Shiny Pebbles

Note: The names of persons in this story are purely fictional and have no connection whatsoever with any living or diseased persons.

***

It's nice when money's not a concern. I grew up with privilege. My dad, Ari Gerber, made his fortune in the auto parts and accessories business, and then made even more investing in the oil and energy sectors. We lived in a mansion in the River Oaks section of Houston. I was an only kid (my parents figured they only had time for one). I always had similarly rich friends, went to the best private schools, and pretty much got whatever I wanted. On the other hand, I wasn't a snot.

Part of their lifestyle was owning a 10-seater private plane and flying down to Mexican and Caribbean resorts. By the time I was 20, I had my pilot's license too and sometimes flew with them.

After high school, I attended college at Baylor, on a pre-med track, first because my parents both went there, and second because they urged me to become a doctor.

"You can do something for humanity, and you can do something for yourself in the money department," my dad used to say. "I had to scratch and work my tail off when I first got started in business, but if you're a doc, you can make big bucks from day one."

I avoided the fraternity/sorority scene at Baylor, even though my parents had both belonged to them. The only fraternity I actually belonged to was the maryjane fraternity, that is, the bunch of us who liked to combine craft beer, pot and politics, of which Texas has plenty of each. I shared a private home with two other guys.

I'll mention another part of my life. As I was growing up, my parents were often away - travelling, going to country club and fundraising events, golfing, and parties - leaving me with my loyal live-in Hispanic nanny, Elisa. She was a nice second mom, she really was. In her thirties, she was a little pudgy, but very together and fun. With a couple of my young friends, mostly girls, I truly enjoyed staging little plays, with costumes and props - the works. I loved to play either male or female parts - I could be Batman or Wonder Woman, or Aladdin, or his love interest Jasmine. My bushy-eyebrow dad discouraged me from playing the female roles - no surprise there - so after a while I would only perform them when he and my mom were away, with Elisa's support. She loved pretending and playacting, and so we conspired to keep a stash of female costumes hidden away.

My low-key life of ease and comfort at Baylor (with a winsome girlfriend named Nicole on the side) was about to change forever. Flying from Houston to Cancun with two other couples, my parents in their Merlin III turboprop collided with another private plane over Mexico. The authorities revealed the other plane had been carrying drugs.

At any rate, when my parents died their fiery death my world went into a tailspin. They were my anchors, my best friends, and we had been very close.

Inconsolable, I withdrew from college. Of legal age, I received 90 percent of their wealth from their trust, with the rest - no surprise here - being donated to Baylor and a few relatives. It is awesome to be an only child suddenly worth 78 million dollars (when all was said and done) - with $20 million immediately accruing to me and the remainder available when I was 30. Yes, I did locate Elisa to surprise her with $40,000 for being such a friend in my early days.

I thought I needed a fresh start, rather than be held down by old memories (and friends who now seemed to treat me differently) so I moved and began attending the University of Southern California in biomedical engineering. I was convinced I needed a professional career to feel good about myself.

At USC, where I worked toward my BS degree, I had my own apartment. Spending more and more time by myself, I curiously began to return mentally back to my childhood and my pals and Elisa, where I enjoyed playing those female roles. Except now, things were more reality-based.

On campus, I looked at attractive women with both fascination and envy. I marveled at how they dressed, how they moved, how they talked. And now I had the money and will to look like them, should the mood strike me. I was much less social than in Texas.

I didn't need to, but I did most of my own cooking because I liked to ...

So, besides studying engineering, I worked on inventing my feminine alter ego. At one point I even hired a makeup and fashion consultant to help me learn the feminine arts. It helped that I was slender, didn't have a heavy beard, and wasn't tall. Most of the time I was Nathan Gerber, solid student, dependable project partner - but when the mood and opportunity presented itself, I was Frieda. No telling where the name came from; it just popped into my head. Sexy Frieda - it had a European ring to it.

No one except my consultant knew this part of me; no one had a clue. Through all my studies, Frieda kept me on an even keel, kept me relaxed, and helped with sexual release when the desire arose. Oh, I did bed several women at USC - who especially loved my well-appointed apartment (kept nice by a maid service), having a nice car, and the ability to take them out to nice restaurants, but when they tried to (to use an old term) go steady (or live together) I pulled back. As far as I knew, they weren't aware of my wealth.

Frieda nicely evolved to the point where I could go out in public. Which I did, several dangerous times, sure some cop was going to pull me over and discover my driver's license didn't match my appearance. I even attended a crossdressers' get-together out in the Valley. Nice to meet others, but it was just too clubby and there was too much of a gulf between the hot numbers and the guys who had their wigs on sideways and beard showed. I did get some nice compliments about my ability to pass. There was one gurl there who was movie-star quality I could've gone to bed with in an instant, but I wasn't about to make a move. Besides, I wouldn't have known what to do with a chick with a dick.

Eventually, the security of studying hard and getting good grades and having great relationships with teachers, balanced with becoming Frieda, was over. I graduated with a masters with honors, and even had a possible money-making venture on tap with two other up-and-coming engineers, but I suddenly felt empty, just like I'd felt after my parents died. I lost all motivation to go down the expected path of engineering, getting married and having kids, and making buckets of money. There would be no PhD for me.

I decided to take an extended break. It was time to pull back for a while, taste life outside academia, and do exactly what I wanted, not what I thought I was supposed to be doing. Maybe go hippy dippy for a while. Money makes many things possible.

Several times while having a fun masturbatory time as Frieda, just playing, and in no particular hurry, I fantasized living by myself along a secluded beach somewhere, and being Frieda. I would move gracefully in dresses; and enjoy exploring the beach, sipping wine, and watching the sun set over the Pacific. I could sleep in nightgowns and buy Frieda things and let my hair grow long. All in complete privacy.

And so, I set out to try to make this happen. With my plane (which I bought while at USC), I set out to find such a place, methodically looking at spots in British Columbia, Washington, Oregon and northern California. I narrowed it down to Canada and California, but in my last visit to BC, the rain and cold scared me away.

One day I flew my little Cessna into the tiny airport next to Garberville, California to check out a couple real estate listings in the area. Garberville was charming in a touristy, small-town way, with only a market, an old theater, a thrift shop, gas stations and a couple motels in the midst of beautiful Redwoods country. An added attraction was the growing industry of pot farming in the area.

A funny vanity attraction was the closeness of my Jewish name, Gerber, to "Garber" in Garberville. I wasn't sure if the city's namesake was German or Jewish, but what the heck.

To make a long story short, I found the beachfront home of my dreams. It was highly secluded, and a 45-mile, two-hour drive along a narrow country road - half paved - from Garberville. The home was actually within the Kings Range National Conservation Area, sometimes also called California's Lost Coast - one of the few private properties grandfathered in when the Area was created.

I surprised the realtor by writing a check for the entire cost of the property, consisting of 18 acres of land. I didn't even dicker on the price. Just paid, signed and ran. The former owner had died while living there, and the house came with his furniture, fixtures, towels, and kitchenware, so I didn't have to worry about any of that stuff. Except that I bought a new mattress, linens and blankets, since I didn't want to use a dead man's!

Then, not wanting to appear moneyed, I bought a three-year-old jeep, though I did have a big security gate installed with a wireless video monitor. I was told the electricity to the home was subject to disruptions, so I had a nice bank of solar panels with battery storage installed, along with a backup generator.

While all of these were being worked on, I flew down to San Francisco to stock up on feminine apparel for my Lost Coast Frieda life. Going from store to store made me feel giddy, like I was living a fantasy (which I was). In San Francisco, when you walk in stores as a guy and say you're shopping for bras and dresses for yourself, you're treated like any other customer. I got carried away and bought way too much. Especially lingerie.

Finally, all was in place. On my way back from parking my plane at Garberville, I slowly drove miles to my new home, accompanied by a couple weeks' worth of groceries. Pulling up next to the house, in among pine and fir trees, I just sat there, so relaxed I nearly fell asleep in the jeep. The house was all wood, with large wooden shingles on the sides, and a metal roof. It merged perfectly with the trees around it, and it was only ten years old.

Late that afternoon, with only the cool wind in the trees to keep me company, and now warmly dressed as Frieda, I sat on the open-air front porch in the shade with a glass of syrah, and enjoyed the ocean, about 200 yards distant. Soon the sun hit the horizon, and the air began to get colder, so I wrapped my arms under my Frieda breasts to keep myself a little warmer. I had been letting my hair grow longer for some time, and feeling wisps of it blow around my face felt so erotically and beautifully real.

I was now living as a woman. There was now a new person on this earth: Frieda Gerber, my concubine.

That evening after dark, I checked out the details of the home's interior more closely. The great room had a high, wooden-beamed ceiling from which hung castle-like light fixtures on chains, and a big stone-and-mortar fireplace that I hoped to use during the winter. Other than that, there were three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a game/entertainment room, an office (the previous owner liked to follow the stock market), and the usual other rooms. I parked the jeep in the two-car garage.

I did have the Internet via a slow-speed satellite service, but didn't intend to use it much. There would be no satellite TV. The area was too remote for cell phone service, and there was no land line hookup. I did have my ham radio along, so if there were ever an emergency I could use that to contact the outside world.

Before I went to bed, I carefully locked all the doors and windows, and during the night thought I heard a coyote or wolf howling. Very strange, indeed! I was lying there in my nightie, feeling both very secure and yet vulnerable and alone. I hoped I had done the right thing. I tucked my nightie between my legs, pulled the warm blanket over me, and quickly fell asleep, the first really deep and long sleep I'd had in months.

Up until now, in college, I'd exhibited some of my father's restlessness. Frieda would be much more relaxed.

In my Frieda lair, I'd get up in the morning, deliciously put on panties and filled-out bra (first playing with my nipples just a little), and then if I was going beach walking I'd wear a short-sleeved, thigh-length dress open to nearly my bra, a bracelet, a slender watch, and tiny earrings. Add to that some sun lotion and sunglasses and walking sandals and I was set to go exploring. Now, in California, ocean beaches up to the high-tide mark are public access, so I knew that eventually I'd meet someone down there.

So, over two months (autumn had arrived), I only met three people. The first was a male photographer with a very expensive digital camera looking for calendar shots, and the other two were a young couple on a long backpacking hike. I knew I was coming across as a subtle amalgam of male and female, due to my deeper voice, my adam's apple, larger hands, and lack of girl-hips - but I just tried to enjoy the moment and have a brief conversation with them, not wanting to reveal that I lived nearby. I'm sure that I was a topic of conversation for the couple as they left down the beach ... But, none of them brought up the subject of my gender.

When I went into Garberville once a week, or to one of the larger cities a much further distance away very infrequently, I went as Nathan, but with my long hair and earrings, and colorful clothing. In northern California, that was not unusual, with aging hippies around. What might have attracted a little more attention was my buying lipstick or perfume or scented soaps. And that brings up something that occurred to me one day. I had to try it.

I returned from the Garberville store with tampons. I wondered what it felt like to have a tampon inside me, so back home I finally figured out how to insert one up my behind, and walked around all day with one in there. I know that sounds crazy-nutty, but to me it was actually erotic and mysterious. So this is what real women do every month! I only did it that one time.

When I was around the house, I almost always wore dresses. I liked the flow, feel and freedom of them. I knew that if I actually were a woman, and my breasts weren't big, that I'd probably forego wearing a bra. But personally, I liked their feel, and they were necessary to give me the shape I adored. And - putting them on just gave me that lovely erotic edge.

I considered seeing a doctor to see if I could be prescribed some testosterone blockers and estrogen, and all that, but I knew I'd have to go all the way to San Francisco or Portland or Eugene to accomplish that, so it never got done. It was tempting.

I did a lot of beach walking. The fall was a nice time of the year. Eventually, I had to begin wearing an insulated windbreaker and leggings or slender levis. Most of the time I felt very free and womanly, and carried a backpack which I could load with driftwood and seashells.

Once in a while I also carried around a little paranoia that someone might be watching me. But I tried to put that aside and enjoy being Frieda to the hilt.

For the first time in my life, I indulged a desire to have a garden, and so consulted with a veteran gardening couple in Garberville. They told me what things I might expect to grow in the coolness and soils near the ocean, and they even gave me some transplants. Small-town people can be so friendly.

So I ordered seeds (all my mail and parcels came to a UPS store in Garberville where I had a PO box), some garden tools, a little rototiller, and other necessary stuff. And I really got into gardening, with my Frieda breasts pushing healthily against coveralls and dainty cotton panties underneath. My long hair was tied back in a ponytail, and I got dirt under my nails. I edged the garden with my collected driftwood and shells. Eventually, I even ordered and put together myself a small greenhouse so I could keep a garden going during the cold of the winter.

Just like a kid, I wished I could show it to someone (like my parents). But I never, for example, invited out the couple who helped me.

I channeled my 20-something erotic impulses totally into Frieda. When I felt especially horny (usually early in the morning) I would sometimes wear, in the total privacy of my bedroom, a sexy bra and panties, garter belt with dark, seamed nylons, heels, and sometimes I'd go the entire route of putting on makeup and styling my hair - the whole nine yards. By this time I'd have a major erection and my panties would be getting wet. Then I'd stand and look at myself in my full-length mirror and feel magically turned on. Once in a while I'd even step over and kiss my image.

Also, sometimes I'd try on various outfits - the various permutations of Frieda - and photograph myself for my Frieda "scrapbook."

Then, I'd magically play with myself, having absolutely great, thunderous climaxes. Frieda was very nice to me that way.

Once in a while, I'd dial up some porn on my computer, but download speeds were glacially slow. I tried looking at videos of other crossdressers and trans people, but it they just seemed at odds with my lifestyle. It was almost like city porn versus country clean air.

I developed set routines. On certain days I was Frieda, beach bum. On other days, I was Frieda, hiker and explorer - or, Frieda, gardener. I did end up volunteering with a little theater group in Garberville, where I helped set up the lighting and painted props. Other than my contact with the couple, and buying supplies at stores, this was my main social activity. It fit in with my liking playacting as a kid.

Once a county sheriff's deputy came to my gate, asking over the intercom to see me. I had to quickly change from Frieda to Nathan as he drove over to the house. His first comment was, "I always wondered who lived down here."

He looked me over carefully, and decided I didn't pose a danger to him or society in general. He wondered if I'd seen a missing person. Which I hadn't. He did get a little curious, asking me if I had an occupation. I told him medical engineering. He left it at that, handing me his card.

Before leaving, he told me a couple cautionary stories about homeowners in remote areas of the county who'd been broken into or robbed; there'd even been a homicide. On the basis of that, and not having phone service, I eventually bought a handgun and did a little target practice. But to tell the truth, Frieda was very uncomfortable about owning a gun.

The fall moved into winter and with that came rain. Lots of it. During the summer and fall months I would occasionally meet cars along my long road - usually tourists out exploring, or government employees monitoring the conservation area, or poachers illegally taking wood for their stoves. But during the winter, the road was virtually empty. Until one Saturday as I was driving home with groceries, and looking forward to returning to Frieda, when I spotted a little hybrid car with California plates parked off the road maybe a quarter mile from my gate. It hadn't rained for a few days, so I figured someone was out on a cross-country hike.

The next morning was a gardening day (and sunny), so I was puttering around in my greenhouse as Frieda, trying to keep lettuce and broccoli growing. I had a warm watch hat on over my long hair, and a thin jacket over a jumper and some nicely tight leggings. I was playing some jazz from a CD and felt femininely at ease after a leisurely breakfast.

Nearby was a video and speaker connection to the front gate but there was no sign of another cop or anyone else arriving.

Always very aware of my surroundings, I suddenly saw a momentary glint of light from the trees on a small hillside to my north. I stared intently at it for a moment, thinking it must've come from some metallic tree marker or random piece of glass. Then didn't give it another thought. Until it happened again, and again. I tried to remain unperturbed, but after five minutes I returned to the house and the safety of locked doors ... and my gun. I snuck peeks out my window, but didn't see anything further. Then I wondered about that car I'd seen earlier ...