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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:

“Dinner?”

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

***

Prologue

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.



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


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


Please click here to read the rest of the story.


 

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.


Please click here to read the rest of the story.


 

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.

Forbidden Mirror – A Transgender Horror Story

  • Forbidden MirrorTitle: Forbidden Mirror
  • Subtitle: The Fatal Gift of Beauty
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: transgender horror, mtf

Aaron is the only son of a British tycoon. He loses his mother in a horse-riding accident in his childhood. His father marries an extremely beautiful woman, Shakira. She takes Aaron wherever she goes like a real mother. While exploring his father’s estate, Aaron with his stepmother enters an old storehouse that his father has prohibited them to go in. Inside the eerie, unearthly storehouse, they find a beautiful mirror. When Shakira speaks to the mirror, 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. An insanely jealous Shakira orders her assistant Imogene to take Aaron away from her sight and to shave off Aaron’s exquisite auburn hair. 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 is ordered to wear tattered female clothes and toil away as a maidservant in a house comprising of a vicious-looking old woman and her four evil daughters.



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


Forbidden Mirror

The Fatal Gift of Beauty

Chapter 1 – The Presage

I can’t believe it’s happening. My father, a top cheese business magnate, is getting married again. It’s painful to accept, considering my father had sworn that the only woman he ever loved was my mother. Bryony Aveyard, my mother, was the most beautiful woman in Lake District. Her best feature was her long luxuriant auburn hair–a red thistle blowing in the wind. I have vivid memories of walking with my mother through the myrtle lakes, mountains, grasses and cobblestones around the region, sharing stories and laughing gaily. That silvery laughter came to an abrupt stop last year. My mother fell off a horse and suffered a fatal hemorrhage. The scenery of Windermere became dimmer after my mother died and the cheerful song birds fell silent. My father became a mere ghost of his former self and withdrew into a shell.

His bereaved state lasted for a whole year until he met Shakira. That’s her full name: Shakira. No middle name or surname. My father met Shakira at a party thrown by a friend during a business trip to Greece. He was apparently smitten by Shakira’s exotic beauty: her full statuesque figure, even brown complexion and smoky tip-tilted eyes. I remember someone mentioning that Shakira wasn’t a native of Greece, but had settled there for a great many years. As to whether Shakira was from Turkey, the Middle East, South America or somewhere else, nobody ever knew.

As I watched Shakira, in her shimmering beige bridal trousseau, carrying a bouquet full of pristine white roses, I understood her charm. The elusive scent surrounding her, the lithe grace of her movements, and the magical quality of her slightly wolfish smile had us all in its thrall. Soon, I too, became mesmerized by Shakira. And my affection for her paid, because Shakira wasn’t the stereotypical wicked stepmother one reads about in books. She was really quite amiable and kind. She took me along with her wherever she went, be it to a local cocktail party, the beauty salon or to the globe theatre in London.

“You really don’t have to let me tag around everywhere” I said with the typical embarrassment a 12 year old boy sometime feels “I wouldn’t like to intrude”.

“Oh sweetheart” said Shakira kneeling down and cupping my face in her shapely hands “you are like my very own younger brother. I don’t see you as intrusion; I see you as excellent company”. The beautiful husky voice, with a hint of exotic French accent, cast its spell. I was ineffably bewitched by the exquisite, exotic creature. Had I not had due respect for Shakira’s status as my new mother, I would have had a crush on her.

One dreamy Sunday, Shakira and I were sauntering around my father’s huge estate that we lived in. The house, a huge white building with grey triangular roofs, stood right in the middle of it. In front of it was a splendorous garden, where roses and azaleas blossomed. To a side was a stable, housing one or two of my father’s prized thoroughbreds. Behind the stable was a rectangular stone building that my father had prohibited me from going close to. The old storehouse that had remained locked for several generations.

At the moment, it beckoned, invited and magnetized. Before we knew it, Shakira and I were walking towards the stone building almost against our will. As we tiptoed towards the storehouse, hand in hand, I could feel the clamminess of my stepmother’s hand. When Shakira glanced in my direction with her dark doe-like eyes, I could see a contradictory mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

I could feel a bead of sweat form on my yet hairless upper lip. Perhaps Shakira and I were making a huge mistake by not paying heed to my father’s warnings? Anyway, it was too late for contemplations and regrets. My stepmother and I had unlatched the door and had walked straight into the old storehouse.

A queer, change in air was conspicuous as soon as I stepped in. Ostensibly I was still on earth, on the familiar territory of my father’s estate, yet I felt as though I had stepped on another planet. The air around me was thick, almost viscous. I could also discern a significant change in air pressure and felt the way you feel when on an aircraft. Also, there was a kind of stillness around the room that gave one the feeling of walking in a dream.

I could discern that Shakira felt the same. She had let go of my hand now and wafted around with a surreal glaze in her eyes. As she moved about the room, caressing each piece of decrepit furniture, grand moth-eaten draperies and superfluous chunks of porcelain, I followed her. In spite of the trance-like state that we were in, both Shakira and I were acutely conscious of each other’s breathing. Eventually, Shakira wafted towards the chink in the shuttered window, beneath which something glimmered.

A closer look told Shakira and me that we were looking at a wall mirror: the most exquisite one I’d ever laid my eyes on. It was round, with a clear spherical surface, and was surrounded by lovely sea shells. Shakira walked towards it and dreamily stood in front of it. The smooth clear surface of the mirror reflected her chiseled face with its smoky eyes, slim arched nose and heart-shaped lips. Shakira’s dark Eastern hair framed her face perfectly. Unable to endure the sight of her own beauty, Shakira gaped at the mirror. In a voice that was hers, yet in a strange way, distorted, asked:

“Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who’s the fairest of us all?”

The room became stiller. At this point, I am sure I’d even have heard a pin drop. Then slowly, much to my disbelief, the surface of the mirror lifted up a bit like a plate of the earth thrown up by tectonic activity. It formed a vague, vaporous simulation of a visage, before actually answering:

“You, Shakira are the fairest living woman on earth. Your beauty and elegance are unrivalled”.

A shaken Shakira startled and involuntarily took a step or two backwards. I too moved along with my stultified stepmom. Trembling like two leaves, we looked at each other. The voice from the mirror sounded like that of an elderly male’s. A thought crossed my mind. I looked into my stepmom’s dark doe-like eyes and beheld my own skepticism reflected there. Both of us opened the door of the storehouse and peeked outside to check if someone had played a trick on us. The deserted parchment of land stared back at us for miles and miles. There was no one. The mirror had spoken.

“Let’s once again to ascertain that wasn’t an illusion” said Shakira and resolutely dragged me back into the storehouse again. She stood in front of the mirror, and repeated her question. The mirror’s vaporous face emerged and it repeated what it had said, even more firmly than the last time. Shakira and I exchanged awestruck glances. It was obvious that what she and I had experienced was no illusion.

***

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I relived what had happened earlier in the day and could feel it all: the surreal stillness of the storehouse, the oppressive thickness of the air, the relics of my forgotten history and of course, the mirror. The same magnetic force that had drawn me and Shakira towards the storehouse my father had forbidden us to go to, beckoned me towards it once again. As much as I knew my father would disapprove, I tiptoed out of the bedroom, dressed only in my striped pajama-suit and bunny slippers, and got down a flight of stairs. I retrieved the key from above the refrigerator and softly opened the front door, hoping against hope that no one heard me. Once outside, the cool, crisp air of the night fondled my face. It was a full moon night, yet I switched on the flashlight in order to be able to see well.

I walked across the stable and reached the storehouse. I gingerly unlatched the door and walked in. If the air had appeared thick in the morning, it was positively gelid now. The room had got stiller and a queer kind of hush hung about the room. The mirror glimmered beneath the right side window. I walked towards it like a sleepwalker. With a feeling of awe commingled with that of forbidding, I stood in front of the mirror. My own marmoreal face, containing huge almond-shaped blue-green eyes, chiseled nose, shapely lips and dimpled chin, stared back at me. In the dim beam of the flashlight, the glorious shoulder-length auburn hair that I had inherited from my mother glinted like burnished copper.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of us all—in the past, present and the future?” I asked in a quivering, tremulous voice.

The surface of the mirror lifted up like a plate of the earth pushed up by tectonic activity. A hazy, vaporous apparition, resembling a human face, rose and spoke in the same old man’s voice of the evening:

“Your mother Bryony Aveyard was the fairest in the past, your stepmother Shakira is the loveliest in the present. You, dear Aaron, will be the fairest in the future. In a few years you will be even more beautiful than Shakira or anyone else in the world”.


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Forbidden Hotel – Feminized Perpetually – A Transgender Horror Story

Forbidden Hotel

  • Title: Forbidden Hotel
  • Subtitle: Feminized Perpetually
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: horror, mtf-transgender

After the sudden demise of his father, 18 year old Troy Carter travels all the way from the US to be with his half-sister, Julia, who lives in the Dartmoor region of England. As the ominous quality of the moors casts itself on the boy, a series of unusual events occur. A cab driver refuses to drop Troy to Hodgson Hotel, which is owned by Troy’s brother-in-law Arthur Sykes. The driver profusely apologizes for his act, claiming to have become neurotic after the mysterious disappearance of his son, George, two years previously.

Kindly, middle-aged priest Father Anka escorts Troy to Hodgson Hotel. Upon reaching Hodgson Hotel, Troy is at the receiving end of three shocking events: attempted sexual assault at the hands of his brother-in-law Sykes, the drastic transformation of his sister Julia who has currently been reduced to an emaciated haggard-looking woman and Julia’s hysterical overreaction after receiving the news of their father’s death.

Eventually, Troy is abducted and imprisoned in a wing of Hodgson Hotel, where Sykes injects him with a substance that transforms Troy into a long-haired curvaceous woman called Tamara. Troy notices that he is not the only one being held captive at the Hotel: a number of young men abducted from the Dartmoor area have been forced to become women through mysterious rituals. And the most startling thing is that all the detainees have something in common: blonde hair and blue eyes.



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


Forbidden Hotel

Feminized Perpetually

Chapter 1 – An Incredible Discovery

I gazed out of the shuttered window. The wild, mysterious moorland stretched across infinite miles. The romantic moorland, laden with tors, bogs and rivers, had become a metaphor for my life, which too stretched on to infinity. And it had become as mysterious and haunted as the moors, even if not half as romantic.

I gazed down at the thick, unyielding ropes that bit into the delicate flesh of my wrists and ankles. As much as I tried to evade it, my gaze settled and lingered on my developing body: the budding conical breasts, the big sensitive areole, the distended nipples, the tapering waist and gently curving hips. My big china-blue eyes had grown wider, its pupils dilated and the eyelashes thicker. My golden blond hair that had grown longer, curled beside my ears with cloying affection. And I could swear my skin had grown way smoother than ever before.

All this might have been exciting if I was a growing adolescent girl. Except that I was not. I was a nineteen year old American man called Troy Carter, who was being held captive on the first floor of Hodgson Hotel, situated in South West England. And how did I, a once sunny cheery Miamian, land up in a gothic-style hotel in the brooding, deserted region of Dartmoor? Well, it’s a long story. And I don’t feel like narrating it right now.

The three blonde “sisters”, whom I’ve nicknamed Gia, Mia and Ria, are huddled against each other like three little rabbits. They are young women with breasts as ripe and fecund as melons, a narrow tunnel of a waist, wide birthing hips and perfectly rounded derrières. With their long, luxuriant blond hair that shimmers like mini suns and shapely blue eyes of different shades, the “sisters” are ethereally beautiful. However, their beauty has certain eerie quality about it, for when you look into the eyes of the women, you see bleakness. And if you look deeper, you see terror.

And the three aren’t real sisters either. I just call them that for the sake of convenience. And the peculiar thing about Gia, Mia and Ria is that they don’t speak. I doubt if there is anything technically wrong with them because I’ve heard their strange semi-conscious whisperings in the darkness. I’ve tried to glue my ears to their murmuring mouths in a bid to listen more clearly, but their speech has failed to make sense. In the mornings, the “sisters” are rendered mute because the eyes have seen the unseeable, and their ears have heard evil. And their pale square faces are afflicted by a longstanding, protracted fear and an ineffable anticipatory dread of what is to come. The “sisters” are like frightened little lambs that are soon to be led into slaughter. However, they don’t know if death will be their ultimate fate. If there is anything that is terrifying in the world, it is uncertainty. And these three girls are closer to being pushed into the unknown more than I am.

I looked into the newspaper cuttings that I had found beneath the bedding the previous night. It was a report of all the missing persons around Dartmouth region. I skimmed through the list and read three reports carefully. They read as follows:

1) Ambrose Hastings

Missing Since: Feb 18th, 2014
Missing From: Dartmouth
DOB: Feb 14th, 1993
Current Age: 23
Sex: Male
Race: White
Hair Color: Dark Blonde
Eye Color: Midnight Blue
Height: 5’9
Weight: 72 kgs
Ambrose is believed to be in the local area. He has the tattoo of a sailor under his left clavicle.

Anyone having information must contact:

1-990-833-9999

The Dartmouth Sheriff’s Office

2) Charles McDowell

Missing Since: April 11th, 2014
Missing From: Dartmouth
DOB: Jan 9th, 1996
Current Age: 20
Sex: Male
Race: White
Hair Color: Platinum Blonde
Eye Color: Cornflower Blue
Height: 5’5
Weight: 60 kgs
Charles has a strawberry shaped birthmark on his thigh and a pierced left ear.

Anyone having information must contact:

1-990-833-9999

The Dartmouth Sheriff’s Office

3) George Mitchell

Missing Since: January 18th, 2014
Missing From: Dartmouth
DOB: Dec 26th, 1995
Current Age: 21
Sex: Male
Race: White
Hair Color: Ash Blonde
Eye Color: Baby Blue
Height: 5’7
Weight: 63 kgs
Anyone having information must contact:

1-990-833-9999

The Dartmouth Sheriff’s Office

There were cases of several other missing young men from the region around 2014-2015. I couldn’t help noticing that all of them were or had been in the 18-25 age group when they were reported missing. Another curious parallel that I had noticed was that all the young men had blonde hair and blue eyes. Granted the eyes were of different hues of blue, and the blonde of varying shades, but this was one similarity that no one with a discerning mind could afford to overlook.

I was sure that the relatives of these young men would have left no stone unturned to find them. Apart from registering a missing person’s report with the local sheriff and placing reports in newspapers, they would have posted photographs of their wards on bulletins, post cards, milk cartons and websites to publicize the descriptions of the missing guys. Yet according to subsequent reports that I found under the mattress, they hadn’t been found in spite of the law authorities combing out the area.

Why and where had these boys gone? What had happened to them?

Had they chosen to escape domestic abuse and exploitation by running away? Had they been mentally ill, and hence had absconded? Had they joined some sequestered cult of some ultra religious organization? Had they disappeared elsewhere to take advantage of better employment and living conditions?

The last was not a very plausible theory, as the young men were simple country boys and had evidently lacked the confidence to foray into unknown territories. They were simple lads who were born and bred in Dartmouth, had lived simple lives there and had loved their parents and relatives. None of them had evidently shown the slightest inclination to abscond, abandon their parents and sweethearts and run away to exotic distant lands.

The repetitive thought niggled at me again. Where had these young men disappeared?

A queer whimper-like sound from one of the girls in the room drew my attention. Ria, Mia and Gia were huddled close to one another, their burnished blonde hair shimmering like lights in the dark, gothic room. Three beautiful heads huddled close together: one dark blonde, the second platinum, and the third a blinding shade of stark ash blonde. The eyes of the “sisters” were a varying shade of blue, right from Gia’s midnight blue to Mia’s cornflower blue eyes to Ria’s wide, terrified baby blue orbs. A thought struck me: an incredulous, fantastic and far-fetched thought. No, it couldn’t be true. These things seldom happened in real life. They just happened in books and bizarre sci-fi movies.

Yet, there was something undeniably “different” about the “sisters”. Their over-feminized bodies notwithstanding; there was something a tad out-of-place about their square broad jaws, wide shoulders and large hands and feet. They stuck out like eyesores among the curvaceous lusciousness of their bodies and the smooth, creamy texture of their skins.

Mere hypothesizing can be futile. I knew what I had to do. I marched to the cowering sisters and kneeled down amicably in front of them. The “sisters” flinched as I approached, but let me come close. I approached Gia and gently lowered the neckline of her tulle fabric a bit.

Perhaps I wasn’t entirely taken aback when I noticed a palm-sized tattoo of a sailor beneath her left clavicle. Gia had, a few summers back, been called Ambrose. Ambrose Hastings.

I hovered over Mia and gently hitched up her skirt to the starting line of her cycling shorts. Mia didn’t resist or slap my hand away. In the few weeks of captivity that we had shared, the “sisters” had come to view me as a friend, a kindred-soul, and as a victim of similar circumstances.

And on her dreamy, creamy thighs, I saw it. The beautiful, rose-pink strawberry shaped birthmark. Yes, there was no doubt that “Mia” was the missing Charles McDowell.

Since no distinguishing marks had been mentioned in the case of the third person, I had to take an inspired guess. “George?” I asked turning to Ria.

The ash blonde mutely nodded.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain, a memory stirred.

“Is your father a cab driver?” I asked.

Ria wordlessly nodded, once again.

So, my far-fetched theory had been true after all. The young men missing from Dartmouth couldn’t be traced because their gender identity had been changed. They had been held captive in Hodgson Hotel and turned into young women.


Please click here to read the rest of the story.


 

“Hijra, the Third Gender” fictions and nonfictions by Yu Sakurazawa

“Hijra, the Third Gender” series have 9 books: 8 fictions and 1 nonfiction. In May 2015 Yu Sakurazawa published “Enchanted into the Third Gender” as the English version of her successful Japanese novel with the same title. Seven more Hijra stories were published successively after that. She also wrote a non-fiction “Transgendered People of India” based on her experience of traveling and hearing in India.

A Dancer of the 3rd GenderA Dancer of the Third Gender
This is an autobiography-style fiction about a son of an upper middle class Indian family, who wishes to learn Kathak dance (Indian classical dance form) just like his sister. In the local Indian community “acting like a girl” is considered the worst thing that a boy can do for the father. He is actually thrown out of the house and must live by himself.

A Feminized PresidentA Feminized President: Losing Bet into the 3rd Gender
Rishab Tiwari has a successful company and a beautiful wife. When he is drunk he makes a bet with his friend. Rishab agrees to live as a member of the third gender for one whole year. On winning the bet, Rishab gets the opponent’s company; on losing it, he is supposed to transfer his own to the opponent. In addition, he must also castrate himself. Rishab must live what a hijra experiences in daily life.

Abducted into the 3rd GenderAbducted into the Third Gender
Subtitle: 180 Degrees Turn
A son of  a big cheese star is abducted for ransom. Instead of shelling down the money, his father intimates the police. The criminal mafia has its own way of avenging this 180 degree turn. This, among other things, entails turning him into a girl. Subsequently, he is taken to Bangkok and given female hormones. Sanjay is renamed Sasha and is forced to offer services as a prostitute.

Born in the 3rd GenderBorn in the Third Gender
A prostitute gives birth in a brothel to a boy with intersexed genitals. He is raised as a boy and lives under constant humiliation and hardship. He has a smooth dusky complexion and lovely emerald green eyes.  At age 13 he notices his desire to express femininity.  “Born in the Third Gender” traces his life’s sojourn of enormous hardships and heart-breaks, and the ultimate triumph over them.
Conspired into the 3rd GenderConspired into the Third Gender
A young sporty son of a rich family, adored and admired, gets abducted by scoundrels and loses both of his testicles. He lost “everything”. The protagonist is a tall good-looking boy whose gender is swapped during the course of the story. He’s emasculated during Nirvaan and is forced to work in a hijra brothel.  He makes it his life’s mission to find out who has ordered all this to be done on him.

Dance Like a Woman Dance Like a Woman
The protagonist is from a family of Kathakali (an Indian classical dance form) performers. His father is renowned for portraying the roles of female characters. One sultry night, the teenaged protagonist feels aroused when he sees his father perform on stage, dressed in a female costume.  He imagines himself in the female costume and feels good. He realizes that he is a woman trapped in a man’s body. A few days later, S. Raghavan falls ill before a big performance. The protagonist is forced to replace him.

Enchanted into the 3rd GenderEnchanted into the Third Gender
A foreign businessman who travels to a northern Indian city is fascinated by exotic beauty of a gypsy dancer. He is enchanted by her and gets into a situation in which he must undergo an irreversible change.  It is a story riddled with lust, love, and faith. A story of secrets and mystery, almost too extravagant to believe.

 

Forced into the 3rd Gender Forced into the Third Gender
Pankaj was the only son of a navy captain from a wealthy family. His mother dies of illness when he was 11, and then his father almost immediately marries the second wife who has a son and a daughter. Stepmother attempts make Pankaj a shame of the family make her own son the heir of her wealthy husbandPankaj is framed into the third gender.

Transgendered People of India

Transgendered People of India: Forsaken Tributaries – NONFICTION
This is a comprehensive book about Hijra of India. The book is a non-fictionand is based on the author’s hearing and witnessing as a foreigner in India as well as substantial studies.

Forbidden Asylum: Feminized in Insanity – transgender horror story

Forbidden Asylum

  • Title: Forbidden Asylum
  • Subtitle: Feminized in Insanity
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: transgender horror (mtf)

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.



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


Forbidden Asylum

Feminized in Insanity

Chapter 1.

I was on cloud nine. Driving my carmine blue Alto car along the highway made me feel on top of the world. Nothing—not even sex—could give me the rush that having my foot on the clutch pedal, hand on the steering wheel, accelerator and on the gear knob could give me. And driving my beloved blue Alto was a particular pleasure. With my sizeable inheritance, I could buy even a Parisian limousine, but still preferred my humble conveyance. Alto was the first automobile I had purchased with my own money, and I wouldn’t trade it for all the limousines or SUVs in the world.

Not that the scenery was much to speak of. I had veered a long way off the house and was presently glissading along the NH4 Highway of Karnataka. The vegetation was sparse, with an isolated tree or so standing about fifty meters apart for one another. The tar and concrete roads reflected the sun and radiated the heat of the morning. However, I found great pleasure in being far from the madding crowd, the traffic congestions and the fumes of the main city and speeding away in merry solitude.

Suddenly, the car came to a jerking halt. Weird. My right foot was still on the accelerator and I hadn’t pressed on the brake pedal either. My gear shift was still in first gear, not in neutral.

I don’t know what was wrong. Since I hailed from immensely well-to-do family with chauffeurs to drive me around, I had actually never bothered about the mechanics of cars. The mechanical complexity of a car seemed boring and unnecessary. It seemed totally superfluous.

It didn’t seem so superfluous presently. With not a soul in sight for many meters, I was at a loss as to what to do. There were no rickshaws or cabs in the vicinity that I could hail and request for a ride home or, at least, beg to be taken to the nearest mechanic. Thankfully, I had my new Samsung cell phone. I could call my wife Dimple and ask her to come and take me back home. Darling Dimple: she of the dark hair, long chiseled face and a dimpled chin (which had, incidentally, earned her the moniker). Dimple had always been an expert at rescuing lads in distress. Or to be more specific, this particular lad in distress. Dimple darling… she was the one who wore pants in the house. She was a real brick, my wife.

I tried to switch on the phone only to realize that it was out of battery. Drat! I wish I had paid more attention when it had been flashing the “Low Battery” warning. Of course, there was a plug point in my car where I could recharge my phone. However, recharging would take some time. And if there ever was an impatient soul on earth, it was me.

I was stranded in a hot deserted road with an old broken down car, virtually no cash in my pocket and a phone that was as dead as a dodo.

And at 25, I was too young and restless to sit around and wait for a goddamn phone to get charged or for a passerby to come my way.

Abandoning my carmine blue Alto on the spot, I started walking ahead of the seemingly blank, hot, thorny road. I had walked for three-fourths of a kilometer or so when the air cooled down a little. I speculated that there must be a water body nearby. Not long afterward, a big banyan tree came into view. And lo! Behind the big banyan tree stood a building.

Yippee! I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life on the highway after all. I made a dash for the building with the enthusiasm of a child. As I approached the big banyan tree, I got a clearer view of the building behind it.

The building was stark white and sterile-looking. Its architecture was rather conventional and there was nothing distinguishing about it. Probably a hundred other buildings in Bangalore looked the same way. I guess “non-descript” is the word I am looking for to describe it.

The building might have been anything: a factory, a government office or an infirmary. As I approached the rather high iron gates, the sign “Vincent Hospital” came into view. So, one of my surmises had been right after all.

Nothing about Vincent Hospital struck me as particularly strange. Except for the sign that read “Caution: Electrified Walls”. Now why would any self-respecting hospital electrify its walls? Were the patients inside some sort of dangerous wild animals that needed to be curtailed by barbaric means? Another thought counteracted the one that I had previously had. Probably the hospital authorities were wary of anti-social elements sneaking in and playing mischief. Off late, there had been more than one case of miscreants kidnapping new born babies from maternity wards of hospitals.

With the aforesaid explanation that I provided myself, I got closer to the gate. Much to my surprise, it wasn’t guarded by security personnel. I opened the latch of the gate and found that it opened rather easily. A small court yard comprising of a few potted plants led to a small, office-like chamber.

I peeked into the office through a window. A man was seated at an old-fashioned desk. He seemed to be in his mid 40s. Speaking objectively, the guy wasn’t bad-looking. He had a nice complexion, curly pepper and salt hair and a fit-enough physique. Yet, something about his cheap polyester shirt, the tasteless gold-plated chain hanging around his neck and the grossness of the matted chest hair creeping from over his shirt cheesed me off.

But this was no time to act squeamish. Besides, I was not a girl to act finicky about such things. And at the moment, I was in a real bad spot and could use the man’s help.

I knocked on the door. “Yes?” the bloke questioned “How many I help you? I am Ashok, the owner cum manger of the hospital”. The man’s voice was flat and non-descript just like the hospital he ran.

I introduced myself and explained the situation to Ashok. “My phone was out of battery, otherwise I would have phoned my wife” I elaborated “So, I’d truly appreciate it if you let me use your cell phone to make a call”.

“Sorry, Mr. RayRay, but I don’t use a cell phone” the man replied much to my stupefaction “In fact, none of our staff does. This is a hospital that….well, caters to patients who are mentally ill. We can’t afford to have them disturbed or distracted”.

“But Sir, I am sure you have a computer with an internet connection” I said “I could perhaps send my wife an email. She may not check it immediately, but might in a couple of hours”.

“No, Mr. Ray” we don’t even have a computer, leave alone wifi” said Ashok rather irritably “there is always a chance that one of the patients might sneak into my office and use it. And as I’ve already told you, we can’t afford to have them distracted. They’re here to be treated, not to be entertained”.

“I understand, Mr. Ashok” I said quickly, kicking myself for having got under the owner’s skin “I think I should leave now. The battery of my phone may be charged. I have left it in the car which is about a kilometer away from here”.

Ashok’s coarse features seemed to soften. “Wait a minute” he said kindly “you need not walk all the way back in the hot sun. We have a land line on the third for of our hospital. You could use it. I’ll escort you to the phone”.

Ashok led the way up three flights of stairs with old-fashioned red-oxide flooring. I was rather taken aback that a hospital of this magnitude didn’t have a lift. As Ashok and I made our way up, I noticed an elderly, slightly disheveled gentleman clutching the rusting railings. As I passed him, the man adjusted his thick brown-framed glasses and exclaimed: “Finally, the universe has been unveiled! Indeed, I have the cosmos in my bubble bath!”

The man had spoken so suddenly that I nearly jumped out of my skin. Ashok laid a placatory hand on my shoulder and said “Don’t mind Mr. Shiva, Ray. He’s delusional. For a destitute man, he sure nurtures fancy delusions of grandeur! Thinks he is a great astrophysicist who has made a groundbreaking discovery!”.

“Oh, I see” I said not liking the mocking tone that Ashok had employed while explaining the patient’s illness. After all, problems of the mind weren’t in one’s control and it was downright unethical to make fun of people who suffered from them. I was so ensconced in ruminating on the Ashok’s insensitivity that I was jerked back to reality when he and I had reached the room in which the telephone was evidently accommodated.

The first thing I noticed when I entered the room was a square rectangular metal panel perched about six and a half feet high on the wall. The panel probably sheltered an important switch or plug point.

The room itself was a small cubbyhole with tight shutters, transparent blinds and a small desk. On the desk stood a small black telephone which took me down the memory lane. It was a replica of the one we used to have way back in the 1990s when I was a little kid. It was mighty astonishing to see the very same model in 2016!

Strange. It was very strange.

Had time stood still in Vincent Hospital?

With trembling fingers, I started dialing the digits of my wife’s cell phone, one by one. Ashok stepped out and discreetly closed the door after him, evidently to give me some privacy. After dialing the digits, I waited impatiently. A few seconds later Dimple’s husky, attractive voice sounded on the other end.

“Hello” my wife said cagily probably since she didn’t recognize the phone number flashing on her cell phone screen “who is this?”

“It’s me, darling!” I said “I’ve got myself into a tight spot!”. I proceeded to explain the disaster the day had turned out to be. Dimple was apparently in a mall, shopping with our close friend, Sanjay.

“Vincent Asylum is on the highway, baby” I said impatiently “It is partially obscured by a huge banyan tree. Please come and get me ASAP!”

“There’s no need to get panicky, Ray” said my wife soothingly “NH 209 is very close to our apartment block and the mall. Sanjay and I will be there in no time!”

“Well, I am not on NH 209” I replied a tad sheepishly “I went off for a long drive and ended up hitting NH4…sorry!”

“Really Ray, did you have to venture that far?” my wife said in the manner of a parent admonishing a child “It will take me and Sanjay at least an hour and a half to get there. With the traffic congestion and all, it may take two!”

“I am so sorry…” I bleated again.

“Never mind” said Dimple “What did you say the name of the hospital was?”

“Vincent…” I said “Vincent Hospital”.

“Vincent Hospital?” repeated my wife, simultaneously skimming through the pages of her memory “it doesn’t ring a bell. Sanjay” I could hear her ask our friend “have you heard of it?”

Sanjay obviously answered in the negative, for Dimple said “No, honey. He hasn’t heard of it either. It must be a fairly new place”.

“Certainly doesn’t seem that way going by the appearance” I said skeptically “I am really sorry for the inconvenience I am putting the two of you through”.

“It’s okay, baby” my wife reassured “don’t worry. Sanjay and I will start out right now. We will also get a mechanic to look at the car”.

“Bless you, dear” I said and hung up. It was mollifying to hear my wife’s comforting voice. Besides, our super-dependable friend Sanjay was with her, so I didn’t have to worry. Sanjay was our savior in many ways. I really don’t know how Dimple and I would manage without him.

So, the mission has been accomplished. Now all I would have to do was go downstairs and wait for my wife and best friend. They’d soon be here with a mechanic and we could go back home once the car was serviced.

As I opened the door, Ashok was standing outside looking rather worried “Did you speak to your friend, Rachael?” he asked.

Rachael. The man addressed me—a tall, dusky, athletic, virile young male–as Rachael. The incongruity of the female moniker with my gender and appearance tickled my funny bone. “Really, Mr. Ashok” I said going into convulsive splits of laughter “I must say you have a wacky sense of humor!”

Ashok didn’t laugh. In fact, looked sober, lugubrious….and concerned. One look at his worried, serious face, and I stopped laughing.

A few seconds passed before Ashok spoke again. “Have you been taking your medicines on time, Rachael?” he asked.


Please click here to read the rest of the story.


 

Feminized in Circus – Forced to Work as a Girl

  • Feminized in CircusTitle: Feminized in Circus
  • Subtitle: Forced to Work as a girl
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Transgender Category: MTF

Alfred Batista and Ethan Faria are 13 year old boys living in Goa. Alfred is very “pretty” and is often teased by other boys “as one with a pussy”. However, it is Ethan who nurtures a secret desire to be a girl.

The boys’ life changes when a traveling Spanish circus called ‘Esplendor Circus’ comes to town. On the night of a show, the circus’s owner and manager realizes that the star attraction of their circus: a talking parrot is missing. Alfred is tricked into wearing girls’ clothes and is paraded as a part of the exotic animal menagerie to divert people’s attention away from the missing parrot. None of Alfred’s friends recognize him.

The pretty ‘girl’ in the menagerie is a huge success and the owner makes a lot of money. He and the manager are now reluctant to let Alfred go. As Alfred tries to fight them and leave for home he is raped by the manager, Ruiz, in a bid to ‘tame’ Alfred. Alfred’s spirit is partly broken.

Alfred is dressed as an Arabian dancer and is displayed in the menagerie for a second consecutive night. He undergoes the motions of spinning the hula-hoop with distress. At the end of the show, Alfred spots Ethan who has come to the circus the next day too. He narrates the horror of his ordeal to his friend.

Characters:

Alfred Batista/Angie: is the protagonist of the story. He is a “pretty” boy, with enormous blue eyes, pink apple-like cheeks and red hair. At 13, he is 5’3 and doesn’t yet display signs of puberty. However, Alfred’s tastes are “boyish”: He is interested in fishing and soccer.

Ethan Faria/Yvette: is the protagonist’s best friend. At 13, he’s 5’5, lean, dusky and has black eyes and hair. Though Ethan looks manlier than Alfred, he nurtures a secret desire to be a girl. He isn’t interested in sports, but enjoys cooking.

Ronnie: is the protagonist’s girl friend. At 15, she is 5’5, ash blond, baby faced, has leaf green eyes and a voluptuous figure. She has been sold off by her parents to circus owner Mendoza at age 11. Subsequently, Ronnie is raped by circus manager, Ruiz and is given estrogen hormone injections to speed up the development of her child-like body. She subsequently works as the hula hoop girl in the circus.

 

Claudio Ruiz: is the savage animal-trainer cum manager of Esplendor Circus. Ruiz is 34 years old and is dark and skinny. He has long greasy black hair, replete with lice and crooked rotting teeth. He decorates his eyes with kohl and wears an animal talon necklace around his neck.

After Lucio the parrot goes missing, Ruiz finds Alfred as a substitute star attraction. He tricks Alfred into dressing like a girl and displays him in the exotic animals’ menagerie. The following day when Alfred tries to attack Ruiz, Ruiz rapes him. He forces Alfred to dress as an Arabian dancer and displays him in the menagerie for a second consecutive night.

Desi Mendoza: is the owner of Esplendor Circus. He is 50 years old, has a lined face, snub nose and pig-like eyes. Mendoza is fat and jowly. In spite of being the boss, Mendoza has got into the habit of taking directions from his subordinate, Ruiz.

After the talking parrot goes missing, Mendoza becomes panicky as the parrot is the star attraction of the show. He calms down at Ruiz’s behest and lets him go with the idea of using a feminized Alfred in the exotic animal menagerie.

———————

Feminized in Circus

Forced to Work as a Girl

Chapter 1 – A Pretty Boy

‘Your cane ain’t big enough’ said Alfred Batista ‘If you want to hook big fish, you’re gonna need a longer rod’.

‘How about this?’ said Ethan Faria, chopping off a longer cane of bamboo and holding it up for his friend for approval. ‘Yeah, that’s cool’ said Alfred appraising the rod approvingly ‘Long enough for the fishing line to be tied’. At thirteen, Alfred was probably the prettiest boy who existed on the planet. He was 5 feet 3 inches tall, lean and had the face of an angel. His face was yet devoid of hair and voice silky as a girl’s. Alfred loved sports, especially fishing and soccer.

‘So, I trim off the leaves next, right?’ asked Ethan, holding up the bamboo stick. Alfred nodded. Ethan proceeded to methodically scrap extraneous materials off the bamboo. He was the same age as Alfred, but extremely different in appearance. He was 5 feet 5 inches tall, was reed thin and had a lean dusky face like most local Goans. Unlike Alfred’s, Ethan’s voice had cracked. Hints of a moustache could be seen on his upper-lip. Yet, character-wise, he was the more effeminate of the two. ..Both boys lived in a small fishing village with lots of creeks, fields and coconut trees. The town had some exquisite Portuguese Baroque style buildings and charming old villas. The riverside, speckled with brightly white washed houses and wrought-iron balconies, offered a pretty view.

As the boys crossed cobbled alleys teeming with quaint old taverns and cafes, they came across a group of 17 year olds playing soccer. Ethan was keen on getting away, but Alfred stopped. ‘Will you please let me strike?’ he asked one of the older boys. ‘Ha! The runt wants to strike’ sniggered a burly hirsute specimen.

‘The pretty one with a pussy wants to play with guys’ his cocky, squat friend drawled. Nevertheless, the defenders passed the ball. Alfred caught it up and served it perfectly. The ball surged high in the air. The defenders and midfielders poised themselves to catch it. Everyone held their breath. The ball hit the goal. ‘The runt with a pussy’ had scored a goal.

The older boys watched the retreating figures of Alfred and Ethan. Ethan turned back to note an expression of desire and amazement on their faces. It was as if lust was written all over them. Imagining a hypothetical situation in which Alfred had a vagina, the guys would definitely have liked to slide their freshly-functioning fast burgeoning cocks into his pussy. Though Ethan loved Alfred as much as he would a brother, Ethan felt a stab of jealousy. It was he who wanted to be ogled at, coveted and chased. Belying his boyish appearance, Ethan fantasized about being a girl. When no one was around, he wore his sister’s dresses and bedaubed himself with his mother’s makeup. The act was his guiltiest pleasure. Ethan felt the same horrible envy pierce his heart when he heard the bed of his sister’s room creaking. The young wild animal-like sounds of his sister and her boyfriend making love made him go a terrible shade of green. Ethan was indisputably and undeniably gay.

As they passed the huge bell standing in the church of Immaculate Conception, Ethan said to Albert ‘A traveling circus is in town, you know’.

‘A traveling circus?’ said Alfred still thinking about soccer and fishing.

‘Yes, the Esplendor Circus from Spain!’ said his friend, his eyes shining ‘they are going to put it up in the huge grounds behind the Church Square. Marco had been there with his parents yesterday. He couldn’t stop talking about the performing monkeys, trapeze artists and puppeteers. But most of all he spoke about Lucio. Everyone in town’s talking about Lucio…’

‘Who’s Lucio?’ asked Alfred vaguely recalling the ways and means his dad had taught him to bait fish ‘Is he a performing artist of something?’

‘It would be wrong to call Lucio that’ admitted Ethan ‘He is an extremely bright parrot who is fluent in 7 different European languages. Marco was saying he is especially proficient in using expletives. Apparently, Lucio called the ring master a ‘blooding fucking little slut’. A shocked Mrs. D’Costa tried to cover her son’s ears with her prudish hands. But it was too late. Marco had already heard!’. Ethan laughed uproariously.

Alfred joined him. ‘Man, Lucio sounds like some parrot!’. He remarked ‘we must go to the circus’.

‘Great!’ said Ethan ‘Shall I get the other guys along? The show starts at eight’.

‘Fine’ said Alfred ‘How much are the tickets?’

‘Thirty dollars….something like that’ said Ethan.

Alfred made quick calculations in his head. He discovered that his pocket money would suffice to cover the expenses. He wouldn’t have to coax his old man to give him money. He told Ethan that they’d walk down to grounds behind Church Square at 7 pm.

A group of five boys set out at 7 pm. Alfred was dressed in his dandiest suit that he reserved for the Sunday’s mass: A navy blue pinstriped suit with a white shirt, a peaked lapel and a pink necktie that went along with his rosy cheeks. Like a good little boy, he paired them with a clean pair of light blue socks and black polished loafers. He wore a pair of silver cuff-links his granddad had given him before he passed away. Before leaving, Alfred’s mother attached a little pink rose in his button hole, gave him bag of apples and said: ‘Enjoy yourself, darling. Come home as soon as the show ends. No loitering around. There’d be many a crook prowling around to whisk off pretty children’.

‘I am not a child!’ Alfred protested ‘besides, I am not a girl’.

‘You’re no less prettier than one’ Alfred’s mom laughed

Like most young boys on the cusp of manhood, Alfred didn’t like his mother’s comment. He sulkily joined Ethan and his other friends waiting outside. They walked through creeks, baroque style buildings and enchanting villas before they finally reached the Church Square. As he heard the revelry: excited squeals and merriment of the crowds in the grounds behind it, Alfred’s heart swelled with a kind of unknown pleasure. A foreign circus, one that boasted of a talking parrot, was here! In spite of having Portuguese roots, Alfred had led a sheltered life in Goa and hadn’t seen any foreigners. He found his first prospective encounter with the outside world exciting beyond imagination.

The sprawling rented hall was lit up like a golden palace. Yellow bulbs adorning its surface glittered like glorious stars. A board right in front proclaimed ‘Espendor Circus’ is in big capital letters. Under it was a billboard bearing pictures of acrobats swinging two and fro, monkeys dressed as clowns, trapeze artists and a magnified image of the renowned Lucio: the talking parrot. He was a pretty striking bird with a blue face, a purple crown, a bright green crest, a chest with interspersed fluffy orange and golden feathers and a greenish flank. His wing shaft and tail were of the same bright yellow hue. Alfred noticed that Lucio’s beak and claws were as razor sharp as his tongue was supposed to be. Alfred sneaked a peek inside the circus and saw a majestic elevated platform covered with striped curtains. There were seats in front of the stage as well as side galleries, meant to accommodate a sizeable crowd. Alfred felt a tinge of excitement at the pit of his stomach, wondering what lay behind the stage or, for that matter, what life on stage would be like.

A little midget dressed as a maharaja, in tight red leggings, a kurta and a golden turban, chaperoning an elaborately adorned elephant with a howdah on its back, broke into Alfred’s reverie. ‘Tickets this way please’ he beckoned towards the counter. Albert moved towards the counter with his friends in tow. The tallest boy in the group collected the money of the six other boys and paid the guy dispatching tickets in bulk. Subsequently, the boys heard the enticing tinkle of the cotton candy cart and flocked to it like ants. Alfred mannishly desisted. He didn’t think eating sticky fluffy cotton candy behooved a young man of 13. Giving his friends a contemptuous glance, he ambled towards the back of the hall. Absorbed in their juvenile sugary orgasms, the other boys didn’t notice.

The night air was cool on Alfred’s skin. Emboldened by the freshness it bestowed to the night, Alfred sauntered deeper into the back of the circus. It was suddenly as if the innocence of the pristine night had been ruined. The air suddenly smelled filthy: of decaying food, animal waste, pus and blood. Alfred realized that he had come to the enclosure the circus animals were imprisoned in. He saw sad looking parrots with their wings clipped. Alfred noticed that they had been put in cages without perches, forcing them to haplessly cling to a side. Cages bearing lions, tigers, bears and dogs looked as if they hadn’t been swept in ages. The food dishes which hadn’t been cleared had flies swarming to them. They gave out an unbearably strong reek. Horses, with their hind legs tied together, hobbled around limited distances, half-heartedly chewing on dried decayed-looking hay. Shackled elephants, tethered right in front, trampled on their own filth and waste. Alfred noticed that one was missing an eye and was also suffering from an especially bad sore on its side.

‘What an irony!’ said Alfred to himself ‘Esplendor Circus is beautiful to view, but is so full of cruel dark secrets inside!’. He remembered the bag of apples his mother had given him. Alfred was moved enough to salvage a few and give them to the one-eyed elephant one by one. Little did he know that this naïve action of his would be used against him in such a manner that that his innocent life would change forever.


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A Slippery Slope in Amish Life – Forbidden Desires

A Slippery Slope in an Amish Community
A heart-warming FTM vs. MTF transgender romance story.

  • Title: A Slippery Slope in Amish Life
  • Subtitle: Forbidden Desires
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Transgender category: both MTF and FTM

I am Laila, the narrator of the story. I am a research scholar affiliated with JNU University and writing a thesis on the Amish Community. I am tall, dusky, muscular for a woman, have straight jet black hair and intense coal black eyes.  When I was alone in an Amish house on Sunday I met Amos, a beautiful young Amish man and fell in love at first sight. I couldn’t resist the urge to persuade him to dress in female clothes. However, the Amish family came home and found Amos dressing in drag. Then they excommunicated Amos from the Amish community. I considered it as my responsibility and took him to New Delhi on a student visa. I helped Amos enroll into a foreign language course in JNU University and helped him transform into a woman, gradually. During the course of Amos’s treatment, I met Dr. Gracie Holmes who told me that I myself was suffering from GID.



A Slippery Slope in Amish Life

Subtitle: Forbidden Desires

Chapter 1 – The Comely Amos

I feel like I am in a dream. The weather is partly cloudy, but sunshine spears its way through a cloud. Lancaster County in Pennsylvania, where I currently am, is so different from India: the country I am from. Before I go any further, let me introduce myself: I am Laila Sethi, a 27 year old woman pursuing her PhD from the renowned JNU University in New Delhi. Since my dissertation is on the Amish way of life, I am here in Lancaster Country where most from the Amish usually reside. I am here to study their system of beliefs, their way of life and the general workings of their society. From the plenteous things that I have learnt so far, the devout Amish people staunchly adhere to the Biblical command of detachment from the world. To do so, they segregate themselves from the rest of the world, avoid using technology and dress in certain types of clothes only.

At the moment, my eyes are riveted on a young man wielding a harrow. It is fascinating to watch the continual rhythmic motion of breaking up and smoothening of the surface of the soil. I, personally, am equally bewitched by the young man as I am by the agriculture. His name is Amos Fisher and he is 24 years old. Amos has marble white skin, flaming red hair and the expression of a saint. In the manner of most Amish men, he is wearing a pistachio colored shirt, dark brown suit, straight black coat without lapels, and trousers that are flared at the bottom. Amos’s shoes are black and so are his socks. His large straw-brimmed hat protects him from the scorching sun.

Like the women of the Old Order Amish, I am wearing a long navy blue dress with full-sleeves which covers me from head to toe. My attire is covered with a cape and apron which are fastened with straight pins. The norm usually says that Amish women never cut their hair, but from my childhood, I have sported hair cropped short like a boy’s. According to the Amish ethos, single women are supposed to cover their heads with a black cap and this is what I have done.

As I gaze at Amos Fisher, a strange thought crosses my mind. I question my sanity. I imagine the young man in my feminine navy blue dress and, conversely, myself in his shirt, coat, trousers and suspenders. And what’s most zapping is that the gender swap doesn’t seem, in any way, strange at all.

Yes, Amos Fisher is what I would call a feminine man.

Since today is Sunday, the whole of the Amish community has gone to the church to attend the mass. The Amish are a community largely dependent on religion; they believe that all men are born sinners and that the only way to attain personal salvation is through unremitting obedience to God. Since I am not religious in any sense of the term (I am not even a practicing Hindu: the religion of my birth), I decide to sit indoors and enjoy a rarely found privacy for a while. The Amish way of life places a great deal of emphasis on community living. While I think this is an ideal way of living, I am yet to get used to it completely. In spite of the acceptance I find here, I find myself desperately craving for some “Me Time”.

***

I went into a typical two-storied unadorned Amish house which was painted blue: a color symbolic of the sky. The houses all around were painted green, white and brown or other colors which are symbolic of nature. Everything in the house was simple and functional. Curtains, shades and quilts contain typical motifs which tend to involve depictions of nature such as doves, roses and trees. The Amish houses are marked by the absence of modern gadgets and other signs of technology. Instead, the refrigerators and stoves were powered by natural propane, bottled gas or kerosene.

My mouth craved a cup of strong tea. Since people in Lancaster County were basically coffee drinkers, the tea served there was rather weak. Kicking myself for not getting a packet of Masala Chai (Tea laced with cinnamon, cardamom, cloves etc which is considered a specialty in India) from Delhi, I made my way into the kitchen. Finally, I was alone! A minute or two later, I became sentient of the presence of another entity in my room. Years of meditation has made me sensitive to aura: I was 100% certain that the person in the room was a female. The sensual organic scent of her skin, the faint herbal fragrance of her hair and the unseen shock of menstrual blood that was no doubt discarded from her vital outlet every month, pointed to an entity who was unremittingly, irrevocably feminine. As an instinctive reaction to the presence of a female, seemingly in estrus, in the room, I started sweating with excitement. Before I could make sense of what was happening inside my body, I felt my heart rate shoot up and my hypothetical penis stand erect!

What in the world was happening to me?? I was a woman, not a man! I was a lean, dusky, sinuous, dark-haired woman with breasts! As far as I knew, I was a heterosexual. The one or two physical relationships I had previously had had been with men. So, where in the world did the hypothetical penis come from? And why in the world was I getting aroused by sensing the presence of a female ostensibly in estrus?

Heavens knows. It was all very confusing and disturbing.

The fact that made my heart stop midway was the fact that the so-called ovulating female I was instinctively getting prepared to “enter” was 24 year old Amos Fisher. He was dunking cobs of corn in vinegar, and was planning, I surmised, to ferment it for a few days to make it into pickle. I was struck by the unconventionality of two aspects here. For one, while I was familiar with cucumbers being pickled, this was the first time I had actually seen anyone pickling corn cobs. Secondly, in the Amish community which thrived on the strict demarcation of roles, the men were assigned farming, building houses etc, while the women were supposed to devote themselves to domestic roles like cooking, cleaning and maintaining the house. Given such a situation, it surprised me greatly to see Amos embroiled in a task which was uncompromisingly the forte of the female.

But then, why was I so flabbergasted? There had always been something undeniably girlish about Amos. My mind went into the retrospective mode and recalled all the mannerisms Amos engaged in. Amos often went into a helpless spasm of giggles whenever one of the men cracked a joke. Then there were other things that were a definite indication of his femininity. For instance, Amos titled his pretty head to a side when he talked. He sipped his drink daintily with a straw. Amos’s hand flit like slender restless butterflies when he communicated. He was particularly obsessed about personal hygiene, kept himself impeccably groomed and walked with unrivalled grace in every step. All this struck me only in retrospect.

“Aren’t you supposed to be pickling cucumbers instead of corncobs?” I asked a politically correct question rather than the one that was on my mind.

“According to convention, yes” replied Amos placidly “but I believe in doing whatever floats my boat”. The reply was made unselfconsciously enough, but I couldn’t help noticing the subliminal meaning beneath the sentence. Amos’s tip-tilted eyes bore into my soul, as if they had realized that I had read the meaning underlying his words. I felt a shiver pass down my body, which had, for some reason, often been described as feline and predatory.

“Hmmm…” I said, wondering how to express my thoughts without offending Amos “I think you are rather too different for a man….”.

“Different? How?” Amos asked genuinely stupefied.

“Well” I began trying to find a way of putting my point across without offending him “You’re gentle…and sensitive”.

“Gracias” said Amos smiling an angelic smile that made the fine hairs on my body rise. Then sensing that I probably had more to say to him, he said “I surmise you have much more to say to me, Laila”.

“You sensed that I wanted to say something” I said “So I guess that makes you intuitive….”.

“And?” Amos’s sinuous body was poised towards me in attention. The saintly smile on his pale pink lips made me melt. It was proven beyond doubt that I was attracted to Amos. Yet there was something offbeat about the way in which I was drawn to him. It wasn’t the usual, cliché attraction a woman feels towards a man. My fascination for Amos transcended that. However, at this point, I found it difficult to put a finger on how my attraction to him was different.

“And compassionate, sympathetic, tender, understanding, warm, yielding, soft, nurturing and graceful” I said all in one breath. Without being wholly aware of what I was doing, I had inched so close to Amos that our noses literally touched. As the rosy fragrance of Amos’s skin reached my nostrils, I shivered.

Amos was trembling too. “Look at you” he whispered from in between his coral, kissable lips “you’re as tall as me: a man. I like that quality in you. I must confess, though, that I wish I was a little shorter than 5’9”.

“My height!” I said in mock exasperation “is that all you could think of to laud? Don’t I possess any other qualities worthy of admiration?”

Amos hesitated a bit. “Well, I’d say you’re strong….very strong” he said.

“Pray, continue” I goaded, probably grinning in the impish way my friends said I always did.

“You’re courageous, assertive, independent and outspoken” said Amos with an iota of hesitation “I’d also say you’re competitive, ambitious and…dominant”. Amos’s tip-tilted green eyes dropped as he made the following statement. His thick eyelashes fluttered.

“Do you mean to say I am bossy?!” I nearly yelled.

“No, no, of course not” Amos hastened to correct himself “I meant what I said in a positive way. You are the stuff…..homebuilders are made of”.

I smiled. “And you are the stuff homemakers are made of” I said.

A pensive frown passed Amos’s face. “Laila, do you I am trapped in the wrong body?”.

“There is just one way to find out” I said.


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