Mind Caviar Fiction

Edith Bennett Bellamy has been writing elegantly prolix transgender erotica for the past five years. Her works appeared sporadically on various TG web sites until last May, when she opened Pink Gladiolas, her own site, which hosts all of her stories and also features current reviews of high-end TG and erotica sites. Edith lives in the Far North and may be contacted at ebellamy@pinkgladiolas.com.

What Gilbert Got for Christmas
A Serial in Four Parts
by Edith Bennett Bellamy

Click here to read
Chapter 1, "A Mysterious Gift Under the Tree"

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to the current installment, Chapter 3

CHAPTER 2. Gilbert Rechristened as Gillian

In my frantic haste to unfasten the clasp of the magical choker, and as yet unaccustomed to the delicacy of things feminine, including women's jewelry, I handled it too roughly; the clasp gave with a sickening snap and the next thing I knew I was holding the pearl choker by one end in my hand. I stared at its broken clasp in abject disbelief. Needless to say, no new shuddering spasms ensued. Recalling the caveat in the instructions, my heart froze at the prospect of permanency just as I heard Heather and Rachel calling for me.

"Daddy, where are you, we want to open our presents!"

Then Judy's steps sounded on the stairs. I lunged for my bathrobe, managed to get it on and was tying the belt just as Judy appeared in the doorway. She stopped dead on the threshold, and stared, more with satisfied fascination than outright surprise.

"It... it's all right, honey, I can explain. It's this pearl choker..." I faltered, in my girlish soprano, holding the broken choker high up between us like an expiatory offering, but Judy cut me off.

"'Honey?'" she echoed. "Who the hell are you and why are you wearing my husband's bathrobe?" she demanded, seemingly outraged. And where are you hiding Gil?"

"Um, Judy, I'm Gil, it's really me. Look," I pleaded, coming nearer and nervously tapping my upper lip, "Here's my scar..." Judy looked and made her eyes grow wide with amazement. "Look at my bottom teeth, you can see they're mine...." Now I was whining. I pulled my lower lip down to show Judy my crooked incisor. We now stood eye-to-eye, being of pretty much the same stature. Then, on impulse, I threw open my robe and flashed my stuff for Judy's benefit.

Judy gasped melodramatically, then inspected my wares on display without evincing the least disapproval. In fact, she seemed rather pleased. As I did up my bathrobe, puzzling over her reaction, I explained what had happened as briefly as I could, including my failure to have read the instructions beforehand, and the caveat that the transformation was possibly permanent were the choker to be broken.

"You never were one for reading directions, Gil," she observed. "I always thought it would get you into serious hot water someday - and now you've gone and gotten yourself changed into a woman! Hand over that choker right now; perhaps I can mend it." (Judy was an amateur jewelry maker and had all the necessary tools.)

I relinquished it to her with somewhat mixed feelings.

Judy seemed to swallow hard, then said, "Look, Gil, "we have two little girls waiting upstairs to open their presents, and I am not about to have their Christmas ruined, no matter the reason. So come on upstairs, let me do the talking. After breakfast I'll drop them off at my sister's for the whole afternoon and they can play with their cousins. Then we'll have some time to deal with the broken choker and with your, er, predicament. O. K.?"

She put both her hands on my shoulders and smiled encouragingly.

I didn't feel too encouraged. But, as I said, at this point I also had mixed feelings about my transmutation - and its possible permanency.

"Even if you can fix it, it probably won't work," I mumbled with half-feigned discouragement. Then I sheepishly followed Judy back upstairs to the living room, hoisting the skirt of my bathrobe with both hands so I would not tread on its hem. I was mortified to face my family like this, but there was nothing for it! Heather and Rachel, who had by now culled their respective presents into separate piles, glanced up as we entered the living room, looked at one another, then turned their eyes questioningly towards Judy.

"Girls," Judy began, her hand raised to forestall their exclamations of surprise, "Santa brought Daddy a very unusual present this Christmas, which has changed his appearance a little. But it's going to wear off soon, and then he'll be the same old Daddy as before. Isn't that right, Dear?" she asked, turning to me.

The girls shifted their gaze to the strange woman who was wearing their father's bathrobe and standing beside their mother, and their jaws dropped. Heather, the older, an observant child of seven, considered me for a moment, then announced, before I could stammer a reply:

"She does look a little like daddy, but she's a woman. Say something, you!"

"It's O.K., Pips," I gently responded, using her pet name, "Mommy's right. It's really me in here. This'll only last a little while, then I'll be back to normal," I lied.

Upon hearing this strange woman address Heather as "Pips," the girls traded startled glances. Then they started to giggle. My kids have a great sense of humor, though I never could figure out where they got it from.

"Daddy lookths tho funny," Rachel finally said, recovering from her spasms of giggling. "Hidthz bathrobe'thz way too big for him now. But I like hidthz hair much better zthith way. And hidthz voith idth now thmoother than mommy'thz! It doethn't hurt my earthz any more. You can thtay zthith way, Daddy."

Having settled the matter in her mind, Rachel looked me straight in the eye, and asked, "Can we thtart opening our prethenths now, Daddy?"

Rachel was clearly not about to let some minor contretemps like the altered sex of a parent interfere with her annual present-opening frenzy. She is a little realist, you see, like most children.

But it was Judy who answered:

"Yes, girls, go ahead and open your presents. And Gil, you go upstairs and get out of that ridiculous bathrobe. Take my pink one from the hook on the bathroom door. We're pretty much the same size now, and I think you'll find mine a heck of a lot more comfortable."

I wasn't too eager to start a family precedent by appearing in a frilly silk robe, but I felt absurd standing there with my old robe hanging about me like a circus tent, so I chirped out an "O.K." and tried bounding upstairs in my usual manner, only to trip on the dangling tie of the robe. Everyone (but me) laughed as I picked myself up and gingerly ascended the stairs, this time daintily holding the bathrobe skirts aloft.

Once in the bathroom, I removed my robe to re-survey myself in the mirror. I was still a little woman, like me but quite unlike me at the same time. Before I knew it, I was cupping both my breasts in my hands again, then my eyes involuntarily shifted to my pussy and my hand instantly followed to confirm its persistent reality. As my finger slid inside and received its soft, reflex squeeze by way of greeting, I heaved a small sigh of relief. Relief because I still had this comfortable and incredibly responsive cunt whose mysteries I had hardly begun to explore.

But this was not the time. Now I had to rejoin the girls and share their "oohs" and "aahs" over their presents. So I took Judy's pink robe from the hook on the back of the door and slipped my little self into it, instantly electrified by the first-ever sensation of a silky womangarment sliding over equally silky womanskin which had not as yet encountered anything remotely as stimulating.

I did up the tie, marveling again at my slim waist. As soon as I moved, my nipples hardened as the silk rubbed over them, but, by main force of willpower, I resisted the temptation to reach in and stroke my breasts again (I had a premonition I would be getting plenty of chances quite soon). I descended the stairs with all the dignity I could muster, but, as much as I wanted to, I could not ignore the delicious frisson of the robe where it contacted my shifting breasts and outrageously smooth limbs.

By the time I got to the living room, I again felt that tempting wetness inside my cunt. I tried to ignore it; I sat down in my recliner, tightly crossing my legs to stifle the sensation. Which only made things worse, so I shifted them, crossing them the opposite way. No better! I was already dangerously slippery-wet again. I tried to thrust it from my consciousness, but to no avail. Crossing my legs one way and then the other, I came - just a little, but a real come nonetheless - while sitting there watching my daughters open their Christmas presents, holding my body as rigidly as I could and hoping my face wouldn't betray what I was feeling. Judy glanced at me quizzically once or twice, but the girls paid me no mind at all.

Eventually, all the presents were opened, the girls delighted and a Christmas breakfast made, served and eaten (I was mildly affronted at needing to drag a chair up to the cabinets so I could reach the waffle iron). When it was time to clean up, Judy announced:

"Gil, as soon as the girls and I are dressed, I'm taking them over to my sister's for the rest of the day. I'll get them to promise not to breathe a word about what's happened. Why don't you clean up the kitchen while I'm gone," she said with a smirk, a slightly malicious glint in her eye. Then, coming up close to me and twirling a stray lock of hair over my ear, she suddenly grasped it hard, pulled me towards her and whispered:

"Then how about you dress yourself in my lingerie and wait for me in the bedroom. Pick out some silky panties - you'll love how they feel. I'll get back as soon as I can."

"Your lingerie?" I repeated, taken aback by her suggestion, yet blushing as a light went on in my brain about silky women's underthings and how lovely they would feel, now that I was built expressly for such garments and they for me. As soon as Judy saw me blush, she released my hair and smiled with an air of superior knowledge. Then she turned and shooed the girls out of the kitchen and up the stairs to get dressed.

To keep my mind off Judy's suggestion, I tied on one of her aprons and began bustling about, collecting dishes and putting things back in the cupboards, with every intention of leaving the kitchen spick and span, an intention which had never particularly possessed me before. As I was pouring bacon fat from the griddle into a can, Judy and the girls, now dressed, poked their heads into the kitchen to say good-bye.

"Don't work too hard, Gil," Judy quipped, with another one of those slightly malicious glints in her eye. "I have a plan that I think'll work, and I don't want you all tuckered out."

Then they were gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts - and a dirty kitchen.

I was worried not just about the apparent permanency of my transformation (though still of two minds about it), but started worrying as well about Judy's malicious little leers. Not to mention, of course, her sudden interest in my putting on her lingerie. To my consternation, however, I found I couldn't really get down to serious worrying the way I used to be able to, could not concentrate on the shocking implications of the morning's events, being remarkably content for the moment to clean up the kitchen: I washed the dishes, dried them and put them away, then I polished the stove and the oven door, and before I knew it, I had emptied the 'fridge and was cleaning all the shelves. (A ring of dried half-and-half proved particularly stubborn.) Then I mopped and waxed the floor. Resting on the mop and looking up at the ceiling, I spied a few cobwebs in the corners, so I tied a dishtowel around a dust mop and eradicated them.

I felt rather pleased: the kitchen was becoming quite clean, cleaner than it had been for a while, cleaner, perhaps than it had been since we moved into the house eight years ago, when it was brand-new. Then I saw that there were some coffee stains in the white Corian sink. Whenever I finished one job, another seemed to present itself, and this was only the kitchen! But it did not really exasperate me in the least - I found myself enjoying the work. I wondered if there was any ironing that needed doing, or buttons that needed sewing on....

I was so absorbed in my chores that I quite forgot about my shifting breasts with their taut nipples, my moist and penetrable pussy, Judy's silk bathrobe sliding over my smooth, hairless limbs, derrière and torso... you know, the usual litany customary in stories like these. Well, not quite forgot, as all these sensations are not precisely easy to ignore, you know. And, besides, I had to admit that Judy's suggestion about getting into her lingerie now seemed downright appealing - the very thought of it was turning me on! But first I had to finish my chores.

I was about halfway through cleaning eight years of accumulated crumbs out of the silverware and utensil drawers when Judy returned. So engrossed was I in this fascinating task that I didn't even hear her enter. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped about a foot in the air, emitted a shriek of alarm and spun around...

"Oh, it's you, Jude. You gave me a scare! I didn't expect you back so soon," I squeaked, greatly relieved it was not an intruder, though I had never worried about intruders before.

"Yes, it's only me, Gil," Judy responded, giving my rump a proprietary squeeze. "My, my, what a good little housewife you've been while I was gone! That choker of yours is really my Christmas present, too!" she continued, pointing out a coffee stain I had missed and waggling a finger peremptorily between me and the stain, indicating that I should attend to it immediately (which I did). "As far as I'm concerned, you can do this for the whole Christmas vacation. I could use a rest." (Judy was an attorney for a large firm that specialized in Equal Employment Opportunity and sexual harassment lawsuits and she also did the bulk of the housework and raising of the kids. I was a technical writer for a well-known software company, most of whose clients were large interstate banks; I worked almost exclusively at home, "telecommuting," as they say, yet I shared very little in the way of domestic or child raising chores. Until right then, that is.)

"Look, Judy," I replied, "I was just cleaning up extra-thoroughly. I couldn't help myself: I noticed all sorts of little things I've never noticed before. The silverware trays were just filled with crumbs and the sink was filthy. There were cobwebs on the ceiling. And the oven door was streaked. I simply had to polish it. And the 'fridge had a funny smell and rings of dried half-and-half on the shelves."

"It's been like that for years, Gil," replied Judy. "I'm just too busy to deal with it, that's all, and you never paid any attention before. But if you have the inclination and the energy, be my guest!" And she laughed. Then she added, "But Gil, honey, you're not even dressed yet! And you've gotten a grease spot on my robe. It's from Nordstrom's - it cost $300, it's silk - you're going to have to hand wash it now! I'll show you how to deal with your delicate washables - you'll need to know how from now on, I suspect, because I am not about to start washing another woman's lingerie: that's a very personal thing, as you will shortly discover. And, while we're at it, don't you think Gilbert isn't quite the right appellation for a darling little five-foot-three-inch housefrau like you?"

I was still scrubbing the coffee stain I had missed in the sink, applying all the elbow grease my reduced strength would permit, but that remark stopped me dead. I realized that 'Gilbert' really didn't cut the mustard any more. I brought my rubber-gloved hands out of the sink and turned around.

"What do you propose I should call myself, then?" I enquired.

"Well, a number of 'G' girls' names come to mind. Like Gilberta (too obvious), Gemma, Gina or Gloria. Or you could try Gladys, Glenna or Goldie. Griselda or Gertrude don't suit you: too severe - I think you'll turn out to be a rather carefree little chit of a thing once you find your new self. So, let's see... Oh, I know," she exclaimed, "Let's call you Gillian. It means 'the youthful, downy haired one.' You're more youthful than ever and I'll bet you're downy-haired where it counts...." Judy smiled wickedly, adding, "and a Gillian could still be a technical writer, whereas no editor would pay any attention to a Gladys or a Goldie. That is, if you still feel like writing after everything else you will find yourself doing.... Now, Gillian, let's go upstairs and get you dressed. Then we can tackle your little 'problem.'"

So that's how I came to be called Gillian.

My name settled upon, I pulled off my yellow rubber gloves, removed the apron and hung it on its peg, and followed my wife. Alighting the stairs set in motion my erogenous female bodily mechanics again (you know, the jiggling breasts, swaying hips, labia rubbing together, etc., etc.): I recalled the power of my first orgasm and the less intense but nonetheless uplifting effect of my demi-orgasm in the living room, and found myself thirsting for more.

But what was this lingerie business? Did Judy want to humiliate me? Was she planning some sort of lesbian escapade? My brain seethed with all sorts of suspicions, but they were to fall far short of the reality, as suspicions so frequently do....

Copyright © Edith Bennett Bellamy. All rights reserved.

Click here to read Chapter 3.


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