Children of Men
A Short Story for BJ
By Maryanne Peters

I am told that there was a movie made about it, way back in 2006, about an infertility crisis. It was called “Children of Men” which seems very strange considering the response that has developed since. But that movie predicted that the world would one day discover that children can no longer be conceived. They got the year wrong, but not by so much. They left the mechanism of infertility unclear whereas what we now know about our epidemic is that it is not really infertility at all. We have learned that it is a virus where the presence of a Y chromosome provides immunity. So only the female sex is affected, not in conception but through gestation – women still have eggs and can theoretically conceive but none can carry a child even in the earliest stages.

Medical science has always believed that engineering immunity for females from this virus will happen at some time in the future, but the delay in having that to hand creates its own problems. That is why creating the capacity for male pregnancy was given high priority, as an interim measure. I don’t think this was any part of that old movie, but “children of men” is now a reality. The egg is implanted in an artificial womb inside a man, and he is given the chemistry to allow the embryo to develop before it is cut out together with the womb.

As to how this whole virus thing started, there are the conspiracy theories. The most serious is that the virus has been engineered in the developed world to infect the poorer nations and to simply curtail population growth there. Perhaps the less serious version of that is that this infertility is natural, but that the developed world has a cure and is holding it back, supposedly for clinical reasons, but to the same end. Certainly, what they call “the demographics” have changed. A large part of the world simply can’t afford engineering male pregnancies and for many the very idea is a cultural nightmare.

So, where do I fit in. I have the good fortune to live in the richest developed nation, but the bad fortune to be poor within it. That may be a tragedy for many Americans but it seems greater for me. I am personable and intelligent but it appears that these are the skills that Artificial Intelligence has in greater abundance than me. All I have is my humanity, but in today’s digital world that no significant value. As for my biology, that is something slightly different. I am male so immune from the virus, and healthy enough to carry a child.

There is work for men like me, or perhaps less intelligent men, working in “High Density Reproduction” – battery hens in human form, with no need of brains or empathy, and only their personal need for a sum of money that can be insultingly small. The thing is that for pregnancy you don’t need skills or talents, just a body and 9 months being pampered through a bio-industrial process.

I had already decided that that I was ready to become a pregnant male, but I did not like the idea of joining in with that sort of person. What was my other option?

It was then that I learned about “the Stepford Mothers”. That was not the real name – that was TIMPO or Total Immersive Maternity Programme, with the O being the place where it was based, the town of Orchidville. Of course, “Stepford” refers to another movie, or maybe more than one, where independent women who are too much for their husbands to handle, are brainwashed to become obedient and constantly attractive archetypical submissive wives.

In the case of TIMPO we are talking about the option available to prospective fathers of having their male surrogates feminized, to appear as “mothers” so that they could somehow enjoy a traditional pregnancy. If they wished then fathers could parade with pregnant women, in a place set up just for them – Orchidville. Anywhere else, pregnant women would be treated as imposters, because of the virus.

Why would I want to be any part of that? The money, stupid. It is always about the money. Of course, to engage a feminized “mother” prospective parents would have to pay more – you had to do more for that money. You had to make even more sacrifices, including even more physical changes that might be permanent. Make no mistake, men who volunteer simply to have the artificial womb implanted and to become pregnant and bear children still carry permanent reminders of this journey, even if they only do it once. But feminization might carry more scars, if that is the right word.

But I was told that as an Orchidville mother I might command a good price, and maybe even receive a bonus at the end if I was “particularly pleasing”. As I said, I am considered personable and intelligent – I like to think even likeable. Once I was prepared in a preliminary way, there would be interviews. I was told that while couples might use TIMPO for surrogates, the highest prices would be paid by men wanting to become effectively solo fathers, possibly with those people carrying on for a whilea as carers.

Of course, Orchidville mothers have no genetic connection to the child they carry. The egg would come from the wife in the case of a couple, or a female donor (male mothers have no eggs) and the sperm would be from the father. Conception is in vitro (test tube) and gestation by the volunteer male, being somebody like me.

I signed on, and as it happened, they already had somebody lined up to father the child I would carry. In fact, he had embryos on ice, waiting for me.

I was told that his name was Justin, and that he was in his forties, handsome, fit and extremely successful. He had been in many relationships but not met a woman who he could settle down with. It seemed clear to me that he was one of those men who craved feminine company with no strings attached. He could have just bought a child from a faceless (and almost brainless) carrier but he liked the idea of “sharing the pregnancy” with a woman, which was biologically impossible given the virus.

I was told that I was the ideal candidate, not just because of my personality but because (in the opinion of the experts) I could be most easily feminized. It had something to do with my size and build and some other factors. I simply shrugged – for me, it was about the money.

The interview was to be crucial. I was to present as a woman, insofar as that was possible – the prettier the better. I was sent to a “feminization service” organized by TIMPO on the day before, to be prepared and coached on how to behave, and then again to be beautified for the man who would retain my services, provided that I smiled and my personality sparkled and that I talked about the joy of pregnancy.

I wanted the job, and I was well briefed on how to get it. TIMPO had even arranged role plays – mock interviews. It seemed as if many of them we about convincing the client that I was a Stepford wife, but that seemed to be an insult to an intelligent man. If he was paying for a real pregnancy shared with another human being, why choose an automaton?

I have to say that his appearance had an immediate effect on me. Justin Coltrane was as described – youngish, handsome and fit, but he also exuded a sense of purpose and power that I could feel, even before the hormones flooded my body. Still, he asked some probing questions to test my intelligence and I answered well. He told me that I was hired, and then asked if we might embrace.

I have to say that I still felt myself very much a man at that time, despite the dress and the feminine hair and makeup, but I agreed and I felt his arms around me. Again, even before any changes to my body I felt in that hug a tenderness yet strength that is hard to describe.

The following day I lay back to receive the first dose of the hormones needed to prepare me for the implantation of the artificial womb with the embryo in place, being fed with artificial blood for the first few days of gestation ex utero, as they call it. That gave time for a few small procedures to render my body slightly more feminine.

Apparently, Mark had made some requests, but it was entirely up to me whether I should agree or not. He could have specified things in the contract we had both signed (after legal advice) but he left it to me. I had already formed the view that he had money, and I could not deny that I also found myself wanting to mother his child. I accepted all his suggestions, including the operation to restrain and conceal my genitals. The TIMPO physicians had advised me that they would be useless anyway.

There were some small facial procedures that were to heal even before implantation, plus some blemishes removed, and the breast implants were left largely empty, to be filled over time as required – presumably by him. One thing that I understood was that the massive does of hormones produce breast tissue in all TIMPO mothers, so more than others, and those breasts can remain forever unless surgically removed.

I also had my hair lengthened with extensions, and some semi-permanent eyeliner and lash color applied. I still had much to learn about keeping myself beautiful but I had time to learn. The most important thing was to look good walking along side the father of my baby. If I did that, it seemed to me that asking for the bonus would be easier.

There was a town to go with all of this. It makes sense really. As I have explained, everybody knew that a pregnant woman walking around in the city was an impossibility, with or without a father. That could only be either a man in drag or a woman faking something currently impossible, unless you lived somewhere where it was the norm. Orchidville was a town custom built for the task, but in the fashion of something painted by Norman Rockwell – like something from the 1930s but equipped for the 2030s. It was close enough to the city to allow for high-speed commuting, so “couples” could live and where pregnant males presenting as women could mingle overtly pregnant, and live a life the way it used to be, for nine months or so. Normality in an abnormal world was the purpose.

It was an illusion, but like many illusions it was a pretty one. Houses in Orchidville could be either low cost or high cost like the one owned by Mark, but all well maintained. In some lived the father and the incapable but biological mother, while the feminized male surrogate slept in another room, perhaps like “The Handmaid’s Tale” - but the very opposite of dystopian. But in my case, it was just me and Mark, plus Consuela, the Latino housekeeper (competent cook, cleaner and general help).

He had bought the house, rather than rented it. He said that it was an investment, as he proudly showed me around. I was to have a room next to his – a guest suite close to as grand as his aptly named master suite. It was decorated in a feminine style, presumably for my benefit – to keep me on track. I liked it.

In fact I found myself liking a whole bunch of things that I had not cared for myself. It left me wondering just how much of the feelings that I was having were generated by the hormones that I was receiving. We all know that pregnant women find themselves with cravings, so new chemistry must have some effect on the brain. I had also read widely on the subject in an effort to deal with this thing, so I had heard about the “maternal urges” and the “nesting instincts” that I found myself witnessing first hand.

The Nesting Instinct is the desire to prepare the home for the child. I had never been a very tidy person and I had no interest in household chores, but even despite the presence of Consuela I found myself compulsively cleaning and tidying. As for feeling maternal, I had basically disliked children before hormones, and now I found myself smiling at the sight of them , and not just human children but puppies and kittens.

I had not read up on sex drive in pregnant women – why would I? The fact is that this was yet to come.

The womb and baby were implanted with a brief operation. It involved harnessing blood supply that would surround the womb and allow the child to be nourished. Justin was with me when the first scan took place showing the implantation was successful, but the embryo was virtually invisible. He was thrilled, and so was I. I was not sure why, but as I say, body chemistry probably had a lot to do with it.

The first trimester of my pregnancy had its discomforts. There was the morning sickness, which I was told was due to the sheer volume of hormones wreaking havoc, as it is even for pregnant women, when they existed. The body becomes accustomed. All I needed to do was to keep myself fit and healthy, avoid alcohol and spend my time looking after myself. Whether it was chemical or not I became obsessed with my physical appearance and being as pretty as possible. It seemed that I was not alone in these feelings. It seemed as if all of the feminized males of Orchidville were vying to be the most beautiful. Beauty salons in town were numerous but well booked in advance. I simply took a weekly slot and Justin paid for it.

He said that he was pleased that I looked good, and when he was at home, we would go for walks together and he would tell me how proud he was to have me cling to his arm. But he did spend many nights in the city to save the commute. He promised that he would be home more when the pregnancy was more advanced.

I suppose that I sort of grew into femininity. The idea that I was a man pretending to be a woman in order to earn cash, gradually faded away. Every morning when I got up and barfed into the toilet, I would tell myself that I was going to be a mother and standing in the shower I seemed fully female. Afterwards, sitting at my dressing table I would see a woman in the mirror as I got myself ready to face the day and the other “ladies” or Orchidville. I developed a circle of friends who seemed committed to living lives as if they were women, and I was just one of them.

Hormones and the fluctuation of them during pregnancy, is a rough ride, but then came the second trimester. I suppose the first three months is about the changes in your body and your attitude to the world. The last three months was to be about carrying the weight of a child in the front of your body, but the middle three months brought about the biggest change in me. That was when I fell in love with Justin Coltrane.

I want to make it clear that I had never had any gay thoughts as a man. I had always considered myself as attracted to women, but now as it seemed I was one of them I found myself more interested in their clothing and hairstyles than their tits – after all, I had a pair of my own and they were growing. It was simply that when Justin walked in one evening, home for the first time in a week, I just looked at him and decided that I would like to experience his cock inside my body. It was that simple. It was just that after you get a thought like that in your head, it is hard to think of much else.

I spent more time making myself look good for him, and I found something sexy to wear, something that showed off my burgeoning tits. I asked him if he would like to put his hands on my belly. I said that I was not showing yet but I was feeling it, a little piece of him growing inside me. I said that we were making something special together, and that I wanted him to be closer to the process, meaning closer to me.

He looked at me and I swear my heart fluttered. He could see that I was hungry for him. He said something about keeping things professional but when I pulled him close, he was all in. We end up kissing like highschoolers.

I told him that I needed to feel like a real mother, and really mothers get that way from impregnation. He asked if it was possible for me to take a man and I said that it could not be done up front, but up behind would certainly be possible, if I prepared that and he promised to be gentle. It was him who told me later about the whole rising libido in the second semester thing. The point is that once it was done, I just needed more.

But that first time was special. I suppose that he could have done it doggy style, but he wanted to do me lying in front of him, staring up at him with my hair across the pillow and my face fully made up, playing with my tits and stroking the belly with his progeny inside, no bigger than a kidney beans. I could feel his hot tool inside me and I remember just thinking how great it felt to just lie back and be a woman, and look into his face and see the love. I think that a man looking down on a woman (or whatever I was) being made love to, is a wonderful thing, and then to feel him fill you up and watch his ecstasy! I had already had my orgasm, or maybe more. All it did for me was to have a little gooey discharge come out of my pee-hole, just after my head had exploded.

I slept in his bed last night. I would not sleep anywhere else after that. I told him that my room should be the nursery, and that I would get it ready. I would keep his bed warm, but he needed to come home more often, as I needed him.

He kissed me. He said that this was not what he had planned, but that I was carrying his child and I was glowing as pregnant women do. I smiled, but I knew that the glow is just that extra sebum on the skin during pregnancy – it is a hormone thing. But maybe it is another side effect of male pregnancy. I had heard that there had been other cases of fathers falling for their feminized surrogates in Orchidville. I guess we were just the lucky ones.

But he did come home more often and every time he did I wanted him to fuck my brains out. Even when I started to swell up so big that I could barely walk, I wanted him to stick his cock into me, but I was just too big. We could do that doggy with me biting the pillow, but I liked to do it with me on top, with him holding the weight of my distended belly while I moved myself up and down on his erection. That could make me scream with joy.

The final scans were special for us both. The baby was not of my blood but she was ours, and that made us a couple. It seems crazy to think of it any other way. I wanted the caesarean to be with local anasthetic only. I wanted the baby to be cut from my body and placed on my chest immediately, with Justin there holding my hand and stroking or child, and me.

We had a baby! And unlike mothers the way women had them, there was no flabby cave to deal with while the vagina rebuilt itself from the ordeal – my little busy was as tight as ever. Even before the stitches were out of my belly Justin was pumping me to paradise, and this time, with milk! He could fuck me and lick my titties at the same time.

Suddenly my tits were exploding with milk, enough for the child and for Justin too, and me. It was like a family feast, naked in our bed. I could feed the baby on one breast and Justin could suck milk from the other, sometimes holding so in his moth so share with me in a big sloppy milky kiss. Is there anything closer to a family that for the three of us to be able to share the milk that my body has produced? It really did convince me that this was a blessing – to give life and to sustain it, to give love and have it given back to me, hard and wonderful.

Of course I wanted to surrender myself to Justin, totally and permanently. And of course, I wanted more children. We didn’t even have to stop breast feeding to get pregnant as all mammals in nature must. There could be another womb implanted even as both of my boys fed from me. But there were two things that needed to be done before that could happen.

Justin asked me to be his wife, so a slight adjustment to be made to my anatomy. I had no use for those male organs, and if I wanted to be his wife and not just his “baby mummy” so I would need to go under the knife to make the changes, and I could not accept another womb until I did.

I would have married Justin naked on a beach, but he wanted the full wedding. He wanted me to wear white and for everybody to see that I was now a woman, and a very special woman – one who could also be a mother.

My breasts were huge, and the nipples were gushing milk so I needed to express before the ceremony and wear massive pads. Still, I struggled into the wedding dress and I had my hair and makeup done, and I smiled at all the guests that he had invited, but all I could think about was getting into bed with this man and having him fill me with his seed while I filled him with my feed.

Women must dream of wedding night sex, but of course I never had. I thought that noting could be any better than having a man who loves you plough you until you scream, but I was having that every nights, and other times as he could and I demanded. But I don’t care what they might say about virginity, have your husband enter you after receiving God’ blessing to do it, seems to have the force of the divine behind every manly stroke between my legs.

If God was behind it then I screamed like a demon in the moment of climax. It was just a reminder that sex can always get better, and that is something I could not have said as a man. Somehow, any memory of that had faded as a non-event. Now I had love in the deal, a husband and a baby son who we could take into bed to suckle from me and then to lie happy on his father’s hairy chest.

He was only our first. Now that the wedding was over the next implantation had been scheduled.

We were disappointed to learn that our next baby could not be pulled out through the new vagina that had been constructed – something to do with the size of the male pelvis. In any event, women’s anatomy has more elasticity whereas my new female genitals are made of male stuff requiring major reconstruction if reamed by anything much larger than Justin’s cock. All our children would have to come out of my belly, and they all did, even after the cure to the virus had been discovered and women were suddenly getting pregnant all over the place.

The whole idea of children of men now seems like such a strange thing. But for me, I thank God for that virus. It changed my life.

The End
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© Maryanne Peters 2026

Author's Note: This story was commissioned by a patron, interested in the idea of transwomen being pregnant.