Edith Bennett Bellamy has been writing elegantly prolix transgender erotica for the past five years. Her works appeared sporadically on various TG web sites until last May, when she opened Pink Gladiolas, her own site, which hosts all of her stories and also features current reviews of high-end TG and erotica sites. Edith lives in the Far North and may be contacted at email@example.com.
What Gilbert Got For Christmas
by Edith Bennett Bellamy
1. A Mysterious Gift Under the Tree
Until last Christmas I had always been an early riser, up by five, even on weekends and holidays. I was one of those irksome, compulsive types who never needs an alarm clock except perhaps once or twice a year to catch a redeye flight at one A.M. Early morning was my most productive time, when I could think or read or write without anything or anyone disturbing me. Of course, my whole world changed that day: now I rarely wake up before ten, have my coffee in bed then take a long bath, so I am rarely downstairs until after eleven. Then I… But I'm getting ahead of myself!
Last Christmas morning was no exception to my old rule—I was out of bed, showered and downstairs in my bathrobe brewing coffee by five-fifteen, alert as a squirrel, even without the caffeine. I was looking forward to a few solitary hours before the frenzy of Christmas officially began: Judy and the girls would not be up until nine at the earliest.
Coffee was soon ready; I poured myself a large mug, stirred in some sugar and milk, went into the living room and turned on the Christmas tree lights. I plumped myself down in my leather recliner to contemplate Christmas morning alone.
Everything was just as Judy and I had arranged it, though the cookies the girls had left for Santa were gone, with just a few crumbs remaining on the plate. Santa's glass of milk was empty, too—the surest sign for the girls that Santa had been here sometime during the night. I assumed Judy had dealt with the cookies and milk after I had gone up to bed.
But something wasn't quite right, for on top of the heap of colorful presents under the tree lay a small, brightly wrapped gift I had not remembered either one of us placing there the previous night. It was a slim package, like a tie box in proportions, but smaller. Puzzled, I set my mug of coffee down on the side table, approached the tree and picked up the box.
It was an odd package. I turned it over several times to inspect it. The wrapping paper was like shiny silvery-blue Mylar. What was oddest about it was that the paper was seamless—no folds or taped ends. The ribbon, too, was unique: it was continuous with the wrapping except where the bow stuck out. The little envelope tucked under the bow had my name on it, and when I slid it out, the space under the ribbon from which I had withdrawn it sealed itself up, so that the envelope could not be replaced.
The envelope, made of the same shiny material as the wrapping but silvery-red, was unsealed. It held a perfectly-fitted card, made of what looked like titanium, but as thin as paper. The card, which smoothly ejected itself the moment I touched it, like a CD ejected from a slotted player, at first appeared to be blank, but when I angled it under the lamp, a holographic message appeared, inscribed in an elegant hand. The shimmering message, suspended in the air between my eyes and the card, read:
"To Gilbert: This delightful little gift will give you and your loved ones years of pleasure. You will find instructions for its use enclosed. Make sure to read them carefully! Santa."
I tried working off the ribbon over a corner of the slim package, but I could not dislodge it even the slightest. I carried it into the kitchen, took a knife from the knife rack and tried sliding the blade under the ribbon, but without success—the impervious wrapping may as well have been stainless steel. I turned the box over and over, looking for some point of purchase for removing the ribbon, but there was none whatsoever.
Then it occurred to me that I might simply try untying the bow. I felt a bit foolish, as it came untied without effort, and, like a flower unfolding, the strange wrapping opened of itself, revealing a flat, hinged box covered in burgundy damask.
I sprung the catch and opened the cover. Nestled in a black velvet liner lay a mint silver dollar set into a delicate bezel of silver and hung on a plain silver chain. The date on the dollar was 1882. I lifted it from its fitted inlay and, without thinking, put it over my head and around my neck—the chain was long enough not to need a clasp.
No sooner had it dropped into place than the coin and its chain were surrounded by a cold, blue-white flickering flame—for only half a second, perhaps—and then it was no longer a silver dollar on a chain, but a string of fine pearls. No, not a string of pearls either, for the chain rapidly become shorter and I could feel it hugging my neck like a snug collar and could no longer see it. I felt behind my neck for a clasp, so I could remove it immediately. I detected a clasp, all right, but I could not open it.
I rushed to the bathroom and stood before the mirror, only to discover that I was now wearing a wide and close-fitting pearl choker of six or eight strands. I rotated it and leaned towards the mirror to inspect its clasp. The mechanism was too tiny for my fingers to manipulate. I thought of going for the scissors—then I remembered the caveat about reading the instructions: I broke out in a clammy sweat as I realized I had forgotten even to look at them!
But before I could turn from the mirror, I saw, to my horror, every square inch of my exposed skin—face, neck, forearms, wrists and hands (everything not covered by my bathrobe)—flicker with the same cold, blue-white flame that had surrounded the pendant and its chain, but this time with the static-like "zzzsssszzzzzt!" of an electrical discharge that made all the hair on my body stand on end. I set my teeth, clenched my fists and closed my eyes tightly…
A sickening pause…then, without warning, I was racked by a series of powerful spasms, perhaps two seconds apart, just as a car lurches when a novice driver hasn't yet learned to work the clutch. My limbs twitched like a marionette's. With each spasm I felt myself shrink a notch, become less substantial. I toppled forward; to avoid losing my balance, I grasped the edge of the sink counter. With the final spasm, I felt a mentholated sort of a coolness spread like a stain from between my legs up into my belly. Another pause…and a softening washed through me in wavelets, rounding my form, slackening my ligaments, smoothing my skin. The scent of ozone filled the bathroom.
When it was clear the maelstrom had passed, I opened my eyes and blinked in astonishment at my reflection, for I regarded a much smaller person—wearing an oversized bathrobe—blinking and staring back at me in numb stupefaction. It was a woman in her early twenties, her face essentially mine but with smaller, refined features—higher cheekbones, finer eyebrows over long-lashed brown eyes, and a delicate nose, slightly turned up. Her hair was short, like a boy's, but nonetheless meticulously layered and styled. Her teeth, with that familiar irregular lower incisor, were proportionally smaller but definitely mine, as well as the fine white scar under her nose, going down to the edge of her upper lip (now more refined, too)—I had gotten that scar at age three by falling off my tricycle. She wore the pearl choker, still turned backwards, clasp in front, and the now ridiculously large bathrobe.
"My God!" I heard myself say, as I saw the woman in the mirror open her mouth in mimicry. I did a double-take at the sound of my voice, which, you will not be overly surprised to learn, was a light soprano, with an edge of panic to it.
With trembling fingers—exposed only after pushing up my too-long sleeves—I undid the loose tie at my waist and warily opened my robe, revealing a pair of generous breasts with puffy pink nipples surrounded by areolas three inches across. The breasts were young, firm and full—globular below, but with that enticing ski-jump concavity above, making them look perky. Their ivory skin was translucent enough to hint at their subcutaneous lacework of delicate blue veins. They were the kind of breasts you see on body-powdered models in "Playboy" magazine, although there was nothing powdered about this pair: they were perfect, straining ripely through their taut skin, the kind of breasts you don't want to see disappear into a bra or a bikini top—and they were evidently mine!
My jaw dropped and my eyes seemed to pop from their sockets. I stared open-mouthed at this magnificent pair of knockers for a good thirty seconds before snatching my robe closed to banish the appalling sight—appalling only because these breasts were mine, a proposition as impossible to accept as it was to deny, given the ocular evidence. I cinched up the tie, shocked at the narrowness of my waist and staggered back to the kitchen, the loose breasts swinging crazily inside my robe. My heart sank to feel my butt twitch with each step: my hips were now broad! My center of gravity had shifted, too: I was bottom-heavy despite the additional heft of my breasts, as heavy as cantaloupes, unsettling my equilibrium and forcing me to throw back my shoulders to compensate for their weight. But worst of all, something ghastly—no, make that something cataclysmic—had happened between my legs. As I walked, my thighs—my plump thighs—brushed smoothly together all the way up: the space between them was vacant!
My mouth went as dry as cotton. An icy sweat beaded my forehead. I collapsed onto a kitchen chair, filling its seat more fully than I had ever filled it before. Leaning on the table with my elbows, my free breasts brushing its edge through the bathrobe as I bent forward, I reached one hand for the empty jewelry box. Removing the form-fitted inlay, I found beneath it a thin, stiff item, narrow like a bookmark, made of the same titanium film as the card, and engraved with diminutive, holographic print. It was the instructions—instructions for a piece of jewelry!
Queasy with apprehension, I read:
"Congratulations! You are now the proud owner of the world's most advanced transformational jewelry, made in the USA by TransMorphology Ventures, Ltd.
"Before you endeavor to wear it, be aware of its powers: it will transmute males into females and females into males, depending on its initial manifestation—silver dollar medallion or pearl choker. When a silver dollar medallion, it will change a man into a woman. When a pearl choker, it will change a woman into a man. Its effects will last as long as it is worn, with certain exceptions [see below].
"The transmuted sex of the wearer is 100% genuine: transmuted women are biologically identical to natal women, and transmuted men to natal men—in all respects. This can easily be borne out by chromosomal analysis, but you would simply be wasting your money. Be assured: your transmutation is totally real.
"Transmuted women are warned they are exquisitely fertile and will conceive while wearing this jewelry if they have consummated, unprotected sex with a man even once. Conception "locks" a female transmutation in place regardless of a pregnancy's ultimate outcome. Transmuted men, on the other hand, may revert at will to their natal female condition simply by removing the silver dollar medallion, regardless of whether or not they have impregnated anyone. This inequity in properties reflects the timeless disparity between the sexes, and has been designed to assure that any offspring resulting from the use of this product will have at least a fair chance of proper maternal upbringing.
"Therefore, if a natal male wearer desires to remain a transmuted woman for only a limited period of time, the use of contraceptive measures is strongly advised. The manufacturer, however, assumes no liability for the effectiveness of any such measures, the responsibility for which rests solely with the consumer.
important inequity: transmuted women are affected by rapid amnesia of their
former male state. This has been programmed into the unit to allow a measure
of tranquility under the rigorous demands of menstruation, childbearing
and the raising of infants, which might otherwise precipitate insanity
in former males."
"When the product is in its pearl choker manifestation, the wearer is cautioned not to remove it except by opening it at its clasp. Forcing the clasp or cutting the strands may render the unit unpredictable, and transmutations may become irreversible. TransMorphology Ventures, Ltd. accepts no liability for any adverse consequences of wearing a damaged unit."
I heaved a sigh of relief that I had not taken scissors to the choker! Then I continued reading:
"This product is unconditionally guaranteed against defects in materials and workmanship. TransMorpholoogy Ventures, Ltd. will repair or replace a defective unit at its discretion. TransMorpholoogy Ventures, Ltd. disclaims liability for loss of income or for any other incidental damages arising from use or misuse of this device. Manufacturer's liability is restricted to replacement cost only.
Ventures, Ltd. specifically disclaims liability resulting from pregnancy
or pregnancies and any expenses incident thereto, including claims for
pain and mental anguish.
"Made by TransMorphology Ventures, Ltd., One Genome Plaza, El Cerritos, CA 94530."
Surely this was some sort of bizarre practical joke or a hallucination induced by something in my coffee—except for the fact that it wasn't. I mean, here I was, evidently a real woman, sitting in my own kitchen on my broad female derrière, my unrestrained breasts jouncing as I shifted in my chair, wearing a bathrobe six sizes too large for me and a pearl choker about my neck—hardly a laughing matter! I read the document through one more time and then reached for the clasp, which my smaller fingers could now probably work. I fiddled with it unsuccessfully for a minute or so—with my unaccustomedly long nails, it would take a bit of patience and practice.
Then a thought struck me like a thunderbolt: "What's the big hurry?" I asked myself. I ceased fumbling with the clasp and slowly brought my hands down, reached into my voluminous robe and warily cupped my warm breasts to reaffirm their existence—no breasts ever felt more real nor did any so like being fondled.
"Judy and the girls will be fast asleep for at least two hours yet," I reasoned, hefting my breasts a bit more confidently and giving them a speculative—and rather gratifying—squeeze. "This is really the chance of a lifetime—to find out what it's like to be a woman. There's no danger of my actually staying female: I'll just remove the choker before they wake up. And besides, I'm not really female anyway—I just have a woman's body for a little while. I'm still me, after all. So not to worry. I'll just enjoy myself for a couple of hours, then take the choker off and change back. It's a no-brainer. This'll be a blast!"
This Laudably Practical & Masculine Line of Thought convinced me that I was immune to any threatened amnesia. Thus reassured that my having been transformed into a woman could in no way threaten my masculinity, I relaxed, determined to extract the greatest possible pleasure from this extraordinary present as long as its effects lasted, and to preserve my masculinity unblemished at the same time. Surely any Real Man was equal to such a challenge! So I rolled the sleeves of my bathrobe high up over my lithe arms, poured myself another mug of coffee, and headed mincingly downstairs to the guest room. The guest room had a full-length mirror and I was burning to see everything my bathrobe concealed.
The room was chilly (it's hardly ever used), so I turned up the thermostat and lit only one lamp, a dim one. Then I put my coffee mug down on the dresser, approached the mirror and faced my unfamiliar reflection. I swallowed hard, took a deep breath and slowly undid the tie around my waist, my gaze riveted to the mirror.
I tremblingly opened my robe, letting it slip from my narrower shoulders and onto the floor. Now I stood completely revealed—a fairly small woman, perhaps five foot three at most (pretty much my wife's stature, in fact), with large breasts—not too large, but nicely-proportioned to my diminutive stature. My waist was narrow and high and my hips becomingly wide, framing a broad belly—not muscular, but gently protuberant and fertile-appearing. My full thighs began below a dainty and softly-molded "V" covered with a tuft of amber maidenhair, not wiry at all, but fine and smooth and wavy and sparse enough so that I could plainly see the girlcleft that descended for a couple of inches, like an incision, before disappearing between my pale thighs, making me a perforate creature with my own secret pink depths and moist inner folds.
The sight of my mons and my lightly-furred slit mesmerized me—I stood before my reflection, staring at the appalling wound between my legs, aghast at my own penetrability. Gradually, I became aware of a new symmetry of organs within me—organs evidently not yet fully settled into position, for I could feel them ripple faintly as they finished arranging themselves deep within my belly.
When the rippling died away, I snapped out of my trance, turned about and looked over my shoulder to inspect my bottom: I was shapely and plump but by no means too broad in the beam. If I were a man, such a derrière would surely turn my head!
"If I were a man!" Was this the amnesia setting in? So quickly? Impossible! Just a careless slip of the old mental tongue. I, Gilbert the Man, was still firmly in charge of myself, not some airhead bimbo, so I continued my inspection—through male eyes, I assure you: I wouldn't want you to think that I was some kind of lesbian or something. A girl needs to look out for her reputation, you know!
My skin was almost as pale as marble: I resembled the Venus of Milo, except I had arms and hands and fingers to touch myself with (thank God!) and she doesn't. I ran my hands over myself, astonished at how hairless and smooth was my skin. Needless to say, I could not detect even the faintest hint of stubble on my cheeks and chin. My skin was like warm satin—all over. And not only satiny, but evidently endowed with a rich network of sensory nerves, making of my entire integument a sexual organ of sorts. Stroking my thighs and belly evoked almost as intense a response as I had ever gotten by stroking that which I was no longer able to stroke for the simple reason that I no longer possessed it. Such matchless pleasure by running my hands over my skin! The thought of what more intense delights might await me caused the unprobed vacancy between my thighs to soften like warming wax anxious to flow.
By the time I had caressed myself for five or ten minutes—or was it fifteen or twenty?—my nipples were erect and tingling. Moving my hands to my breasts, I began rhythmically to squeeze and massage them, alternately stroking my nipples in circular fashion. I could see that I was short by one pair of hands at least, for this latest caressing had awakened my new sex, which now demanded digital attentions of its own.
Leaving one hand to attend to my breasts, I brought the other down to probe The Dread Aperture. As I approached the apex of my furred cleft, I uttered a squeal as a delicious shiver ran through me—the pad of my fingertip had inadvertently brushed the tiny firmness at the upper commissure of my labia. I jerked away my finger as if I had touched a live wire. Clearly, I needed a more delicate approach!
So absorbed was I in tactile sensations that I abandoned the mirror and lay down on the bed on my back, legs drawn up and parted to allow my hands unhindered access to my blossoming novelties. I propped myself up on some pillows so that I could take in the view whenever I wished. And such a view!
My breasts, now flattened, presented no major visual obstruction—my tummy tapered below to a womanmound as trim as a thrush breast, but cleft by that fascinating blunt-edged furrow coursing down between my thighs and out of sight. The skin on either side of this furrow was as smooth as rose petals; I spent God knows how long stroking my labia, feeling them swell, feeling the hooded bud at their apex engorge—so sensitive almost to defy direct stimulation. I quickly found that it preferred being lightly touched through its little hood by rolling it in a tiny circle under my fingertip, like a bead. You'd be shocked at how much a woman can pleasure herself with the minimal excursion of just one finger!
Anyway—after ten or twenty minutes of getting thoroughly acquainted with—
…Look, I simply can't bring myself to say "with the tiny firmness at the upper commissure of my labia" another time! What a mouthful! It's embarrassing enough for a girl to talk about these things with a stranger, you know. And I don't want to get the reputation right off for having a foul mouth—no decent girl does. But these awkward circumlocutions are beginning to wear me down. So is it all right if I start calling things by their proper names, even if they are four-letter ones? Is that O.K. with you? You won't think me unladylike?
All right, then. Let me continue.
Anyway—after ten or twenty minutes of getting thoroughly acquainted with my clit—there! that's better, isn't it?—I was more than ready to dip into myself, but I wanted to watch myself do it. So I sprang up, rushed about the room turning on all the lights, grabbed a hand mirror from the guest bathroom and returned to the bed. It didn't take but five seconds.
Once again on my back and propped up on pillows, I parted my thighs and angled the mirror to allow a clear view. As I liightly traced the rather shocking extent of my slit with my fingers (it was at least six inches from end to end!), I could feel heat radiating from it as if from a living furnace. I rested my middle finger on the baby-soft crest where my labia met and tried to imagine what might lie within. But why wonder with the answer so close at hand? So I pushed tentatively against a momentary and elastic resistance—a little harder— until…
O! O! My labia parted with an excruciatingly delicious yielding as my finger plunged without friction into my outrageously wet slipperiness with a faint syrupy splash. I felt my finger gripped along its length and coaxed smoothly inwards by an odd reflex I could not suppress. I gasped and dropped the mirror, which shattered as it fell to the floor.
I ignored it.
I pressed the heel of my hand firmly down on my mound and carefully crooked my buried finger—mindful of my long fingernail—to stroke the inner walls of my vagina. I adored my wetness and stirred myself assiduously for a few minutes, as if I were whipping a batter. Actually, I was a bit disappointed to find that the inside of your vagina is not quite as sensitive as I had always supposed it would be—men haven't the foggiest idea what a turned-on pussy really feels like inside to the woman who owns it. They think you go into orbit whenever they stick their clumsy fingers into you. It feels O.K., I admit, but your labia and clit are far more sensitive, believe me.
Anyway, I slowly retracted my finger until my fingertip rested almost weightlessly on my clit, which by now had emerged from its hood in diminutive parody of its male counterpart—a parody only in size, not in feeling. (And that's a gross understatement: if cocks were only half as richly innervated as clits, the world's work would never get done—men would be playing with themselves all day long—there would probably never be wars and no one would play football or build any skyscrapers.)
But this was hardly the time for philosophizing! So I dipped my fingers into myself once more, soaking them thoroughly, withdrew them and commenced manipulation in earnest. Now, stroking dry labia is one thing, but stroking labia bathed in wild lubrication quite another…it's absolutely divine! I rotated my pelvis so that I could dip in effortlessly whenever I needed more. I reached inside myself often, as into an inexhaustible well, and each time my fingers emerged wetter than before. I even had the courage to bring them to my nostrils on more than one occasion, finding that the scent of my female musk stimulated me further. And yes, since you ask, I tasted it, too. It's better just to smell your own musk, though, if you really want to know.
Friction's the main thing—I quickly discovered the most suitable rhythm and began to moan and roll my head side to side as the intensity of pleasure swelled. I ratcheted myself upwards to successively higher plateaus of ecstasy, then suddenly my hips were bucking and my breasts jounced every which way. I felt as open and vast as a tropical sea —and as wet. After a brief but excruciating pause, the whole sparkling edifice of pleasure came down about me in a hot, wet implosion so intense that I had to bite my free hand to avoid screaming and waking the household.
I almost tore off the pearl choker right then, sealing my fate for good, but I restrained my impetuous fingers and instead settled back down on the bed with a sigh of deliverance, allowing my afterglow to suffuse every capillary of my body, like gentle pulsations of warm, honeyed milk.
Copyright © 2001 Edith Bellamy. All rights reserved.
To read more about Gilbert's Transformation, please visit Pink Gladiolas.
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