to be spending a lot of time with Adam, not all of it professional, but couldn't we be friends? After all, rehabilitation of criminals was my job. This guy needed gentle and persistent handling, I told myself. I made us a nice caesar salad after work the next day and we talked shop and politics, man to man. He finally kept his hands to himself, although he watched me move about in the kitchen as I served his salad and iced tea. I felt his large, male presence. Somehow it felt protective and not threatening, even though he was an ex-con with nearly eight years behind bars. I should stop wearing the somewhat short, though businesslike skirts that Yvette's wardrobe is stocked with. I'm painfully aware of Adam studying my nyloned knees and thighs, though he tries to be discreet with his glances. The swishing sound of the pantyhose as I walk and cross my legs (demurely) sounds embarassingly loud to me. And I wouldn't have minded a drink but as a parolee Adam isn't permitted alcohol, so I've been abstaining too. I guess tough love can work! I sent him home without even a goodbye kiss. He'll have to understand that I'm still really the Mike Koronski he knew not so long ago. After he left, I slipped my blocky work pumps off (noticing a run in my expensive Afrotique office sheers, grrrr!) made some mint tea, sat down at my laptop, wrote my report and emailed it in. I said Adam Lincoln was a model parolee who worked diligently and with no lateness or absences at the Sanitation Department, showed no positives on his drug tests, and was uncommonly intelligent and driven to succeed. I recommended termination of parole at the earliest allowable date. I tried not to let my personal feelings influence my report. I'm sure Berkowitz would have a cow when he read it! No one in the all-white heirarchy at Corrections expected anything from Adam. Maybe it took a woman's touch. And I wondered if my new blackness helped, too. Adam and I could certainly relate to each other now.

I had developed many girlish mannerisms that I was becoming helpless to reverse. I kept my eyes wide and lips parted when making eye contact with Adam, and unconsciously touched him, or allowed him to touch me. Once I found us walking arm in arm, our hips pressing together. The jiggle of my breasts and sway of my full bottom no longer felt alien and humiliating. It was as if my maleness had been replaced with a woman's nature, just as female genitals had been substituted for my cock and balls. I was softening inside too, a young girl supplicating a desired boyfriend. Then there was race. The permanently coffee-colored skin covering my slight, soft body was a window into my soul. I was emotionally and culturally African-American now. It occurred to me that I had become entirely comfortable around black and Spanish people, and felt suspicious about the looks and comments I received from whites. I found myself examining white people for signs of racism, running their statements a second time through my mind. I already knew Berkowitz and O'Malley condescended to me, treating me like a piece of affirmative action tail who didn't know her job. What idiots. I had become used to white salesgirls following me around clothing stores to make sure I didn't shoplift, no matter how professional my dress and makeup was, and to old white ladies clutching their purses when I came near. Even the petite, pretty, inoffensive black woman that I had become was suspect to most whites. How could I become friends with any of THEM? No wonder black people kept to themselves. I would, too! And why did I enjoy being close to Adam? Certainly, I could relax around black people now and didn't have to second-guess them. Plus, he physically protected me in a neighborhood that was none too safe. He was so big and strong, and I appeared to be his 'girl,' judging by the time we spent together, that no guy would dare come on to me or try to cop a feel. All the same, I was desperately trying to remain Mike Koronski. Yet I daydreamed about Adam now, instead of Cindy Crawford and Pamela Anderson!

The decision came down from the department in a letter to me from Berkowitz. Adam was a free man, no longer under my supervision. We celebrated in my apartment with some vintage Bordeaux, on me. Sometime that evening, as we laughed and talked, and I snuggled against him on the loveseat, he asked me to marry him. When he slipped a large diamond on the ring finger of my left hand, I guess I didn't say no.

My mom and bridesmaids made sure my wedding dress, veil, thick bouncy relaxed chestnut-brown hair and vivid dark-hued makeup were perfect on this June Sunday. My dad had passed, I learned, but my mom, Wilma, lived nearby and doted on her only child. Me. The Baptist minister recited the age-old service in a deep black man's voice. Adam lifted my white lace veil and kissed me deeply, encircling me in his arms. I felt a rush of complex hormones sizzle through my little brown body, down to the flowering vaginal labia that defined my new gender. I felt my bridal panties moisten. I was beginning to orgasm right there at the altar during my wedding vows! I squeezed my white nylon clad knees together but that made it worse. I continued to tremble in climax and managed to squeak 'I do' to affirm my vow to love, honor and obey the big guy. Most brides orgasm on their wedding night, not in church! What was left of Mike Koronski quivered in humiliation, trapped, it seemed, deep inside the fertile ovaries of Mrs.Yvette Lincoln!

Mike always cautioned, in fact ordered, Adam and his other parolees to wear a condom when anticipating sex. I felt it ironic that I was having 'unprotected' sex with Adam now. Of course, a girl on her honeymoon is hardly thinking of birth control. I lay there feeling Adam's huge black dick , still oozing post-coital babycream, lying heavily across my soft coffee-skinned thigh. I thought of our names. Adam and his new black Eve, Yvette. How fitting. Marie, whoever she was, had created a helpmate and subordinate for Adam out of the crude raw material of Mike Koronski.

I pulled a pair of very snug Daisy Dukes over my African bootie (it still feels like I'm carrying twin beachballs full of Jello back there, but it's really not that big) and headed to the front-court mailbox. The paperboy, Dexter, cruised by on his ten-speed and whistled appreciatively at me. 'Nice legs, Mrs. Lincoln! I wish my mom looked like you!' I laughed and waved. 'Thanks, Dexter.' Little twerp, but a nice boy really. I'm used to the looks and catcalls from black males aged 12 and up, it seems. I'm a good sport about it by now. My mail is a little different these days. First of all, it comes to Yvette Lincoln. This time I had to apply for a name change from Freeman to Lincoln. Marie Duvalier had nothing to do with it, ha-ha. I wonder if she has anything to do with my mail. Today I received Black Woman and Essence magazines, my membership card in the NAACP, a letter from the Association of Black Law Enforcement Professionals, of which I am apparently a member, a card advertising a special at Mama Jefferson's Femme Afrique Hair Salon down the street, a statement on the retirement account held by Yvette Lincoln (still 22 years to go!), and a catalog from a company called Motherland Designs, featuring African- themed ladies' clothing and accessories. A lot of red, black and green kente patterns and animal prints. I noticed a cute leopard-spotted bikini that should do me justice. Oh, and the electric bill. Some things don't change. Except Yvette will write the check instead of Mike. On the Lincoln family account! A small card in a lilac envelope fluttered to the ground. I almost missed it. Inside the house, I tore it open. In a familiar feminine hand it said: Dear Yvette: You're doing fine. Now that wasn't so bad, was it? Come by and have tea. I saw you in front of the courthouse one day. For a mzungu you're very pretty. No one would ever know. Except me and Adam. You're such a cute couple. Kisses, Marie

'Mzungu,' I knew from somewhere, was Swahili for 'white man.'

I did some black female networking to get Adam on at the Sanitation Department. It didn't hurt that Mrs. Wilma Freeman was Assistant Director of Human Resources for the city! In no time he rose to foreman. I had read my husband right: all he ever needed was a chance. I thought shamefully that I had put a few black man in jail and never gave them that chance. Well, I was a better person now. I found to my astonishment that I enjoyed being a pregnant 'Sista.' From the first incidents of morning sickness and frequent urination, to the final, ninth-month stage of a full, solid, belly containing a frantic, kicking eleven-pound boy (I would learn), I was a thrilled and pleased expectant mother. Even the idea of bearing a black male child, not the white infant I would have once fathered, was strangely satisfying, even exciting. And Adam is so dark-skinned and African featured! My baby will be deeply brown with nappy hair and no caucasian traits. They say black genes are dominant, so Adam's looks will probably overcome my light-chocolate appearance. Well, that's biology. I can't do anything about it. The ironic part is, after supervising so many black men in the criminal justice system, I have a chance to raise one properly, applying all the 'white' academic theories I know of, along with a strong dose of black mother love. And my son would observe a devoted husband and wife in a traditional American family, all the things my political conservatism called for. And since I love being Adam's wife, he wants me to be a full- time mom! I submitted my resignation to the Department of Corrections. I tire easily with this giant heavy belly (crisscrossed with stretchmarks, unhappily), and don't get around much anymore. It's amazing what a man's sperm can do to a lady's body! Mike Koronski never thought much about that, but Yvette Lincoln sure does! I found a children's book of West African folktales, and I sit reading aloud to my unborn baby. He seems to like adventure stories better than lullabys, judging by all the kicking my little warrior does inside me during the exciting parts. I bought some kente-patterned maternity dresses that are very comfortable. I'll probably end up keeping a few leftover pounds on my breasts and bottom after having my baby, but Adam says he won't mind. My mom is still shapely! Heredity will work in my favor here, too. I get sleepy a lot now. If I could only find a comfortable position to lay down! Time for a nap. My big passenger is already asleep. Yvette Lincoln waddled off to bed, her fattening breasts already filling with milk for her uncommonly large fetus. Soon she slept, pretty brown woman and her black baby breathing deeply as one. Mike Koronski, like many before him, had become a quiet, placid vision of loveliness.

Marie was thrilled. Yvette Lincoln was probably her greatest success. She wondered if, in this city, the entire criminal justice system, from the judges to the police, sheriff's deputies and corrections officials, should all consist of black and Hispanic females. It would be a so much more humane and loving environment for black men! She would give it some serious thought.

[thisnofa]

That's close! The one I'm thinking of is longer and more in depth. I remember there being a steamy sex scene in the shower (no pun intended). The ending is a giant family reunion years later after she's had grandkids and whatnot. Sounds like it might be the right author but I haven't been able to dig anything up if she indeed tried to delete everything.

[nniuqs]

I finally had time to look through the stories I've saved years back, here's the one I think you wanted

=====

The Remaking of Donald Carson
By Sharonna

PROLOGUE: THE PAST

Three months ago Officer Donald Carson, while investigating a late-
night burglary at Women's Hospital on his beat in the quiet Southern city of
Gulfport, Mississippi, sustained a slight injury. He had pricked a hand on a
hypodermic needle left carelessly on a desk by one of the lab technicians.

He reported the accident, and the hospital proceeded to determine the
contents of the syringe.

The next afternoon he awoke sick in a feverish delerium, soaked with
sweat. After a few days on antibiotics the fever eased, and he felt passably
well.

On Friday when he and his partner, Derrick Jeter, reported to work
the second shift, the watch lieutenant instructed him to see the chief of police.

The chief, Commander Johnetta Washington, ordered me to sit down.
She was a damned capable chief. Ms. Washington had led the department for
years now. But I could see her attractive dark face was troubled. Sitting by
her desk was another middle-aged black woman whom I didn't know. She
was wearing an expensive-looking business suit that revealed shapely brown
legs with mid-heeled sensible shoes.

'Don, there's been a terrible accident. Have you heard of the
Community Service program?'

Of course I had, and what accident? I was confused.

She went on as I was thinking. Indicating the woman on her right,
she said, 'Don, this is Doctor Malika Ajaratu, from New York. The serum
contained in the hypo that broke your skin last week was part of a shipment
for use on local prisoners, and as the director of Community Service she
came here to establish the program in our jurisdiction. Those criminals so
sentenced will receive DNA rehabilitation at Women's Hospital in Gulfport.'

I slumped in my chair. I was beginning to add it up.

'Officer Carson,' the doctor began in a pleasant voice, 'There is
nothing life- threatening about your condition. The samples were out for
testing and were not properly stored. It is extremely regrettable, and of
course full generous compensation will be made to you.'

I began to get angry.

'You mean there's nothing you can do about it?'

'If we had administered a full blood exchange within hours of the
incident, we might have been able to remove the viruses along with the
blood. As it is, your body is now undergoing irrevocable changes.'

'Whose DNA was it?'

'A healthy, twenty-year old African female, though she was born
here, whose parents immigrated from Mali, in west Africa, in 1972. They
were members of the Yoruba tribe -'

I groaned. 'That's enough. I'm going to be an African girl?'

'I'm afraid so, Officer Carson,' she replied. 'African-American,
technically. You'll still be a U.S. citizen.'

'Thanks a lot,' I said bitterly.

I consented to admission to Woman's Hospital for a full workup and
monitoring. The chief put me on an immediate leave of absence.

The doctor found that my weight was already ten pounds less than
last week, and I seemed to be getting a tan, although we all knew what that
meant.

I admitted to her that I hadn't had an erection since shortly after the
accident. She examined my penis and testicles with a plastic-gloved hand.
My penis was embarrassingly small and soft, and my testes seemed to have
shrunk already. She had me bend over, and performed a rectal and prostate
exam with her middle finger. After a few moments of her skillful
manipulation deep in my rectum, my tiny dick suddenly stiffened to its new
maximum length of a couple of inches, and I gasped as a few drops of pale
semen spurted out.

'Well, that's it, young man. Your seminal vesicles are shrinking, as I
thought, and their final production of male fluids has just been expelled. You
are now sterile. Of course, in a few months you will be very fertile again, if
you understand the nature of the transformation process.

'I'm afraid your days as a stud are over, Officer Carson, but there's
no reason why you won't be able to bear many healthy children. Of course,
their hereditary traits will be very different from yours.

I can only estimate the time of transition, but you should look like a
clone of your donor in less than three months. The solution was for testing
only, and was not full strength. That simply means the transformation will
be gradual, rather than overnight.'

My donor. She made it sound like I had an ordinary blood
tranfusion.

Saying that there wasn't much more the medical profession could do
for me, The doctor released me. Chief Washington summoned me back to
her office. This time three of our black female police officers were present. I
knew them from roll calls, but had not worked with any of them.

'Don,' she began, I'd like to introduce Sergeant Angela Powell,
Inspector Sondra Berry, and Patrolwoman Cheryl Williams-Burton.

We nodded our greetings.

'I've briefed them on your accident. They are not to discuss it with
anyone, and no one else in the department will know.

'Then why them, with all due respect, Chief.'

'Doctor Ajaratu advised me that you would need assistance with your
transition, especially with one of a gradual nature. She explained sensibly
that you will have to learn many new things, and we can't leave you on your
own.'

'Don,' Sergeant Powell spoke up. She was uncommonly attractive,
like all three of the women. I wondered if I would look like any of them.

'We're going to be here for you. Think of us as your support group.
If you think about it, you'll need help with clothes, hair care, and everything
to do with your appearance. Then there's the psychological aspect. You
need friends now, and have to learn to relate to women in a whole new way.'

I supposed all that was true. Sergeant Powell said herself or the other
officers would spend some time with me every day. I stocked up on
groceries on the way home and prepared to ride this weird thing out.

In spite of myself, I found it fascinating, in a humiliating way, to
watch my body change day by day. I continued to lose weight, but fat was
replacing muscle. Not excess, obese fat, but the soft upholstered contours of
a grown woman's body. My skin softened as it darkened, and I seemed to
grow a slight layer of new padding everywhere, even on the tops of my
hands and the back of my neck. Only my butt and thighs really plumped up,
and my belly sported a new layer of fat on top of abdominal muscles that had
loosened into a soft cradle.

My belly button peeked out of its fatty bed. Sondra explained that
nature protected a woman's babymaker.

The female identation above my hips had arrived, pinching me in at
the waist and creating an hourglass figure.

Looking carefully in the mirror I could see even my skeletal structure
had reconstituted, becoming markedly female. My shoulders were narrower,
hips wider, and hands and feet smaller, my fingers longer and tapering.

The real wonder was my face. It was like watching a very slow-
motion morph of a caucasian male to an African female. My cheekbones
grew wide and prominent, my eyes almond-shaped and exotic, and my lips
thickened to classic Nubian loveliness. Kissable, I thought one day. I had
never thought my old thin lips were that before!

My skin did the same, gradually passing from a tan to a mixed-race
beige to African black. My color stopped darkening at a pleasant milk
chocolate, but there was nothing superficial about it. Close examination
showed that the deep undertones of the black race formed the base of my skin
color now. This was no sun or chemical tan.

Only the palms of my hands and soles of my feet retained a relative
light color, but gained a baby-softness in exchange.

My hair, soon to be a source of pride as well as frustration and
expense (you have to be a black lady to understand!), grew out fast and
coarse. My slightly receding hairline of thinning sandy brown hair reversed
itself, and a wild mass of black curls recolonized my now slightly smaller
head. I had the thick tresses of an African-American high school girl now.

I felt invisible changes too. I don't mean internally, though I knew
that after my tiny penis and testes were absorbed into my body, a deep love
tunnel had burrowed into my abdomen, leading to a babymaker with a
lifetime supply of female eggs.

That was something to think about!

I mean that the flat, blunt male anger at my change had become
something more complex. My feelings about it ranged from a brittle, edge-
of-tears quality to a kind of sedated contentment. I knew that female
hormones were altering my very brain itself. Only time would tell what kind
of woman I would make, and what chance for happiness I would have.

And I wondered just how large my breasts were going to get! First
my chest hair had come off like the fuzz from a dandelion, and skin across
my pectorals, as everywhere, began to slowly soften and darken. My chest
muscles shrunk and flattened to feminine insignificance. My little male
nipples grew hot and irritable, and spread and darkened from pink to almost
black, until they were nearly three inches across and with protruding porous
erectile tips. Well, at least I would still get erections somewhere, on my
nipples! The inevitable mounds of fatty mammary tissue accumulated under
them. Every day my breasts, I could see that is what they clearly were,
appeared larger, slowly growing from a teenage girl's modest cones and
taking on the distinctive heavy contours of a mature woman's bosom. It was
as if I were rapidly going through puberty, but female this time. They
projected outward further from my chest and began to sag slightly as they
gained weight. In little more than a month no garment could hide them, even
the baggiest sweatshirt. I was a big-titted sister now.

When it appeared their growth had slowed (stopped?) after two
months, Cheryl took me to a lingerie store in the mall. In the changing room
an older black sales clerk took out her tape measure and I tried on my first
bra. I was a size 40DD! Of all the DNA I could have gotten jabbed with, I
had to get taken over by the genes of some 'thick girl,' as the black guys say.
I would know the discomfort (and male attention) that a well-endowed
women has to live with for the rest of my life.

My ass now wobbled alarmingly when I walked. My hips had
widened, even the pelvic structure changing, and my buttocks had
transformed into two great well- defined globes of muscle and fat with a deep
crease between them. I owned the classic black woman's bootie now, a big
comfortable African cushion attached to me permanently. I knew the purpose
of a large backside was sexual enticement, and I noticed the black guys on the
block, in my rare trips outside, watching my cheeks roll and tremble as I
walked, no matter how I tried to restrain them. These days they could enjoy
me coming and going, now that my rear had developed to compliment my big
titties. What the gender-bending mad scientists had done to me!

And I pondered one day, I would pass all these traits on to my female
children, and many of them, like skin color and hair, on to my sons. My
new girlfriends tried to soothe me on that score. What, after all, was wrong
with being black, Cheryl asked? Was I a racist? I assured her I wasn't.
Well, honey, you can prove it now, she said, and the three women laughed
and hugged me.

Still I regretted that my genetic inheritance had been stolen by the
crazy accident. Don Carson would never have offspring now. My children
would have the bloodline of foreign strangers, the genes of a black couple
from Mali, a country in west Africa that I had barely heard of, a marriage
which had borne a daughter in 1978, and I was becoming an identical twin of
that young woman. As a final indignity, I would have to bear these strange
children, not father them. My sleep was troubled by vivid dreams of black
babies growing large in my belly and forcing themselves out through my
awesomely stretched vagina as I howled in birth pain. Then, in the dream,
silence, followed by the healthy cry of a newborn.

I had to tell the whole unbelievable story to my old friend and partner,
Derrick Jeter. He was convinced only when I stripped to t-shirt and scant
running shorts and he took a good, incredulous look at my softening,
darkening body. He only had to check out my developing breasts and bootie
(which was on its way to resembling two basketballs), my tangled nappy hair
and wide nose to know the truth.

'Girl, you look better than my sister Maizie!' I took that as a
compliment.

I just wasn't 'just one of the guys' anymore, no matter how I tried. I
found that I had developed a kind of nesting instinct. Here's an example.
One day I was to stop at my partner Derrick's apartment for a beer. I was
early, so I let myself in with the key he leaves under the mat. The place was
a mess! Dishes in the sink, dirty clothes on the bedroom floor, and the carpet
needed vacuuming. Guess what? By the time he got in from work, I had ran
the dishes through the dishwasher, done three loads of laundry (folding and
ironing the clothes) vacuumed the floors, and was on my knees polishing the
hardwood floor in his bedroom when he walked in!

By this time I was well along in my metamorphosis. The baggy
sweatshirt I was concealing myself in couldn't hide my big breasts any
longer, and my black spandex running shorts now only served to show off
my spectacular rear end and big thick-girl caramel-brown thighs. Tangled
black tendrils hung down the sides of my damp face. Housecleaning is hard
work!

I felt ashamed, but Derrick smiled, lifted my chin and kissed me for
the first time, even if it was on the cheek. He smelled good, musky and
manly.

'Hey, Miss Thing!' he laughed. I could use you around here all the
time!'

I wish, I caught myself thinking. But it was embarrassing. I felt like
a girly-girl, caught cleaning my old friend's apartment. I deserved the
humiliation of a kiss from another man! We had that beer, even though he
had fun calling me 'Molly maid' for the rest of the evening while we watched
a pro basketball game on TV. I played along, serving the drinks and chips
and cleaning up like a good girl, even though it was his apartment. He
patted me on the behind, another first. Little did I know that cooking,
laundering and housekeeping for this guy (and our kids) would become my
life's work!

Of course Chief Washington tried to keep my 'transition,' as the
Community Service people called it, as quiet as possible, and she put a gag
order on the police force. But a couple of my old white buddies had heard
something, and I decided to get together with the boys for a little poker and
set things straight.

I wasn't going to do 'drag' and try to look like my old male self. I
put on a scoop-necked cream blouse and beige business-like skirt hemmed
above the knee, sheer brown nylons (mocha toast, the package said. I love
the names given to black women's pantyhose!), and 3-inch dark blue pumps.
The blouse was a little sheer, and my bra was visible throught it. May as
well leave them no doubt about the reality of my big African titties. I spritzed
a little heavy Chanel on to leave my old friends with a whiff of my new scent.

The guys at first were dumbfounded. 'Jeez, Don, we didn't know
you'd turn out looking like a black stripper!' Sam Flood said. I was hardly
dressed like a stripper, but I let that pass.

Artie Farrell asked if he could feel my 'boobs,' and I declined,
annoyed.

'Art, would you ask Chief Washington that?' I shot back in my new
sexy Southern black lilt.

Ronnie Watson had a serious question.

'What's up for you now, Don?'

Artie broke in, 'Not his dick, that's for sure,' and laughed like a
horse.

'Art, knock it off. And until I get new I.D., you guys can call me
Donna. To answer your question, Ron,' and I looked frostily at Art, 'I want
to return to the force after my leave of absence.'

I almost said, after this is over, but I wasn't sure just what 'this' was.

We played cards for a few hours, but it wasn't the same. Artie kept
watching my 'boobs' and, when I got up for a beer, their eyes followed my
butt around the room. I felt like a new girl at a singles bar, with three
dumpy, badly-dressed white guys (why did I think of them as 'white'?)
looking but afraid to make a move.

The question I expected came.

'Don, ah, Donna, how does it feel to be a black woman?' Art wanted
to know.

I knew I could easily pick him apart on this one.

'How does it feel to be black, OR to be a woman?' I asked airily.
'And tell me how it feels to be white, and a man.'

'Oh, hell, you know what I mean,' Artie said.

I honestly tried to answer, but I didn't know how to put it.

'Not so different. My mind is the same, but my emotions get a little
away from me sometimes. I've been so busy adjusting to analyze too much.
You probably heard that Angela, Sondra and Cheryl have been working with
me.'

'Who?' Artie asked.

These guys didn't even know their fellow officers' first names.

'Officers Powell, Berry, and Williams-Burton,' I explained.

'Oh. Those babes could sure help me,' Art snickered.

'Art, there's one way I feel different now.'

'How's that,' he asked.

'I think with my brains, not my crotch.'

We all laughed. At least some ice was broken.

But I spent a lot of time defending my new identity.

'Sam, there are over ten million black women in America, and many
more across the world, living happy, productive lives. I can get used to this
if they did. People all want the same basic things, I think.'

I had the feeling blacks were somewhat alien to these guys. And
maybe they had been to me, too, I had to admit. I knew none of us had ever
socialized with any off the job. I realized Gulfport, down here in the delta,
was over half African-American. I had crossed into that world. I thought of
the Mrs. Powell, Williams-Burton and Berry as my girlfriends now, and
Chief Washington had become supportive, like a wise mother. Doctor
Ajaratu was helpful in her aloof way. And of course, there was Derrick.

Not only my body had become black since the accident. My whole
life had.

I dumped out the beer bottles and opened all the windows to air out
Ronnie's awful cigar smoke. Derrick was taking me out to dinner tomorrow
night and I would have to get the house cleaned up. I knew he would bring
flowers and a good wine.

There would be no more poker with the good old boys any more. It
just didn't cut it for me. I looked forward to my evening with Derrick.

My girlfriends had advised me well. I opted for a classic little black
nothing lace evening dress, my sheerest black nylons and tallest black
pumps. Not much contrast between soft milk chocolate skin and the blacks
of my clothing, but it worked. I wrapped and pinned my long braids in a
spiral pattern around my oiled brown scalp. Sondra told me a woman's neck
and shoulders should always be exposed on a serious date. She had married
a real up and comer when she was just 23, so I always took her advice about
comporting myself around Derrick. Multiple earrings (studs, loops and
pendants) adorned my pierced ears, and thin gold chains were draped around
my bare neck. My makeup was dark, vivid and fragrant, shades of glossy
sapphire lined with purple on my full African lips, milk chocolate face
powdered and cremed, and eyes done for evening, with plenty of eyeliner,
thick lashes and blended shadow. I was made up like a showgirl at an
Ethiopian nightclub!

So much work went into a black woman's appearance. Not long ago
a quick trim at the barber's and a morning shave and I was ready for the
world. Not so any more! Now it was at least half a day in the chair at Mama
Jefferson's La Femme Afrique beauty salon for a relaxing, a wash, set, perm
and tint (longer when I went to braids), and I was forced to be a regular Flori
Roberts with the makeup. I made a truce with all manner of delicate female
undies long ago. I'll wear 'em and try not to tear 'em, I decided!

But tonight it might all be worth it. Our first real date, after being
partners and friends for two years in the Gulfport P.D., was heavenly. It felt
provocative to sit in La Maison Francois, the most expensive restaurant in
town, in a lacy black spaghetti strap dress ending well above the knee and
just below my cleavage (okay, you get the idea), at a small dark corner table
across from this nice guy. It was strange in a way to look down and see the
slopes of my big brown titties almost totally exposed in my most minimal
half-cup lace bra and low-cut dress. I had to remind myself that these were
my breasts. I was a sexy black woman, and couldn't deny it. It was a good
thing we were in a dark corner, because my dress, while I was seated, barely
covered my behind. My almost nonexistent black nylons set off my shapely
brown legs most alluringly. I thought my legs were a little thick, but Derrick,
with a black man's love for an ample woman, often called me his Nubian
princess. I felt an intense happiness chatting with him as we touched and
clasped hands, occasionally sipping our drinks. He had Scotch and soda,
while I still liked white russians. I thought with an inner laugh that I should
switch to the black version of the drink! The alcohol definitely affected me
more now. My sense of humor seemed heightened, and I gigglingly agreed
with everything Derrick said.

The waiter came by and took our orders. He was a young college-
type white kid, and I almost laughed as he stared down my cleavage and
cocked his head to check out my shiny black thighs under the table. White
guys could be cute in a boyish way, but they didn't stir me up and leave me
hot and bothered the way Derrick did. The Southern brothers definitely had a
raw masculinity about them that left my nose open, to use the old black slang.
White guys my age seemed like children now.

We drove back to Derrick's apartment in his restored sixties Mustang
convertible. It was night, and the sky had thickened with heavy summer
storm clouds while we were inside. Fat drops of rain began to pelt us, and
Derrick reached for the controls to raise the top. It wouldn't work! The car
began to fill with hard rain. It was as if buckets of cool water were being
dumped on us into the car!

Derrick threw his sport coat over my head and bare shoulders, but it
was too late. We were both soaked to the skin! I peeked out from his coat.
We made eye contact and both began to laugh uproariously! It was
hysterical, like a movie comedy.

He could hardly see to drive. Fortunately, we only had a few blocks
to go to make his apartment. When we opened the doors after he parked,
water poured out of the car! The violent thunderstorm had turned the
sportscar into a bathtub!

Derrick took my hand and we ran into the house, still laughing like
crazy. My nylon-clad feet were squishing, and I stopped to remove my high
heeled patents and pour water out of them. What a night. It seemed like
wonderful fun to the both of us.

Of course, I had seen Derrick many times showering in the
Department locker room, but this was different. Now I was a female invited
to his home. I was a girl out on a date, considering how far to go with a male
coworker and friend. I heard the shower, and knocked shyly on the
bathroom door. 'Come on in, girl. There's plenty of hot water! He called
cheerfully, and with some seductive amusement, I thought.

I was thoroughly flustered. Was I expected to undress and join my
longtime patrol partner in his own bathtub? The answer, of course, was yes.
I was soaked after the mishap with his convertible. My thin dress and nylons
clung wetly to my skin, and my normally well-coiffed black hair was a
tangled mess. I was a sight!

I turned the doorknob and entered. I saw his tall dark silhouette
behind the shower curtain. My damp clothes dropped to the floor, I
unhooked my bra, peeled off the soaked black pantyhose and yanked down
the wet rim of my panties.

I heard Derrick humming to himself. I parted the curtain and stepped
into the warm, comfortable spray. This was it! He took my hand so I
wouldn't slip and drew me close. I laughed with some kind of giddy
emotional release and he hugged me. Out wet bodies rubbed together. My
plump titties developed erect black-girl nipples as they brushed and mashed
against the big guy. He closed the shower curtain.

'Relax, girl.' That's what he called me now, girl, lady or sometimes
'Miss Thing.' I certainly didn't want him calling me Don anymore, and
realized I needed a new female name. I would check with my co-
worker/girlfriends about it and see what they suggested. The 'sisters' were
creative with names, I knew that!

I gazed at Derrick and couldn't help but grin. He was six inches
taller than me now and big and muscular as always. I felt weak and plump
next to him. I realized how thoroughly feminized I had become. He took the
Irish Spring, or whatever it was, and proceeded to soap my soft brown
curves lavishly. I took the soap and returned the favor, lathering his hard
body. I looked down. His big black penis was fully and massively erect,
poking and sliding along my soft belly.

I laughed, imitating Steve Urkel's voice: 'Did I do thaaat?'

'Yes you did, girl. Now turn around.'

I did as commanded, and he reached around me and lathered my big
bouncy breasts with two strong soapy hands.

'You sure turned out to be a healthy girl,' Derrick drawled.

'It's those good African genes,' I retorted. Humor seemed to ease the
sexual tension between us. I looked down and saw he had inserted his penis
between my legs from behind me, and the fat purple head was poking out
from between my chubby brown thighs. It wasn't explicitly sexual yet, still
play. I reached down, took the head and squeezed it fondly. I would say
what was on my mind.

'So THIS is what you have for your girlfriends. Do all black men
have dicks this big?

'No, I'm on the small side,' he joked. I felt him flex his penis a little,
and he actually lifted me up on my toes with it. What a man! His penis was
so strong it could lift a hundred and forty pound woman into the air!

I turned, slipping down from his dick, and kissed him deeply on the
mouth as the shower spray rinsed our slick bodies. I could feel friendship
turning into physical need for this man. I was warm and weak.

We reluctantly broke our kiss. He turned off the water and we dried
each other with warm fluffy towels. Everything felt right by now.

I briefly hand-dried (Derrick's head was almost shaven and he had no
need for a blow-dryer) my still disheveled mass of black Medusa-like ropy
braids and wrapped my hair in the towel, a feminine art I had learned from
Cheryl in the women's locker room. I was unconsciously imitating other
black women, I had realized. I now touched a hand to my throat when
referring to myself, crossed my legs as high as possible, and let my hands
dangle limply. I even tossed my head in that petulant ghetto girl way when
deep in gossip with my fellow black policewomen.

Needless to say, Derrick busted my cherry that night. Somehow my
love tunnel moistened and expanded between my spread legs enough to take
that entire huge circumcised black sausage, and I was a dazed and happy girl
under my fine lover. Somehow I gave no thought to birth control. I used to
be careful about that as a man.

Maybe, unconsciously, I already wanted his baby. I had noticed his
testes, hanging like big ripe purple figs under that thick hose of a penis, and I
knew that now, after our lovemaking I was filled with their fresh babycream.
After his last gushing orgasm, Derrick withdrew from me. Soon, under the
pretext of pulling up the covers I looked down and checked my vagina. My
pussy lips were covered in a puddle of semen.

The guy had filled me to the brim. I imagined his sperm thrashing
about wildly deep in my guts, seeking the big helpless ovaries in my fertile
black baby maker.

I woke before him, kissed his rough cheek, and arose to make coffee.
I put on his male-scented bathrobe (that was a turn-on, wearing my man's
robe), and padded barefoot into the kitchen. We sipped coffee and laughed
easily, catching a little of the Today Show on TV. I studied Ann Curry, one
of the hosts this morning. I used to find her attractive. Now I thought I was
at least as much of a babe.

While I urinated that morning (sorry for the unpleasant facts of life!) I
noticed that Derrick's semen had dried to a sticky glaze all over my crotch.
My urethra seemed for a moment that it had been super-glued with his dried
spunk, and I had to part my purplish pussy lips manually to begin the flow of
pee! Welcome to your world, Donna.

Angela, Sondra and Cheryl outdid themselves, throwing a renaming
party for me, similar to a baby-naming party. Amid a lot of champagne and
giggles somehow they came up with 'Deshauna.' I liked it. I decided I
wanted a contemporary African-American sounding name, and not a female
variant of Donald. 'Donna ' would have been nice, but I preferred a uniquely
black name, to fit my new self. If I was a new person in so many ways, I
needed a name with a new attitude.

The police department worked with the state and county
administrations and produced new identity documents for me. I was now
Deshauna Jones on my Mississippi driver's license, police ID, birth
certificate, and school diplomas. I got used to seeing a smiling black female
face on my identification cards. They reassigned me to personnel as a special
projects officer, which is a nice way of saying secretary and file clerk, and I
occasionally give talks to kids at the local public schools (almost all black,
and those that weren't were Hispanic) as a kind of attractive female McGruff,
the 'Take a Bite Out of Crime' police officer. I felt like I was marking time
until Derrick and I started a family. I had already received a significant cash
settlement from the hospital, paid in part by Community Service, more than
enough for a new house for Derrick and myself, and he started a college-fund
account for our future children. When they grow up, our babies will be
attending the finest schools, even Ivy League. Derrick would like them to
attend historically black colleges like his alma mater, Mississippi State, and
that's alright with me.

On the subject of names, we already picked out Chantelle, Derrick,
Jr., Daysha, and Booker (old-fashioned, but it's Derrick's father's name).
We'll give it more thought if the stork brings more than two boys and two
girls!

I never knew Derrick had such a romantic side. He sends flowers to
my desk at least once a week, insists on the two of us dressing for dinner at
an upscale restaurant every weekend, and takes me dancing after that.
Nothing challenging, I'm still klutzy dancer, but he holds me closely and
leads me around the floor on sexy slow jams. I just want to melt into his
arms, closing my eyes and drifting with the throbbing ballads at Cafe Noir,
his favorite black nightspot. Not many women have hit the male jackpot like
I have!

He can be full of mischief, too. I get home from the office a little
earlier than him, and if I'm at the sink drying dishes or talking on the phone
to Irma or his mom, he'll sneak up, reach under my skirt and give me a long
intimate feel. It's strange but exciting to have a strong guy's hands squeezing
my pantyhose-clad butt and thighs while I'm trying to talk! I usually break
into giggles, and admitted to Irma what was going on. She told me what a
lucky lady I was to have an attentive man with sex on his mind. All we black
women know what a prize a BMW is (black man working), and I have one of
the best. He'll never be rich, but he's as sweet as they come.

He's already taught me a lot, and I don't just mean turning me into a
good wife.

He explained to me about Kwaanza, and the black national anthem,
and what the Diaspora was. There's so much whites don't know about black
culture, but I'm learning fast. My girlfriends help me, too, overlooking my
occasional ignorance.

My recurring 'pregnancy' dream came true soon enough, of course.
After all those nights in the squad car on patrol with Sergeant Jeter, I still
spend my nights with him, now snuggled against him as his wife. Of
course, I usually get the 'wet spot,' after he creams his enormous spunky
loads into me and then rolls off, soon snoring. Men!

But it paid off, and Chantelle was born less than a year after we
married. The birth was not as painful as in my dream, but, pardon the pun,
it was a 'stretch.' (Deshauna Jones' sense of humor is better than mine used
to be, an unexpected side-effect.) Oh, correction, it's Deshauna Jeter now.
Taking a guys's last name is expected of us traditional Southern black gals,
of course, and I'm a proud wife with a large diamond wedding ring. I took
advantage of another thing about marriage: I'm a happy stay-at-home mom
now, caring for Chantelle. My cute little breast-feeding dark chocolate rugrat
is a joy. The diaper-changing and midnight-feeding routine is all mine now,
since Derrick still works nights. Even so, I feel like being the mommy
anyway, and that means 24-7. And more good news. Ultrasound tells me
and Derrick that Derrick, Junior is on the way!

I just wish there was something funny about morning sickness! And
if I thought my titties were uncomfortable before, it looks like I'll be lactating
for years. I feel like a Guernsey cow with these swollen, leaking brown
udders!

When getting Chantelle to nap I'll sit around and talk to little Derrick
in my tummy, flip through EBONY or ESSENCE magazines, or watch
videos on BET. I seem to have adopted my husband's taste in music. I'm
not much of a reader, and spend a lot of time keeping up with the housework
and laundry. I don't even read the daily paper much anymore. I get the
'411' from Sondra, Cheryl and Angela, gossiping with my homegirls on the
phone while I work on Chantelle's coarse hair, braiding, making pigtails and
attaching bows and barrettes.

You know what? Being Deshauna Jeter is fun!

All my kids were born naturally and without any anaesthesia for me.
It was painful, but a good woman bears her pain without complaint. It was
strange to see the umbilical cord trailing out of my vagina, connected to
Derrick, Jr., after he squeezed out of my big belly. When the doctor cut the
cord and the nurse placed the little black baby in my arms, I almost fainted
with relief and the sheer fulfillment of being a mother again. All Derrick has
to do is look at me to get me pregnant, as they say. This was the Deep
South, and privately I thought he was probably descended from the big field
hands of slavery days, considering his virility. I even teased him a few times
with that comment. Then he came back with something about how he could
make even a white man into a good black woman, and I doubled up in
laughter at that. Of course, he had gotten it exactly right. I shied away
from'slavery' references afterward. After all, this was the Mississippi delta,
and blacks had worked the fields here. I was sensitive to my new culture.


EPILOGUE: THE FUTURE


Derrick and I celebrated out fiftieth anniversary on April first. No
jokes about April fools, please. I don't feel like a fool. I've heard about all
the men who have become women, some of them black women, over the
years, and after eight children, twenty-six grandchildren and nine (so far)
great-grandchildren, I've been one of the proudest and happiest. And
Derrick, into his seventies, still sexes me like he was a prize stallion filling
his mare with thoroughbred semen. I may be well past the menopause and
need a little 'jelly' now and then, but I'm the same devoted and loving wife I
became after my accident on the job so long ago. I just turned 70, and my
'donor' DNA must have been choice, because I look like an ample chocolate
lady in her fifties. I let my hair go a little gray, but my dark skin is still butter
soft and without creases, and my big breasts and bottom are still fairly firm,
only bigger. I wouldn't have thought that was possible! But I've been at
home in my 'big black mama' self for a long time now, and I'm used to being
old Mrs. Deshauna Jeter, family matriarch!

Of course, after all the children, my tummy is a lot less trim than I
would like. It seems my pelvic muscles loosened for good, and a soft roll of
fat has taken residence around my waist. I'm still shapely, though, at 44DD-
36-46. My breasts have enlarged some with age, and many a good lace
underwire bra has been my friend since Chantelle was born. I look
something like a plump Patti LaBelle, I'm proud to say. And I much prefer
that to the wrinkled, slack white man I would have been at this age!

It sure is nice being an old African-American mama. The Jeters
believe in the Southern tradition of large family reunions every other year,
and I love seeing my grandchildren and the babies they're having. Two
former white boys have joined the family by marriage, LaTonya and
Ce'shelle (pretty name!), and they were amazed to learn I was one of them,
too! I think I gave the young girls some confidence about being loving
wives and mothers in our extended family. It's easy, I told them, just go
with your new female instincts and take it a day at a time! LaTonya is an
accountant, and met my grandson Ray at his CPA firm downtown.

And Ce'shelle, after doing six years in the Army while still a white
guy, decided after working under so many black female soldiers that he was a
black girl at heart. His platoon sergeant, a strict black woman, trained him so
well that he identified completely with the female NCO. Talk about taking
after a role model! The white soldier found it natural to apply to the
Community Service program after discharge. Like some transformed guys,
she wanted a uniquely feminine job, so Ce'shelle, now an ample caramel-
skinned girl, became a sexy black waitress at Hooters!

She met Jawan, Derrick's sister's son, at the restaurant, and she still
works there part-time. Not for long, though. You never see a knocked-up
waitress at Hooters. The breasty Ce'shelle, now Mrs. Jawan Franklin, just
came up positive on her home pregnancy test. My nephews and grandsons
have gotten so many former white boys pregnant, it's not funny! The Jeter
clan grows ever larger with pretty new black girls and their adorable children.

I sure catch up on the news at the family reunions.


(the end)

[jwargod]

Sorry for sort of necroing, but do you have the rest NN?

Would love to see them, was mostly looking for the Darkest Africa and Slaves To The Rhythm if you have those specifically, but know she did a few more.

Thank you again NN

[nniuqs]

Here's Darkest Africa:



DARKEST AFRICA
By Sharonna


My fifth period class had just let out, and I had an appointment with
Dr. Cousins, the head of my department, Cultural Anthropology, at a
large Eastern university that I will not name. The reason will become
clear by the end of my unique tale. The publicity would be undesirable
and certainly detract from the pure scholarship of the school's endeavor.
Dorothea Cousins is one of the leading African-American scholars
and intellectual influences in the country today, and, although only
38 years old, was selected by the college's board to redirect and
energize the C.A. department. She was, and is, known for her leftist
Afrocentric beliefs, and made it clear to her professors, including me,
that we should get with the program.
My name is Harold Carnavan, a newly-minted PhD. in anthropology
with two semesters of classroom experience as an instructor and a
strong desire for field work. As a specialist in some of the more obscure
tribes of west Africa I am sorry to say that I have made only a couple of
cursory visits to the more remote regions of the Congo rainforest.
'Come,' a pleasant female voice called when I knocked on her office door.
From Dr. Cousins' fiery rhetoric one would expect a severe black woman
in kente robes and long braids. But she usually showed another side, the
dedicated young teacher with a taste for stylish, expensive silk suits, short
skirts, and makeup and hair that appeared to have been done in an
expensive salon. But as my superior she attempted no pleasantries and got
right to the point.
'Dr. Carnavan, you may know that I take a special interest in the study
of the cultures of west Africa. That happens to be your specialty as well.
I am preparing a significant new expedition to the Ituri forest of the
northeastern Congo. However, I don't mind telling you that I think you're
woefully unqualified for the mission.'
'Dr. Cousins,' I objected, 'I realize that I'm rather new to field work and
may not be prepared to lead the expedition, but Ð
She laughed. 'Lead the expedition? Doctor, you ARE the expedition.'
After certain preparations, of course.'
'You're familiar with the scientific principle that one tends to change
the phenomena observed by the simple act of observing it?' Well, I've
thought of a way by which we might be able to overcome that.'
I was interested. She went on. 'As a white male sent to observe and
document the Mbuti people of the Congo, you would certainly be an
alien presence and the reaction of the natives may be skewed and
unreliable as a result.' She got to the point.

'Dr. Carnavan, you have heard of the Community Service program?'
It was more of a statement than a question. By now, everyone had.
By judicial edict, and sometimes choice under special circumstances,
many American males had both their gender and ethnic group
completely changed by a DNA-altering medical procedure. This had
the effect of nearly doubling the population of minority females in the
country between the census of the years 2000 and 2010, with a
corresponding decline in the number of white males.
It did wonders for race relations, in effect a chemical Affirmative
Action program. Black males now assumed many of the leadership
positions in business and government, and are highly sought after
as marriage partners by the minority females, especially those who
were formerly caucasian men.
Judges like Corretta J. Davis of the Third Circuit Court (before she
was ironically appointed director of the Census Bureau) had begun to
routinely impose the sentence. A white male with a socially useful
skill appearing before Judge Davis was almost certain to find himself
(herself?) a Tyra Banks lookalike with a job as a teacher or social worker
in a black neighborhood. A white male of little use to society usually
ended up experiencing the world as a large-breasted, overweight black
mom on welfare in the nearest high-rise government project, unable to
prevent her next pregnancy.
I'll bet that changed the politics of more than a few such people.
'I am an acquaintance of Dr. Alikah Ajaratu,' she went on, 'whose
experiments led to the pharmaceutical formula used in the program.
She and I agree that your chance of a successful study of the Mbuti people
would be greatly enhanced by the physical alteration of your body.'
This was hard to take. I reviewed what I knew of the Mbuti. Sometimes
incorrectly called Bantu, they are deep rainforest dwellers, what was
routinely called 'jungle' in less ecologically and politically aware days.
They are also the shortest people in Africa, adult males under five feet tall
and females averaging four and a half feet. They had reddish-brown skin,
probably due to depigmentation from the sunless jungle canopy. And they
had a tendency to achondroplastic dwarfism, short, thick arms and legs as
in true dwarfs.
The female Mbuti were known for the most protrusive, prominent
buttocks of any race of women, and were generally large-breasted in
proportion to their short, squat stature.
Dr. Cousins knew all this. She went on.
'You can explain to the tribe that you indeed were raised in America
after being taken from the forest as a young girl, and have now returned
for a time to become familiar with your people.'
''Girl,' you said?' I asked.
'Of course. It would be much less threatening to the tribal structure to
take in a new young female. You would fit in easily as you took field
notes. Young women of the Mbuti tribe gather roots, fungi, insects,
pound tree bark into loincloth to cover their genitals, and paint their
bodies and the men's with dye from berries. Sound good?' she laughed.
As bizarre as this was, Dr. Cousins had me where she wanted me.
A true anthropologist had to do field work in his specialty.
Or her specialty, I thought ruefully.
Forgetting I was there, Dr. Cousins phoned Dr. Ajaratu to make the
arrangements.

I received a unique, for then, time-release version of the transformation
formula. Even as I made the 14-hour flight across the Atlantic to
Kinshasha, my body was imperceptibly altering. I managed to clear
customs as Dr. Carnavan, but by the time my local contacts provided me
with a Land Rover ride through ever-narrowing jungle trails, I looked
very different. I was shrinking, vertically, for one thing. I had to roll
up the sleeves and pantlegs of my khaki outfit, and a look in the side
view mirror showed a darkening, smaller and rounder face than before.
My hair was forming into loose, dark curls. I reminded myself that
Dr. Ajaratu had taken no chances, and also gave me a contraceptive shot
of Depo-Provera that she said would prevent pregnancy for three months.
I suppose she was right in this precaution. The Mbuti were kind and
respectful of their women, but a renegade male could succeed in forcing
himself on a female without brothers, cousins, or a father to protect her.
And it wouldn't do to bring a Pygmy baby out of the jungle with me.
The driver, a local Ashanti, looked at me oddly. After a few more
miles he pulled up at the edge of a dense wall of jungle and said,
'Here's where you get off, boss. You be okay?'
I hopped out of the vehicle, and stumbled to the ground. It had been
a long drop!
'Yes, I'm fine,' I said in an odd, high voice. I grasped my notebooks
in a waterproof bag, and carried nothing else.
The driver shoved the vehicle into gear and it rumbled away.
I was alone in the eerie quiet. This was it. I faced the stand of thick
palm fronds and unzipped my jumpsuit. I stepped out of it, and stripped
off my green t-shirt and boxer shorts. I had lost about 24 inches in
height, but the underwear was still snug, since it appeared I had gained that
much in breasts and behind. Yet I was able to step out of my boots
without unlacing them, and then removed my waterproof socks.
I looked down at myself. I saw the body of a reddish-brown skinned
Mbuti, and I was unquestionably female. Great, firm bullet-shaped breasts
tipped with wide black nipples protruded from my small chest, my belly
was soft and plump, my hips were wide, and my arms and legs short and
stubby, tapering into small hands and feet, all that interesting red-brown
color. I felt behind me for the amazingly large African buttocks that I now
possessed.
My fingers examined a small moist slit under short red-brown pubic curls.
I was a naked Pygmy girl.

I was also a mature woman with spectacular secondary sex characteristics,
a woman who probably did not exceed four feet in height. With this body
no one, American or African, would mistake me for a child. I moved into
the trees, my naked reddish-brown form somehow comfortable and
unafraid. I felt at home in the darkening shadows of the triple-canopy
jungle. The still heat was oppressive, and sweat soon began to drip
from my chin and breasts. An occasional tropical bird hooted and I could
see rustling and movement far above me in the foliage. I paused and
squatted to urinate, and this too felt natural. Until I noticed a small brown
child watching me from beside a nearby tree. I grabbed a small leaf, wiped
my moist parts, and rose, embarassed.
The child, covered only with a loincloth of palm, took my hand and led
me along a trail. Soon I heard voices murmuring as we reached a clearing.
A scene of Mbuti village life appeared before me, much as I had imagined.
Huts of large leaves stretched over branches dotted the bare earth of the
clearing. No sunlight reached the ground, the dense jungle closing off
the sky. Small men, women, and children moved about purposefully or
squatted conversing in small groups. If my data was correct, this should
be a typical Mbuti settlement of from 10 to 25 families. Two young women
approached me, evidently relatives of the child, and began to chatter in
the clicking, glottal language that was a Bantu dialect. I had immersed
myself in it in preparation for the trip, and I could carry on a simple
conversation. I related my odd, prepared story, that I was descended
from Mbuti and wanted to rejoin their tribe after 'many years far away,'
as I explained. Well, that much was actually true. I was visibly a
full-blooded Pygmy woman, and I had come from the States. My
peculiar accent gave me away.
Both women were slightly taller than me, bare-breasted like all of us
females, and wore soft pounded tree bark loincloths covering their
sexes and draped, barely, over their immense buttocks. They gave their
names as Jyleke and Chukwuma. Jyleke giggled and pointed to my bare
pubis, saying (roughly translated), 'Girl, we've got to get you some
clothes!'
The little boy who had led me to the settlement was Chukwuma's son.
Jyleke was unmarried and lived in a hut with the single, eligible women,
and she led me there. Soon I had a bed of thick palm fronds prepared
for me and a proper loincloth around my waist. I stashed my field
notebooks among the leaves.
The Mbuti did not have a formal chief, but an elder male had the
final say in any deliberations. Jyleke explained that I would be
introduced to his unmarried son, as I had no male relatives here.
She gestured at my breasts and behind, indicating that my figure was
so ample that I would be highly sought after as a wife for a young man
of status. That would be the elder's son, whose name was Musoke.
The phrase 'going native' crossed my mind then, and I had gone
further than anybody, ever. I understood now that I could not simply be
an observer of this band of Mbuti. I would participate in the daily life
of the tribe as a young, healthy, desirable woman, perhaps as a wife.
I reflected again on Dr. Ajaratu's foresight in providing me with a birth
control injection.

I slept suprisingly well that night on my bed of leaves. Three other
young women shared the hut with me, including Jyleke. I had
already begun to take notes on what I saw and heard. My transition
had left me as mentally acute as ever. I was still the anthropologist
who had obtained a PhD. by age 25 and scored in the top one percent
of any aptitude test I had ever taken. It felt merely novel, and useful,
to inhabit the tiny, brown, curvacious body of an African tribeswoman.
There was no doubt, as I observed my fellow Mbuti, that the trait
of achondroplastic dwarfism was prominent in this group, and in me.
Not only were we all under five feet tall, but most had the shortened,
thickened arms and slightly bowed legs of 'true' dwarfs. I was nearly
the shortest adult female here, and possessed the aforementioned
traits. Yet somehow I felt attractive and comfortable in my dwarfish,
Pygmy body.
Jyleke brought me to the tribal elder, a white haired but keen old man
named Jalani, which, she said, means 'mighty.' At about five feet tall,
he towered over me. I needed a name, too, he laughed. That hadn't
occurred to me, but Harold would hardly do here.
He looked down at me carefully. It was not the lustful inspection of my
big tits and ass that a Western man would perform, but a thoughtful gaze.
'We will call you Omarosa Ode,' he said.
I looked at Jyleke. 'It is a very pretty name,' she said. 'It means
'Beautiful child born on the road.'' How fitting, I thought. Omarosa was,
indeed, born on the road between here and America. The elder Jalani
had seen into my soul, I felt.

The elder's son was away briefly on a hunt with other young males.
Jyleke explained to me that the greatest dream of a Mbuti warrior was
to slay an elephant, but that was rarely done these days. More often
the men would return with wild pigs or antelope. Treetop dwelling
monkeys were killed with poison-tipped arrows or spears.
Just think, I might soon be eating monkey, I wondered with a laugh.
The women kept me busy with woman's work. They showed me
how to gather the fungi, dig up roots, learn to recognize and pick the
edible fruits, and catch the insects and grubs. After all, that was the
Mbuti diet! I learned to climb trees to get at the fruit, varieties of
fleshy pods of different colors and tastes. They were really good,
often sweet.
The roots and fungi we would wash and eat raw. Fat white grubs
were cooked in a kind of oil from certain vegetables, and everyone
often ate large beetles plucked straight from the trees!
We women prepared meals from the above ingredients for the tribe,
and they were quite tasty. After a few days I thought nothing of
devouring plump larvae (cooked first, though) and snacking on live
beetles. I began to hungrily anticipate whatever fresh meat the men
would return with.
When not gathering or cooking food the women cared for and played
with young children, of which there were about twenty in the community.
I enjoyed this enormously, listening to and learning the African fairy tales
and nursery rhymes the other girls would tell the children. Several of the
babies attempted to suckle at my large breasts when I held them, and cried
when no milk was forthcoming. I would be forced to pass the child to
one of the nursing mothers, and felt oddly frustrated by that.
We crushed red berries and used the resultant paint to decorate each
other's skin. I hoped it wasn't a permanent stain, because I now have
pretty circular designs painted on my forehead and cheeks, and stripes
lining my breasts and belly!
I took frequent notes, and soon had a copious amount of original
material on the tribe's culture and language. Dr. Cousins would be
pleased. And I'm sure she would be amused to see the cute painted
Pygmy girl her tall white faculty member had become.

I made an effort at dancing and chanting with the other women to
welcome the men when they returned. The hunting party carried fresh
kill, two monkeys lashed to a pole, and a large wild pig. Men, women
and children all danced and sang in a large circle, celebrating the
successful hunt. The men then prepared a cooking pit and, after
skinning the beasts, the barbeque began.
I chewed and gulped down the monkey meat with relish as we all
sat around the fire. I looked at the glistening dark bodies around me.
It was a primal, timeless scene that could have been, no, WAS enacted
by my African ancestors fifty thousand years ago. Jyleke sidled up to
me and giggled as she pointed out Jalani's son. His name was Musoke,
I remembered.
The elder rose and spoke loudly to the tribe. It is difficult to translate
literally what he said, but essentially he announced the betrothal of his
son, Musoke, to the beautiful new member of the tribe, Omarosa!
My marriage had just been arranged! Chukwuma took my hand and
made me stand. She spoke, welcoming me to the community of wives.
She patted my belly and complimented me on my breasts and backside,
the largest of any woman in the tribe. She said I had been blessed by the
gods of fertility and would bear many beautiful children.
My fiance smiled shyly at me and led me away to his hut.

That night I didn't thank the gods of fertility, but I was grateful for
estrogen and the other female hormones my body had been producing.
I actually found Musoke's taut, muscular maleness powerfully
attractive. A month ago a five-foot tall African with a studly hard-on
would have done nothing for me, but now my short thick legs were
trembling in womanly anticipation as he removed our loincloths.
In the darkness of the hut I reached for his suprisingly large penis,
stroking it with real affection as it jutted toward me. It felt silky over
the hardness, and I gently pulled the skin back and forth with my
little soft hands. He groaned and grasped both globes of my
rump, kneading and squeezing my African ass, which I knew was
muscular and fatty at the same time. It felt wonderful.
A viscuous fluid was oozing from his uncircumcized penis and
covering my busy hands, and I knew it was time for my deflowering.
My vagina was also slick with need. I suspected that the Mbuti
did not practice fellatio, so I simply gave my man's penis a final
squeeze and lay myself down on the palm bedding. But Musoke
shook his head. What was wrong? Oh, of course. I was learning.
Dr. Ajaratu had given me this booty for a reason. The Mbuti entered
their females from the rear, what we cutely call 'doggie style' in
the West. A large behind is a visual provocation in such cultures.
Time to stop thinking so much, but as an anthropologist it was
hard not to categorize events as they happened. Musoke's knees were
between mine as he slid his dick forward into me, occupying my
pussy with a fulfilling fullness. I was now a proper Pygmy wife.
There was no hurry. He was a virile young man, and he stroked me
slowly and rhythmically for a long time before I felt his scrotum
tighten. He choked back a yell, suddenly humping hard and fast as
he grasped my behind firmly. He was coming, a pint of thick African
cream spurting from his black nuts into my warm, moist babymaker.
I flopped forward on my belly, and Musoke fell atop me. I fell
asleep with his penis still inside me, and as I drifted off on the soft
palm fronds, I thought, I could love this man.

Musoke and I lived as husband and wife for another month, though
without any ceremony that would be recognized by a Western nation.
I finalized my field notes. Each month a Red Cross team arrived from
The capital to inoculate my tribe, perform routine medical treatment
and provide prenatal care for expectant mothers. (That would have
been me by now if not for the Depo-Provera.) A mother near to
term would be taken to a nearby field hospital for a sterile birth.
As a result, the infant mortality rate was low and the Mbuti's general
health was quite good. I duly made note of all this, statistics and all.
The plan was for me to leave with the next medical team. Musoke
wondered why I was crying, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him
that I had to return to America. Deep down, I was not a true member
of his tribe, but a kind of impostor. In a good cause, I told myself.

I composed myself one last time. I appreciated the female hormones,
as I said, but they made it so hard to hold my emotions in check. I
told Musoke, Jyleke and Chukwuma that I was only going to the field
hospital to clear up an infection.
I couldn't look back as I saw the truck up ahead in the clearing.
I never saw my tribe again.

The medics gave me a boy's shirt and pants to wear, and canvas shoes.
Size two. I had no idea of the female clothing sizes I wore, since I had
been essentially nude since I became Omarosa Ode. By the way, I
like that name. As long as I'm in this body I'm going to keep it.
I figured clothes were going to be a problem, though, with my build.

Dr. Cousins couldn't help but laugh when I stepped off the plane at
Kennedy International.
'Well, doctor,' she said, 'you ARE a charming little Third World lady!'
I knew she would rub it in. Dr. Cousins believed in evening the score
for wrongs done to African-Americans.
'But before we reminisce, lets get you to a suitable boutique.'
I got a quick education in female attire. A woman of my dwarf-like
stature would normally wear no more than a petite, or even junior
sizes, but not many four-foot tall children wear a 32 double-D bra
or have a 36 inch behind, as proved true for me. After all, I stuck
far out in front and back. We located various specialty stores and Dr.
Cousins managed to cloth me. Several brands of black women's
pantyhose proved adequate. I fit into a Dark 'N' Lovely extra-small,
and Afrotique accomodated my behind also. The colors were pretty
on my reddish brown skin, too. I stocked up on various shades.
She was being all too nice to me, and I knew some sort of bill would
come due.
It was nearly September. I had spent the summer in Africa, and fall
classes would soon start. Dr. Cousins dropped me off at my small
apartment just off campus, helping me to the door with shopping bags
containing my new female outfits, shoes and undies. I wanted to ask her
when we would get in touch with Dr. Ajaratu to reverse the procedure,
but she quickly gave me a sisterly, or was it motherly, hug and kiss
and waved goodbye. 'See you tomorrow at ten, Omarosa!'
Even she was a good 18 inches taller than me. Anyone watching
the scene would surmise that a pretty black mom had just dropped her
college freshman daughter off at her dormitory. Even if the daughter
was oddly short and with a remarkably ample figure.
I saw that I would have to make some accomodations if I stayed in
this body much longer. I could reach all the light switches in the
apartment, but had to pull chairs up to get to the higher cabinets and
closets. Of course, my male clothes, shaving gear, baseball glove,
and men's magazines were useless or uninteresting to me now.
I went to my car, intending to pick up a few things at the supermarket.
I opened the door and climbed in, and saw that my short stubby legs
could not nearly reach the pedals! I would need hand controls for my
car in this body! Hmm. In some ways life was simpler in the jungle.

Things became clearer the next day. Dr. Cousins greeted me with a
cheerful, 'Good morning, Omarosa!' It annoyed me that she didn't refer
to me as Dr. Carnavan, but I knew there was a method behind her attitude.
I felt peculiar enough this morning. Try getting into panties, a big lace
underwire bra, a skirt and a tight top for the first time on your own and
see how that feels. My loose black curls had also been growing for the
last three months, and I attempted to comb them out. The result was
pleasing, I thought, my locks resting attractively on my shoulders. But I
would have find a good black hair stylist, and quick. I had heard Dr.
Cousins once mention a lady named Bertha.
'Omarosa Ode! Very attractive and so African, 'Dr. Cousins began
as we sat in her office. 'The Faculty Senate proposes that I make you an
offer. How would you like to be tenured professor Dr. Omarosa Ode?'
Tenure?! I would have normally expected to wait ten more years for
a permanent teaching position.
'As you know, our faculty has been lacking in suitable minority and
Third World instructors. You have shown a remarkable aptitude for
field work and your rough notes on the Mbuti appear excellent. Yes,
I would count Dr. Omarosa a valued senior professor in this department.'
Dr. Cousins' knack for persuasion had won out again.
She placed a call to Dr. Ajaratu. Harold Carnavan was to be no more.

The week before the start of classes she contacted me once more with
a strange request. Knowing the strong-willed doctor, it was not exactly
a request. The University had assembled a powerhouse varsity
basketball team this year, and the squad had been receiving national
attention. A spot in the NCAA finals was likely. All this I knew, being
a roundball fan, especially of my own school's team.
A nationally famous sports magazine was sending a writer and
photographer to do an article and photo shoot on the team. Dr. Cousins
wanted me to pose for a picture in the gym with the team's star seven-foot
center, Abdul Rahman!
I showed up as scheduled on the day of the shoot. A tiny basketball
uniform had been made for me in blue and gold, the team colors, and the
number _ had been stitched on the front! I met the players, introducing
myself as an anthropology professor, and they were all fun and respectful.
I was four feet tall to Abdul's seven, and we joked and teased each
other. He was a cute guy, too. When the photographer called for places,
the team formed with Abdul in the middle. He lifted me up easily, and
I sat my thick butt in the crook of his huge arm as a daughter would pose
with her father. I worried that too much of my bra was showing on the
sides of the skimpy tank top, but it couldn't be helped.
We faced the camera and smiled, and impulsively I slipped my short
stubby arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. What a hunk of
man! When the photographer paused I stuck my tongue in his ear, then
blew softly. I looked down mischievously and noticed an erection growing
in his thin gold shorts. He glanced at me and smiled, as if to say, 'What
do you think you're doing, professor?'
Fortunately, the shoot was over. He lovingly put me down and I made
sure to rub my well-restrained breasts against him as I slid to the gym
floor.
Should I cut to the chase? Abdul became a frequent visitor to my
apartment. His massive chocolate joystick is as long and thick as my
forearm, and his semen is measured in quarts, not pints. I have to
change the sheets after he spends the night. My little body can't hold
all of his babycream. I am surely falling in love. I may just decide
to stay pregnant. Considering the extreme difference in our heights,
Dr. Ajaratu says our kids should inhabit a happy medium and reach
normal size. That's wonderful.
With the national attention Abdul has received, I have become a minor
celebrity, too. The sports pages, and some tabloids, have run headlines
like PRETTY PYGMY PROFESSOR DATES PRO PROSPECT and
ABDUL AND HIS AFRICAN AMOUR.
My big guy is having a great season, and should go high in the draft
next year. I hope he signs with the Knicks. I can teach, and attend
most of his home games, too.

So who am I, besides the soon-to-be Mrs. Abdul Rahman? The
answer sounds strange, even to me. I feel much the same as I ever
was. What matters is going to work in the morning, or doing whatever
you count as success. I have become a renowned professor of
anthropology, and I would have been no matter what my gender, skin
color, or height, or the clothes I wear. Being Omarosa Ode or Harold
Carnavan is not what defines me. It is what's under the skin that
counts, and that's a lesson we all have to learn.
By the way, I had those hand controls installed on my car. And I
stand on a small stepladder when I lecture to my students from the
podium. I bought quite a few more nice clothes for my sexy little
caricature of a body. Like Dr. Cousins, I enjoy silk suits, short skirts,
elegant pumps and sheer nylons. I have my hair done at Bertha's.
I made friends with a young grade school teacher when we were both
getting perms and manicures. Her name is Michelle Johnson, and we
can sit and gab for hours, like any two black girls in the 'hood.
She's married to some rich guy, and we love to talk about fashion,
hair, makeup, celebrities, and men, the good and bad. Black women's
things. Fortunately she and I are not victims of the 'black male
shortage,' both of us very happy with our tall, dark, and handsome men.
The only difference is that she has three adorable kids already. I'm
going to be a late starter there, but I'll catch up!
My boyfriend loves me, and my students think I'm the greatest.
As a young boy I had always wanted to be on the cover of that
sports magazine. Now I was, but who could have known it would be
as a four-foot-tall black woman kissing a star basketball player?
My paper, 'Life among the Mbuti,' was published to great acclaim.
Life is good.

[jwargod]

Thanks big time! Darkest Africa and Donald stories were the biggest things I loved and missed from Sharonna. I even commissioned an old pic awhile back based off the pygmy dealio. Words cannot describe how much I appreciate you posting the stories.