Category Archives: FTM (Female to Male) transgender

Forbidden Gift – A Transgender Horror Story

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

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 As a result, the misunderstood child becomes silent and withdrawn.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

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Forbidden Gift

My Story of Feminization and Being a Victim of SRA

inspired by the story of spiritual catalyst Teal Swan

by Yu Sakurazawa



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

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

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

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

“Do it now, Tessa.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

Please click here to read the rest of the story.

Good Cop – Sam O’Yeah: An FTM Cop Story

Good Cop Sam O'Yeah

  • Title: Good Cop – Sam O’Yeah
  • Subtitle: An FTM Cop Story
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa


Introduction: Sam O’Yeah is a smart, astute, dedicated young constable with the Delhi Police force. He is blessed with a great support system in the form of his very beautiful wife, Bela. His life-style seems ordinary. But there’s a teensy catch. Sam isn’t a biological ‘him’. He’s a man trapped in a woman’s body.

Sam’s life is turned upside down when he is called upon to investigate the murder of 14 year old Neeta Singh. Does the key to solving the chilling case lie in Sam’s own traumatic past? Continue reading Good Cop – Sam O’Yeah: An FTM Cop Story