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

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Chapter 1, "A Mysterious Gift Under the Tree"

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Chapter 2, "Gilbert Rechristened as Gillian"

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Chapter 3, "The True Origin of Gillian's Gift Revealed"

CHAPTER 4. Gillian Dresses Herself, is Undressed, is Fulfilled

...Gillian, half-maddened by the need to have Julian inside her, slowly drew open her lingerie drawer. She had but one purpose: how to please Julian, and, in so doing, achieve her own gratification. Gillian gazed into the open drawer, looking for a particularly sexy ensemble, something as stimulating for her to wear as it would be for Julian to see her in.

Her task was not difficult, for Judy, never a meticulous housekeeper, had been paradoxically compulsive about the arrangement of her - now Gillian's - lingerie drawer. The voluminous top dresser drawer was divided into four compartments. One contained ordinary, workaday lingerie - cotton panties, some with tiny floral motifs (generally rosebuds), and serviceable brassieres, all neatly folded, some in sets. A second compartment contained various garter belts, girdles and panty girdles: any garment designed to hold stockings up could be found here. The stockings themselves, carefully rolled into pairs and arranged according to color, occupied the third and smallest.

The last (and largest) compartment held Judy's fine lingerie, which, as we know, had been mainly purchased by Gilbert himself for Judy's bedroom attire and for their mutual sexual enjoyment. Gilbert had always purchased the costliest of silks and satins, much of it European, most of it embellished with rich lacy trim. Judy never demurred at Gilbert's selections - everything was always in the finest taste and of unexcelled quality. Soft pastels in blue, pink, lavender or yellow and tones of taupe, sand and ivory prevailed, with the occasional virginal white or naughty black set.

It was to this last compartment that Gillian now directed her rapt attention. She of course knew most of these garments, as she had, as Gilbert, picked them out as gifts over the years and had, moreover, removed every one of them from an aroused Judy in the course of their frequent lovemaking, in a former existence already no longer remembered. Gillian merely regarded the compartment's contents as her own lingerie: her feminized mind no longer rebelled at the thought that she would very shortly be clothing herself in these very same insubstantial, silky items trimmed with lace which Gilbert, only hours ago, would never have let himself be caught dead in. On the contrary, the thought worked as an added stimulus - she could barely wait to put them on...


But wait! Before I proceed any further, do you not have a fundamental question? Do you not wish to ask whether the enchanted Gillian - this new woman on the verge of being fucked for the first time in her female existence - does she really not remember that she was ever a man? Very well, then, since you have asked, I shall give you the answer: she does not. No. By the time Gillian finds herself poised before her lingerie drawer, the raw power of her new-minted femininity has pushed that memory so far into the cobwebbed recesses of consciousness that it is like the palest shadow of a bad dream - all Gillian knows is that she had a dream and it was bad, but she cannot recall a single detail. Such was the magic of the pearl choker that what Gillian may have been simply doesn't occur to her: she has always been female as far as she is concerned. Such a question can never arise in her feminized brain.

The frail thread of Gillian's male memory had finally snapped, as the very amnesia she had bravely hoped to escape overswept her like a potent drug kicking in, substituting fabricated memories of girlhood and adolescence for her forgotten masculine life. The choker had endowed her with a delusional pedigree so detailed and convincing that Gillian can gossip with the girls, apply makeup with sophistication and deal with the peculiarities of female clothing like a woman born. Buttons on the left? Zippers in back? Little hooks and eyes? Not a problem! She knows when the iron is hot enough for cotton, and when for rayon. She can make a dress from a pattern and turn the collar on a man's shirt. She can arrange flowers in a vase, tie up her hair in a towel turban after a shampoo or scream like a gym teacher's whistle at the sight of a spider. She knows what all those cycles on the washer and dryer are for and how to fold clean laundry without wrinkling it. She runs with her elbows pressed to her waist, hands raised in the air, fingers aflutter. She cries at sad movies and loves to pick up babies. She can soak in the bathtub for two hours at a time reading a Harlequin romance. And, yes, she can even manipulate the most delicate clasp of a pearl choker without breaking it. In short, Gillian is a perfect facsimile of a natal woman in every respect. In every respect save one - she fancies she is sexually experienced, but she is, of course, a virgin.


Let us now take up our story again...

Gillian surveyed the contents of the Fourth Compartment and extracted a brand new bra-and-panty ensemble in champagne-colored silk, embellished with ivory lace wherever the garments allowed. The ensemble included a short camisole, which, if separately worn, would barely descend below the lower curve of her buttocks behind and would allow the tip of her fuzzy triangle to peep out beneath it in front. That is, if she did not raise her arms. In point of fact, it was the very same ensemble that she, as Gilbert, had given to Judy that Christmas morning! The reader will hardly be surprised to learn that, upon seeing it, Gillian fancied it was Julian's Christmas gift to her.

Gillian gathered the incendiary garments in her fingers and turned around, holding them up in enticing and interrogative display for Julian's approval. Julian nodded, so Gillian turned her back to him, placed the bra and camisole on top of the dresser like an offering, and, turning again to face Julian, stepped into her new panties with remarkable feminine grace.

They felt delicious as they slid up over her legs and her thighs and then gloved her, their sensual snugness apparent even before she pulled up the delicate waistband as high as her navel, causing the downysoft gusset to conform to her labia like a second skin, but of cottonlined silk and (unlike herself) imperforate. She ran her thumbs around the inside of the waistband to even it out and let it snap back against her tummy with that delectable little snap she had so liked to hear when she, as Gilbert, had watched Judy do the same.

Gillian liked the sound too - even more, as it was of her making. Such small female gratifications were her birthright, after all! No matter how often she had pulled on her panties and snapped the waistband, she had always gotten the same thrill. Or so the choker had made her remember.

The tiny, flat satin bow at the center of her waistband in front - that dainty badge of femininity she had admired as Gilbert, which she herself now wore as a matter of daily routine... the tiny bow next drew her attention. It pleased her no end to see it, pleased her no end that she had been born to wear garments adorned with such wildly impractical but deliciously erotic ornamentation. And she always would be pleased, for the choker's power had sentenced her to perpetual and intimate communion with such flagrantly provocative apparel of silk, nylon and babysoft cotton, apparel decorated with lace, tiny flat satin bows or imprinted with little daisies or rosebuds, apparel the very wearing of which is a sexual act. The sacred feminine privilege of such communion excited Gillian all the more, arousing within her that sensual complacency granted only to women.

Gillian ran the palms of her hands over the smooth curves of her silk-covered derrière, over her hips, over her slightly protuberant belly, while closing her eyes and craning her neck so that her rapturous face was turned towards the ceiling. She shifted her weight to one leg, and, bringing her thighs closely together, slid her other leg up about three or four inches, the toes barely touching the floor. In this sylph-like posture, resembling a Beardsley gravure, she stroked herself through the silk of her panties for several minutes - her tapered fingers hyperextended so that they curved slightly backwards to avoid snagging the silk with her nails - delighted that her manipulations had caused her nipples to harden and her cunt to become even wetter than it had been before.

The panties had two symmetrical panels of lace at the front - on either side of the central silk one - running taperingly downwards to impinge on the lateral seam defining the front of the gusset that swaddled her labia in cottony softness (and which was darkly soaked through, like a wick, with her intimate fluids). She ran her finger over the little seam so unerringly placed that it crossed the upper juncture of her labia, precisely over the hood of her clitoris, just like the top of a capital 'T.' Running her finger across that superbly-placed seam and then tracing her own bodily seam downwards, indenting the damp material into herself, caused her to squeal: her eyes opened wide in surprise at the sound she had involuntarily made.

She glanced at Julian to gauge her effect; he was smiling again and slowly shaking his head to signify he could barely believe the quality of the performance, but he rotated his index finger in a small circle to signal that she ought to get on with it. She smiled back at him, then languidly turned to the dresser again and daintily took the brassiere in her fingers. It had half-cups of silk topped with the same ivory lace as the panels of the panties she was now wearing in such confining comfort. She slipped her arms through the shoulder straps, and, hands behind her back, grasped both ends of the back band, but did not yet bring them together, leaving the cups away from her breasts. In one smoothly coordinated sweep, Gillian leant forward, caught her breasts in the waiting cups, and without breaking the flow of her swing, straightened her back and at the same time pulled the ends of the band together behind her and deftly fastened the hooks. She brought her hands forward with the intention of running her fingers around the underwires, but it was not necessary, for she had not pinched her breasts anywhere.

Julian again made the impatient circular movement of his finger to hurry her along, but Gillian was so deeply entranced in a timeless feminine mystery that she had no intention whatever of rushing through her sacred lingerie ritual, (though she also wanted Julian inside her). She felt like a child with a Popsicle on a hot summer day who wants to savor it, yet wants to consume it quickly enough so that it won't fall off the stick. Gazing dreamily at Julian, she gave him a self-absorbed smile, then closed her eyes and stroked the lower convexity of her breasts with both hands to assess how they felt through the silkiness of her bra. They felt wonderful, of course, so she performed another little ritual dance of stroking - first her breasts, then her rump, hips and belly again, then back to her breasts, her face once more upturned to the ceiling, eyes closed and mouth slightly open in rapture.

Only the camisole remained. Gillian eventually took it from the dresser and ran it through her fingers any number of times, marveling at its insubstantiality and silkiness, the impractical daintiness of its spaghetti straps and its broad hem of ivory lace. She slipped it on over her head, and, extending her arms above her, gave two or three provocative writhes, causing the garment to settle about her. She smoothed it downwards with the palms of her hands, running them over the defining seams of her bra and her panties beneath it. She turned about in a graceful pirouette, and facing the bed, executed a perfectly feminine low bow, arms swept back up and outwards like the wings of a swan.

Julian applauded her performance, then extended his arms to receive her. With rapid, mincing steps, like a ballerina approaching the edge of the stage to accept a well-deserved bouquet of roses, Gillian advanced to the bed and took both of Julian's waiting hands in hers.

"You always buy me the nicest things, Julian!" she exclaimed, smiling radiantly. She dropped his hands, twirled around several times while holding out the abbreviated skirt of her camisole to both sides, pinkies extended, then grasped his hands again. "Do you like my new lingerie on me? Did I turn you on?"

"You were terrific Gillian, just terrific - as if you've been doing this all your life. I thought you'd have trouble with the bra, at least," replied Julian.

Gillian appeared perplexed by this response, for, as far as she was concerned, she had been doing this all her life. Furrowing her little brow, she continued:

"You sometimes say the strangest things, Julian. Why should I have trouble with my bra? Anyway, I'm not ready to beg you to tear off my panties," she said, with an incongruously serious look on her pretty face, "Not yet," and she provocatively settled herself on Julian's lap, facing him, her legs straddling his waist, arms draped loosely around his neck. "But now I want you to make me beg you..."

Julian's reburgeoning firmness against the silken crotch of her panties impelled Gillian to nestle down on him with small, sidling motions, goading her into preliminary spasms of ecstasy. She allowed his strong arms to enwrap her, drawing her body tightly towards his. She gently nibbled his ear, and added, in a velvet whisper between nibbles, "I don't think you'll have to try very hard. I'm ready to beg..."

Julian toppled himself backwards onto the bed, pulling Gillian down on him, then he rolled over, taking her with him, so that she ended up on her back, her legs still clasped around his waist.

Gillian shut her eyes tightly like a child in expectation of a pleasurable surprise. Nostrils flared and upper lip bedewed with pinpoint beads of perspiration, her breathing had become shallow and rapid. Julian, supporting himself on his elbows, his face inches from Gillian's, stroked both her little cheeks and asked:

"Aren't you going to thank me for the pearl choker first, Gillian?"

Gillian opened her eyes like a doll's, a quizzical expression on her face as if trying to remember something that ought not be forgotten. "Pearl choker, Julian?" she echoed, "Pearl choker? O, the pearl choker! Yes, Thank you! You always buy me the nicest things, Julian! I'm sorry it's broken. Maybe we can find all the pearls and take them to a jeweler tomorrow and have it mended. But look, are you going to tear off my panties right now and fuck me, or are we going to lie around all afternoon talking about jewelry?"

Julian could not have received more eloquent thanks from this penetrable creature, who just that morning had been as masculine as he himself now was and who, after being transformed in body, had vainly harbored illusions of immunity to the anamnestic powers of the magical choker. Now, mere hours later, Gillian was so wholly a woman in mind and body alike - a woman aroused to white heat - that she was almost frantic to be impaled by a man. Julian, however, intended to torment her to the limit of female endurance, to whet her desire to its keenest wire edge, before giving her the satisfaction she so desperately craved. So he began his special magic, driving her almost insane with his fingers, his lips and his tongue, (as only one who has been a woman can know how), teasing her through the silk of her panties and bra (the camisole went in the first thirty seconds), whipping her into an absolute frenzy so that, indeed, in less than five minutes, she began to beg him - breathlessly to beg him, tearfully to beg him - to strip off her panties and take her (by then the bra, too, had become a casualty).

But it was not until half-an-hour later, by which time Gillian had almost fainted from the drawn-out agony of ecstatic anticipation, that Julian finally removed her panties. She lifted her bottom to assist, then felt him ever so slowly sliding them down over the smoothness of her thighs, over her legs, her ankles and feet, over the backs of her toes. She shivered deliciously as the cool air of the room bathed her unprotected feminine nakedness.

Pantiless, Gillian lifted her feet high in the air and grasped her ankles to spread her legs to the widest extent her hips would allow. In this posture of ultimate female surrender she expectantly lay, displaying for Julian her neverfucked depths, now more crimson than pink. No woman could possibly show more of herself to a man than Gillian showed to Julian; no woman could possibly ache more to be fucked than Gillian ached, lying on her back, legs flagrantly spread, feet in the air, begging with every fiber of her being to be ravished without further postponement.

Julian relished the spectacle of this new woman - his former husband Gilbert - splayed shamelessly before him in expectation of imminent servicing, her exposed penetralia pulsating slowly like some sort of palpitant sea life. The longer he regarded her, the harder he became. Well he remembered the bittersweet torture of having to wait - wet, hot and open - for the man to be ready. So Julian compelled Gillian to wait for what seemed an eternity to the poor woman before he entered her with an excruciatingly slow and endless glissade which she had neither power nor desire to resist. After all, as a woman she could do nothing other than yield to Julian's relentless advance; she gasped sharply to feel a man's blood-engorged cock surge into her body for the first time - as high as her navel, just as Julian had promised - distending her labia to a narrow rim gripping the thick root of his shaft like a ring encircling the base of one's finger.

Gillian lay immobile, stunned by the actuality - and depth - of her penetration. Her warm softness began to ripple over Julian's length, coaxing him inwards. Then a sudden greediness to be even more profoundly impaled made Gillian wrap her legs around Julian's waist: she cinched up her ankles and squirmed her hips to ratchet him into her that last little notch until they were utterly fused. She thrashed her head side to side and moaned at being pinned to the bed by such remorseless pressure, a remorseless and divine pressure filling her utterly and pushing up and up beyond her navel into her chest, up and up even further, making her vast, making her the Creatrix Omnipotent, yet all the same a woman bound fast to the rack of merciless pleasure, suspended in time, primed to receive the bright searing spark of life into herself.

The couple, both virgins in their respective new bodies, lay still for a good five or ten minutes, deeply enmeshed in each other, clasped tightly together, delighting in the glories of their sexes - so different, but yet, once melded, so very similar because of the mutual feeling of absolute physical unity. Each had what the other lacked and gave of it without reservation so that both possessed an identical sum.

Then they began their primordial dance, with which, we assume, the reader is sufficiently familiar so that the carnal details may be dispensed with in this particular instance. Suffice it to say that Gillian, opened to her utmost extreme, heels hoisted three feet in the air, was overcome by the shattering sweep of her orgasm, which rippled on long after both were expended, long after Julian's forceful spurts had pierced her nulliparous cervix, inoculating needle-fine jets of his seed into her womb, impregnating her...

Impregnating her?

Yes, impregnating her! For that, let it now be known, was the ultimate purpose of the mysterious silver dollar pendant: when it creates a woman from a masculine substrate, it delivers her up into existence at the fertile acme of her cycle. Conception is so very certain that it was a matter of the costly pendant's money-back guarantee. TransMorphology Ventures, Ltd., had never yet had to refund a dime: all its customers always achieved absolute satisfaction.

Gillian, having been rendered blithely forgetful of the pendant's remarkable powers (of which Judy, of course, had been keenly aware), did not suspect that she had just that moment conceived, and was therefore destined to live out her life as a woman. Had she known it at the moment her fate had been sealed, however, she would not have minded a bit. On the contrary, she probably would have sighed, smiled and said, "Thank God."

But instead Gillian sighed, smiled and said, "Fuck me again, Julian." And so he did, four more times that Christmas day and five times every day thereafter for many months, but only when she begged him - which was always.

EPILOGUE. A Happy Ending for All

So ends the tale of what Gilbert got for Christmas: far more than he expected, and perhaps more than he deserved, but, without putting too fine a point on it, the magical pendant was the greatest gift he had ever received. Gillian never once asked Julian to repair it, nor did she seek out the pearls. In fact, in the months after that fateful Christmas day, if Gillian happened upon one of the pearls while cleaning the bedroom, under the radiator or behind the dresser perhaps, she would vacuum it up with savage fury as if it were a desiccated insect she wouldn't dare touch with her fingers. But on occasion, in those elusive quicksilver moments just before sleep, when one may fleetingly glimpse the Great Mystery of Existence, Gillian did remember what and who she had been, and in those rare moments she never once regretted having broken the clasp. She was as perfectly content to be lover and wife as ever woman could be.

And perfectly content as a mother as well, for in the month of September of the following year, Gillian was delivered of a healthy baby boy, who was christened Gilbert after her former self. Gillian adored and pampered him, never ceasing to be amazed that she could give birth to anything so exotic as a manchild.

As for Julian? Julian enjoyed himself immensely as a man and eventually became a good husband and father, after sowing a few wilds oats before settling down. But he would be the first to admit that being a man had certain ... well, drawbacks, a certain lack of refinement, or, perhaps better put, a blunt directness incapable of real subtlety, and, as the years went by, he found himself removing his pendant from time to time. When he reverted to Judy on such occasions (which was usually away from home), he was scrupulously careful as regards contraception, and so was always able to become Julian again.

And little Heather and Rachel? Well, they were young enough to become accustomed to their new family realities, though they shed tears at first, but they were absolutely delighted to have a new baby brother.


We hope you enjoyed "What Gilbert Got for Christmas." Be sure and visit Pink Gladiolas to read more stories by Edith Bennett Bellamy!

Copyright © Edith Bennett Bellamy. All rights reserved.


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