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The Androgynous Model

  • Title: The Androgynous Model
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: transgender, mtf, romance fantasy

Oliver Evans, an 18 year old androgynous model, is terrified of heights. His manager cum best buddy, Jasper Robinson, tricks Oliver into going to Morocco, where Oliver models for renowned photographer Dame Felicity Wright. Oliver finds himself mesmerized by a group of female Shikhat (traditional Moroccan dance) dancers. He starts dancing with them. The dance moves come to Oliver magically, even though he has never heard of nor learnt the Shikhat dance. Oliver discovers that he is comfortable in a female dancer’s costume. He, eventually, begins to develop a desire to transition into a woman. Oliver’s desires turns life as he knows it topsy turvy, but helps him find the love of his life. After becoming “Amina”, Oliver discovers the reason for his fears.

The Androgynous Model

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Androgynous Model Oliver

I was a model named Oliver Evans. At 16, I had taken part in a reality show on a local television channel. I got noticed by a renowned modeling agency called Green Silvers. The first commercial I’d done was for a winter wear company. My green eyes, pouty lips and slender girlish frame became an overnight rage. Now, by 18, I had walked the ramp for the crème de la crème of fashion industry including Dolce & Gabbana. My feminine face had been splurged on the cover of many fashion magazines including The British Vogue.

The macho male look was passé in England: No one liked brawny, bearded guys anymore. The modeling industry wished to hire effeminate guys like myself to showcase their clothes and to advertise their accessories. Maybe it was the combination of a beautiful man wearing uncompromisingly male clothes, which caught people’s imagination.

In spite of my girlish looks, I was a rugged male at heart. I liked hanging out with other men, guzzling beer and playing cricket. I liked checking out girls in my spare time. Not that I had any difficulty getting them into bed. Any girl would feel flattered to sleep with Oliver Evans.

I had been with many girls, but didn’t have a steady girlfriend. I wasn’t a flirt or a womanizer and would have eventually liked to settle down with the right person. However, I just hadn’t found my soul mate! All the women seemed to be after my good looks and money…nobody loved me for my soul.

I loathed my long hair. But since designers seemed to like my look, I didn’t chop it off. I, however, made sure that I only showcased men’s clothes. I’d never have worn a skirt for a million pounds!

My best friend, Jasper Robinson, was my manager cum agent. He had guided me through the modeling world, managed my career and introduced me to agents, clients, photographers and designers. I attributed my success to Jasper’s dedication and the career plan he’d made for me.

One day, Jasper came into my office looking flushed and excited. “You’re in luck, Oliver boy” he breathlessly said “Dame Felicity Wright wants to work with you”.

“Dame Felicity Wright?!” I cried incredulously. I was unable to believe my luck. Felicity Wright was one of the biggest names in the photography world. She was one of the few photographers below the age of 35 to been bestowed a title by the queen. If Felicity wanted to work with me, I must have been making massive waves in the modeling world.

“Very much” said Jasper presently “but she has one condition”.

“What is it?” I asked curiously.

“Felicity wants to shoot you in Morocco” said Jasper.

“Damn!” I said “you know that’s not possible!” Disappointment pulled me down like a dead weight. Here I was, being presented with an opportunity of a lifetime. Unfortunately, I couldn’t grab it.

“Get over it, Oliver” said Jasper “you can’t afford to say ‘no’ to Dame Felicity. It will destroy your career”.

“I know” I cried dismayed “but in spite of trying, I’m unable to get over my fear of heights and of flying. I have gone to various psychologists and psychiatrists, but they have been unable to cure me of my phobia. I have lost many international assignments due to that”.

“Yes, everybody isn’t like Dolce & Gabbana” replied Jasper “Dolce & Gabbana understood your fears and shifted their fashion show from Milan to London”.

“Could you please talk Dame Felicity into shooting in the UK?” I pleaded with Jasper “we could have studio sets that resemble Morocco”.

“I did, but Felicity isn’t budging from her stance” replied Jasper heaving a sigh “she says she can’t imagine you in any other place but Morocco”.

“That’s really weird” I said “and I seem to have lost the opportunity of my life”.

“Yeah” said Jasper “but it wouldn’t hurt to have a drink with Felicity”.


That weekend, Jasper and I had a drink with Dame Felicity Wright in one of the swanky pubs in Glasgow. I was dressed in my trademark baggy pants and black Metallica T-shirt. Dame Felicity was congenial, down-to-earth and carried her title lightly. She was in her early 30s, but looked much younger.

“You’re such a beauty, Oliver” she said stroking my long blonde mane “I was super keen on working with you. Can’t you change your mind and come to Morocco?”

“I wish I could, Felicity” I said “but the prospect of sitting on a flight is enough to give me a heart attack. I am terrified of heights; hence I have avoided trekking, rock climbing, paragliding etc all my life. When on the terrace of a building, I don’t dare look down!”

“But what is the source of your fear?” asked felicity pouring me some more wine into my goblet “did you lose your loved ones in a plane crash or something?”

“I have no idea about the source of my fear” I said “I lost both my parents, but not in a plane crash. Mom died of cancer. My dad died of a broken heart a few months afterwards”.

“I am sorry” said Felicity grimly “perhaps I shouldn’t have asked”.

“No worries” I said as Jasper poured me another drink “Jasper has been my family since my parents passed away. He’s an angel sent on earth to watch over me”.

“Come on, mate, don’t embarrass me” said Jasper flushing to the roots of his thick dark hair. Felicity, meanwhile, poured me another drink.

Soon, my companions’ faces began turning hazy. Before I knew it, I could feel my world turning dark.


I woke up after what seemed like an eternity in the back seat of a cab. Jasper and Felicity were sitting in the front seat. They smiled benignly at me as I woke up and rubbed my eyes in confusion.

I looked around me. The place the cab was parked in was some sort of a crowded market place. People around me walked wearing long, loose garments with full sleeves. Some of them wore a hood and yellow slippers without a heel. They yanked sheep and goat along with them. The people around me looked like Arabs or moors. They weren’t Caucasians, and I definitely wasn’t in the UK!

“Where in the world am I?” I asked perplexed.

“You’re in Morocco” replied Jasper calmly “Dame Felicity brought you here in her private jet”.

“But…” I asked still confused “how did you manage? I hardly remember a thing!”

“We drugged your wine” said Felicity unconscientiously “and brought you here when you were in deep throes of sleep”.

I was upset at being tricked. It made me furious that Jasper had been in cahoots with Felicity in her little scheme.

“That was an unprofessional thing to do, Felicity” I said “I didn’t expect a titled personality like yourself to do such a thing”.

“I’m a girl first, a titled personality later!” protested Felicity “and I am a girl who was desperate to shoot you in Morocco”.

“Sure” I said “but I didn’t think you’d resort to devious methods to get me here” I said. Dame Felicity looked ashamed of herself. .

“And you Jasper?” I said turning to my best buddy “how could you betray me like this? Had I woken up on the private jet, I could have suffered a heart attack! It seems like you care much more about your commission than my life”.

“Please don’t misunderstand me, mate” said Jasper apologetically “I did this only so that you can progress in your career”.

“Leave me alone, the two of you” I said still miffed “I want to be by myself for a while”.

“Let’s reach the hotel and rest…” suggested Felicity “Joe and Will, members of my crew, have already reached the hotel. They took another cab. Jasper and I were on the way to the hotel from the airbase when you woke up. The cab driver has gone to get himself a cup of mint tea and will be returning shortly”.

“Leave me alone for a while please” I repeated my request.

Felicity and Jasper shrugged and got off the cab.

“We’ll get you Couscous, a delicious local dish” said Felicity grinning from the window “that should cheer you up”. She then turned away and walked off with Jasper, leaving me alone in a cab in a foreign town.

Please click here to read the rest of the story!

Abigail Resurrected – A Professional Mourner

  • Title: Abigail Resurrected
  • Subtitle: A Professional Mourner
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: mtf transgender, horror, romance suspense

18-year-old Noah Edwards is a professional mourner. He has lost his parents a long time back. Noah attends 18-year-old Abigail Lewis’s funeral along with his colleagues. Abigail is a sick, young girl who has succumbed to an unusual type of tuberculosis. At the end of the funeral, Abigail’s mother, Imogene Lewis, asks Noah to stay back. She offers him a job for a large sum of money. The job entails Noah dressing up like the deceased Abigail by wearing her clothes, donning a blonde wig and blue contact lenses.

Abigail Resurrected

Subtitle: A Professional Mourner

By Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – The Offbeat Career

I walked into the dingy, dark office. A man in his 50s, with a scraggly beard and a pair of rimless glasses, asked me to take a seat. His name was Leo Harris and he headed a group of professional mourners known as “Forget-Me-Not”.

Leo went through my resume for a few minutes and said: “From what I perceive, you haven’t had an easy life. Welcome to my little group of professional mourners. Going by your pale, little face, I don’t think you’d have much trouble squeezing out a tear or two”.

I nodded in a dignified manner. There was some truth in Harris’s words. My life was hard. This was a reality, which no amount of time would change.

My name was Noah Edwards and I was no prince. I had grown up in extreme poverty, with a wastrel of a father and an alcoholic mother. My parents lived on social security and managed to send me to a community school. There was never enough to eat and countless times we went to bed with no electricity in the house. I got sick of starving and shivering in the cold and started doing odd jobs like mowing the garden, raking leaves and helping the neighbors to clean out their garage. This helped us afford a few things besides bread. The family could now buy corned beef and potatoes, and a few cheap fruits like apples or oranges.

My parents died in a freak accident when I was 12. I sustained myself by working in a nursery. The state wouldn’t give a council house to a minor, hence I was homeless. I slept on park benches and in tube stations in the nights.

Belonging to a group of professional mourners was a unique experience. My friends and I would go from funeral to funeral, pretending to be one of the guests. My pals and I would think of the saddest movie we’d seen and weep copiously. I personally used The Schindler’s List to cry, but the girls used The Notebook or Fault in our Stars.

Before attending any funeral, we did a thorough research on the deceased person, so that no one would become suspicious of us. It required much effort and some amount of method acting. In the few months I had worked as a professional mourner, I had attended the funerals of all types of people: the gentleman who had lived up to be a hundred, a woman who had traveled the world and a child who had died in his infancy.

One nippy winter morning, Harris called me and my friends over to his office. “Funeral at 10 am” he said tersely “a group of young professional mourners required”.

“Who’s the victim?” asked Heidi White, a tall, hefty girl in the group.

“18-year-old Abigail “Abby” Lewis” said Harris.

“She was the only child of single parent, Imogene Lewis. Abigail had always been a sick child and had suffered from myriad health problems like a weak heart, inability to put on weight etc. A few months back, she was diagnosed with tuberculosis…it was pretty advanced when detected, she passed away. Dying of tuberculosis is extremely unusual in this day and age, but it happened in Abby’s case”.

“Why is Imogene Lewis hiring professional mourners?” I asked. “Abby had many friends surely?”

“She didn’t” replied Harris grimly. “Owing to her health problems, Abby had to be homeschooled. Imogene taught Abby herself as the mother and the daughter shared a very close bond. Abby was reclusive; she didn’t emerge out of her room when relatives and family friends visited. She barely left the house. Now that Abby is dead, Imogene is devastated, as you can imagine. What saddens Imogene the most is that Abby doesn’t have friends of her own age mourning for her. Hence, she contacted me and asked me to send a few young mourners over to their house in Surrey”.

“I’m glad we are going to Surrey” said Heidi “it would be good to be out in the countryside, out of the hustle and bustle of London”.

“Please remember that this is not an outing” warned Harris “a young life has been snuffed out cruelly by fate. It is a sad situation. Mourn as if you were close friends of the deceased girl. In case anyone asks, tell them that you met Abby online and visited her at home. Tell them that Abby was kindly, benign, sweet…general stuff like that. And the dress code is strictly to be followed: black gowns for the girls and black suits for the guys.

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Slippery Slope in a Reality Show – Feminized by Destiny

  • Title: Slippery Slope in a Reality Show
  • Subtitle: Feminized by Destiny
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: mtf, transgender

The 23-year-old protagonist is one of the contestants of Pyar Villa, a reality show in which 7 dashing guys are supposed to woo 7 lovely damsels. Though not interested in women, Sanjay, the protagonist, idly courts a leggy dusky beauty named Jacqueline Lobo. Prince Ash, the winner of a major model hunt, is introduced as a wild card entry on Pyar Villa. Slowly but surely, Sanjay begins to develop feelings for the ruggedly handsome Ash. Ash reciprocates Sanjay’s feelings and the two men begin a secret affair. Ash coaxes Sanjay to dress in women’s clothes bringing the latter’s suppressed desire for feminization to surface. However, Sanjay suffers heartbreak when Prince Ash proposes to Jacqueline on the final episode of Pyar Villa. Sanjay resolves to live the rest of his life as a woman. She is now called Simi.

Slippery Slope in a Reality Show

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Pyar Villa: The House of Love

Being the son of the affluent Rajesh Saluja got me into Pyar Villa, a TV show hosted by STV India. Dad was particular that I get a life outside of my dental clinic and socialize with girls like a “normal” 23-year-old guy. Pyar Villa (The House of Love) provided the perfect platform to find true love, or so its creators claimed. The contestants would be searching for it in front of a bunch of cameras and a million viewers.

7 guys (including me) and 7 girls were housed in a villa on the outskirts of Delhi. The guys were supposed to mingle with the girls, perform fun tasks and exhibit their talents to win the damsels over. The show was hosted by Rahul Batra, an STV MJ and Indiana Amour, a former cabaret dancer. I was given a spacious room in the villa. I also met and had a passing conversation with Vishal Grover, the guy in the room next to mine. Vishal gave me nice, friendly vibes in spite of being a competitor at the show.

Later that day, I was introduced to the other guys and girls. The girls were apparently attracted to my lean slender body and boyish face. The guys didn’t pass any comments, but I could tell that they too found me cute. The cameras soon started rolling and the guys were asked to socialize with the girls, who waited for us in the swimming pool of the villa. None of the girls interested me, but I started flirting with a leggy dusky beauty called Jacqueline Lobo aka Jackie. Jackie reveled in the attention she received from me and believed that we had established a true “heart-to-heart” connection. Over the next few weeks, Jackie and I became close and were known as the “love birds” of the villa. However, except for a sense of camaraderie, I felt nothing for my “lover-girl”.

One sunny day, Rahul and Indiana had a surprise for us. They introduced a wild card entry to give us regular guys some stiff competition. When the latest competitor walked into the villa, the girls nearly swooned. The new contestant was none other than the drop-dead gorgeous Prince Ash, the winner of Glamour Manhunt Contest. As Ash came into the villa and flashed his famous piano-key smile, I could feel a flush creep up my neck. Prince Ash shook hands and interacted with all the contestants of the villa. When he took his hands in mine, I could feel myself blushing ever more. I stammered when I spoke and could barely maintain eye contact. Ash seemed to notice my discomfiture and gave me a secret smile.

Over the next few days, I was acutely conscious of Ash’s gaze on me. When I performed a task which required me to paint Jackie’s body, I could feel Ash’s dark eyes bore into me. His expressive eyes seemed to speak and they said: “Sanjay Saluja, I wish to paint your body”.

During a task in which the guys were supposed to splash scented water on the girls they were wooing, Prince Ash threw a bucketful of fragrant water on me! The hosts and the contestants saw his act as a joke and laughed, but I knew otherwise. Ash’s gesture may have been frivolous, but his intention was not.

During another Pyar Villa task, all the guys were supposed to write down their darkest fantasies on a sheet of paper, but not sign their names underneath it. The girls were supposed to guess whom the respective fantasies belonged to. Since I was afraid of revealing my deepest fantasies, I settled for an innocent one. I penned that I’d like to take Jacqueline on a romantic date on a beach. The other guys were bolder. They wrote about wanting to have orgies and group sex. One anonymous guy had expressed the desire to court another guy from the villa. None of the girls could guess who this particular fantasy belonged to.

But I knew. One glance at Prince Ash’s smirking face only confirmed my knowledge.

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Embarrassing Punishment – A Transgender Romance Story

  • Title: Embarrassing Punishment
  • Subtitle: A Transgender Romance Story
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: transgender, mtf

Jacob King is the protagonist of the story. He is 26 years old, has brown hair and aquamarine blue eyes. Jacob is 5’6 and is thin as a rake. He is boastful and claims that if made president of the Blue Bonnets Association, he’ll be able to extract maintenance dues from a habitual defaulter in 3 months. Jacob also says that if he fails in his self-imposed challenge, he will live the rest of his life as a woman and even take female hormones. Jacob fails in the bet, which forces him to transition into a woman. Transitioning affects his life negatively: he loses job and his wife leaves him. Life changes for the better when Jake meets the owner of an adult movie house. Jacob moves to LA and starts appearing in adult films.

Embarrassing Punishment

Chapter 1 – Clash of Egos

I was having drinks with a few other residents of Blue Bonnets, our apartment block. My booze pals for the night were sixty three year old Thomas Owens, a retired bank manager and Mason Scott, a thirtyish ginger who worked as a restaurant manager. Since Blue Bonnets was one of the few apartment complexes in our little town in Texas, we had formulated a Management Committee (MC) with its own rules and regulations. Mr. Owens was the President of the association and Scott doubled as secretary cum treasurer.

Since my wife Natalie wasn’t present at our little party, I had already had a pint too many. I was thought of as “condescending” and “overconfident”; I felt invincibly so now. “You guys from the MC are useless!” I said taking a swig from the whiskey bottle “you haven’t been able to collect dues from the habitual defaulter in 3 long years! I would have done it in 3 months flat!”

The habitual defaulter I was talking about was Ahmed Khan, an Indian immigrant. Ahmed’s maintenance dues over the last three years had soared to hundreds of dollars.

“We’ve tried our best, King” replied Mr. Owens quietly “but it hasn’t been possible”.

“Why not?” I demanded “you should have cut off his water and electricity supply! Had you deprived Ahmed of the rights and facilities enjoyed by the other residents, he would have coughed up the money immediately!”

“We couldn’t do that” said Mr. Owens “Ahmed Khan’s case is a bit different”.

“Rubbish!” I said “you’re giving excuses! The MC is useless, that is the Gospel truth. Had I been the president, I would have extracted the dues from the guy in three months!”

“Fine” said Mr. Owens growing red with rage “you become the president. I pass on the baton to you. I shall be handing Mason my resignation letter tonight”.

“Good decision, Mr. Owens” I said cockily “you will be amazed at how quickly I accomplish the mission!”

“What if you fail?” asked Mr. Owens with passive belligerence.

“I shall not fail” I said with zest “If I do, I will live the rest of my life as a goddamn woman and even take female hormones!”


Scott chuckled embarrassingly at my ridiculous declaration. But Mr. Owens didn’t bat an eyelid.

“Say you’ll become a woman in writing and also put your signature” he said. He opened his briefcase and gave me a sheet of paper and a pen.

With a slightly quivering hand, I wrote the follows.

“This contract entered into on the 13th day of December 2017 by William Owens, retired employee at Dollars Bank, 45, Blue Bonnets Apartment, Texas and Jacob King, teacher at Texas High, 45 Blue Bonnets Apartment, Texas, do hereby agree to the terms given and described below:

1) I, Jacob King, promise to extract dues from defaulter Ahmed Khan by the 13th of March 2018, failing to do which I shall dress and live as a woman for the rest of my life.

2) I, Jacob King, also agree to take female hormones to become entirely feminized in case I fail in my mission of extracting dues from defaulter Ahmed Khan before the 13th of March 2018.

I showed the lines I had penned to Mr. Owens and Scott. Mr. Owens nodded in approval. Scott showed no reaction. But as I picked up the pen again to sign, Scott rushed to my side and grabbed my hand.

“You’re making a mistake, King” he said “Ahmed Khan isn’t the typical defaulter…for many reasons. It might be nearly impossible to extract dues from him…”

I smiled benignly at Scott. He, a soft-spoken hulk of a man, was one of the kindest persons on earth. The residents of Blue Bonnets called him “Gentle Giant” for a good reason.

“Nothing is impossible, my friend” I said “especially for Jacob King”.

“Maybe” said Scott “but please don’t sign”. His grip on my hand tightened.

My temper got the better of me. “Leave me alone, Scott!” I said releasing my hand from his grasp “I’m a 26 year old man, not a child! I take responsibility for my actions!”

Scott reluctantly let go of my arm and took his seat beside Mr. Owens. As I signed, a slow, sadistic smile spread across Mr. Owens’s face. “I hope the braggart bastard fails and pays” he seemed to be thinking. Scott just sat resignedly, holding his head in his hands.


The next morning, Scott came to my apartment to hand me the appointment letter. “You’re the president of the association now” he said, “but I wish you hadn’t created and signed that silly contract last night”.

“Why not?” I demanded “I’m going to win anyway”.

“I hope you do” said Scott sincerely “but it isn’t easy to collect dues from Ahmed Khan. He is a Muslim AND an immigrant”.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I said baffled “he should be treated like any other defaulter”.

“You are too naïve, King” Scott chided “it’s hard to treat Ahmed like any other defaulter. The president of the US has made too many remarks against immigrants and Muslims. If we cut off Ahmed’s water and electricity supplies, and deprive him of other rights and facilities that the other residents of Blue Bonnets enjoy, it will appear that we are discriminating against him”.

“The situation is a tricky one” I said, “but I can handle it”.


In the evening after school, I freshened up and went straight to Ahmed Khan’s house. His young and pretty wife opened the door. She was crying so copiously that mascara had rolled down her cheeks. Mrs. Khan’s hair was disheveled and framed her face like Medusa’s locks.

“What happened, Mrs. Khan?” I asked shocked by the young woman’s appearance.

“The bastard left me” was Fatima Khan’s response.

I surmised that she was referring to her husband. I waited for Fatima to say more.

“My parents warned me against marrying him” she continued “they didn’t trust Ahmed Khan one little bit. Also, they couldn’t understand why I would want to marry someone thirty years older…but Ahmed was so disarmingly charming and such a glib talker, that I fell in love with him and accepted his marriage proposal…my parents disowned me after my marriage…”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Khan” I said somewhat impatiently “but what’s wrong at the moment? Where is Mr. Khan?”

“He has fled to Oman to be with his family” said Fatima breaking into tears again “I believe he already had a wife and grown children before he married me. And now I have been abandoned in their favor. My parents will not take me back. I am broke and don’t have a job. I’ll soon have to find one, or else I’ll starve!”

My stomach lurched as I digested this piece of information. With events having taken a turn for the worse, it would be harder to extract maintenance dues. Yet I boldly persevered.

“Mrs. Khan, your husband hasn’t paid the maintenance money for 3 years” I said “it has soared to hundreds of dollars. Are you aware of this?”

The shock on Fatima’s Khan’s face was evident. “What?!” she said “Oh no!”

“Yes, Mrs. Khan” I said “I request you to pay the amount ASAP”.

“But I’m broke, Mr. King!” Fatima cried “I don’t have a dime. That bastard even sold my gold earrings, which were my only possession!”

“I understand, Mrs. Khan” I said, my mouth going dry “but can’t you arrange for the money somehow…maybe contact your parents in India?”

“No way!” said Mrs. Khan “they don’t want to see my face ever again, do you think they’ll lend me money?!”

“I guess not” I said.

“I request the association to give me time” said Fatima composing herself “I’ll earn an honest living and clear the dues. But it may not happen overnight”.


Three months passed in the batting of an eyelid. Ahmed Khan didn’t return. Fatima Khan had found herself a job, but hadn’t made enough money to pay her maintenance dues. I couldn’t bring myself to force an abandoned woman to beg, borrow or steal and cough up the money. I was assertive, but not heartless.

On the night of 13th March 2018, Mr. Owens came to my apartment. “You’ve lost the bet, King” he said simply “you’ll now have to keep your side of the bargain”.

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Playmate – A Transgender Romance Story

  • Title: Playmate
  • Subtitle: A Transgender Romance Story
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: MTF, Transgender, Romance

Ten year old Derek has been more like an adoptive “sister” to Rupert Meadows, the young scion of a rich business family. It is customary for 11 year old Rupert to dress Derek as a “bride” and playact being married to him. Disapproving of the two boys’ closeness and silly games, Rupert’s father sends Rupert away to a boarding school in Berkshire and, subsequently, to the US, far away from Derek. When the two guys meet as adults, sparks fly.  Derek undergoes sex change to please his lover. Derek is now known as Darlene.

Darlene and Rupert are very much in love until the burglary of Rupert’s mother’s expensive black pearls casts a shadow of suspicion on Darlene’s character and strains the relationship between her and Rupert.

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Impersonators:go out for wool and come home shorn

Published on December 1, 2017
Title: Impersonators
Subtitle:go out for wool and come home shorn
Author: Yu Sakurazawa
Category: mtf transgender romance

Haruto and Daigo are two small town 18 year old boys who shift to a university in Tokyo to study history. The best buddies fall in love with their classmates Sara and Karen. Sara and Karen don’t reciprocate the boys’ interest.

In order to get closer to the girls they love, the two guys dress as young women and seek admission in the women’s dormitory. Their elegant Ikebana teacher, Miss Anna Watanabe, help the boys dress as Lolitas.

Pretending to be women, the two buddies succeeded in befriending their respective romantic interests. Haruto receives much unwanted attention from the lecherous hostel manager, Genji Yamada. Rejecting Yamada’s advances comes with a massive price for Haruto and his friend. The two guys get embroiled in a tricky situation: the only way out of it is to begin HRT and later undergo SRS to really transform into women.


go out for woods and come home shorn

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Prankster Guys, Classy Chicks

The “spring break” of life brought me and my friend Daigo Nakamura from the tranquil countryside to the speedy Tokyo. We had joined a reputed private university ostensibly to study history, but our intentions were to savor city life. Not only did Daigo and I acquire a taste of Tokyo, we were swept off our feet by it. The flashing lights, clamorous streets, funky fashion and the huge sea of people all swept us off our feet. And I was swept off my feet by Sara Saito, my classmate.

Sara Saito couldn’t be called a conventional Japanese beauty by any standard. Her skin was “too” dark, face “too” square and figure “too” voluptuous to be considered one. Yet everyone agreed that “Sara Package” was an attractive one. She spoke crisply and politely, dressed elegantly in form fitting skirts and stylish tops and was intelligent. But what attracted me the most about Sara was her kindness. Sara offered to help classmates with their work, assisted the elderly when crossing the street and raised funds for charities.

At around the same time, Daigo fell in love with Karen Takahashi, Sara’s best friend. Karen was as different from Sara as chalk from cheese. She was fair, small and petite, and barely came up to Sara’s shoulders. Unlike Sara, Karen sported the Sweet Lolita look and behaved in a cute, sugary manner, like a little girl. When Daigo first confided his attraction for Karen in me, I couldn’t believe my ears. It was amusing that my tall, dark, muscularly-built friend was reduced to a love-sick donkey by a small-built, sylph-like girl. “Are you a secret pedophile, by any chance?” I asked half in jest.

“Really Haruto” my friend said giving me a disgusted look “you have a depraved mind”.

“Then why Karen?” I persisted.

“For similar reasons that you like Sara” Daigo said “Karen too is very kind. She volunteers at a home for the elderly during her free time. The love and respect with which she takes care of the elderly gentlemen and ladies is touching. Once, an old lady couldn’t sleep at night due to severe cold, Rio stayed up the whole night taking care of her. One of the permanent staff, a new acquaintance of mine, told me…”

“I’m sure you are right” I said patting my friend on the back “I apologize for my earlier comment. You know what I am…the most irreverent bastard you’d ever find”.

“That you are” said Daigo thumping me on the back “but you’ll always remain my best pal”.


Over the next few days, Daigo and I tried to get friendly with the girls, but Sara and Karen ignored us. I don’t blame them. Daigo and I had spent our first few months in Tokyo frivolously. We’d skip classes and go to bars, karaoke clubs and game centers. I admit that we had even been to kyabakura, the Japanese cabaret club where you get to talk to the hostesses…and er, accidentally touch them although the body touch is basically not allowed in kyabakuras. Daigo and I had been terribly embarrassed, when during the first month of our arrival in Tokyo, Karen and Sara had seen us coming out of a kyabakura on a street at the notorious area of Shinjuku. The girls had, since then, labeled us as perverts. Little did they know that we were just two curious 18 year old boys, trying to explore the exciting new world we had suddenly found ourselves in.

There may have been a few other reasons Sara and Karen gave us the cold shoulder. Daigo and I had the reputation of being the pranksters of the class. During our first few months at the university, we’d play practical jokes on our classmates and professors: throw a plastic spider on the girls and guffaw when they screamed, stick an ‘I’m an ass” poster behind a boy’s back or imitate professors’ talk, gait and mannerisms. All this had, undoubtedly, given Sara and Karen a bad impression of us.

Over the next couple of weeks, Daigo tried hard to change the girls’ impression of us. I traded my distress jeans, grungy t-shirts and funky long orange hair for classic black trousers, white shirts and a short neat hair cut (and returned to my original hair color, black). Daigo too traded his form-fitting jeans and t-shirts (that showed off his sculpted torso) for more formal, dignified clothing. We spent most of the time in the library, catching up on what we’d missed in the first three months of classes. I also joined a volunteer group raising funds for underprivileged children in Africa, earthquake victims in different parts of the world and victims of wars and famines. Daigo joined the same home for the elderly as Karen as a volunteer. He meant well, but was clumsy by nature, and ended up doing the wrong things. He overheated the inmates’ food, pushed their wheelchairs too fast and forgot to give them medicines on time. He talked too loudly and too much, disturbing the inmates. Needless, to say Daigo was soon asked to leave.

At least, he had tried. I was proud of my friend for that. And Daigo was equally proud of me for trying to change for the better.

Our romantic interests were far from impressed with the change in me and Daigo. They continued to ignore us as usual. When indirect means of trying to grab the girls’ attention failed, Daigo and I decided to be honest. We spotted the girls in the library, where they were studying from a shared textbook. I addressed Sara:

“Listen sweet, you’re a swell dame. I have lost my heart to you. Daigo loves Karen with all his heart. We guys have changed for the better. Don’t you think you girls should give us a chance?”

“No way” said the Sara and Karen in unison without lifting their heads from the textbook.

“Why not?” asked Daigo indignantly “are we so bad-looking?”

“These things are seldom about looks, you shallow boys” said Karen “it’s about the mind, heart and soul”.

“Then are our minds, hearts and souls so dark that you two won’t consider us?” I asked cuttingly.

“They’re not dark, just insincere” replied Sara “Karen and I feel that you guys are pretending to have changed only to impress us. You’d go back to being pranksters once we start dating you. Real change only occurs when the motives are pure…not ulterior”.

“Love is not an ulterior motive” Daigo quipped.

“Guys like you don’t know what love is” Karen retaliated “you only know lust”.

“What do you mean?” I asked genuinely baffled.

“Don’t play the innocent in front of us, Haruto” Sara said.

“We genuinely don’t know what you mean” said Daigo.

“Kyabakura” blurted Karen out and the two girls burst into a volley of giggles. They laughed until tears rolled down their lovely cheeks. As for Daigo and me, we flushed to the roots of our hairs. The girls continued to snicker; Daigo and I wished the library floor would crack open and swallow us up.


“Whew!” said Daigo throwing himself on the couch “These girls are playing hard to get”. The two of us had returned to the apartment we had rented and shared for the past four months.

“They are not playing hard to get.” I replied “They are hard to get. They are classy chicks, remember? And we two guys are basically pranksters”.

“So, what do we do now?” asked Daigo “give up on the girls we love so much? Drat, we have transformed into decent guys for nothing”.

“Don’t be so negative, bro” I said as an idea struck me “all we require is another transformation”.

“What?” Daigo looked confused.

“Use your brains for a change, Daigo” I continued “who are girls closest to?”

“Other girls, I suppose” replied Daigo shrugging.

“Exactly!” I said snapping my fingers “so in order to get close to Sara and Karen, we need to transform into girls and gain admission into the girls’ dormitory!”

“You’ve gone raving mad, Haruto!” covering his crotch area with his hands in a protective manner “I’m not going to sacrifice my masculinity for anything”.

“Who said anything about sacrificing it?” I said reassuringly “you only need to conceal it until we get close to our lady loves”.

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Missing in Nepal: Forced Feminization into Damsel in Distress

Reuben Young is the 18 year old protagonist of the story. Reuben hails from Colorado, but studies in a university in Tokyo. He is of average height (5’8), has copper-colored hair and beautiful brown eyes. Though Reuben is Caucasian, he has 1/8 of Japanese blood in him, which gives his face a a soft, feminine quality.

Reuben goes away to Nepal after he finds the pollution levels in Delhi unbearable. He gets drunk, dresses as a woman and dances in a bar. A video clip of this is made, and Reuben is subsequently blackmailed by opportunists. He is subsequently deprived of his purse, passport and smartphone. Reuben is thrown into a situation where he is forcibly feminized and coerced to work in a dance bar.


Missing in Nepal

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1

For the Love of the Mountains

The air turned cooler. The richness and variety of vegetation increased. As the bus turned around another bend, I caught sight of primary colored Tibetan flags fluttering in the air. My spirits rose. After 16 hours of strenuous travel, I was finally in the beautiful Himalayan kingdom of Nepal.

It felt as if I had been trapped in Delhi for an eternity; while in reality, it was just for a week. It all began when I had won a photo-captioning contest while studying psychology in a university in Tokyo. The prize of the contest was a free two week holiday in Delhi, the capital of India. I had been super-excited. For a young man of 18, I had already seen so much of the world! I was born and brought up in the alpine mountains of Colorado, but opted to study in Japan. I saw my affinity towards Japan as a consequence of being 1/8th Japanese (my maternal grandmother hailed from Japan).

Initially, I was exuberant about being in Delhi. I enjoyed the rich plethora of sights, sounds and colors that India had to offer. As 3 or 4 days passed, I started feeling overwhelmed by what I perceived as the congestion, lack of cleanliness and good manners in India. I missed Japan: a country where everything was neat and structured and everyone had impeccably good manners. In Tokyo city, I was pleasantly surprised to find cashiers apologize before taking money! I also found myself yearning for the high mountains and fresh air of Colorado. Delhi was vibrant and culturally rich, but I felt that if I stayed there for a moment longer, I would be sick. Maybe this was an overreaction on my part—something to do with my cleanliness fetish—but I suddenly was desperate to get away.

Luck was by my side. On my sixth day in Delhi, as I desultorily wandered around Old Delhi, I found a travel company offering a 7 day tour to Nepal for only 10, 000 INR! Of course, the company only covered charges for transportation to Kathmandu, hotel and food, but I thought it was a good enough offer. I could arrange for transport and make my own travel package once I reached Kathmandu. I knew a little about Nepal: it was a region of beautiful mountains and breathtaking scenic beauty. The population belonged partly to the Mongoloid race and resembled people of the Far East. Therefore, I felt that Nepal might be a suitable place for me as it seemed to have features of both Colorado and Tokyo (i.e. beautiful mountains and lovely people with high-cheek bones).

I purchased a visa for $25 for 15 days at border immigration and took a bus to Kathmandu. While seated in its air-conditioned interiors, I realized that I hadn’t let my friends know of my impulsive move of traveling to Nepal. They had known that I had won a trip to Delhi and had been really excited on my behalf. I meant to keep the trip to Nepal a secret until I returned to Tokyo as I was keen on springing it as a surprise on my friends. Some of my classmates had been to Nepal and spoke at length about their treks and adventure sports at Pokhara. I wanted to see vicarious joy register on their faces as I told them about my solo, unplanned adventures. My parents didn’t even know about my trip to India. I had hidden it from them as they had the tendency to unnecessarily worry about me. My parents were the least adventurous people on earth. As an only child, I had been fussed over, sheltered and over-protected by them until I had managed to get away to Tokyo a few months back. I loved my parents, but also cherished my independence.

As the bus penetrated into the interiors and reached the capital city of Kathmandu, I was a bit disheartened. As opposed to the fresh, pristine outskirts of Nepal, Kathmandu city was dusty, dingy and polluted. The streets were narrow: pedestrians and vehicles vied with one another to reach their destination. I hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me to Hotel Shiva located in the tourist hotspot of Thamel. The driver, a plump middle-aged man, obliged. During our half an hour drive to the hotel, he reassured me that I’d find untainted beauty again if I were to move a few kilometers away from the heart of Kathmandu city. I was overtly relieved. Yet a vague kind of uneasiness brimmed beneath the surface of my consciousness. I realized that the driver had positioned the front mirror in such a manner that he could sneak covert glances at me. That was downright creepy! I had never known a man to glance at another in this manner unless he was gay. Nobody in the US or Japan had ever stared at me in this manner. I dubbed the driver to be a homosexual.

I was ashamed of my own conclusions. I was perhaps judging this simple man from an underdeveloped country too harshly. He probably didn’t have too many foreigners riding in his cab, and was perhaps simply curious. My friends, both in the US and Japan, said I was blessed with “exotic” looks. Most of my descendents were French; hence my skin was white and hair a rare copper color. Yet the Japanese blood in me made itself conspicuous: I had a delicate, slightly feminine face, a lean and slender body and very little facial and bodily hair. My cheekbones were high and my tip-tilted eyes, a brownish black.

As I was lost in reverie, the driver turned into one of the dingy side lanes and stopped in front of a huge orange building. With creepers growing by its side and Tibetan dragons at the entrance, the building was quite a pretty one. However, in spite of its respectable façade, I got the feeling that this hotel was notorious and shady. Maybe the cheap bright lights at the exterior or the large number of local men standing and smoking near the gate gave me that impression.

I had a good mind to ask the cab driver to take me to another hotel. Then I remembered that this hotel had been paid for by the travel company. There was little I could do, without wasting my money.

I reluctantly walked into the hotel. An expressionless young man at the reception confirmed my booking. As I went over the details of my booking with him, I was acutely conscious of a trillion eyes gawking at me. A number of men—touts, drivers, cooks and restaurant staff perhaps—stood in the hotel lobby and stared at me. I felt a flush creep up my face and disappear into the roots of my hair. Ignoring the ogling eyes, I continued to interact with the receptionist.

My room was on the first floor. I carried my knapsack upstairs, congratulating myself on my decision to leave most of my belongings in Delhi and travel light to Nepal. As I was sprinting upstairs, I heard one of the hotel staff say something. It took me a second to realize that the words, spoken in broken English, were addressed to me.

I reluctantly dragged myself downstairs. The speaker, a nondescript man in a striped shirt and black trousers, said:


By the questioning lilt in his voice, I gathered that he was asking me if I had eaten dinner.

“Yes” I lied and continued to move upstairs. Though I was hungry, the prospect of sitting down to dine amidst those gawking eyes unnerved me. I went straight into my room, locked it from the inside, took a quick shower and jumped straight into bed. As sleep started overtaking me, I realized that I hadn’t even enquired if the hotel had Wi-fi facility.

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Feminine Desire: a monk who failed to be a nun

  • Title: Feminine Desire
  • Subtitle: a monk who failed to be a nun
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: transgender suspense, mtf

Fabian is an 18 year old monk living in a secluded monastery at Montserrat. He lives according to the dictates of poverty, obedience and chastity. Ever since he was 10 years old, Fabian has experienced an overwhelming desire to dress and behave like a girl. Since his mind perceives such desires to be a sin, he has suppressed them.

When Reverend Jovel, the head of the monastery, requests Fabian to accompany him to Barcelona where he is to give a discourse, Fabian obliges. During the discourse, Rev. Jovel develops a sore throat and asks Fabian to fetch him ginger from Santa Caterina Market. He stops at a café for coffee. The guy at the counter decides to play a practical joke on the young monk and mixes a drug in his coffee.

Fabian starts wandering the streets of Barcelona. He gets lost and finds himself in the notorious area of El Raval in the night. He spots an over-made up woman called Reneta (evidently a prostitute) and asks her for directions to his hotel. The kindly Reneta obliges. Subsequently, she happens to be murdered. And the murderer has seen Fabian…

Fabian’s life is now in danger. He is forced to be disguised as a woman and call himself “Flavia” to protect himself.

Will Flavia be able to escape the clutches of Reneta’s killer, who turns out to be a political big wig?

Feminine Desire
a monk who failed to be a nun
by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – The Beautiful Monk

I sat in my black smock watching the hustling tourists. Many tourists came to our monastery, situated atop the relatively secluded rock mountain of Montserrat. They ostensibly came to see the statue of the Black Madonna, but it wasn’t unusual for them to stand and stare at me for the longest time. At 18, I had got rather used to the unflinching, adulating stares of men and women alike.

The other monks told me that this was because of my extraordinary beauty (if the term can be applied to a young man). By my late teens, I had grown up to be 5’8, had a sculpted body and a chiseled feminine face. My hair shone like black gold and my lips were red and full. But the other monks told me that people were mesmerized by my “intense dark eyes”.

I’d lived in the monastery since I could remember. Apparently, Reverend Jovel, the head of our monastery had found me as a baby, abandoned at the doorstep of the monastery. I was immediately given shelter, looked after by the monks and raised to be one. It was the unspoken assumption that I was the illegitimate child of some local woman who didn’t have the courage or the means to raise me. However, I preferred to believe that I was the son of the princess of some exotic, far-away land…

I was committed to the vows of poverty, obedience and chastity. I rose early in the morning and read the bible. Then the other monks and I attended a common prayer. We also served the poor and the underprivileged. We supported ourselves by making sweets and running a confectionary shop for the tourists. Since monks believe in renunciation, we ourselves didn’t eat anything fancy. We lived on soups, stews and vegetables. We sung in the choir. Except for chatting up an occasional tourist, we had no contact with the outside world. The Reverend prohibited us from reading the newspapers or watching the television, as he believed that the “ugly” external world should be kept away from the beautiful inner one, as much as possible. As a rule, monks were not supposed to own anything. Except for the gift of beauty, I didn’t own a thing in the world.

I truly believed that even a leaf couldn’t tremble without the will of God. I had surrendered myself entirely to His will. However, my devoutness wasn’t entirely untainted. Since the age of ten, I had strange desires….the desire to dress, talk and behave like a girl. I felt the fervent urge to grow my dark hair long and let it frame my heart-shaped face. I felt tempted to buy a lipstick and outline my luscious lips with it. I wanted to play “doll games” with the little girls living in the region. I wanted to marry, have a house and kiss my husband. But these were very wicked thoughts! If God had put me in a male body, I was supposed to devote myself to Him as a male servant. Or perhaps, I wasn’t supposed to think of gender at all. I was expected to think of myself just as a vessel created for the service of God and to aspire for union with Him.

I had long suppressed such unholy thoughts. Yet they raised their ugly, persistent heads every once in a while. I put in more hours of prayer, toil and service as penance. Yet the monkey mind refused to get diverted. At times, the urge to dress like a woman became so overwhelming that I wanted to take my own life. But by contemplating suicide, I had committed yet another sin. Christian monks sincerely believed that since God created life, it was only He who could take it away. Even thinking of taking one’s own life was sinful.

One day, as I was trying to pacify my restless mind as usual, my friend Antonio came into my quarters. He was a short, squat monk of about my own age.

“Reverend Jovel has summoned you” he said “He wishes to see you immediately”.

Bells of panic rang in my heart on hearing the word “immediately”. Why did Reverend Jovel want to see me immediately? Had he finally got a whiff of my sinful thoughts? Was he going to chastise me for being disobedient to God?

With a hammering heart, I walked into the vicarage.

Reverend Jovel was sat at the chair by the window. He was a tall man, with pepper and salt hair, and a pince-nez on his large nose. “Good morning, Fabian” he said on seeing me “it’s good to see you”. He indicated the seat opposite him, gesturing me to sit. My heart calmed down a bit. If there was anything wrong, Rev. Jovel’s voice or demeanor didn’t give it away.

“Likewise, father” I said reverentially, before taking my seat. Even though nervousness had left me, I was still impatiently curious about the reason for being summoned. The inquisitiveness must have showed on my face as Rev. Jovel said:

“I better get to the point without having you guessing. Fabian, would you like to accompany me to Barcelona for a few days?”

Barcelona was just an hour’s drive away from Montserrat, but I had never had the opportunity to visit the city. I felt excitement stirring deep down within me.

“Sure” I said smiling “but for what purpose, father?”

“The Institute of Spiritual Sciences is having a seminar in Barcelona” said Rev. Jovel “they are having spiritual leaders of various faiths over…Buddhists, Hindus and various sects of Christians. They want me to represent the Baptist community”

I listened attentively, nodding at periodic intervals.

“By God’s grace, I’m hale and hearty” continued Rev. Jovel “But I’m nearly 68 years old. I need a young disciple to accompany me. He needs to help me carry my bags, run small errands etc. Since you have had good stamina from childhood, I thought I’d take you along. What do you say?”

“Certainly, father” I said trying not reveal the excitement I felt on the inside. I had this intuitive feeling that this trip was going to change my life.

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A Mermaid in Love – transgender love story

  • Title: A Mermaid in Love
  • Subtitle: Transgender Love Story
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: MTF

Austin/Ava Fisher is the 18 year old protagonist of the story. She is blonde, with Celtic white skin and light blue eyes. Ava hails from a low-income family, but has blossomed as a swimmer sponsored by a sports merchandise company. She has felt that she is a girl trapped in a male body since she was 10 years old. Ava has recurrent dreams of a boy whom she believes to be her soul mate. Except for her career, a loving grandmother and her deceased mother’s antique diamond pendant, she owns nothing.

A Mermaid in Love

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Ava, the Mermaid

I swam. My body was turned to one side, arms and legs asymmetrically in motion. My hand acted as oars, allowing my gradually changed body to propel itself forward. With my hard lean body turned into womanly curves, I experienced great tiredness in the left side of the body. I flipped over to my right side, allowing one shapely arm, curvaceous waist and bulging hip to rest. I had been doing the scissor stroke for a good 10 years now, ever since I was eight years old. But even this relatively relaxing stroke taxed my transformed body.

It had been two years since I had begun taking female hormones; I was nearly a fully developed woman by now. My breasts had blossomed into a decent size 32 (A). About 20 months after having started HRT, the fat distribution in my body had started changing. My waist had become smaller, my hips more curvaceous and my derriere decidedly more rounded. These changes satiated a longstanding yearning in me, but made continuing to compete as a male swimmer difficult. My career ahead looked decidedly bleak, but I had no choice. I had been forced to become a woman, or else give up on life itself. It had been a do or die situation.

I stared swimming when I was eight years old. My parents had been dead for many years and I lived with my lovely paternal grandma I fondly called “nana”. Since she was arthritis-ridden to continue working at the mill, and I was too young, we had enrolled ourselves for a social welfare scheme and lived on dole. Our house was a two-storied council flat, with two small bedrooms, a dining hall, a kitchen and a bathroom. Though we didn’t have three course meals, nana and I had enough to eat and didn’t ever have to go to a food bank. Nana also allowed me to join swimming classes, which was offered free for orphaned children. I also had a state school education.

It turned out that I was a water baby, a born swimmer. I attended swimming classes regularly, stayed behind for hours practicing strokes that were much advanced for my age and experience. Such was my zeal for swimming that I even forgot to have food on time. My hunger for my passion was so intense that I was soon an ace at freestyle, butterfly, breaststroke, backstroke and individual medley. I joined competitions and won many of them. When I participated in and won a competition in an older age category, two local newspapers covered me. I, eight and a half year old Austin Fisher became a child prodigy, a phenomenally talented young boy who could beat competitors double his age. In other words, I had taken the aquatic world by storm.

A year after I had joined swimming, my fame had spread in the local area. A well-wisher uploaded video clips of my strokes on social media, and I started getting fan mail from people claiming that they had been greatly inspired by me. Several people started following me on social media. They wanted to know everything about me, which included: the background I hailed from, my workout schedule, achievements and so on. Since I was too young to have a Facebook account, Nana posted updates on my behalf, detailing the modest background that I hailed from, the grueling training schedules I put myself through and the laurels I had achieved. She also regretfully mentioned that because of our financial constraints, she couldn’t afford to buy me top quality swimming wear. Nana also mentioned that while she could give me three basic meals a day, she couldn’t afford to give me the kind of nutritious diet swimmers required to build their bodies and stamina.

During this period, Impetus, a company specializing in sports merchandise offered to sponsor me. It paid for my sports equipment, a diet which met the demands of an upcoming athlete’s body and my trips abroad and to other parts of the UK. Over a period of 9 years, I had represented East London in several competitions and Great Britain in a few. In the subsequent years, I did fairly well, but my accomplishments weren’t good enough to satisfy Impetus, myself or nana completely.

The reason began at age 10, when I started going through a personally harrowing period. It all began in school one day when an inexplicable power beyond my control yanked me to the girls’ bathroom. At first, the girls were startled to see me, but soon loosened up and began chatting with me. We started conversing about general topics such as the weather, studies and syllabus before moving on to uncompromisingly girly-talk such as clothes, fashion, makeup and boys. I enjoyed the girls’ company more than I had ever liked being with the boys. I was fascinated by a peek into the female world. The short skirts, the mascara, the fascinators and the lip gloss! They all seemed so bewitching, so captivating and fascinating than anything else I had come across so far! Before I knew it, the yearning to dress, smell and sound like a girl became so intense that I lost control. I fell to my knees and begged a tall, gossipy girl called Yvonne to exchange her uniform with mine.

“Have you gone crazy, Austin?” asked Yvonne recoiling in disgust and horror “of course, I am not going to do that!”

“Please, Yvonne” I pleaded, my voice almost a wail “Oblige me this once, just for five minutes. We still have fifteen minutes to go before the science class starts”.

“Get away from me, you faggot!” yelled Yvonne “you’ve lost your mind!”.

I knew I was making a royal fool of myself, but I couldn’t control myself. I fell to the ground–a beseeching, sniveling, slobbering mess. The girls shirked in shock. They marched out of the bathroom, leaving me stripped of all dregs of dignity.

Yvonne was a blabbermouth. The other girls came a close second. Soon, the story of how I had disgraced myself had spread like wildfire throughout school. Boys, who were jealous of my stardom, took this opportunity to shake my self-confidence. They ragged, riled and bullied me at every given opportunity. They called me a pansy, a queer and a faggot. They made life so miserable for me that I stopped attending school. I, however, continued swimming and tried to perform to the best of my ability.

I performed decently enough in the competitions, but wasn’t as “prodigious” as before. Since that awkward episode at the girls’ restroom, my mental health had taken a turn for the worse. I began obsessing and over-thinking as to why I had behaved in the manner I had. I was also distressed by my increasing fascination for girls’ clothes, accessories and magazines. In my free time, I began reading Mills & Boons, a mushy romantic novel series, on the sly. I bought myself a lacy nightgown and went to bed wearing it. (Of course, I made sure I latched my bedroom door tightly shut so that nana wouldn’t know). I did odd jobs so that I had enough money to buy sexy lingerie to wear under my regular male clothes. Also, I had begun detesting my penis. I felt that it didn’t belong to me. This was also the time I had begun dreaming of him….

As dissatisfied as it was with my performance, Impetus continued to sponsor me. I wasn’t as brilliant as before, but my track record was better than most swimmers in London. During early adolescence, I made no friends as I was busy training at the pool or doing odd jobs. Unbeknownst to my conscious self, I was probably saving for a complete female wardrobe and Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT). However, I was also apprehensive of the adverse impact gender change could have on my swimming career.

At 16, I had gone beyond the point of caring and started undergoing HRT. Now, two years after the treatment, I had metamorphosed from “Austin the Merman” to “Ava the Mermaid”. Though I hadn’t confirmed my gender change to the press or made a formal announcement of the new name I had given myself, speculations were abound. Where would life take me now that the whole world had started noticing the changes in my body? Only time could tell.

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A Private Tutor – The Most Feminine Desire

  • Title: A Private Tutor
  • Subtitle: The Most Feminine Desire
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: iPS, transplant, MTF

This is a story of Nigella, a transsexual British woman who visits Barcelona and falls in love with a penniless singer.

The singer proposes to Nigella, but asks for two years time to marry her as he wishes to become successful first. Nigella agrees to wait and gets a job as a governess in order to remain in Barcelona until she can marry him.

Nigella’s employer is a widower with two young daughters. He is also a scientist, working on secret research projects for which he makes the unsuspecting Nigella a guinea pig. Before Nigella knows it she undergoes a transplant surgery.

Will Nigella be able to get away from the employer’s crafty clutches?

A Private Tutor
The Most Feminine Desire
by Yu Sakurazawa
Chapter 1
Te Quiero

It all began when I was in Spain. I fell in love with Barcelona: its unique Art Nouveau buildings, leisurely beaches and vibrant nightlife. I sauntered through the dusty piazzas of the city in the night of a fiesta, dressed in the flamenco-dancer’s red and black dress, with a crimson rose tucked behind my ear. It was then that I saw Mathias Crespo: the man who was to become my life, my love and my entire existence in the years to come.

He sat in the dusty alley, with a guitar balanced on one comely knee. As he strummed it with his fingers, sweet, sad notes of music filled the air. He sang soulfully of love, loss and loneliness. He was tall, and had a lean, hungry look—as if he hadn’t eaten for days. His features were chiseled; his hair jet black. He was dressed casually, in a pair of black jeans and a white shirt, with the top buttons rakishly open.

People stopped to listen to him, fascinated. After a while, they dropped a few pennies in his “Contribution Box” and moved on. Within seconds, they became absorbed in the humdrum of their daily existence, forgetting all about the beautiful singer with a haunting voice.

But not me. I stayed on long after all of them had gone. I asked him out to dinner, and he obliged. I learnt that his name was Mathias… Mathias Crespo.

Ten minutes later, we were sitting in a bustling, crowded restaurant, talking over pasta, green salad and roast lamb (which the Spaniards refer to as cordero asado). I’d ordered a gin and tonic; while Mathias opted for coffee. I noticed that he savored every bite and sip, as if he hadn’t eaten for days.

“This is the best meal I’ve eaten in years” Mathias confirmed, spooning in a large chunk of pasta into his mouth. “I’ve been living on lean soup ever since I lost my job”. Mathias went on to elaborate that he was a struggling musician who, until four years back, had painted houses for a living. Mathias had had little absorption in what he did for his bread and butter, and thought constantly of music. This tendency began to show in the form of irregular timings and shoddy work. One day, Mathias was kicked out of his job for playing the guitar on the rooftop of the house he was supposed to be painting. Mathias’s infuriated agent never referred him to another client again.

“I have been struggling to make it as a musician for years, with little luck” said Mathias “except for the small sum I receive as state unemployment benefit; I am literally penniless. But hey, a man lives on hope”. He smiled, revealing a row of perfect white teeth.

“You are very talented, Mathias” I earnestly said, looking into his warm brown eyes “I know you’ll make it big one day”.

“That’s for destiny to decide” shrugged Mathias nonchalantly “Now let’s talk about you Nigella. You told me you are a Briton”.

“Yes, I am a Briton” I confirmed “my family hails from London. I am 26 years old, and have worked as a governess for about five years now. I love swimming, learning new languages and playing the piano. And oh, I am a pre-op transsexual woman”.

Except for a slight raise of one fine eyebrow, Mathias showed no reaction. “You must have really yearned to be a woman” was all he said.

“Yes” I said reflectively “I’ve always felt like a woman on the inside. Loved women’s clothes, makeup and accessories. I’ve been on estrogen for the past nine years”. “These” I said indicating my breasts and running a hand over the hand of the smooth, velvety skin of my face “are the result of Hormone Replacement Therapy”.

I paused, waiting for the expected reaction. But Mathias didn’t flinch or grimace like the other men I had dated. He seemed to accept my identity as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, Nigella” he said in a quiet voice “I’ve never seen such beautiful pale skin, ginger hair and green eyes. I am glad you decided to become a woman. Otherwise, men like me would have suffered the greatest loss”. His dark eyes looked sincere. It was clear that Mathias wasn’t joking.

“You mean what you say, don’t you?” I asked taking Mathias’s hand.

“I do, my darling” Mathias said, squeezing my palm hard.


Things moved very fast from this point onward. Mathias and I started dating and making proclamations of undying love to each other. Soon, he slipped an engagement ring (of oxidized steel; he couldn’t afford gold or silver) into my finger and asked me if I would marry him. I thought I’d swoon with joy. Obviously, I replied in the affirmative.  Little did I realize that there was to be a major catch.

“I assume you love me very much, dear Nigella” he said, looking at me with those warm, spaniel-like eyes.

“More than my own life, dear Mathias” I replied.

“I trust you love me enough to wait?” Mathias said.

Butterflies suddenly started doing a jig in my stomach. What did Mathias mean? I asked the question out aloud.

“I mean, it’s impossible for us to get married right now” Mathias replied falteringly “I am living on dole, and am incapable of supporting a wife. But some instinct within tells me that I will make it big in about 2 years time. I think that would be the right time for us to get married”.

It felt as if my heart had shattered to a million pieces.

“Mathias” I said patting my lover’s dark hair “I love you. I am willing to marry you right now. I wouldn’t mind roughing it out”.

“Please understand, Nigella” said Mathias gently, but firmly “I live in a one-room apartment, with broken tiles, a leaky washbasin and practically no ventilation. It would be a shame to keep a lovely woman like you in a pig-sty”.

“I don’t mind at all” I sincerely said “I am marrying you, Mathias, not your house”.

“Kind of you to say, Nigella, but I have my pride” said Mathias rubbing his cleft chin “if I am ever to marry, I’ll keep my woman in a palace”.

Mathias’s voice was gentle, but obstinate. I realized that arguing with him would be useless.


I couldn’t face the prospect of going back to England. I couldn’t bear going back to its rainy days, staid people, and weak tea and scones (I don’t mean to insult my own country and culture). I wanted to bask in the glory of the exotic, expressive and colorful Spain. I wished to bask in the warm opulence of Mathias’s love.

“I can’t go back to the UK” I said breaking down and weeping “I need to hold you every night, to touch and feel you…I need to feel your rugged skin against mine; your hot breath on my neck…”

“Darling, Nigella!” cried Mathias, evidently touched “do you actually love me so intensely?”

“Yes, my love” I said “I can’t ever bear being parted from you”.

“What shall we do?” said Mathias clutching his handsome head in his hands “what do we do, my beloved?”

“I know” I said suddenly brightening up “I shall get myself a job in Barcelona”.

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Forbidden Sanctuary – Transgender Suspense Story

  • Title: Forbidden Sanctuary
  • Subtitle: Trespass sweatly urged – failing masculinity test
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: transgender, suspense, mtf

Jared Wells is the protagonist of the story.  He is from a conservative region in America, but aches to explore new cultures. Jared accidentally lands on Kito Island in Africa and is accosted by the Zorba Tribe. Chief Kave, the leader of the tribe, takes Jared home to his mother. The next day, Jared is forced to prove his masculinity by fighting with a lion. The young man fails following which he is dressed as an African woman. Jared is eventually feminized by the tribe. He is now called Zoya and is forced to marry the widowed Chief Kave.

Forbidden Sanctuary
Trespass Sweatly Urged
Failing Masculinity Test
by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Jaded Jared

I was jaded. I am from a part of America that had more church-goers than in any other part of the country. When the rest of the country was experimenting with new cuisines, we guys resolutely stuck to our hamburgers and French fries. We hated immigrants, even though generations ago, we ourselves had arrived from a distant country. Also, we were the staunch long-time loyalists of the Republican Party.

I was called Jared Wells at that time and was 21 years old. Since pre-marital sex was considered an abomination before God, I was still a virgin. My parents expected me to get married in a few years time, probably to some girl who, like me, was also blonde-haired and blue-eyed. Until then, I would just have to watch porn and jack off. We Americans believe in the “Do-it-yourself” or the DIY philosophy. I was sticking to the philosophy by catering to my sexual needs all by myself.

I was sick of this insular community, with its stick-in-the-mud attitude. I detested being a stickler for rules. I wanted to be free…and explore other regions and cultures: primitive and pagan ones, preferably.

This desire had been welling up inside me for quite a long time. Hence, I had been building a special sea kayak for a good three years. I had carefully ripped and attached plywood sheets, stuck panels at the sides and had stitched them sturdily. After coating it with fiber glass and varnishing it until it shone, the kayak was ready to sail.

I was no foodie, but needed fuel to survive. So, I packed umpteen cartons of milk, breakfast cereal, and canned fruit. I also made sure that I had stored numerous bottles of drinking water. I sailed southwards with no concrete destination in mind.

At first, I loved it. I had a natural affinity for water and had won many kayaking competitions. But after a few weeks of paddling on, I was scared. I worried about a plentitude of things. What if there was a mishap and the kayak collapsed? What if there was a severe thunderstorm, which would rip me and my kayak apart?

Nothing as catastrophic happened. I paddled on for miles, with the wind conditions and ocean currents slowing me down. I had a faint idea that I was moving towards Africa, but wasn’t sure. I was drifting the ocean. Days turned into weeks. My water and food supplies were dwindling. I fervently hoped to catch a glimpse of a piece of land. When I finally did, it was of an island. Had I not been a confident person, I would have been convinced that I was hallucinating.

But Kito Island (I discovered the name later), was no delusion. It was an exquisite piece of reality. Winds blew through the whistling thorn trees, making them tinker like a series of bells. Unique quiver trees and the upside-down baobabs grew alongside the whistling thorn. The skies were unbelievably blue and the clouds a fresh pure white. Elation swelled in my heart, as I saw a lovely deer leap among the lemon grass. The sound of a nearby waterfall reached my ears.

I was dumbstruck by the untouched, virginal beauty of the island. My town was also beautiful, but had a smoky shop-soiled look to it—an inevitable consequence of civilization. I assumed that the island was uninhabited and decided to explore it, hoping to find something to eat. I moored my kayak to a nearby tree, and gingerly stepped on the ground. On impulse, I took off my sneakers. The earth beneath my feet was soft and moist.

I frisked the island, searching for something to eat. I dug out a few red yams and radishes, and devoured them raw. I quenched my thirst by stepping into the waterfall and drinking its fresh, sweet water.

The gush of the waterfall had drowned the sounds of approaching footsteps. When I looked back, I was in for the greatest shock of my life.

At least fifteen ebony-skinned men stood in front of me. They were naked except for a loin-cloth around their waists. Their faces were painted red, and hair braided into tight dreadlocks. They wore beads and cowries around their necks. Huge bows and arrows were slung over their powerful shoulders.

A man of about fifty stood a step ahead of the entourage. He was tall and well-built, and had a strong imposing presence. I noticed that he was dressed differently from other men. The loin-cloth around his waist was pattered, and he had twice as many beads and cowrie necklaces around his sturdy neck. Also, he wore an impressive headgear of lion mane and ostrich feathers on his head. Going by the variation in attire, presence and personality, I guessed that the man was the chief of the entourage.

His dark eyes radiated fire. My heart leapt to my throat. My hands began to go cold and clammy. I was obviously the trespasser here. I had evidently stepped on an island that wasn’t supposed to be intruded upon. Fascinated and mesmerized by its beauty, I had foolishly overlooked possible dangers that might have lurked on the unknown piece of land.

The men continued to stare at me. Convinced that the guys wouldn’t understand English, I tried to haplessly explain my situation through gestures. Astonishment struck me like a whiplash when the chief said “Come with us” in a deep, rich baritone.

The English spoken by the semi-naked tribal chief was flawless.

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A Slippery Slope in a Music Band – A Substitute Singer

  • Title: A Slippery Slope in a Music Band
  • Subtitle: A Substitute Singer
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: transgender, romance

M. “Aaron” Smith: is the protagonist of the story. He is an 18 year old boy living in the small American town of Sunnysky. He studies in Sunnysky High School. Aaron has red hair (hence is often called “Ember Head” by his friends), dark green eyes and a face full of freckles. He is a cheerful good-natured boy, who is good at sports and singing. Aaron is also girl-crazy and accident-prone. In this story, Aaron is forced to dress in drag in order to impersonate new band member, Cynthia Perry, who has eloped with her boyfriend at the lost moment. The whole story revolves around Aaron’s agonies and ecstasies of stepping into womanhood.

A Slippery Slope in a Music Band

Subtitle: A Substitute Singer

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – A Buxom, Redhead

“I think we’ll bag it”, Valerie, my rich, vain girlfriend declared. She jiggled her gold bracelets and tossed her dark mane.

“Are you sure?” asked Bianca, my sweet, blonde pal “I don’t know if The Aarons are better than Jenny and the Felines”. By The Aarons, Bianca meant our band. I was the lead vocalist and guitarist, Veronica played the keyboard, while Bianca played the tambourine.

The Aarons did very well locally. My pals said that it was because people could relate to me: an 18 year old cheery, redheaded boy. They loved my gentle voice, “cute” freckles and boyish (if somewhat, sloppy) charm. Everyone adored me as I was.

“Forget Jenny and the Felines, babe” I presently dismissed Bianca’s worries “we will definitely bag the contract with Lothario Records”. “Yes, we ought to” I mentally reassured myself. After all, The Aarons had left no stone unturned for the past few months. We had made a demo album, bought great quality equipment and had even hired a manager. All this had been possible because of Valerie’s wealthy old dad: Arthur Johnson. Mr. Johnson was the owner and CEO of Johnson industries. He disapproved of me (as Valerie’s boyfriend), but would do anything for his darling daughter.

“Right, we were great at the auditions” confirmed Valerie presently “Cummings said Brando was impressed”.

“Cummings would say anything to please you” I muttered under my breath “after all, he’s the lackey-manager hired by your old man”. My remark wasn’t off the mark. Cummings, our gangling, simpering manager, had the hots for Valerie. He would say almost anything to make her happy. I, however, had to admit that our auditions had gone well. But it was hard to tell what Brando, the head of Lothario Records thought of us. He had sat stony-faced, throughout the auditions, staring hard at my two girl pals. When we had thanked him at the end, Brando remained expressionless.

Presently, Cummings walked into our recording studio. He was grinning from ear to ear. Really, the idiot couldn’t stop drooling at the sight of Valerie. I tried to subdue my irritation and concentrate on the news Cummings had to convey.

“Brando gave us the green flag, babe!” he said wrapping Valerie in a sudden, crushing embrace “you girls are in!”

“That’s great!” said Valerie trying to disentangle herself from Cummings’s bear hug “I knew it!”

“He loved both of you” Cummings turned to beam at Bianca “Brando loved you girls!”

I felt anxiety stir in my stomach. Why was Cummings saying Brando loved “the girls”? What about me? I was the one who had formed The Aarons in the first place.

“You mean he loved The Aarons, right?” I asked uneasily.

“Sure, lad” said Cummings suddenly looking nervous “Brando loved The Aarons. But…” he tailed off.

“But….” I prompted.

Cummings remained silent. I could sense both my girl pals becoming tense.

“Speak up, Cummings” commanded Valerie “or has the cat got your tongue?”.

“There’s a small catch” replied Cummings coughing and not meeting Valerie’s gaze.

“What?” barked Valerie.

“Brando does want Aaron in the band” Cummings finally said “he wants a third girl, preferably a redheaded one”.


There was a long, dumbstruck silence.

“How’s that possible?” asked Bianca finally “how can we be The Aarons without Aaron?”

“You’ll have to oblige Brando; otherwise the contract will go to Jenny and the Felines” Cummings said “it’s your call”. He shrugged.

“We can’t allow another band to get our contract!” Valerie protested “we’ve worked so hard for it!”. She refrained from mentioning the money her dad had poured into the venture.

“That’s right” I said “I can’t afford to be selfish. The Aarons is bigger than me”.

“Are you sure, Darling?” asked Bianca caressing my cheek “is it okay if we take another girl?”

“Absolutely” I said putting on a brave face “you may take any girl in Sunnysky”.

“Cynthia Perry is a good choice” said Valerie “she is red-headed and also has a rich husky voice”.

My mind went into a tizzy at the mention of Cynthia Perry. If there was ever sex on legs, Cynthia was it. With her big bosom, long legs and luxuriant red mane, Cynthia could set the whole town on fire. I don’t want to be misunderstood here. Even though I loved Valerie and Bianca dearly, I was also crazy about other girls. Polygamy is the typical trait of any teenage boy, and I was no exception. And Cynthia topped the list of girls I occasionally dated and frequently fantasized about. She was a great flirt and very promiscuous. I believe she had an especial soft spot for me.

It was uncharacteristically generous of Valerie to suggest Cynthia. The two had been fierce rivals in the past, competing to display their extravagant lifestyles and gain hegemony over me. But it was obvious that bagging the contract mattered more than personal feelings to Valerie. This was the first sign of martyrdom I had ever seen in her.

Bianca and I agreed to Valerie’s idea. Bianca was especially happy because Cynthia was a close friend of hers. So, Cynthia was selected. She performed in the second set of auditions. Brando evidently loved her. He apparently stared at her goggle-eyed throughout the performance.

On the day before the final round of auditions, Bianca rushed into our recording studio. She looked flushed and extremely anxious.

“I’ve got bad news” she said.

“What happened?” Valerie and I chorused.

“Cynthia has eloped” said Bianca “with a boy from Pembrook. The two have gone away to another city”

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Valerie in dismay “what about the auditions??!”

“We’ll have to find a replacement” said Bianca, pensively chewing her lip.

“Or an impersonator!” quipped the crafty-minded Valerie.

“Right….” agreed Bianca “we need an impersonator….until Cynthia returns”. Both the girls were looking at me intently. I got a whiff of the girls’ thoughts and flushed under their scrutiny.

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A Slippery Slope in a Shakespearean Theatre – A Transgender Suspense Story

  • Shakespearean TheatreTitle: A Slippery Slope in a Shakespearean Theatre
  • Subtitle: A Transgender Suspense Story
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: transgender, mtf, suspense

Thirty six year old Ivy Douglas is a star actress in Shakespearean theatre. She is gorgeous, rich and famous. Ivy has a secret problem: she is unable to sleep. Memories of the brutal 11 year old murder of her lover Rebecca Scott come to haunt her every night.

Rebecca had been strangled—with her own underwear. Autopsy reports suggested that she had had sex only minutes prior to her murder. The evidence in the case was circumstantial; it hadn’t been enough to convict the two prime suspects: Oscar Scott, Rebecca’s jealous husband and Lydia Baker, Ivy’s hysterically envious girlfriend. The case had eventually turned cold, but is still fresh in Ivy’s mind.

Following the lead of an anonymous note, Ivy goes to Dartmoor and rents the house in which Rebecca was found murdered. Apart from the murder, Ivy relives memories of her torrid love affair with Rebecca and her eventual feminization from Ivan to Ivy. Eventually, the young transsexual woman meets and falls in love with the handsome melancholy Noah Campbell: a man she later suspects to be Rebecca’s murderer…

A Slippery Slope in a Shakespearean Theatre

A Transgender Suspense Story

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – The Tormented Idol

I am in trouble. My husband Othello has found my perfumed handkerchief in the possession of Cassio. He is convinced that I’m having an affair with his chief lieutenant. This is by no means true. I’m deeply devoted to my husband. It hasn’t ever crossed my mind to be unfaithful to him. I have no idea how my handkerchief was found in Cassio’s possession. All I know is that I’m being made a scapegoat in a conspiracy far beyond the grasp of my pure, trusting mind.

My husband is looking at me with dark, murderous eyes. His suspicion is far greater than my protestations of innocence. It is clear that someone has been filling his ear with untrue, slanderous words about me—lies that my Lord believes. And in Othello’s eyes, murder is the apt punishment for adultery.

Othello wants to use the incriminating “evidence” of my “adultery” to murder me. He encircles the perfumed scarf around my fragile neck. I demur. Yet my husband has no mercy. He tightens the scarf around my neck. I can feel my face go blue, as I choke and grasp for breath. Othello tightens the scarf further. I can feel the life-force draining from my body. The world around me goes dark.
The curtains fall. Thunderous applause floods the Swan Theatre. The hall is suffused with cries of “Ivy, Douglas, Ivy Douglas!”, screamed in throes of sheer rapture. It takes me a while to realize they are calling out my name.

I’m Ivy Douglas, the 36 year old star performer of Shakespearean plays. Over the years, I have proven myself to be a versatile actor who can play any part: the tragic Desdemona, the young star-crossed Juliet, the scheming Lady Macbeth or the vulnerable Ophelia with equal ease. But critics hail my performance as the witty Lady Portia as the best. My acting draws crowds from all parts of the UK. Our troupe also travels all over the country, and sometimes also abroad, to Netherlands and Germany. Of late, my fame had reached such heights that roles are being written for me.

Presently, the names of cast members are called out. I see my colleagues walk on stage one by one. As I emerge out of the wings, the audience goes into another frenzied bout of applause. I take a bow, basking in the glory that I’ve earned. I feel good rarely, so I milk the moments to the maximum. In spite of my spectacular success, my inner life is a haunted one.

“Ivy, you were excellent tonight” says Andy giving me a peck on the cheek. I take both his hands in mine and look at him gratefully. Andy’s kind black eyes twinkle at me. He, a co-actor, is the only person I can call a friend.

“Are you alright, love?” Andy asks giving me a sympathetic glance “or are you thinking of her again?”

I nod, trying to blink back tears. Andy is the only person in the troupe who knows about my past. And about the intensity of my feelings for Rebecca….He knows everything, except Thursday’s development. I have remained tight-lipped about that.

“We’re going to the pub to celebrate” Andy says “come along. You’ll be distracted”.

“No, Andy” I reply shaking my head “I want to be alone tonight. I want to spend it thinking of her”.


I walk down the cold street and let myself into my flat situated in the posh High Wycombe area. I make myself a chicken sandwich, but am unable to eat. I stow it away in the fridge, have a glass of warm milk and go straight to the bedroom. The sight of the bed triggers a new sense of panic. I know I shall be harangued by sleeplessness or worse, by nightmares. Life certainly hasn’t been easy for the past eleven years.

The woman I loved, Rebecca Scott, had been brutally murdered in her Dartmoor home. I was the one who’d found her, lying still and frozen in the bedroom. Something about Rebecca’s rigid stance and unblinking eyes has struck me as unnatural. And then I’d seen it: the angry purple welt around her neck. I had bent down to check my beloved’s pulse. Much to my shock, I couldn’t find one. I remember breaking into hysterical sobs before calling the police. By the time they arrived, I’d apparently fainted.

Rebecca had been murdered in the most brutal way imaginable. She had been strangled to death, evidently with her own panties.

Circumstantial evidence presented itself in the form of little dregs of information. The crime scene (that’s what our love nest had become post Rebecca’s murder) suggested signs of a scuffle: usurped contents of the dressing table, a few loose hairs wrenched off Rebecca’s dark head and a dislodged silver earring.

Then there were the ruffled bedclothes, suggestive of something….the autopsy confirmed that Rebecca had engaged in sex, a few minutes prior to her murder. Her un-bruised vagina suggested that the intercourse had been consensual. There were no traces of semen inside Rebecca’s body. Her partner had evidently been careful to flush his seed down the toilet.

Why had Rebecca been murdered? Had the lovers had a fight after sex?

Besides, who was the lover? I thought I was the only special person in Rebecca’s life.

It all didn’t make sense. Oscar Scott and Lydia Baker had been questioned. Both of them had cast-iron alibis. The public prosecutor said that no one could be convicted on the basis of circumstantial evidence alone. Witnesses had to come forward to testify and no one had, up to this point. The case had turned cold and was eventually forgotten.

By everyone, but me. I knew I could never enjoy a good night’s sleep until Rebecca’s murderer was caught and punished.

In the hustle-bustle of life, my resolve to find Rebecca’s murderer had weakened. However, a recent occurrence has rekindled the fire of revenge within me. Last Thursday, I received a note: a neatly folded anonymous one written on cream-colored paper. The elegant scrawl on it said that I’d find a cue to Rebecca’s murderer in Dartmoor.

Should I follow the directions of the note to relieve the agony I’ve suffered for eleven whole years?

I stay sleepless the whole night as my mind goes into the retrospective mode. I think of my early life, of theatre and of….Rebecca.

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Forbidden Gift – A Transgender Horror Story

  • Forbidden GiftTitle: Forbidden Gift
  • Subtitle: My Story of Feminization and Being a Victim of SRA – inspired by a real life story of spiritual catalyst Teal Swan
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: transgender horror, mtf, lesbian

Trevor Barlow is a pretty boy born with extrasensory abilities. He has dark hair and teal blue eyes. Trevor is neglected by his parents and is ostracized by the community that believes him to be Satan. As a result, the misunderstood child becomes silent and withdrawn. Trevor’s alienation is taken advantage of by family physician and secret pedophile Dr. Jacob Fallon who manages to win Trevor’s parents’ trust and gain informal custody of the troubled child. Once he has gained systematic access to Trevor, Dr. Fallon brainwashes Trevor into believing that he is the reincarnate of the wicked biblical queen, Jezebel. Over the next few years, Trevor is forcibly feminized and is now called Tessa. Tessa suffers horrendous abuse at the hands of his guardian for ten long years.

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Forbidden Gift

My Story of Feminization and Being a Victim of SRA

inspired by the story of spiritual catalyst Teal Swan

by Yu Sakurazawa



Dr.Fallon stabbed a lean unkempt man in front of me.

“Kiss him in the lips and get his pants down, Tessa” he orders me.

I have to do what he tells me to. Otherwise, he would kill my parents and their siblings, as he had told me many times in the past.

Slowly, I crawl to the bleeding corpse and kiss his cold lips and unhook his jeans pants.

“Do it now, Tessa.”

With my lace one piece dress on, I have to get take off my shorts, get his pants down and struggle with his withered penis until I “die” in ecstasy.

I was tempted to do what he had ordered me just like many times in the past, fearing that Dr. Fallon would execute his threat of killing my family. But today I had an epiphany. Dr. Fallon had been lying to me about everything: my so-called past life, my identity and also about my sexuality. I wasn’t Jezebel, the bad woman of the bible who had to pay for fighting against God. Neither was I a woman called Tessa. I was Trevor – Trevor Barlow. Yet for the past 6 or 7 years, Dr. Fallon had forced me to live in a female body.

I realized that Dr. Fallon had been lying to me all these years because he’d told me that the corpses I was forced to have sex with were those of people who had died a natural death. However, with the Ketamine effect wearing off, I realized he had lied. If Dr. Fallon had lied to me about this, it was likely that he had lied to me about everything else. He had gained the trust of my family, earned systematic access to me as a young boy and had brainwashed me into believing a number of untruths, including the lie that I was a girl trapped in a male body. He had injected female hormones into my body and eventually transformed me into a female. A genital reconstruction surgery conducted by a doctor (also belonging to the Satanic Cult) had completed my feminization process.

Dr. Fallon wasn’t the amiable, avuncular family physician that he overtly claimed to be. He wasn’t one who helped “sinners” like me atone. With utter shock I realized that my “mentor” was no more than a common pedophile, possibly one with a multiple personality disorder. Dr. Fallon was a mentally ill person, but was also a highly convincing speaker….a very dangerous combination… He had managed to convince my parents to informally hand over my custody to him. Likewise, Dr. Fallon had enough charisma to polarize a number of fellow pedophiles into the Satanic Cult.

My only concern now was to escape this man. He could no longer exercise mind control over me. When Dr. Fallon was diverted for a minute, I scampered away from the basement into the garage barefooted, jumped into a blue Cadillac Sedan and drove away–for miles. I didn’t know where I was going, but I just drove on. My right thigh, which Dr. Fallon had cut with a knife, was bleeding copiously under my white skirt. I knew I needed help, but didn’t know where to go.

But I certainly knew I wasn’t going back to my parents. My being different from the others had driven a wedge between me and them—a wedge that nothing in the world could bridge. I still couldn’t forgive mom and dad for making Dr. Fallon my guardian of sorts. If they couldn’t understand their own child, was it fair to let the family physician take custody of him?

I wish they had been more understanding of me and more alert to Dr. Fallon’s machinations. I wish they had suspected what he and the other cult members had been doing to me all these years and had saved me from them. I wish my parents had been my guardian angels who came swooping down to help me when I was in danger. But, no.

The damage had been done. I was unchangeably and irrevocably damaged.

“But you have to live, Trevor!” a voice inside me yelled “you have to use your gifts and your suffering to help heal others!”

“But how do I do that?” I yelled back “Besides, where do I go now?”

The image of a willowy girl with a tomboyish manner flashed in front of my vision – Mia Allen! I had met her at a party seven years ago. In a bid to broaden my non-existent social circle as a teenager, my parents had forced me to attend a party hosted by the son of an acquaintance. When I reached his house, a maypole of a girl with platinum blonde hair had opened the door, and had whizzed past me shrieking and screaming rambunctiously. I remember thinking: “what a weirdo!”. But as we went inside and said hi to each other; I realized that there was a pure, unadulterated kindness in Mia’s hazel eyes that nothing could touch. She was as sweet, innocent and compassionate as a child. I instinctively knew I could trust her. Later in the night, Mia and I had gone skating together. I had met her on one or two occasions since. Mia had once even invited to her house and I had visited her for ten minutes or so.

Yes, Mia was the right person to go to. But would she recognize me in a female body? Would she believe all that Dr. Fallon and the other cult members had done to me?

I was getting dizzier by the minute and unable to think right. I vaguely remember driving for another mile, pulling up in front of Mia’s home and frantically banging on her door. Mia opened the door and was shocked to see me bleeding heavily.

“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed “Let’s get you some help”.

I remember her ringing for the ambulance before I passed out.

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Forbidden Academy – Transgender Horror Story

Forbidden Academy

  • Title: Forbidden Academy
  • Subtitle: Feminized by Hypnosis
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: transgender horror, mtf, lesbian

Liam Bailey is the 19 year old protagonist of the story. Liam is a British citizen with Nordic looks: pale translucent skin, fair hair and eyes, which are as transparent as ice. Liam has been taking ballet classes for years, but is still not a great dancer. This is owing to the fact that he is too lean and weak to perform the pas de deux (a ballet movement, which entails carrying female dancers over the head). After joining the Sokolov Academy of Ballet in Russia, Liam falls in love with its scion cum principal, Anya Petrovna. He eventually comes under Anya’s trance and is transformed into a beautiful young woman called Lisa.

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Forbidden Academy

Feminized as a Hypnosis

Transgender Horror Series

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 -There was something about Anya

Somewhere between Moscow and St. Petersburg was a town. It was a small remote one, with a population of just about 50,000 people. Located in the town was a not-very-well-known ballet school called “The Sokolov Academy of Ballet”. In the warm, sultry summer of 2011, I had enrolled there as a student.

Dressed in tight leotards and a vest, I carried a lithe ballerina over my head. She was as light as a bubble and didn’t strain my back. That was saying much because I was a delicate, slightly-built danseur.

The Russian belles around me laughed; their laughter sounded like a merry peal of bells. They did a bourree (a ballet step) around me like a bevy of swans, enchanting in their white tutus, leotards and Pointe ballet shoes. Watching tiny young tightly-held-together female feet, moving back foot and then speedily following with the other, were indescribably beautiful to watch. It was so beautiful that I could hardly believe it was happening.

In the dream-like scenario, only one thing was missing. Anya Petrovna: The dark enigmatic academy cum principal, who apparently taught only once in a blue moon. According to my batch mates and seniors, the semi-retired Anya had seldom taught in the recent past. How I wished Anya reconsidered her decision to retire, and decided to teach us. It would be far more interesting to learn under her rather than being under the tutelage of the insipid, young Mr. Nikolai Blinov. The sinuous way in which Anya carried her voluptuous body; the slow, languid way in which she spoke and the intimate way in which she had looked at me—oh, it was sweet madness! I don’t mind admitting I had a crush on Anya; my curiosity was only exacerbated by the knowledge that Anya was a reclusive and very little was known about her.

I had been learning ballet in London for many years before I decided to study in Russia. I had been devoted to my art, but hadn’t really been a very successful danseur. Yet I couldn’t imagine being anything other than a premier danseur at the ballet. Hence, at 19, I didn’t really think it was too late to apply to top ballet schools in Russia. The Vaganova Academy rejected me. So did St. Petersburg Eifman Ballet. As did umpteen other well-known ballet schools. Finally, when I had almost given up, I got a letter of acceptance from the Sokolov Academy, located in a part of Russia I had hardly heard of. I didn’t remember applying to any academy by the name of Sokolov, and hence was quite surprised. I googled “Sokolov Academy” on the internet. The search results were “zero”. The place didn’t have any internet presence whatsoever.

I didn’t have memories of applying to the Sokolov Academy. Therefore, I wondered if all this was some kind of a hoax or a practical joke played by my chums.

The issue gave me sleepless nights. Finally, after a few days of tossing and turning, and with no resolution in sight; I decided to go to Russia to find out for myself. The mysterious Sokolov Academy had arranged for a one-way plane ticket, and had promised free accommodation. So all I had to do was sit in the plane on the designated date and fly away to the Domodevo International Airport in Moscow.

As I was just emerging out of Domodevo International Airport, a tall, heavily-built man in a chauffeur’s uniform approached me and asked: “Are you Mr. Liam Bailey?” As I listened to his pronounced Ls and hammer-hard Rs, a shiver of excitement ran down my spine. I was indeed in the caviar-replete, vodka-swilling Russia!

“Yes, I am” I confirmed, trying not to show the trepidation I felt.

“Please take a seat, Mr. Bailey” said the chauffeur, opening the door of a shimmering, stately M14 Chaika “Anya Petrovna awaits you”.

“Anya Petrovna?” I asked obviously puzzled “Who is Anya?”

“Anya Petrovna, the owner and principal of Sokolov Academy” replied the man, with a slight rebuke in his voice “one would have thought you’d know”.

“Yes, of course” I replied taking his rebuke in my stride “I was a bit disoriented, that’s all”. I laughed ingratiatingly, hoping to mollify the offended chauffeur. However, the man didn’t respond. He drove for the next few hours in chilling silence. Somewhere along the way, I must have dozed off, for the chauffeur’s thick, hammer-hard voice jerked me awake.

“Please wake up” he said tersely “we’ve reached the destination”.

I groggily opened my eyes to take in the sight of the solid Sokolov Academy. It was a rock solid brick structure, with a tented roof augmented with a Romanesque and Renaissance vault structure. The chauffeur carried my luggage and led me into a spacious lobby. We crossed the house area of the theatre and reached a long corridor. I noticed that a flight of steps led to a set of rooms above.

The chauffeur led me a few meters down the corridor until we’d reached a door. The black name plate had “Anya N. Sokolov” written on it in golden letters. “You go in” instructed the chauffeur “while I’ll go upstairs and deposit your luggage in your hostel room”.

A sudden apprehension seized me. I was suddenly terrified at the prospect of coming face-to-face with the enigmatic Anya Petrovna. Butterflies did a jig in my stomach. I turned to the chauffeur and uneasily asked: “May I go up to my room and freshen up first? I’m afraid I don’t feel very presentable”.

I self-consciously appraised my skinny jeans and brown polo-necked t-shirt. I then proceeded to run my fingers through my spiky light blonde hair. In spite of being a Briton, I had distinctly Scandinavian looks. My skin was as pale as my hair and my eyes were translucent like ice.

“Oh, you look just fine!” said the driver, before sneeringly adding “going by the way you are fuss, one would think you’re a girl!” After aiming this piece of insult at me, the chauffeur began traipsing up the flight of stairs with my luggage. I watched his massive form disappear around the bend and into one of the rooms. I then turned my attention to the door in front of me. I swallowed and forced myself to knock.

“Please come in” said a languid, husky, totally delightful voice. The sound of it gave me goose bumps.

I walked in hesitantly into a spacious office. A curvaceous woman in a form-fitting black skirt and a forest-green full-sleeved top stood with her back to me. Her unbelievably dark hair was held together with an ornamental brooch. Her slim pale fingers held a long cigar.

Even before she turned, my heart thrummed. There was something about Anya. Something exciting, something frightening.

She turned and gazed at me in an intimate fashion, as if she had known me for a long time. Her eyes seemed dark at first sight, but when you looked closely, you saw a mysterious interplay of violet, emerald and myrtle.

Anya wasn’t a conventional beauty. Her complexion was too pale, her jaw a bit broad and her nose slightly crooked. Besides, her form was too full and voluptuous for the standard ballet dancer, assuming Anya still performed. However, Anya was strikingly attractive. Her inky black hair, released from the brooch, spread around her face like an angry cloud. And those double-hooded, heavily-lashed eyes were the most mesmerizing pair I had seen on any woman.

Under the spotlight of Anya’s gaze, I turned numb all over. I felt as though my body was mine, yet not mine. I felt my eyelids becoming progressively heavier, as if they were being pulled down by weights. They were so heavy that they threatened to close. I strived to keep them open with a super-human exertion of will. Slowly, the heaviness I had felt began to lift.

“You are thin, reed thin” Anya remarked, appraising my body “about 80% of the girls here are heavier than you. You’ll find it difficult to perform the pas de deux (the over-the-head lifts)”

Anya’s words didn’t come as a surprise to me. In spite of being on an intensive gym-training program in London, my body remained very lean. My back was inflexible. As a result, I found that I was incapable of lifting most adult female dancers and often injured my back while trying to lift the younger girls over my head.

“Are you rejecting me?” I asked incredulously. I couldn’t believe that after having gone through the jubilation of having received the acceptance letter, the rigmarole of trying to find Sokolov Academy on the internet, enduring a 3 hour 40 minute plane journey to Russia and a few hours’ drive to here, Anya was actually asking me to go back to London.

“No dear boy, you’ve misunderstood me” said Anya in her delightful accent “the immaturity of your body is a defect that age will cure. Besides, we have a well-rounded fitness routine at Sokolov’s. Our academy would focus on strengthening your core and building light muscle to improve your strength and agility”.

“Anya Petrovna” I said dubiously “I have been trying to become stronger ever since I was 7 or 8 years old, with little success. I can’t afford to get my hopes too high”.

“You may lack the faith in your body” replied Anya, with a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips “but I beg to differ”. Her manner was light and flirtatious, yet masked behind it was a kind of energy, or rather, an amalgamation of several agents of nature. This may sound insane, but at that precise moment, I felt that stored within Anya was the heat and glow of fire, the force of the wind, the coolness of water, the life-sustainability of earth and the dream-like quality of ether. It seemed like the whole of Dame Nature had been personified in this one magnificent woman. I had smiled at Anya.

Now I smiled at the memory of our meeting. As I balanced the long slender leg of one of the ballerinas on my shoulder, I gazed abstractedly (and hopefully) at the door. Then I froze as if an apparition had walked in. I was faintly aware of the awed little gasps all around me. For the person who had entered the room, wearing a jade-colored, long-sleeved leotards and matching ballet slippers was none other than Anya herself

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A Slippery Slope in a Wedding: A Bridal Switch

A Slippery Slope in a Wedding

  • Title: A Slippery Slope in a Wedding
  • Subtitle: A Bridal Switch
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: Transgender, MTF

Chris is the 27 year old protagonist of the story. He is a dentist by profession and takes a break from work to attend the wedding of his best friend, Abby. Chris is a loyal guy who takes more than he gives in his relationships/friendships. When Abby decides to desert Giovanni and marry Lord Edgware, Chris is forced to impersonate Abby. He dresses in the bridal gown, wears a white veil and takes the wedding vows with Giovanni. During the course of the story that spans three decades, Chris undergoes feminization and discovers the true nature of the people in his life.

A Slippery Slope in a Wedding

A Bridal Switch

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Bridal Switch

Wildflowers bloomed everywhere. The wheat fields were a verdant green. And in April, the most romantic month in Italy, my childhood friend, Abigail “Abby” Earnshaw was getting married.

Abby was a typical blushing bride. But her situation was a bit atypical. She had eloped with, and was marrying the ogle-worthy, Giovanni, who incidentally was a capo. A capo is a sort of a lieutenant who serves the boss of a particular Mafia family. 33 year old Giovanni Moretti had been ordained into the Pantelleria Mafia family 15 years ago by Bernardino Lombardi, the boss of the family. Bernardino had evidently inducted Giovanni into the Mafia by extracting a drop of blood from his index finger. Giovanni had remained unswervingly loyal to the boss since then.

Much like the terrain of Sicily, Giovanni was ruggedly attractive. He was tall, swarthy and square of jaw. Giovanni had the kind of lean muscular build and primeval panther-like grace that would sweep a woman off feet. This is exactly what had happened to Abby when she had been holidaying in Sicily a couple of months ago. After a whirlwind romance, the young couple had decided to tie the knot. Needless to say, Abby’s family had not been told about the groom’s profession or of the prospective wedding.

Since I had been Abby’s best friend ever since we were toddlers, she invited me to her wedding. I temporarily closed my dental clinic back in Manchester, and decided to spend some time with my bestie. This wasn’t the wisest of decisions for an upcoming dentist, but hey, you’ve got to go out of your way for friends!

The friendship between me (a blonde, “angelic” blue eyed guy) and Abby (of raven-black hair and devilish green eyes) had raised eyebrows ever since I could remember. People couldn’t believe that a guy and girl could be friends without having had sex. But Abby and I were intimate in so many other ways that sex seemed superfluous. We shopped together, watched weepy movies and studied together (this was before Abby decided to study architecture). Often, after a rather busy day at work, Abby would head straight to my apartment and crash on my couch. I would seize the opportunity to massage her shoulders, cook up a comforting meal and give her a pedicure. Then, both of us would curl up on the couch and catch up with what had been happening in our lives. Or rather her life. Abby would talk to me about the most personal of matters (PMS, problems at work, awkward details of her sex life). However, she wasn’t a great one for listening. If an occasion ever arose when I started talking about myself, Abby would brush me off with an impatient gesture. I didn’t mind. She was my best friend, after all.

Presently, I lingered around the bride-to-be, giving her a relaxing fresh fruit facial. As the maid-of-honor, I considered it my duty to make Abby comfortable in every possible way (Even though I was a bloke, I had been bestowed with the honor of being Abby’s “chief bridesmaid”. Mercifully, I was exempted from wearing a dress, and had been permitted to turn up at the next day’s wedding dressed in a suit). After all, Abby had no other friends here. A few mafia-owned prostitutes had been selected to be the 9 other bridesmaids, but language became a barrier between Abby and the girls. They didn’t speak much English, and Abby’s Italian wasn’t yet good enough for real communication.

Therefore, Abby sent the other bridesmaids away. Finally, when the two of us were alone, Abby sighed and said:

“Whew, what a relief! I couldn’t concentrate with all that “Si”, “Come stai?” and “Grazie”!”

“Hey, the girls were just trying to be helpful” I said, brushing Abby’s thick black hair “besides, since you’re going to settle in Italy anyway, you might as well get used to the language!”

Abby turned around, supported her heart-shaped face with her palms and looked at me with her flashing green eyes.

“No, Chris” she said enigmatically “I’m not going to settle in Italy”.

“Huh?” I asked confused “Are you and Giovanni shifting elsewhere?”

“No, honey” said Abby resolutely “I’m not marrying Giovanni”.

“How could that be??!” I exclaimed, nearly bursting a blood vessel “you’re supposed to walk down the aisle tomorrow!”.

“Sure, I’ll walk down the aisle” replied Abby, grinning impishly “but with Lord Edgware, a couple of weeks from now”.

“Oh my God!” I burst out, unable to believe my ears “you can’t be serious!”.

“I am” replied Abby, her shrewd cat-like eyes flashing “I have accepted Lord Linton Edgware’s proposal of marriage”.

At a loss for words, I simply stared at Abby. Then I went into the retrospective mode. Lord Edgware was the portly, middle-aged marquis of one of the sea side towns of England (Cornwall, Bournemouth or New Brighton, I couldn’t remember). When Abby was studying in Cambridge, Lord Edgware had been invited to be one of the guest speakers on the subject. The fiery, spirited Abby was the only one to shoot a question at the guest. Lord Edgware had answered her query soberly and to-the-point. He had maintained a stiff upper lip, but was nevertheless impressed. It took no time for the Lord to fall in love with the fiery, fresh-faced Abigail. He had, since then, pursued her gallantly and patiently, only to discover that his Lady Love was an elusive creature. Abby hadn’t accepted Lord Edgware’s proposal, nor had she rejected it downright. She had kept him hanging—until recently. The words that Abby uttered right now proved that she had put an end to her prevarication.

“But…but Abby, you’re supposed to be marrying Giovanni!” I presently cried “when Bernardino finds out that you have ditched his favorite capo, he’s going to hunt you down and put a bullet through you”.

“Oh, don’t worry” replied Abby complacently “by the time the old villain finds out, I’ll be safe and sound in my manor”.

“I doubt it” I said skeptically “your wedding is scheduled for 10 am, and the earliest plane to Manchester doesn’t take off until 12 am!”

“That’s where I need your help” replied Abby, looking intently into my eyes.

“Anything, babe” I replied loyally “I’d do anything for you”

“Well then, Chris” replied Abby continuing to maintain her hypnotic eye-contact “you have to marry Giovanni instead of me tomorrow”.

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Forbidden Memories: Feminized as a Punishment – A Transgender Horror Story

Forbidden Memories

  • Title: Forbidden Memories
  • Subtitle: Feminized as a Punishment
  • Series: Transgender Horror
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa

Dean Baker is the 32 year old protagonist of the story. He is a journalist, the owner of a reputed publishing house and a recently turned author.

When walking alongside the Arno River, Dean is abducted by three men. They take him to the North of the country and shut him up in a small room in a three-unit apartment. Thereafter, Dean receives one riddle after another. Solving them, evidently, will lead him to discover who the mastermind of his abduction is. Dean succeeds in finding the mastermind, but pays a price for a “dark deed” he’d committed in the past by being forcibly feminized.

Click here to find the rest of “Forbidden” transgender horror books.

Forbidden Memories

Feminized as a Punishment

Transgender Horror Series

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – The Monster of Florence

I had shifted to Florence along with my wife and a young son to write a book on “The Monster of Florence”, an unapprehended criminal who had committed a slew of murders in the quaint city between 1968 and 1985. It wouldn’t be wrong to say that I had had done well for myself. I had started my career as a journalist with the Guardian, had briefly worked in a publishing house in London and now, at 32, was rich enough to take time off to write a book.

As much as I enjoyed my work, the gristliness of the content I was working on at times disturbed me. To refresh my brain, I was in the habit of taking frequent walks across the Arno River towards Pizzale Michelangelo. As I presently sauntered across the bend, I noticed that the roads weren’t teeming with people as it usually did. A sudden, inexplicable uneasiness gripped me. I sat down on one of the benches to calm myself.

As I held took deep breaths, an old ramshackle car pulled over the bend. The driver peeped out and asked “Got a lighter, buddy?” indicating the cigarette in his hand. He had a heavy Italian accent, but took great pains to address me in English. He had obviously realized that I wasn’t a local man.

I discreetly studied the driver. He looked as lean and hungry as an underfed greyhound, and as muscular. He may not have been more than 28 or 29, but years of bad living had obviously taken the sheen of youth away from him.

I got up and obliged. As I turned to go after lighting the man’s cigarette, the back door of the car swung open. Before I knew what was happening, a pair of powerful cocoa arms had dragged me into the back seat. I turned to look at the mighty human who had seized me. He was a black young man, probably in his early 20s. He may have been a North African who had immigrated to Italy years ago, for he spoke fluent Italian. I knew only a smattering of Italian, but understood enough to know that that the man was hurling profanities at me. His thick eyebrows were knit together in an angry manner, and he looked very formidable.

As the guy succeeded in getting me into the back seat, the driver revved up the engine and drove away. Realization struck me like a whiplash. I was being abducted. I had to do something about it—immediately. I opened my mouth to cry out, but a pair of hairy Caucasian hands stifled my cry. A few miles later, I realized that it belonged to my third kidnapper, a dark-haired man in his late 30s. He spoke rudimentary Italian like me; I surmised he was a fairly recent immigrant from Hungary, Romania or some other place in Eastern Europe.

For the next two and a half years, which I spent in captivity; I never learnt their names. For convenience’s sake, I called them Athos, Porthos and Artemis, the names of the famous three musketeers.

As the familiar piazzas, canals and spires disappeared from view, I realized we were moving out of Florence. When my abductors realized that I was closely tracing the route, they tranquilized me. Artemis (the East European) retrieved a syringe from his ragged leather bag and jabbed my arm with it. I was dead to the world for hours after that.

When I opened my eyes, Athos (the Italian) was driving down a sparsely populated mountainous tract of obviously non-arable land. One look at it, and I knew that it was impossible to grow crops, use machinery or build on this land. The air had also grown chillier. I rubbed my arms to subdue the goose bumps that had risen on them. It was apparent that I had been brought a long way from Florence to one of the remotest parts of Italy, evidently the North. My breathing became labored and irregular, and I thirsted for a drop of water.

“Acqua” I murmured in an unsteady voice “May I have some water please?”

“Aspetta!” snarled Porthos (the North African), while Athos, in his heavily accented English, barked: “You can’t order us like that! We’re not your indentured servants! Wait until we get to the destination. Then you can slake your thirst!”

The fury in the man’s voice made me cower and I curled up on my side of the vehicle. My legs were beginning to feel stiff and sore from long hours of sitting in a cramped space. At 5’8, I wasn’t the tallest man on the planet, but I had long legs and often needed as much leg space as a six footer. The expressions on the face of my captors had grown grimmer. I felt all the muscles of my body coil with tension.

The car came to an abrupt halt in front of a modest-sized, three-unit palazzo with wild flowers growing all around it. The palazzo seemed so deserted and overgrown with weed and wild grass, that it was hard to believe that anybody actually lived in it. It was sans balconies and an outdoor stair case that led to the terrace. However, it seemed to have some sort of a garage space where the men stopped their decrepit vehicle.

I had a cursory glimpse of two units of the palazzo as I was yanked in. The first was a living unit, comprising of a bedroom with three bunk beds, a kitchen and a bathroom. The second was some sort of a laboratory reeking of formaldehyde and some sort of disinfecting fluid. As I was whisked past the second unit, I wondered what my abductors did for a living. Were they scientists? Not likely. They were more likely to be blue-collared workers than white-collared ones.

I was subsequently lugged and bolted inside a tiny 8×10 room, with an unplastered wall and cemented floors. As the key turned in the latch, I felt as agitated as a trapped creature at bay. I turned and banged on the door with the entire force of the nervous energy pent inside me. “Open up!” I cried in petrified desperation “Let me out, please!” The men lingered in the vicinity for a moment, apparently indecisive as to what to do. Then, their footsteps faded away and became a mere echo in the wilderness. I stamped my foot in frustration and became fully conscious of the kind of place I had been thrown in.

Calling the room a pigsty wouldn’t have been an exaggeration. The mildewed walls and musty smell that hung about the place certainly gave it the appearance of one. However, the room had marks of civilization that a pigsty couldn’t probably boast of. It had a springy cot, a small coffee table and a rickety chair. A little decrepit little vase stood on the coffee table. A large full-length mirror and a noisy grandfather-clock graced the room as well. I kicked the door of the adjoining compartment open. It had a bathtub, a commode and a washbasin.

I closed the bathroom door and stood in front of the mirror in a zombie-like fashion. I had prided myself on being pleasant-looking, but at this moment I looked like shit. My body looked more skinny than sinewy, and my usually healthy complexion appeared blanched. The pupils of my green eyes were dilated. I noticed that my hands were trembling.

Thoughts raced my mind. Who were these men and what did they want of me? Was it ransom? That was a possibility. I had made quite a tidy sum for myself, which probably made a good potential target for kidnappers. If this was abduction for ransom, the men would have already called my wife up and demanded the money. And Sheena, no doubt, would have dispatched the demanded amount efficiently. She wouldn’t waste a moment if she knew my life was at stake. I really didn’t have much to worry about.

Yet my nerves were going to shreds. And the steady tick-tock of the grandfather clock served to exacerbate my anxiety.

Deep inside my heart I knew this wasn’t abduction for ransom. There was more to this affair than what met the eye.

It was then that I noticed the rose-scented pink envelope lying on the coffee table.

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A Slippery Slope in a Mall – Forced to Work in Girls’ Uniform

A Slippery Slope in a Mall

  • Title: A Slippery Slope in a Mall
  • Series: Forced to Work in Girls’ Uniform
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: mtf, transgender romance, lesbian

Finn O’Brian is the 19 year old protagonist of the story.  Finn is a devoted uncle who works hard to maintain the custody of his deceased sister’s children. He is drawn towards 35 year old Madison, whom he perceives to be kind and competent. When his boss, Wagner, offers him a 20% raise in return for coming to work dressed as a female sales attendant, Finn reluctantly agrees. He does this in order to be able to provide a better quality of life to his nieces. As Finn achieves great success as a female sales assistant, he finds his body getting feminized. Finn must take full advantage of his feminized body if he is to participate in the local beauty pageant, the winner of which gets £2000 and 20 family dining coupons—prizes which would help Finn look after his nieces better.


A Slippery Slope in a Mall
Subtitle: The Joy of Being a Mommy

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – My Hero

The alarm rang, shaking me out of my sleep. Drat, it already was 5 am. I don’t know where the night had disappeared. It was already time to wake up when I had barely shut my eyes.

I brushed my teeth and had a hurried shower. The utilitarian white tiles of the bathroom stung my eyes. They were such an eyesore! But guess one loses the right to complain when one lives in a council house in Hazel Grove. Silently cursing my poverty, I threw on my uniform: granite grey trousers with a black bush shirt. Since it was a cold day, I put on a fitted grey pullover too.

I went to the children’s room and shook my nieces awake. Six year old dark eyed and dimpled Mollie was quick to wake up and brush. As I patted her dark brown hair, I marveled at how much Mollie looked like her mother: my deceased elder sister, Cecelia. Since our parents had passed away when I was very young, Cecelia had practically raised me. I continued living with her even after she married Ivan, a construction worker, when she was 20. Ivan died in a hit-and-run accident a few years later, leaving behind Cecelia and two young daughters. Coincidentally, Cecelia herself died in a freak accident last year. She was only 29.

As the nostalgia of the past engulfed me, Amelia, my three year old niece woke up. She looked disapproving, grumpy and absolutely adorable! I picked the crabby little bundle up and led her towards the washbasin. With her blonde hair and blue eyes, Amelia bore close resemblance to her deceased dad.

I quickly dressed the children in matching grey frocks, plain white socks and little shoes with buckles. As I locked the house for the day and drove the children in my old, rundown jalopy, I fervently wished I could provide them with a better quality of life. That was difficult, considering I was only nineteen and a humble shop assistant. However, I was determined to do all I could to retain the custody of dear Cecelia’s children. After all, I couldn’t let Alan Hill, the drunken brother of Ivan, to get his lazy, irresponsible paws on my precious Mollie and Amelia.

I dropped the children off at their playschool at Cheadle and drove ahead to Old Trafford, where Madison Mall, the place I worked in, was situated. I passed a football field on the way and gazed yearningly at it. It had been sometime since I had set foot on a field. I used to play for The Tamside and District Junior League, before joining the Men’s Sunday League last year. However, I hadn’t got much time to play since Cecelia passed away.

I reached Madison Mall and took the lift to the fourth floor, where the store I worked in was located. As I entered “Elegance”, Rowan Wagner, the bald, middle-aged owner of the place, indicated his watch and made a disapproving face. I checked the clock on the wall and discovered that I was only five minutes late. Yet the greasy old motherfucker had to rub the fact in. I watched the steady rise and fall of Wagner’s big belly, thinking I could murder him. The old fucking martinet.

As I walked towards the shelves and started folding the clothes neatly, I could hear my colleague Esme Meyer’s dulcet tones in the background. Esme was trying to sell summer dresses to a group of young women. Esme was an attractive, statuesque redhead with the most persuasive manner ever. She attracted male customers with her luscious figure and got in female customers using her sweet (and, in my opinion, artificial) voice and polished (put-on) manner. Esme had also won the “Best Sales Assistant” award last year, owing to having made more sales than the rest of us. Drat. Give me a female shop assistant’s uniform and a saccharine sweet voice, and I could have beaten that fake, irritating redhead any day!

I stopped thinking about Esme and tried to concentrate on my work. As I was putting the coats out on the hangers, I smelt something funny. Smoke. What was happening? Were any of the clothes on fire? I looked around. No, all was well at Elegance. Yet the singed smell of smoke grew stronger. I glanced at old Wagner, Esme and her gaggle of customers. The expression on their faces told me that they had smelt the smoke too.

Soon wispy whirls of smoke entered Elegance. “It seems to be coming from the Food Court on the third floor” Wagner said “let’s go down and check what’s wrong”. Since the use of lifts is prohibited during a fire, fat Wagner and I took the stairs. I dashed down sprightly, while old Wagner lumbered down at his own pace. I opened the staircase door and sprinted into the third floor corridor. A whole lot of people were assembled there. I spotted my friend Ben, who worked as a server at the Food Court, and joined him. “The fire has been put out, mate” said Ben gravely “but Eddie, the cook, is injured”. “That’s too bad” I murmured. Ben and I pushed on ahead, through the crowd, to get a better view of the injured cook.

Eddie wasn’t in the best of shapes. He was sprawled on the floor, with wounds on his hands and feet. “When one of the kitchen curtains caught fire, and spread to old Eddie’s apron, he came rushing out screaming agitatedly. Someone had the sense to ferret out a blanket, throw it at Eddie and make him roll on the floor…” Ben explained to me.

“Shouldn’t we be doing something now, rather than just stand and stare?” I asked Ben.

“Sure” Ben agreed “but no one knows what to do”.

Just then, a tall woman pushed through the crowd with an air of confidence. She was about 35 years old and was stylishly dressed in a red A-line skirt, fitted faux leather jacket and ankle-length boots. Her dark brown hair was cut in a stylish bob. I recognized the woman as Madison Gillette, wife of Hugo Gillette: the owner of Madison Mall. While the others stared on, clueless about what to do, Madison summoned the mall manager and briskly asked him to call the emergency services immediately. Madison then kneeled down beside Eddie, and tried to rouse him by gently tickling his bare hands and feet. Eddie didn’t budge. Madison put her ear to the man’s chest (evidently trying to listen to the sound of air coming in and out), while simultaneously checking for a pulse. “His pulse is quite strong” she told everyone assembled “there is nothing to be worried about”. Just as Madison had said those words, Eddie’s eyes fluttered open. They opened wide in fear as the cook evidently recalled that his apron had caught fire. “You don’t have to worry” Madison said to Eddie in a crisp, reassuring tone “the burns aren’t too serious”. Madison asked one of the other cooks to get her a clean moist cloth, with which she covered Eddie’s burns. She subsequently asked the manager to fetch the first aid kit from the emergency room, and separated Eddie’s fingers and toes with dry, sterile bandages. Then, with quick competent movements, Madison raised Eddie’s legs and kept them on her lap. Her eyes searched the crowd and settled on me. “You come here” she called me firmly “and keep the man’s arms on your lap”. I kneeled on the floor and did as Madison had instructed. “Elevation will keep the burnt areas from pressure and friction” Madison explained to me. Her eyes were a clear grey, nose a strong one, and expression sincere. “This is the kind of face I’d trust in any situation” I said to myself.

Madison continued to monitor Eddie’s pulse and breathing until the ambulance arrived. She kept talking to the man in a positive, reassuring tone. When Eddie was put on the ambulance stretcher and taken away to the hospital, all of us got back to work. The day went on as usual, but something had changed. I had developed feelings of hero worship towards the kindly, competent Madison.

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A Slippery Slope in a Cabaret – Forced to Work in Girls’ Uniform

A Slippery Slope in a Cabaret

  • Title: A Slippery Slope in a Cabaret
  • Series: Forced to Work in Girls’ Uniform
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: MTF, transgender mystery, romance

A 35 year old American lyricist Jay Armstrong, who is vacationing in Thailand, visits a cabaret called Slice of Life. He falls in love with a beautiful Thai singer cum cabaret performer called Dream. However, Jay eventually realizes that Dream is not like other young women in the cabaret. One by one, Dream’s secrets start tumbling out: she used to Deng, a young male who aspired to be an English teacher. However, Deng was forced to transform into “Dream” and perform in the sleazy cabaret as a result of the strange contract the owner of the hotel made him sign by deceit.

A Slippery Slope in a Cabaret
Series: Forced to Work in Girls’ Uniform
by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – In a “Dream”

It was literally like being in a dream. Thailand, with its beaches, magnificent Buddhist temples and go-go bars, was an entirely different world from New Orleans. Its eastern magic, combined with the surreally beautiful women, was just what the doctor ordered for a burnt-out lyricist like me. At 19, I had penned a song, which had struck a chord with the audience and had made me an instant success. Over the years, I had worked with top artistes and had written songs that had generated herculean amount of royalties. Now, at 35, I no longer had the same magic. With composers and recording artistes breathing down my neck like hyperactive collies, I desperately needed a hit.

Slice of Life, an offbeat Moulin Rouge-styled cabaret, was my refuge. It was an intimate little setting, with thick cream curtains, little maroon toadstool shaped seats and flamboyant pistachio-colored walls. A hypersexual emcee, flit in and out of the little wooden stage like a restless butterfly, wearing nothing but a pair of tight pants that clearly outlined his huge cock. Ron was a slender, pixyish man of about my own age whose penis was in total shocking contrast with his waif-thin body. This, combined with his red-varnish painted nipples, created an ineffably provocative effect.

The French-styled Thai cabaret was owned by a huge, big-bosomed woman called Nong. Apart from being the owner, Nong also participated in the cabaret. She personally appeared in front of each of the men (Slice of Life was mostly frequented by men), bent her knees a little bit and rocked her ample hips from side to side in a comic-raunchy manner. The way in which Nong’s large, pendulous breasts jiggled under the flimsy fabric of her top was even more provocative than the sight of Ron’s trousers. Once in a while, Nong would walk up to unsuspecting guests and would perch her ample weight on their laps, wriggling her disconcertingly large buttocks on their lean, muscular thighs. Much to my embarrassment, Nong had once walked up to me, placed both my tanned palms on her twin peaks and forced me to squeeze them. The comedic, orgasmic faces and sounds that Nong made afterwards drew hoots of laughter from other guests, and brought a beet-red flush to my face.

In spite of these disconcerting experiences, I continued frequenting Slice of Life. The reason I did was the young Thai dancers, wearing exotic shimmering costumes, elaborate headgears and exaggerated plumage, swaying away to tantalizing Arabic, Chinese, Japanese and Indian tunes. There was something about their youthful creamy skins, nubile delicate bodies and sweet dazzling smiles, which kept me going back to Slice of Life. The seductive way in which the girls’ thick-lashed eyes teased, tantalized and beckoned, caused me many sleepless nights. But the primary reason I frequented Slice of Life was….Dream.

Dream came on stage sometime midway during the 65 minute show. She was, sometimes, dressed in a red sampot (which is a traditional Thai cloth that is worn by wrapping around the waist, stretching and twisting the ends together before pulling the twisted fabric between the legs) and a little golden blouse. She would bend her shapely knees a little bit; rock her rounded hips from side to side, swinging her elegant derriere towards the floor as she swayed. Dream would then send me into a tizzy, by rotating her pelvis in a circle as she sensually swung her hips from side to side. Just then Ron would come on stage and beckon Dream towards him. Dream would move towards the emcee like a gazelle, turn her back on him, bend a bit forward and grind her shapely buttocks against his very noticeable groin region. Dream’s raised sculpted arms, creamy cleavage peeking above her tiny golden blouse and the suggestiveness of her movements would mesmerize me beyond words. As I watched the irresistible Thai beauty in a trance, Dream would turn to face Ron, run her lovely arms along the contours of his body and drape one shapely leg around the side of the hypersexual emcee’s leg. At this moment, I desired to be Ron, so that I could look at Dream’s sweet heart-shaped face and run my fingers through her lush midnight black hair. I fervently ached to be Ron, so that I could look deep into Dream’s smoky eyes and caress her lovely oxbow lips. Yet I had to stay glued to my toadstool, my burgeoning manhood twitching in my pants. Many a night in my dreams, I long to touch her, but Dream would give me a sweet seductive smile and would elude my touch like the mythical chimera. Oh, but I would go mad!

Dream, incidentally, had a great singing voice too. As she poised the microphone in front of her and parted her lips, rich vibrant notes of music filled the cabaret hall. The husky lush notes alternated with an enrapturing falsetto that sounded like the siren call of mermaids. As the delightful drops of pure music fell on each jaded ear, people regained their energy and ached to be close to Dream.

One night, Dream stood on the wooden makeshift stage, dressed in a simple blue Thai tube skirt (called the Sinh) and sheer silver top, unbelievably still, except for the gyrating of her gently rounded hips. The fast hip hop beats of the background music slowed down to a languid, sensual lull. Dream’s smoky black eyes, under the pair of finely arched brows and languid droopy eyelashes, looked straight at me. An amused smile tugged the corners of her oxbow lips, as she slowly, seductively ran her hands over her perfectly spherical breasts, curvilinear waist and rounded hips. The mischievous succubus knew very well that she was tormenting me—that she had been for the last fortnight. And it was clear that the sadist in her took pleasure in my plight. As Dream bent over and caressed her perfectly shaped calves showing through the slit of her sinh, I lost control. I dashed to the stage, caught hold of Dream’s slender arm and coaxed her off stage. At first, Dream gently resisted, and looked towards the big fat Nong as if for guidance. Upon receiving a firm nod from the latter, Dream smiled (a dazzling smile) at me and followed me out of Slice of Life into the fresh salty air of Pattaya.

We walked for some time in silence, quietly looking at the liquor shops, massage parlors and tuk-tuks as we passed. I reveled in the perfection of Dream; her height (she was quite tall for a Thai woman—about 5’7 in her bare feet), her flawless figure and perfect face. Dream glanced up towards me, the suggestiveness in her eyes replaced by shyness. She smiled again. The little crowfeet that formed at the corner of her eyes told me that Dream wasn’t as young as I had first thought her to be. I estimated her to be about the same age as myself. The fact that Dream was older than I had previously thought increased my attraction towards her, for I always believed women developed a good personality only after thirty.

As I inhaled the briny sea air commingled with the musky scent of womanhood of my companion, I began to feel a bit strange. The aura of femininity around Dream was a bit too overpowering. It was almost as if Dream was standing on top of the rooftops and hollering “Look at me, I am a woman!” quite unnecessarily, when the fact was more than conspicuous to the onlooker.

“So, are you a local?” I asked kicking my own sandals off and reclining on the beach.

“Not quite” Dream answered in perfect English “I’m from Ko Samet Island, located on the Eastern Gulf Coast”. Dream’s voice, which had sounded haunting and siren-like as she had sung, sounded a tad unnatural to me now. It was high pitched, yet I felt subtle masculinity lurking beneath the carefully cultivated surface. To be more apt, Dream’s speaking voice sounded like someone caricaturing a female voice. Now this was a crazy line of thought to pursue, considering I had been fantasizing about this woman—body, mind and soul—for over a fortnight. However, these seemingly irrational thoughts flooded my brain, almost against my will. They felt insane, disrupting and nearly delusional. Was I finally losing it? Was the fact that I was losing my creativity making me go mad?

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Forbidden – Transgender Horror Stories

“FORBIDDEN” series – transgender horror stories

“Forbidden” series are currently the best selling among Yu Sakurazawa’s books. These are so called “soft horror” stories and in all cases the protagonist faces the danger of the loss of his gender identity.

Liam Bailey is the 19 year old protagonist of the story. Liam is a British citizen with Nordic looks: pale translucent skin, fair hair and eyes, which are as transparent as ice. Liam has been taking ballet classes for years, but is still not a great dancer. This is owing to the fact that he is too lean and weak to perform the pas de deux (a ballet movement, which entails carrying female dancers over the head). After joining the Sokolov Academy of Ballet in Russia, Liam falls in love with its scion cum principal, Anya Petrovna. He eventually comes under Anya’s trance and is transformed into a beautiful young woman called Lisa.

A transgender horror story. Ray’s car breaks down in a deserted section of a highway. There is nobody in sight. His cell phone is dead. He walks a few minutes looking for help and finds a building which appears to be an old hospital.Ray walks in and feels something is very wrong. The place is called “Vicent Asylum”. The manager calls him Rachael and treats him as if he was a woman. So does the nurse. Ray is stuck in Vincent Asylum.

Forbidden CircusA transgender horror story. Alfred Batista is a beautiful 18 year old boy. His life changes when a traveling Spanish circus called ‘Esplendor Circus’ comes to town. On the night of a show a talking parrot, the star attraction of their circus is missing. The manager of the circus tricks Alfred into dressing as a girl. Alfred parades as a part of the exotic animal menagerie to divert people’s attention away from the missing parrot. He bravely tries to escape after the show, but is assaulted by the manager who intends breaking Alfred’s spirit with violence. However, Alfred still continues working on his plan to escape.

Trevor is a pretty boy born with extrasensory abilities. He has dark hair and teal blue eyes. Trevor is neglected by his parents and is ostracized by the community that believes him to be Satan. As a result, the misunderstood child becomes silent and withdrawn. Trevor’s alienation is taken advantage of by family physician and secret pedophile Dr. Jacob Fallon who manages to win Trevor’s parents’ trust and gain informal custody of the troubled child. Once he has gained systematic access to Trevor, Dr. Fallon brainwashes Trevor into believing that he is the reincarnate of the wicked biblical queen, Jezebel. Over the next few years, Trevor is forcibly feminized and is now called Tessa. Tessa suffers horrendous abuse at the hands of his guardian for ten long years.

A transgender horror story. Troy, an 18 year old Miami boy travels to UK to live with his half sister Julia when his father dies in a car crash. Julia lives with Sykes who owns Hodgson Hotel in Dartmoor region of England. Three young men had been reported missing in that area and Troy felt that there was something wrong.Cab drivers refuse to go to the area. Troy succeeds getting to the Hodgson Hotel helped by a pastor of nearby church and meets Julia. Troy is poisoned and imprisoned in the hotel by Julia’s husband.

A Transgender Horror Story. On a bright Sunday morning a handsome young man is abducted by a bunch of villains and is taken to a dark brooding island to the north west of the UK, which is some people refer to as Medusa Locks. He is thrown into a gigantic cage in its premises. He is astounded to find 6 other abductees of different nationalities in the cage with him.

Dean Baker is the 32 year old protagonist of the story. He is a journalist, the owner of a reputed publishing house and a recently turned author. When walking alongside the Arno River, Dean is abducted by three men. They take him to the North of the country and shut him up in a small room in a three-unit apartment. Thereafter, Dean receives one riddle after another. Solving them, evidently, will lead him to discover who the mastermind of his abduction is. Dean succeeds in finding the mastermind, but pays a price for a “dark deed” he’d committed in the past by being forcibly feminized.

A transgender horror story. Aaron is the only son of a British business tycoon. When Aaron is 12 years old his mother dies in an accident. His father marries a beautiful exotic-looking woman called Shakira. She is kind enough to Aaron and takes him wherever she goes. While exploring his father’s estate, Aaron and Shakira enter an old storehouse that they have been warned not to go into. Inside the eerie, unearthly storehouse, they find a beautiful mirror. When Shakira speaks to the mirror, it actually responds. It tells Shakira that she is the loveliest woman on earth. Aaron tiptoes into the storehouse at midnight and talks to the mirror. The mirror predicts that Aaron would be the most beautiful on earth in the future. When Aaron turns 18, Shakira realizes that the mirror’s prediction has come true. Aaron is indeed more beautiful than her, his gender notwithstanding. An insanely jealous Shakira asks her assistant, Imogene, to take Aaron away from her sight. She also orders Imogene to shave off her stepson’s exquisite auburn hair and bring it to her. Aaron is subsequently abducted from home. He wakes up, naked and tonsured, in a dark dingy basement, where he is chained like a dog. Thereafter, Aaron (now called “Adele”) is ordered to wear tattered female clothes and toil away as a maidservant in a house comprising of a vicious-looking sixtyish woman and her four evil daughters.

A light horror transgender novella.
Hugo is twenty-one years old, rather a phantasta than a practical thinker, caught up on the idea of becoming a successful writer. Opportunity knocks but once. A mysterious man shows up on his doorstep with a job offer impossible to turn down: to become the personal assistant of the scandalous writer, Dyonne. He moves into the luxurious Venetian Villa in the hopes to learn from the best, and quickly gets mesmerized by the woman’s astonishing beauty. A new world opens up for him: luxury and high life, elegant decadence, never seen perversity. The web of wild promiscuity entangles him for good. But somewhere along the great experience the dream becomes a nightmare. When his novelty fades and a new toy boy comes into picture, Hugo struggles with jealousy. When the mask falls, Hugo has to face Dyonne’s evil turn. Robbed by his dreams, he is forced into femininity and becomes a captive, a pariah of the Villa, with only one purpose: to fulfill the demonic, bizarre wishes of Dyonne. The boy has to embrace the changes if he wants to get back the control over his own life. The hard fight leads him to unforeseen paths.