Wednesday, January 4, 2012

What Gilbert Got for Christmas

I am pleased to present to you this next story by Edith Bellamy: "What Gilbert Got for Christmas." I realize that this is a little late for Christmas, but tough.  It wasn't really a plan to post this for the holiday, you all voted for it like crazy, so it's your fault.  If I had realized that it would be the obvious choice at the beginning of December, I would have probably tried a little harder to get it up in time, but alas.  Anyway, enjoy this late Christmas gift from me to all of you.

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.

"Another 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."

Menstruation? Childbearing? Raising of infants? AMNESIA? Insanity would be a relative blessing! And how rapidly was "rapid"? Hours? Days? Weeks? Or mere moments, like my physical transformation? A quick inventory found myself still thoroughly male in mind and outlook. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the sleeve of my robe and read on:

"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.

"TransMorphology Ventures, Ltd. specifically disclaims liability resulting from pregnancy or pregnancies and any expenses incident thereto, including claims for pain and mental anguish.

"If you have difficulty understanding these instructions or the unit malfunctions, please contact us at:

"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-looking. 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 lightly 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.

Lying there in a haze of ebbing pleasure, I must have lost track of time, for I suddenly heard the scampering of little feet through the ceiling above me. I knew all along I would have to remove the choker sooner or later and relinquish this fabulous body. But not this soon! Not this soon!

I sat up reluctantly, reached behind my neck and, long nails interfering, began urgently to fiddle with the clasp.

2. Gilbert Rechristened as Gillian

In my frantic haste to unfasten the clasp of the choker, and as yet unaccustomed to the delicacy of things feminine, including women's jewelry—I handled it too roughly. The clasp gave way 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 at me, more with satisfied fascination than with outright surprise. It looked as if she were suppressing a smile.

"It's…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 made her eyes grow wide with amazement. "Look at my bottom teeth, you can see they're mine," I pulled my lower lip down to show Judy my crooked incisors. We now stood eye-to-eye, being of pretty much the same stature. Then, on impulse, I threw open my robe and flashed my new stuff for her 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—or were the wearer to become pregnant.

"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 girl! Actually, you're pretty cute! You ought to consider staying a girl for a while. Just joking: 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, sorry this happened to you—I'm sure you're terribly humiliated to be caught like this— but 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 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.

"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 skirts of my bathrobe with both hands so I would not tread on its hem. I was mortified to face my little daughters as a woman, 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 the same old Daddy."

Upon hearing this strange woman address Heather as "Pips," the girls traded startled glances. Then they started to giggle.

"Daddy lookths tho funny," Rachel, the five-year-old, finally declared, 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 idthz now thmoother than mommy'thz! It doethn't hurt my earthz anymore. 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 and re-surveyed myself in the mirror. I was still a small woman, like the old me but completely unlike the old me at the same time. Before I knew it, I was cupping my gorgeous breasts with my hands again, but my gaze was magnetically drawn to my cleft and my hands instantly followed to confirm its persistent reality. As my finger slid inside me and received its gentle, reflex squeeze by way of greeting, I heaved a small sigh of relief. Relief because I actually adored my trim little mound with its blunt-edged cleft. Relief to have my super-responsive female equipment all tucked up inside me, discreetly concealed but always right there when you want it. Relief to possess so many feminine mysteries yet to explore.

But this was not the time. 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 sensuous.

I did up the tie, marveling again at my slim waist. The moment I moved, my nipples hardened as the silk rubbed over them, but, by main force of willpower, I resisted the temptation 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 me. 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. "Christ!" I thought, "This could get addicting!" 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 possessively twirling a stray lock of my hair, she suddenly grasped it hard, pulling 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 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 trying 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 merely 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. 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 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 hear her enter. Suddenly I felt a hand grab my behind—and a little bit more. I jumped about a foot in the air, emitted a squeal of alarm and spun around.

"Oh, it's only 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 derrière a proprietary squeeze before removing her hand. "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," she said. "I could use a rest." (Judy was an attorney for a large firm that specialized in Equal Employment Opportunity and sexual harassment lawsuits. 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!" She laughed, then 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! You're going to have to learn how to launder your delicate washables! And, while we're at it, don’t you think Gilbert isn't quite the right name for a darling little five-foot-three-inch hausfrau like you?"

I was still scrubbing the coffee stain I had missed in the sink, applying all the elbow grease my girlish 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 asked.

"Well, a number of 'G' girls' names come to mind." answered Judy, "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 girl once you find your new self. So, let's see… Oh, I know! 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 matters." Judy negligently flicked her forefinger in the direction of my crotch, smiled wickedly, then added, "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. So, Gillian, now that we've picked your new name, 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.

I pulled off my rubber gloves, removed the apron, 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 little demi-orgasm in the living room. I 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.

3. Enter The Narrator: The True Origin of Gillian's Gift Revealed

As the newly-christened Gillian and her wife, Judy, ascend the stairs towards the former's first-ever rendezvous with the timeless mysteries of lingerie, let us pause to analyze the turmoil seething in Gillian's feminized brain.

She is, at the moment, of two minds about it. On the one hand, her initial inspection of her new and highly responsive sexual anatomy has already impressed her with one of the singular benefits of womanhood—to wit, the stunning orgasm which she brought herself to with her soft fingers, not to mention the episode in the living room, brought off by the mere crossing and re-crossing of her legs. Even now Gillian remains pleasantly conscious of a serene and lingering vaginal lubricity, already beginning to flow again, stimulated by her thighs—and the labia they conceal—rubbing together in the ordinary act of alighting the stairs. Having a vagina, she discovers, has its rewards.

On the other hand, Gillian also finds herself inexplicably fascinated by common domestic chores, having just spent two hours effectively restoring her kitchen to like-new condition after almost a decade of Judy's benign neglect, a marital shortcoming of which she had never taken notice before. She also finds herself yearning to take up needle and thread and to fold piles of clean clothes.

While Gillian is quite certain that such shattering orgasms could never become, shall we say, tiresome, she entertains doubts about forming any attachment to housework. Worse, she reflects, there's the disagreeable matter of this comfortable and responsive vagina of hers turning traitor five days every month—treating her to a novel bodily function she could just as well live without. She recalls having occasionally taken a wrong turn (as Gilbert) down a supermarket aisle in search of shaving cream, light bulbs or charcoal briquettes, only to find himself in a long canyon of shelving devoted to Products Every Woman Needs to Keep Her Vagina In Line—packaged in white or pink or lilac or baby blue boxes embossed with stylized daisies and doves—products Gillian would now have to choose and purchase for herself and rely upon to maintain (or enhance) her feminine daintiness, products she had never held in her hand nor had the slightest idea how to use.

And, to top it off, Gillian perceives with a jolt that having a female reproductive system exposes her personally—not some abstract woman—to the risk of pregnancy! She imagines the size of a baby's head, then that of her vagina—so soft, tender and… small. Impossible! Why, she'd be ripped apart, torn inside out! She perceives, as well, the essential purpose of her lovely breasts and their sensitive nipples, and how she'd be constrained to give up fondling them and put them instead at the disposal of a tiny, ravenous creature at any hour of the day or night for a year at a time.

All these reflections pass through Gillian's mind in a flash. In short, as she climbs the stairs with Judy, she is beginning to feel the first weight of female tribulation settle upon her. Her smooth womanbrow furrows and her little womanheart flutters in apprehensive dread as they near the top landing. She is not certain that woman-orgasms are worth the price. But such orgasms! She wants more—she is already flowing again, her mind in awful turmoil with her burgeoning femininity.

Let us therefore extend poor, troubled Gillian a measure of mercy, and remove from her girlish shoulders the humiliation of having to continue her story in her own words. She has revealed enough of her intimate secrets already, would you not agree? She has acknowledged that she is now physically a woman (how could she deny it?), that she possesses her very own…well, we need not repeat unnecessarily such naughty words except to say that Gillian obviously possesses what every woman does, and that from her brief acquaintance with such possessions, she is unexpectedly pleased, although any woman reading this story will hardly be surprised to hear it.

Yes, we must be merciful, and not force Gillian further to describe her first sensations of womanhood. She is, after all, being led to her bedroom by Judy, her wife, like a lamb to slaughter, and has quite enough on her plate without having to tell us about it! Let us not distract her from being the woman she has become: let her feel female rapture and pain, let her endure the humiliation of showing herself as a cleft, pregnable female before her own wife. and leave the narrative to another.

Allow me to introduce myself, then: I am the narrator, the teller of stories. The attentive reader has no doubt observed that I've already been telling Gillian's story for the last page or so. I never blush. I never shrink from calling a clitoris by its proper name, from describing a woman's most intimate fears and desires, nor even from telling you precisely what Gillian will feel when she is… well, when she is fucked for the very first time and discovers what it's like to be—but now I'm the one getting ahead of herself!

Nothing can be concealed from my all-seeing gaze—not action, not motive, not feelings, not even the future. You'll learn a lot more from me than you could ever learn from Gillian or Judy, for I know precisely what each is thinking and feeling—they can keep no secrets from me. I know all and it is my sacred vocation to share it with you.

For example, poor Gillian has been wondering about her wife Judy's role in the remarkable changes which have overtaken her—she had noted that Judy's surprise at her transformation did not seem completely spontaneous. But as long as Gillian was telling her own story she could wonder until Doomsday—unless Judy told her—but I can tell you right now, without further ado, that it was not Santa who gave Gilbert that special gift—the silver dollar pendant which became a pearl choker and transformed Gilbert into a woman.

No, it was Judy herself—a good enough wife and mother but rather an original thinker and of an unusually adventurous spirit (combined with an occasionally masculine frame of mind, which she had always taken pains to conceal). Some twelve weeks earlier, Judy, unbeknownst to Gilbert, had received her share of an enormous class-action sexual harassment settlement from a case her firm had brought against a major corporation. Judy had been the architect of the litigation and was to have been the trial lead as well. The brief was so tightly argued that the corporation would certainly have lost had the case come to trial, but a settlement was reached to avert the expense of appeals.

Judy's share was a whopping $8.2 million, payable over four years, and with such wealth assured, she had announced her retirement from the firm effective on—Christmas day. But Judy had said nothing to her husband about it, for she had special plans and her new wealth now gave her the leisure and resources to bring them to fruition.

As I have told you, Judy was possessed of an adventurous spirit and some masculine tendencies, not to mention a smoldering resentment towards her husband, whose inconsiderate exercise of male prerogatives in all things irked her more each year of their marriage. A week or so after she heard the stunning news of her share in the settlement—and had received confirmation from the bank of the initial deposit—she was purging her e-mail of its usual daily accretion of spam ("Want Whiter Teeth?," "Japanese Lass vs. Playboy?" "Get herbal Viagra!"), when a message from TransMorphology Ventures, Ltd. scrolled by and caught her eye; she scrolled back and opened it.

The message described the silver dollar pendant-pearl choker and its powers. The product was costly—several tens of thousands of dollars, almost as much as, say, a new Porsche—but it had a money-back guarantee, so she immediately went to TransMorphology Ventures' Web Site and purchased two units: a silver dollar pendant for Gilbert and a pearl choker for herself. The concept of Gilbert-as-woman and herself as a man keenly intrigued her, not the least because she wished to teach her husband a lesson.

Judy had quite a number of choices to click in placing the order—regarding height, weight, build, hair color and so forth, of the transformees. She chose parameters that would render each one, when transformed, about the same size and body habitus the other now was: it would make things a lot simpler in dealing with wardrobes that way, especially if there were to be periodic reversions. She kept skin and hair color pretty much the same, but decided to make Gilbert's hair quite short, as it would be far easier for him to manage at first. He would have plenty of other woman-problems to deal with, she figured, without having the added burden of tending long hair. He could always grow it out if he didn't like it short.

The choker—yes, she had tried it out, albeit briefly, in her private office the afternoon it arrived by red label. It had worked almost too well: a moment after Judy had fastened it around her neck, the choker flickered with its cold, silver-blue flame and became a silver dollar pendant and she was gripped by a series of lurching spasms which transmuted her into a man. She might have been throttled when her now larger frame suddenly filled the clothes she was wearing had she not had on a rather loose-fitting dress. Her bra straps cut into her shoulders before giving way with two sharp snaps like the twangs of a bowstring, then the cups severed in front at the seam and she literally burst out of her panties. Her garter belt snapped, too, but her stockings held, though they became uncomfortably tight. (She had the good sense to take off her shoes first, however).

More than satisfied, Judy had hurriedly removed the pendant—it promptly reverted to its choker manifestation and she to her female self: she could breathe freely again. In her executive bathroom, she removed the tattered remnants of her underclothing, managed to bend her garter belt hooks back into shape with her nail file and to smooth out her dress well enough so that no one would notice, despite the absence of a bra. On her way home that evening she stopped by the bank and locked the two pieces of jewelry in her safe deposit box. She was unusually aware of the winter air because she was not wearing any panties, which she rightfully took as a somewhat chilling omen of the charms' awesome powers.

Once home she had no trouble pretending that nothing was out of the ordinary. Gilbert didn't so much as raise an eyebrow. They had an ordinary evening with the children; Judy bathed them, read them their stories and put them to bed.

A number of weeks thus passed in unremarkable domestic fashion, with Gilbert never the wiser about what lay in store for him on Christmas morning. Christmas was mostly for the girls; Gilbert expected a few pairs of socks and perhaps a couple of ties. As for Judy, Gilbert had bought her three rather costly silk bra, panty and camisole sets, which he knew would become bedroom attire. Gilbert quite fancied the foreplay of stroking his wife through the sensual intervention of silk and his wife liked it, too. They were sexually quite a compatible couple.

Judy possessed remarkable patience and self-restraint: she didn't touch the magic jewelry again until she retrieved it from the safe deposit box on the day before Christmas. She came downstairs late that night and laid the oddly-wrapped package on the top of the pile under the tree, like baiting a trap.

On Christmas morning Judy was delighted to see that her gift to Gilbert had had such immediate and pervasive results. She surmised, from his having been down in the guest room with its full-length mirror, that he had acquainted himself firsthand, so to speak, with his womanhood. She knew, of course, he would awaken hours earlier, as was always his custom, and so would have ample opportunity. Judy was not surprised that in his typical clumsiness he had broken the choker struggling to get it off. "How very like him!" she thought. Judy had almost counted on Gilbert's breaking the choker, so well did she know her husband. And if he hadn't, she intended to break it herself, for Judy had much longer term plans for Gilbert than just a single day's switch.

So you see how handy a narrator can be, as otherwise you would not have learned these essential details of the plot! Now, having learnt them, let us rejoin the two women and get on with our story.

4. Gillian Learns the Awful Truth

As the two women, both of a size, crossed the landing at the top of the stairs and were about to enter their bedroom, Judy had just about run out of patience—she was fairly dying to put her pearl choker to the acid test, and could hardly wait to set into motion the second part of her scheme.

But Gillian, at the last moment, standing on the bedroom's threshold and contemplating a few of the practical drawbacks of womanhood, suddenly developed a bad case of cold feet, balked and pulled back, saying:

"Listen, Judy, I…I'm not sure this is the right thing to do. I really don't think I should be trying on your lingerie. I mean, I'm a guy! So why don’t you fix that choker right now and let's change me back. I'll wait for you downstairs. I'll make you a nice sandwich, OK? This has been super fun while it lasted. I mean, being a girl for an hour or two is OK, I guess. But putting on panties and a bra? Don't you think that's going a bit far? What if I liked it? I might get into the habit… Really, Judy, I'm not sure I like being… being… like this." Unable to say, "being a woman," Gillian gestured broadly at herself, indicating her breasts and points south, then held her little hands out, palms up, as if to say, "Just look at what I've become!"

"Why not?" Judy asked, barely able to conceal a smirk, "Is there something wrong with being a girl?"

"No… Not at all, Judy," Gillian answered in a placating tone, afraid to give offense to a Real Woman. "Honestly, I sort of like being a girl. And I guess it'd be OK to try on your lingerie, maybe just one time." (Gillian had again flashed on just how nice some snug panties might feel. She was also beginning to tire of her unrestrained breasts jouncing about uncomfortably each time she moved, and thought a bra might not be a bad idea, either.) "But, look," she continued, her voice beginning to quaver, "I want to be Gilbert again pretty soon, because I'm afraid … I'm afraid I might get…" Here Gillian stammered. Unable to verbalize her fear of pregnancy, she began to sob, her little shoulders heaving convulsively.

"Don't be silly, Gillian!" Judy responded with convincing reassurance. "Why be in a rush to change back? We have the whole day to ourselves and you haven’t seen anything yet, honey. Trust me, you're going to enjoy this more than you can possibly imagine. Being a girl can be fun! I'll show you all the tricks! Besides, I know what you were just thinking. You're afraid of getting pregnant, aren't you, and then you'd be stuck as a woman forever, right? But that takes a man, and I don’t see one around." So saying, Judy ostentatiously inspected the bedroom (even looking under the bed), while she mused to herself, "I don't see a man anywhere…yet!"

She guided Gillian into the room by her elbow and over to the bed, sat her down, then joined her. She gently draped an arm about the transmute's heaving shoulders and dabbed at her tears with a Kleenex. Gillian stopped her deep sobbing, but continued to cry quietly.

"Look, Gillian, if you're going to be a girl, you really owe it to yourself to get into some nice undies," Judy cajoled. "It's a major part of the feminine mystique and you can't afford to miss it. Come on, let me get you something really nice to slip into. You'll like it, I promise. Besides, you can’t very well go around anymore wearing boxer shorts, and with breasts like yours, honey, you really need the support—you look like a "D," or maybe even an "E"—if you don’t wear a bra you’re sure to get stretch marks. You don't want that, do you?" Gillian snuffled and shook her head. She liked her lovely breasts just the way they were, thank you very much.

"If you don't want me to pick out some undies for you, Gillian, pick out some yourself," Judy continued. "They'll feel great! You'll see. Then I'll look at that choker for you, all right?"

But Gillian only shook her head again and began to sob more profoundly than ever. Concluding that her transmuted husband would need considerably more forceful persuasion before she'd admit she was a woman and step into a pair of panties and put on a bra, Judy sought some pretext or other to absent herself for a few minutes so that she could put Phase II of her plan into action. So she said, "Be right back, Gillian honey, have to go tinkle. Don't go away, now!" and entered the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Gillian remained sitting forlornly on the bed, sobbing and snuffling her tears, torn between wanting to remain a girl a while longer and wanting to be Gilbert again. She was, not surprisingly, beginning to come down on the side of staying female, at least for a while. Judy was right: without a man around, she couldn't get pregnant, so she'd still be able to change back to Gilbert as soon as the choker was fixed.

Recalling her orgasms, Gillian had quickly concluded that a couple of days as a girl would be rather nice, or even a week or two. It felt so good being a girl that the proposition was irresistible. On the other hand, if the choker could not be repaired… well, what could she do about it? "Then I'd have to stay a girl, like it or lump it, wouldn't I?" she thought, "And that might not be the worst thing in the world. So maybe Judy's right. Putting on some lovely undies might be a good place to start. Can't hurt to give it a try. Silky undies probably would feel great. And I really do need some support." Gillian hefted her heavy breasts through her bathrobe, holding them up for a while to relieve the tug on her chest. "Yes, I can definitely use a bra!" she thought, "Even if I'm going to be a girl for only a day."

With these reflections in mind, Gillian had stopped crying and became still and alert. She listened intently, for she as yet had heard no feminine rill from the bathroom, nor rattle of the toilet paper roll in its holder, nor flush of the toilet itself. What was Judy up to now? Gillian sensed that she was in the closet adjoining the bathroom, and not in the bathroom at all. Arising from the bed, Gillian tiptoed in the direction of the bathroom and had just extended her hand towards the doorknob when Judy opened the door. Gillian gasped, brought her hand to her mouth and staggered backwards, her gaze riveted on the silver dollar pendant hanging about Judy's neck.

Only it wasn't Judy. It was a good-looking man about thirty-five or so, wearing Gilbert's bathrobe and smiling at Gillian, whose eyes, rapidly scanning back and forth over the man's face, recognized Judy's underlying features made ruggedly handsome.

Gillian gasped again. Judy's "plan" had begun to dawn on her at last, though dimly yet. She laughed a high, nervous laugh. The man began to laugh with her, but his was a laugh of enjoyment at the little woman's surprise and discomfiture as the reality of her position began to sink in. That Judy had also changed her gender instantly threw the whole situation into a completely different light—an ugly one—and Gillian did not like it at all. She wanted to be Gilbert again, now!

"You… you… you got me that pendant, didn't you, Judy?" blurted Gillian, when her hysterical laughter had subsided enough for her to speak again. "All right, all right! Fine! The joke's on me! Ha-ha-ha! I'm laughing, see? Ha-ha! You've had your fun, Judy. Now I'm ready to change back, so fix the damn choker and give it back to me. And you take off that pendant right now!" she squeaked, stamping her little foot in ludicrous emulation of male anger.

"No, Gillian," replied the man, in an unruffled and resonant baritone. "I don't think you're ready to change back. Not now.... or ever. You're going to be a woman for a long, long time, I'm afraid." He reached into his bathrobe pocket, extracted Gillian's ruined pearl choker and dangled it before the transmute's incredulous eyes. He laughed again—a smug, confident laugh, the laugh of one firmly in control. Then, with his strong hands, he stripped all the pearls off their strands and slowly poured them onto the hardwood floor, where they clattered like hailstones, bouncing crazily and scattering in every direction as Gillian looked on, aghast at what this man had just done to her future.

His arm over her shoulder, the man guided Gillian into the center of the bedroom and then turned to face her, placing two fingers under her chin and raising her tear-blotched face so that she was looking up straight into his eyes. He now confirmed to her, in a low, sincere voice, what we already know about the real provenance of the choker. He explained his plans for their future in graphic detail to an increasingly horrified Gillian. She pushed away his hand and drooped her head, beginning to weep freely again at the enormity of her predicament.

The man— who called himself Avery—continued, "Now let's pick up where we left off, Sweetie. You were about to get dressed—remember?—while I sit here and watch you put on my—I mean your lingerie, the way you liked to watch me. I think it'll be rather interesting, with you the soft and penetrable one slipping into her silky underthings while I can just sit here imagining how nice it'll be to peel them off you and you can imagine what it'll be like spreading your legs to be fucked. Think of how it'll feel to take me in as high as your adorable little bellybutton! I know you'll just love having my cock inside you, Gillian. Trust me. I know just how it feels to be nailed to the mattress."

Yes, it was true: Gilbert had enjoyed leaning up in bed on one elbow to watch Judy slip into her lingerie. He had loved hearing the crisp little snap after she pulled her panties up snugly, plucked then released their delicate waistband with the tiny, flat satin bow at the front—that charming badge of femininity which adorns the sensuous undergarments of women. He had loved seeing how Judy's panties clung to her curves and her hollows, making her convexities glisten. And he had loved watching the way Judy leant forward to catch her breasts in the cups of her brassiere as she put it on—moving smoothly, precisely, like a ballerina—and how she straightened up and fastened the clasp behind her with undulant grace, her hair swinging en masse like a soft pendulum.

Gilbert had relished watching her roll on and fasten her stockings, twisting her head over her shoulder to see her back garters (for she eschewed pantyhose). He had liked to watch her drop her slip, then her dress over her head and zip up and smooth out her dress with crisp feminine efficiency.

Now Gillian was the one who'd be putting on fine lingerie preliminary to being fucked, but with this crucial difference: not only had Gillian never been fucked, but she had never put on women's clothing before (much less fine lingerie), and if she absolutely had to, her nascent sense of feminine modesty dictated she do so in private and not in front of a man. Besides, she still had an inept male's congenital aversion to small hooks and eyes, already fretting at the possibility that she'd be unable to fasten a bra. What humiliation to fumble with a bra in front of this man!

Gillian regretted ever having put that horrid pendant around her neck. How helpless and vulnerable she felt as a girl! That she was expected to disrobe before this stranger and then put on panties and a bra while he watched, was bad enough. But even worse was a dawning sense of her own defenseless penetrability—and here was this man standing right in front of her, ready to put her defenselessness to the test! Getting herself off with her fingers was one thing… But she was still essentially a man (so she thought), and the concept of another man fucking her was repulsive.

Gillian's mind flashed on the virgin cleft nestled between her thighs—how soft and unprotected it was, and how it was precisely what this man was after! Why, she could be raped, just like a woman! He outweighed her by almost two to one, so physical resistance would be fruitless, and they were alone in the house, which sat on two wooded acres, so that no one would hear her screams.

Determined to bluff her way out of what seemed a hopeless situation, Gillian tossed her head defiantly, summoning all her reserves of resistance, and declared:

"No deal, Judy. I'm not going to do it! Period. And this talk about 'impaling' me is really sick. As if I'd actually let you—or anyone—fuck me! Do you think I'm crazy? Look, I admit that that this body you've put me into is gorgeous, and getting myself off downstairs was a treat, but I have no desire to stay this way." Here Gillian was half-lying: she really didn't mind being a girl a little while longer: a few days, perhaps—or even a week— would be enough to get a good idea of what it meant to be female, but beyond that she did not care to go. She certainly wanted to change back before having her first period—the idea that she could bleed every month terrified her. And, of course, there was simply no way she'd let herself be fucked by another man. She wanted to enjoy her new body on her own terms. So she was mustering every excuse besides pleading a headache.

"Look, Judy, I'm not crazy about having to pee sitting down for the rest of my life," Gillian continued, "Or about wasting an hour every morning putting on makeup and fixing my hair. Or doing my nails. I'm not about to start doing the cooking and shopping and laundry, either. Plus I don't do windows or ironing. And you're nuts if you think I'm going to put up with bleeding down there every month and having to wash bloodstains out of my… my… out of my…"

Here Gillian faltered, unable to make herself say the word.

"Out of your panties, you mean?" Avery brightly suggested, thoroughly enjoying Gillian's passionate denunciation of female inconveniences. "Don't expect me to wash them for you, Gillian. Every girl is responsible for keeping her own lingerie dainty and fresh. The trick is to rinse out the blood before it sets, just as soon as you can change into clean undies. And never wear your best pair when you're having your period. Or just use common sense—try not to leak in the first place, which you shouldn't do if you just take the least bit of care, and make sure you always have pantiliners in your purse. They're the greatest invention since sliced bread."

Gillian visibly winced at this recitation, for she could not imagine the rigors and rituals of menstruation applying to her. Avery, perceiving her revulsion, smiled wickedly, and rubbed more salt in the wound by adding:

"Don't worry, Gillian, I'll give you whatever you need—it's all right in there." He gestured magnanimously towards the bathroom with a flip of his hand. "I'll even show you how to use everything, too. And if you do spot once in a while, I have some great stuff that'll get your panties spanking clean every time. There's a year's supply of it under my sink. I won't be needing anymore, so it's all yours. You'll see—you'll get used to having periods in a couple of months or so. And remember, if you ever want to know anything else about being a girl, please don't be embarrassed to ask me. I'll be more than happy to answer any questions you—"

"Stop it, Judy!" Gillian shrieked, her face crimson with rage, "Shut the fuck up! I don't want to hear another word about it!"

Startled by the shrillness and force of her feminized voice, Gillian froze for a moment, her eyes wide with surprise. Then she closed them tightly and plugged her ears with her fingers to shut out further discourse on the fine points of menstruation and the removal of bloodstains from her intimate garments. She resumed her diatribe:

"It's never going to happen, Judy, because I am never going to have even one —not one—period, see? Never! And I will not be humiliated by putting on your panties and then letting you pull them down and fuck me. No one is ever going to fuck me, see? Because this has gone far enough! I'll pick up the pearls and you'll fix that choker right now and change me back. I'm sick of being a girl, OK? And you take off that pendant right now and change yourself back, if you know what's good for you. You've had your little joke and I've had my fill of Christmas! Now it's time to—"

But Gillian was cut short—Avery yanked her fingers from her ears and immobilized both her wrists with one hand. The indignant little woman opened her mouth to protest, but before she could get a word out, Avery slapped her smartly across her cheek with the back of his free hand, soundlessly and hard, raising an immediate welt. Gasping in outrage, Gillian bent her face downwards and tried to bite his hand, but he was quicker than she was and grasped the hair at the back of her head, yanking it so hard that she was forced to look straight up into his eyes. She sputtered incoherently, spat in Avery's face and kicked at him in impotent rage.

"So you think you've had your fill! We'll see about that!" Avery exclaimed, holding Gillian's head at arm's length and easily avoiding her kicks. He released her wrists and her hair, but before she could pummel him, he seized her right arm, twisting it tightly up behind her back, forcing her to her knees. Gillian grimaced and squealed in pain as she sank to the floor.

Avery wiped the spittle from his face with the back of his other hand. Inclining his face close to Gillian's ear, he urgently hissed, "Listen, you little idiot! I have everything perfectly planned, and I promise you'll have no regrets! Just do what I tell you or I'll break your arm. Do you understand? Do you? " He wrenched Gillian's arm up another notch, forcing her to squeal sharply again.

"You haven’t thanked me for your present yet," Avery continued, not waiting for Gillian's response, "But you will, believe me! You're going to end up giving me your heartfelt thanks for that pearl choker you broke. I guarantee it. And I am going to fuck you, Gillian, and you're going to love it and beg me to fuck you five times a day for the next year at least. And, if you behave, perhaps I'll oblige. As for all those other things you just said you'd never do, you'll do them, all right—starting with dressing yourself in panties and bra—and you'll like it, too! You're going to like everything about being a girl! And don’t ever call me Judy again while I'm wearing this pendant. I'm Avery to you now!"

Gillian writhed in pain, her face almost touching the floor. "Judy, you goddamn bitch, let go of me!" she shrilled. But Avery merely yanked her arm up even further.

"It's Avery, I told you! You're the woman around here now, and I'm the one in charge. Is that perfectly clear?"

Gillian had reached her limit of pain. Her shoulder at the tearing point, she bit her lip and nodded her head so rapidly in assent that it seemed to be vibrating. Avery gave her arm one last little twist then released her. Sobbing spasmodically and rubbing her shoulder, Gillian slipped the rest of the way to the floor, but not before Avery had caught the tie at her waist and pulled it off. He yanked it so hard that it snapped back on itself, like a silken whip. Then he yanked off her pink robe, too, trundling her onto her back as he gathered it up, leaving her naked on the cold hardwood floor, both hands covering her face. After a minute or two he got down on one knee, scooped Gillian up and dumped her unceremoniously onto the bed—on her back. She rolled over to bury her face in the pillow, sobbing hoarsely.

5. Gillian Surrenders—and likes it

Perhaps half an hour passed, the only sounds coming from Gillian's gradually diminishing sobs. Avery waited patiently a while, then went into the bathroom, returned with a nail file and began casually to file his nails and buff them on the terrycloth of his robe, while leaning against the dresser. He glanced over to Gillian after doing each nail to see if she had finished her tantrum. Finally, Gillian left off sobbing, turned over and sat up, snuffling and wiping away her tears with the back of her forearm.

"So what's it going to be, honey pie? Ready to put on your bra and panties like a good girl?" Avery asked with tight calmness, blowing the dust off his nails and looking over his curled fingers towards Gillian. "You're going to have to, sooner or later, so you may as well start now."

"All right," Gillian replied, her girlish voice quavering, "All right, Avery. You win. I'll put on your—I mean my lingerie, and you can watch me do it, but that's it! Then you'll fix that choker and change me back, right? And there won't be any more talk about 'impaling' me as deep as my 'adorable little bellybutton.' The whole idea of you fucking me is disgusting! And as for my staying a girl, that's out of the question."

Avery remained silent, but raised his eyebrows, frowned and shook his head, tsk-tsking. He put the nail file down on the dresser, approached the bed, and, applying two fingers to Gillian's sternum, firmly pushed her down, once again on her back. Then, encircling her ankles with one hand, Avery skidded her heels upwards along the surface of the bed, causing her legs to scissor apart and her labia to gape just enough to reveal a narrow slit of lurid pink. Pensively pursing his lips, he regarded her furred cleft for a full minute. Then he raised his gaze to her red-rimmed and swollen eyes.

"Don't be such a clueless girl, Gillian. I am going to fuck you and you're going to let me. And like it. And beg for more. It's that simple. You don't have a choice. Then maybe I'll fix your choker," Avery lied, for he had every intention of keeping Gillian female for the rest of her life, "It all depends on how good a fuck you are," he said in a chillingly even voice, his hand remaining firmly locked around the transmute's ankles.

"Y…y…you mean you're going to fuck me right now?" wailed Gillian, stammering and blushing beet red at being splayed like a whore. "Look, Avery: just let me put on some panties and a bra. You can watch me do it, if that's what you turns you on, O.K.?" pleaded Gillian, stalling for time. "It's a great idea Avery, really, it is! I'll model lingerie for you all day, if you want. Just let go of my ankles so I can get up! And stop looking at me like that!" she protested, seeing that Avery was again raptly contemplating her pussy, but neither did she try to get up nor attempt to close her legs even a fraction of an inch, which she could easily have done. For Gillian now clearly perceived, without the least doubt, that this Avery really did intend to fuck her, no matter what she wanted.

But what did Gillian really want? Her body was dictating to her, telling her in no uncertain terms what it wanted. And now that she had done her best to resist Avery—and had failed—she was, with blunt feminine practicality, quickly reconsidering her options. To tell the truth, Gillian found the prospect of arraying herself in fine lingerie to be deliciously erotic, and she had already begun to flow a bit. And then what? Well, maybe she'd let him enter her just this once, but only for a second or two. What harm could come of it, really? She was certainly built for it now… and she might like it. Well, she would like it after all, she decided. And not just for a second or two: a thoroughly good fucking would be just the ticket! She felt herself melt a bit more.

"Girls like to get fucked, right?" Gillian asked herself. "And I'm a girl now, right? So I guess it's all right if I want to get fucked. Why pretend any longer that I don't? So I guess I'll let him fuck me."

Avery, seeing the flicker of female lust in her eyes, felt his cock stir.

An aura of inevitability hung in the bedroom like a palpable mist as their eyes met in consensual ratification of what was about to take place between them. Then Avery returned his gaze to Gillian's cleft, contemplating it intently for several minutes while imagining the new transmute's shock at being penetrated for the very first time—and how brief that shock would be, like the first time a child feels the stinging effervescence of a carbonated but sweet beverage on palate and tongue. Avery was certain that once Gillian felt him deep inside her, she'd shimmy roll her hips like any lascivious female. Yes, a good fucking would surely bring Gillian around!

Under such alert male scrutiny, Gillian's labia began to swell and part, like petals unfolding, in volitionless display of her vibrantly pink penetralia. The novel sensation of blossoming made her raise her head from the bed and glance down at herself. Her face no longer registered outrage or fear, but only dumb amazement at what her female body was doing, apparently of its own volition.

His eyes still fixed on Gillian's slit, as if their gaze would open it further (which, in fact, it did, abetted by her spreading her thighs a little bit more), Avery spoke again:

"Don't worry, Gillian. I'm not going to fuck you right this minute. I'll give you some time to get used to the idea. But for now I just want to inspect the merchandise." So saying, he released her ankles and began softly to slide his broad hand up along the inside of Gillian's hairless, milky-white thigh.

Ankles free, Gillian at once drew her heels higher up along the bed, spreading her legs more widely apart to grant Avery readier access. As she did so, her labia parted more widely as well, allowing an ampler view of her glistening depths. Avery turned and lay down beside her and slid his hand down from above, along Gillian's broad womanbelly, to rest the heel of his hand firmly on her mound. He extended his fingers downwards along the length of Gillian's petal-soft labia, gently spreading them. This was, after all, the way he had been accustomed to approach himself over the years, since the age of eleven or twelve—as Judy, that is. Now Avery slid his other hand under Gillian to scoop her buttocks. Gillian sighed softly in welcome surrender and lifted her hips off the bed for a moment to allow Avery to grasp her bottom a bit lower down, then nestled herself against his big hand.

Avery certainly knew all there was about how to pleasure a woman with his fingers, having been one himself all his life until this very hour, with the exception of the brief interlude at the office. At first both his hands remained still, one pressing Gillian's mound, his fingers resting lightly on her labia, the other cupping her bottom. Then his skilled fingers entered Gillian smoothly and without friction, for she was fully lubricated despite her earlier protestations.

Gillian closed her eyes and moaned softly as she felt herself flow like an estuary on a rising tide. Male outrage at having been so completely feminized—or what scintilla of outrage remained—had slid so far from consciousness that it now dangled precariously by a fraying thread above the black abyss of amnesia—that promised amnesia which Gillian had all but forgotten about! Was she Gilbert, a man? Or was she Gillian, a woman? The latter, she thought, was a lot more likely at the moment, given that a man had his fingers in her vagina, but she was still not quite certain.

Avery smiled, pleased at how slippery-wet Gillian was. Disengaging from her bottom, he slid his other hand a bit further downwards and entered her from behind, at the lower extremity of her slit, a slit which had never known stretching of any sort, much less penetration (Gillian's previous explorations with her little fingers certainly didn't count)—she was, indeed, a new-minted virgin.

The intrusion of male fingers into her body made Gillian gasp in affronted astonishment as the penultimate ember of her masculinity glowed briefly in shock and revulsion at what Avery was doing to her. But Gillian's sexual responses—over which we all know a woman has no control whatsoever—were so ascendant that she felt her insides go outrageously slack, then flood her body with radiant warmth. Gillian glanced down and saw Avery's fingers buried inside her and slowly turned her face towards his. She had reached her break point: if she resisted, who knows what would happen to her, but if she gave in to what her new body wanted, she knew she'd be female forever. Her masculinity had just become an empty husk—she could remember it well enough at the moment, but it was now an irrelevancy.

Having made her decision, she gazed at Avery, her lids half closed over dilating pupils, her features suddenly placid. Then she smiled, a small, wan smile of willing capitulation and she did not turn her face away from Avery again. Instead she gazed languorously and without blinking deep into his large brown eyes as she had never gazed into anyone's eyes before.

Gillian, you see, had just crossed her Rubicon into femininity. She was silently begging Avery to proceed. Avery knew that look well, having assumed it himself so many times in his life. So he proceeded, with redoubled inspiration—and redoubled effect.

Gillian's eyelids drooped, then shut; she moaned softly again as Avery's expert fingers pursued their knowledgeable and delicate work. She had by this time become so very wet that she could hear Avery's fingers probe her lush pink tissues and folds, making delicate little slapping sounds and constraining her to squeal each time he withdrew them and brushed over her clit with his featherlight touch. But suddenly Avery removed his lower hand and, bringing it up, seized one of hers, to draw it downwards along his muscular abdomen. Gillian tried to retract her hand, but Avery, easily overcoming her token resistance, dragged it relentlessly down all the way to his as-yet uninitiated manhood.

Gillian instinctively grasped it, at once appalled and amazed at how it felt in her small hand, which barely encircled its shaft. How vein-studded and menacing it was! Yet how smooth its cap with its delicately molded ridge! She could scarcely believe how urgently she wanted it inside her, to ensheathe it in her woman's soft warmth all the way to its thick root! Now and not later! The final shred of Gillian's discarded masculinity tried feebly to muster indignation at what was transpiring, but she had become so molten under Avery's expert touch—in spite of herself or because of herself—that she no longer knew which nor did she give a damn any more one way or the other. She wanted only to claim her new female birthright to have a stiff cock thrust deep inside her soft womanbody, for in no other way could she repossess the magnificent organ she had so often wielded in her prior existence—except by becoming its scabbard.

Gillian was a woman now, and now she knew just what to do. She knew that she would be better serviced if Avery was more rigid, so she began to stroke him lightly with her soft fingers. She heard Avery, for the first time, moan with pleasure as he stiffened to his limit. She ceased her stroking and grasped him firmly, then stroked him as only one who has been a man can know how. Avery moaned again. Gillian felt him swell, then pulse under her grip; there was a splash of hot wetness on her forearm… and another and another and another, in diminishing trajectories.

To Gillian's dismay, Avery promptly withdrew his other hand from inside her, leaving her empty and cruelly short of her edge. Her eyes brimmed with hot tears of female frustration, but she said nothing, biting her lower lip instead. Women must learn to bear disappointment without complaining! Avery, spent for the moment, lay still for a couple of minutes, then spoke, very softly:

"Now get dressed, Gillian. It'll be much better this way, you'll see. Before I'm through you'll beg me to tear off your panties, I promise. Pick out whichever ones you want—I don't think you'll have the slightest hesitation now in putting them on. They should be a perfect fit. They're in the top drawer."

As if Gillian didn’t know which drawer she kept her own lingerie in!

Gillian slowly arose from the bed in a trance, like morning mist from a lake, and glided with untutored feminine grace into the bathroom to wash Avery's stickiness from her forearm. It seemed to her that her feet were barely touching the floor when she dreamily floated back to the bedroom and approached her dresser. Avery reclined on the bed, propped up on one elbow, watching the newly-transformed woman intently.

She would give her new husband a really good show, Gillian decided, as she turned her back to him and slowly drew open her lingerie drawer.

6. Gillian is initiated into the mysteries of lingerie

Gillian, half-maddened by the need to have Avery inside her, slowly drew open her lingerie drawer. She had but one purpose—how to please Avery, and, in so doing, achieve her own gratification. All thoughts of reverting to Gilbert had evaporated, never to return. She gazed into the open drawer, looking for a particularly sexy ensemble, something as stimulating for her to wear as it would be for Avery 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 or daisies), 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 hue, 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 muted 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 recognized 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. Gillian now regarded the compartment's contents as her own lingerie—her feminized brain 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 that these were now hers worked as an added stimulus—she could barely wait to put them on. With no reservations, for the frail thread of Gillian's male memory really had snapped—the very amnesia she had brazenly hoped to escape had overswept her like a potent drug kicking in, utterly feminizing her brain. So it was with thoroughly female eyes that she surveyed the contents of the Fourth Compartment of her lingerie drawer.

She 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 very morning!

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

They felt delicious as they slid up over her legs and her thighs and then gloved her sex, 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 (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.

The tiny, flat satin bow at the center of her waistband in front—that dainty badge of femininity she had admired as Gilbert—the tiny bow next drew her attention. It pleased her no end that, as a woman, she was sentenced to wear garments adorned with such wildly impractical but deliciously erotic ornamentation.

Gillian ran the palms of her hands over the smooth curves of her silk-covered derrière, over her hips, over her slightly protuberant tummy, 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, 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.

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 leg-bands to either side of the gusset that swaddled her labia in cottony softness (and which was already dark, soaked through, like a wick, with her intimate fluids). She ran her finger crossways over the little seam so unerringly placed at 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 female 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 Avery 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 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, holding the cups away from her breasts. In one smooth 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, deftly fastening 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.

Avery again made the impatient circular movement of his finger to hurry her along, but Gillian had no intention whatever of rushing through her sacred lingerie ritual. Gazing dreamily at Avery, 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, executing a perfect low stage bow, arms swept back up and outwards like the wings of a swan.

Avery 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 Avery's waiting hands in hers.

"These are the nicest undies in the world, Avery! I think they look better on me than they would have on Judy!" 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. "Did you like how I put on my new lingerie? I got the hang of it pretty fast, didn't I?"

"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."

Gillian blushed momentarily at this left-handed compliment. "Actually, I thought I'd have trouble, too, but when you're a girl, Avery, you're a lot more flexible, as I'm sure you're aware, so it was no trouble reaching around behind to fasten the hooks. I've watched you—as Judy— do it a thousand times, so I knew the right moves. Anyway, I'm not quite ready to beg you to tear off my panties," she continued, with an incongruously mischievous look on her pretty face, "Not yet." She provocatively settled herself on Avery's lap, facing him, her legs straddling his waist, arms draped loosely around his neck. "But I want you to make me beg you." She planted a mock-chaste kiss on Avery's forehead.

Avery'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 just about ready."

Avery 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 pearls of perspiration, her breathing had become rapid and shallow. Avery, 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 comical expression on her face. "Pearl choker? O, the pearl choker! Yes, Thank you, Avery! You always know just what a girl likes! And look what it's done for me! I'm glad I broke the clasp, now, and I'm glad you scattered the pearls. I hope you never fix it, Avery, because I agree with you… Being a girl is turning out to be the best thing that's ever happened to me. I even think I can face having periods now… But look, Avery, are you going to tear off my panties and fuck me, or are we going to lie around all afternoon talking about jewelry?"

Avery 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. Avery, however, intended to torment her to the limit of female endurance—to whet her desire to its keenest 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 to do), 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 Avery finally slipped off 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, leaving her nude.

7. Gillian loses her cherry

On her back and pantiless, Gillian raised her feet off the bed, grasped her ankles and spread her legs to the widest extent her hips would allow, which, as she was no longer a man, was quite wide indeed. She shivered deliciously to feel the cool air of the room wash over her unprotected pudenda. In this posture of ultimate female surrender, she revealed—no, flaunted—her neverfucked depths, now more crimson than pink. No woman could possibly show more of herself to a man than Gillian was showing to Avery; no woman could possibly ache more to be fucked than Gillian ached, her legs flagrantly spread, and begging with every fiber of her being to be impaled without further postponement.

Avery relished the spectacle of this new woman—his former husband Gilbert—splayed open before him on their marital bed in expectation of imminent servicing, her penetralia pulsating like some form of membranous sea life. Well Avery remembered the bittersweet torture, as Judy, of having to wait—and burn—for Gilbert to be ready. Now the tables had turned: wife had become husband, and husband, wife. To even the score, Avery compelled the former Gilbert—writhing in the throes of female heat as she displayed herself—to wait for what seemed an eternity before he entered her with an excruciatingly slow and endless glissade which the poor transmute had neither power nor will to resist. For now that Gilbert had become a woman, she could not have prevented Avery from fucking her even had she tried: as a woman, she was necessarily all soft and open, and Avery, as a man, necessarily erect and adamant. So Gillian was as compelled to admit Avery into her body as he was to enter it. She gasped to feel her delicate tissues abruptly go slack as Avery advanced smoothly and relentlessly into her womanbelly like a well-lubricated piston, gasped to feel her labia distorted into a tight rim surrounding the root of his shaft, which they then gripped in a prolonged muscular reflex she could not suppress.

Gillian, née Gilbert, lay motionless on her back, pinned to the mattress by Avery's majestic cock like a butterfly in a specimen case. Mouth agape in amazement, she stared goggle-eyed at the ceiling, stunned by the stark actuality of her penetration. Like the repeating reflection between two facing mirrors, a sole thought echoed through her consciousness: "So this is what it's like to be fucked!" Within moments, her female tissues began rippling of their own accord over Avery's length, coaxing him deeper into her body. Then an overwhelming greediness to be even more profoundly impaled compelled Gillian to wrap her legs around Avery's waist. She cinched up her ankles and squirmed her hips to ratchet him into her that last little notch until they were fused into one flesh.

Gillian thrashed her head side to side and moaned to feel the remorseless male pressure, the remorseless and divine male pressure filling her utterly and pushing up and up beyond her navel into her chest, up and up even further, making her vast as an ocean, making her the Creatrix Omnipotent, yet all the same a woman bound fast on the rack of merciless pleasure, suspended in time, primed to receive the bright searing spark of life into herself.

The coupled pair 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 details may be dispensed with in this particular instance. Suffice it to say that Gillian, so recently male and now so thoroughly female, opening herself 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 Avery's forceful spurts had pierced her nulliparous cervix, injecting 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 magic silver dollar pendant—when it creates a woman from a masculine substrate, it delivers her up into womanhood at the fertile acme of her cycle. 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. Even so, had she known right then that her fate had been sealed, she would not have minded a bit. On the contrary, she probably would have smiled and sighed, "Thank God."

But instead Gillian smiled, sighed and languidly murmured, "Fuck me again, Baby!" And so he did, four more times that Christmas day and at least five times every day for many months thereafter, usually when she begged him—which was often enough, though she also relished being taken at his whim. For Avery liked to take her unawares: stealing up from behind, he'd hike up her dress, yank down her panties and ravish her while she was engaged in humdrum domestic chores, like peeling potatoes at the sink or folding the laundry. Sometimes he'd take her while she was brushing her hair or as she leaned towards the mirror to check her lipstick. Gillian cherished these unpredictable encounters, and, as she never quite knew when they would occur (which made them all the more delicious), she kept herself as ready as possible by various little tricks known only to women, so that she was always splendidly lubricated when Avery entered her.

In other words, Gillian existed in a state of persistent arousal, her panties always gratifyingly damp. At times she would go without them under her dress, preferring the frisson of added vulnerability to the dubious defense a pair of skimpy silk panties provides against male penetration. She never once repulsed one of Avery's advances, nor ever feigned a headache. And as her pregnancy progressed, she found herself hornier than ever, even when she was uncomfortably heavy with child, her distended breasts sore and leaking colostrum. She particularly cherished feeling her baby move even as she held Avery deep inside her.

Thanks to the magic pendant, Gillian soon became hopelessly addicted to being a woman and never looked back. Had you dared to insinuate that she had once been a man—or offered to restore her to a masculine state—she would have thought you insane, and most likely would have slapped your cheek for making such an impertinent suggestion.

8. Epilogue

So ends the tale of what Gilbert got for Christmas—more than he expected and perhaps more than he deserved. Without putting too fine a point on it, the magic pendant was the greatest gift he had ever received. Gillian never once asked Avery 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— she would vacuum it up with savage fury as if it were a desiccated insect a woman wouldn't dare touch with her fingers.

But on occasion, in those elusive quicksilver moments of semiconsciousness just before sleep, when one is sometimes granted a glimpse the Great Mystery of Existence, Gillian did fleetingly understand who and what she had been, but those rare moments never remained in her memory the next morning. She was as perfectly content to be lover and dutiful wife as ever woman could be.

And perfectly content to be a mother as well, for in the month of September of the following year, after an uncomplicated labor of only four hours, 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 bring forth from her body anything so exotic as a man-child.

As for Avery? Avery 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, certain drawbacks, a 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. Whenever he reverted to Judy on such occasions—which was always away from home—he was scrupulously careful as regards contraception, and so was always able to become Avery 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.



  1. My favorite author and favorite story. It has been a long time since I read it. Thank you.

  2. Thanks for posting this. I loved this back in the day, and this is the revised "Avery" version as well.