Category Archives: MTF (Male to Female) transgender

Missing in Nepal: Forced Feminization into Damsel in Distress

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

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


Missing in Nepal

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1

For the Love of the Mountains

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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Feminine Desire: a monk who failed to be a nun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 1 – The Beautiful Monk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With a hammering heart, I walked into the vicarage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I listened attentively, nodding at periodic intervals.

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

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

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A Mermaid in Love – transgender love story

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

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

A Mermaid in Love

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Ava, the Mermaid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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A Private Tutor – The Most Feminine Desire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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Forbidden Sanctuary – Transgender Suspense Story

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

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

Forbidden Sanctuary
Trespass Sweatly Urged
Failing Masculinity Test
by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Jaded Jared

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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A Slippery Slope in a Music Band – A Substitute Singer

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

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

A Slippery Slope in a Music Band

Subtitle: A Substitute Singer

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – A Buxom, Redhead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But….” I prompted.

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

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

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

“What?” barked Valerie.

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


There was a long, dumbstruck silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve got bad news” she said.

“What happened?” Valerie and I chorused.

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

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

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

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

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

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Forbidden Academy – Transgender Horror Story

Forbidden Academy

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

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

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Forbidden Academy

Feminized as a Hypnosis

Transgender Horror Series

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 -There was something about Anya

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

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Forbidden Memories

Feminized as a Punishment

Transgender Horror Series

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – The Monster of Florence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Slippery Slope in a Mall

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

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


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

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – My Hero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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:


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:


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:


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.


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.

Books of “Forced to Work in Girls’ Uniform” series are titled “Slippery Slope”

Among the transgender stories written by Yu Sakurazawa, the books in the “Forced to Work in Girls’ Uniform” series are the most popular and all of them are titled as “A Slippery Slope –  something”.  The phrase “slippery slope” means a process or series of events that is hard to stop or control once it has begun and that usually leads to worse or more difficult things.

Likewise, in each book of “A Slippery Slope – something” once a process is triggered it is impossible to stop and feminization of the protagonist inevitably progresses until it is finally completed.

A majority of transgender stories that you will find in the Kindle market are run-of-the-mill adult fictions, while Yu Sakurazawa’s stories are not. “Slippery Slope” stories are serious mtf stories, or heartwarming romances. They are delightful mtf reads and are sensual, erotic and fun.

Here are the cover pages of “A Slippery Slope – something” books (Forced to Work in Girls’ Uniform/Dress series) with links to Amazon sales pages.

A Slippery Slope in an Airline A Slippery Slope in a Bank A Slippery Slope in a Call Center A Slippery Slope in a Hospital A Slippery Slope in a Hotspring A Slippery Slope in a Nunnery A Slippery Slope in a School A-Slippery-Slope-in-an-Ad-Agency A Slippery Slope in Military Academy A Slippery Slope in an Amish Community

Please see brief introduction to each story as follows:

A Slippery Slope in Amish Life

Laila is a research scholar affiliated with JNU University and writing a thesis on the Amish Community. She is 27 year old,  tall, dusky, muscular for a woman, have straight jet black hair and intense coal black eyes.  When she was alone in an Amish house on Sunday Laila met Amos, a beautiful young Amish man and fell in love at first sight. She 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.  Laila considered it as her responsibility and took him to New Delhi on a student visa. She 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, Laila meets Dr. Gracie Holmes who tells her that Laila herself suffers from GID.

A Slippery Slope in a Hospital

Craig/Carol Lovatt: is the 28 year old protagonist of the story. He is a petite, slender, pretty-faced Anglo-Indian who works as a nurse in the renowned Acesco Hospital. He is a responsible nurse, but commits a rare mistake on Valentine’s Night. As a result of his negligence, a patient dies. The patient happens to be the wife of Norman Abbott, the dean of Acesco Hospital. In lieu of being sued for negligence, Craig opts to sign a contract drawn up by Mr. Abbott. The terms of the contract bind Craig to carry out a series of strange instructions given by Mr. Abbott without questioning. One of them entails going to hospital dressed in a female nurse’s uniform and identifying himself as “Nurse Carol Abbott”.

A Slippery Slope in an Ad Agency

Zack is the 34 year old wild, unconventional and attractive protagonist of the story. He is tall, has expressive dark eyes and colors his hair blue. As the Creative Head and co-owner of leading ad agency Impressions, Zack has many admirers. His life has its share of schemers with his brother Ben and girlfriend Tania desiring his feminization to meet their own selfish ends. By making a laughing stock of Zack, Ben wants to amass all his popularity. By feminizing him, Tania wants to satisfy her deepest fantasies. On Tania’s suggestion, Zack dresses as “Zina” to be able to write the perfect ad copy to endorse women’s cosmetics, dresses and lingerie. Slowly and steadily, Tania and Ben trick Zack into completely becoming Zina— with silky long hair, breasts and a pussy. Though Zina is loyal to Tania, she finds that she is powerfully attracted to her client, Daniel Garfield.

A Slippery Slope in an Airline

In order to be closer to his girlfriend Flight Pursuer Gina Brooks, 25 year old law student Carlton Hart applies for the position of a steward in Zephyr Airlines. One of the recruiters, the older ultra-attractive In-flight Service Manager Rosaline Wells, agrees to select Carlton albeit only as a female flight attendant. Rosaline claims to see a woman (whom she calls “Clarissa”) trapped inside Carlton, and makes it her mission to set Clarissa free. Carlton thinks Rosaline is a raving lunatic, but agrees to dress in an air hostess’s uniform and identify himself as Clarissa Hart.As Carlton starts his job, he discovers that he is careless and clumsy. A series of events including a mid-air kiss Carlton shares with bisexual pop singer Twiggy Meteor, Gina’s affair and elopement with charismatic naxalite Ashish Dutta and, later, her marriage to wealthy hotelier Ellis Lawson, push Carlton deeper and deeper into the quagmire of feminization and into Rosaline’s sensual arms.However, Carlton (now Clarissa) still dreams of getting back with Gina. Will the two young lovers ever reunite? Or are they permanently pushed aside by hostile circumstances?

A Slippery Slope in a Hotspring: Yumori of Kasuga Hotspring

A retiree, 60 year old Japanese businessman Mr.Suzuki, visits Kasuga Hot Spring and meets a young yumori (hot spring keeper). The two men get into interesting conversation. The yumori takes Suzuki deep into the woods in the back of the hot spring, where Suzuki finds an astounding secret spring where animals are bathing. The combination of the human bath and the secret animal bath gives a magical effect – rejuvenating into the opposite sex.

A Slippery Slope in a Nunnery: where none of the nuns may dress improperly

Alex Pinto is the protagonist of “None of the Nuns May Dress Improperly” (Magdalene Sorority). Alex is quite a good-looking boy, 5 feet 9 inches tall, with an athletic body, honey-brown eyes and copper-streaked hair. He has a long face, a noble nose and full-lips: features that earn him the ‘beautiful’ sobriquet. Mesmerized by the beauty of Irish nun, Stella Mary, Alex trespasses into nunnery grounds. He is caught and bullied by the young nuns, led by three lethal females called the Three Musketeers. Much to Alex’s embarrassment, the Three Musketeers decide to punish him by forcing him to wear a pale pink tunic and a wimple. Since they haven’t had much straight sexual activity in recent times, they also get Alex to pleasure them.

A Slippery Slope in a Bank

26 year old effeminate-mannered, pretty faced man, Vicky Pereira wishes to marry his long term girlfriend, Edwina Joseph as soon as possible. However, his current job in a lesser-known bank doesn’t accord him enough financial security to take such a big step in his personal life. Vicky applies for the post of senior manager in a renowned bank known as Trust Bank. A goof-up at the interview leads to an underestimation on the part of the recruiters: Vicky is now employed as a clerk in Trust Bank. To comply with the rules, he must wear a uniform just like the other clerks: a jacket with an in-built bra and a form-fitting skirt. Customers are uneasy interacting with a man dressed in drag, hence Vicky is ordered to undergo laser treatment for removal of facial hair and a tracheal shave to get rid of his Adam’s apple. Vicky is under the impression that his feminization is a superficial one, done only for professional reasons. However, his girlfriend Edwina has other plans and Vicky permanently becomes a girl.

A Slippery Slope in Military Academy: A Frail Cadet

In an attempt to cure himself of GID, 19 year old honey-complexion boy, Dean joins Everest Military Academy: a private training institute that trains young people to become brave and competent soldiers. However, the delicate Dean finds he is unable to cope with the strenuous army life and finds himself failing all PET tests. The principal of the academy, gives Dean an ultimatum: either quit the academy or continue as a female cadet. Dean embraces his deepest, darkest desires by opting to transform into a female cadet. He is ordained into femininity by being forced to wear the female cadets’ uniform which comprises of a puff-sleeved OG shirt and a leaf-green pleated skirt. Eventually, Dean’s feminization includes HRT and SRS conducted/supervised by doll-faced 29 year old army doctor, Dr. (Capt) Sophie Mistry. As Dean eventually transforms into gorgeous, diva-like Diana, Dr. (Capt) Sophie makes it clear that her interest in Diana is more than professional. Diana, however, has lost her heart to Capt. Eric Saldana, her young and dashing Military History teacher. Diana is shocked when she learns that Capt. Saldana is interested in Dr. (Capt) Sophie. Meanwhile, Cadet Alvin D’Cruz, a classmate of Diana’s displays a zealous, possessive passion for her. Where will these convoluted romantic entanglements lead to? Is Diana destined to be with the man of her dreams?

A Slippery Slope in a Call Center

Eighteen year old Ajay Singh is a pretty-faced, effeminate boy living in the town of Patiala. Even though he is born male, Ajay hasn’t attained puberty. His dressing in female clothes and performing a feminine dance on a college stage creates a scandal in the social circles his family moves in. Fearing further stigma, Ajay’s parents ask him to leave Patiala. Ajay travels to Bangalore and joins a BPO/Call center of a San Francisco based telecom company called Ursa Major. He is given the job of a customer service representative. Ajay finds himself deeply fascinated by his beautiful and powerful boss, Barbara Turner. Barbara takes a personal interest in Ajay and even helps him neutralize his accent. The sexual tension between the two provides fodder for some office gossip. Since Ajay has a high-pitched, girlish voice, Barbara asks him to identify himself as ‘Arianna’ to customers who call. ‘Arianna’s’ life takes an unusual turn when Barbara coaxes him to wear a saree on the ethnic day held in the office.

Slippery Slope in a School

In the year of 2002, small-town boy, Simon joins Somerset High, an elite school that caters only to the offspring of the rich and the powerful. Since Simon is a scholarship student belonging to an ordinary family, his uppity classmates initially treat him with contempt. However, as his talents become known, Simon’s popularity soars, leaving school heart throb Sid fuming. Sid resorts to mean, underhanded tricks to pull Simon down. After Sid plays an especially dirty trick on Simon, school queen bee Richa (who also happens to hate Sid’s guts) offers to help Simon defeat Sid. For this Simon must assume a new identity—that of a female Italian student of royal lineage, “Principessa Simona Marino of Monte Isola”. As the charm of “Simona” casts a spell over the students of Somerset High, Sid’s popularity takes a beating. However, Sid doesn’t mind being beaten by the lovely exotic “princess”. As weeks fly by, Simon finds himself getting sucked, deeper and deeper, into the quagmire of femininity. As his body is progressively feminized, Simon finds that he is physically attracted to none other than his sworn enemy Sid! However, he also experiences a soul-to-soul connection with the noble Pamela, who, like himself, is a scholarship student of humble origins. Will Simona choose Sid or Pamela? Will love win over primeval lust?


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Obsessed by Resemblance – destined to be feminized

Obsessed by Resemblance

  • Title: Obsessed by Resemblance
  • Subtitled: Destined to be Feminized
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Transgender category: MTF, lesbian

Farhan Abbas, a 19 year old soldier, is astounded when he sees an uncanny facial resemblance between himself and the ruling monarch, Queen Razia Sultan. His desire to imitate the queen becomes a prime obsession, leading Farhan to neglect his duties as a rough and tough soldier in Razia’s regiment. Farhan’s proclivities are noticed by his younger sister Shaista who reports her brother’s effeminate antics to their parents. In a hapless bid to “cure” their son, the parents forcibly get Farhan married to an acquaintance’s daughter, Aisha Begum. Unnerved by the prospect of consummating the wedding as a male, Farhan escapes from the venue dressed in female attire. Immediately after Farhan’s absence is noticed, Aisha’s brother Imran Farhat starts hunting the entire city for him. In the dimness of the night, Malik Altunia, Razia Sultan’s resentful childhood sweetheart, mistakes Farhan for Razia and abducts him. Altunia realizes that he has made a mistake only when he and his abductee reach the palace. Farhan explains his predicament to Altunia and begs the latter to allow him to take shelter in his harem. Altunia agree on the condition that Farhan undergoes ritual castration. After being castrated, Farhan is allowed to guard the harem dressed in female clothes.

Obsessed by Resemblance

Important Notice : Razia Sultan was the Sultan of Delhi in India from 1236 to May 1240 and was the first female sultan. Razia abandoned the veil and adopted masculine attire. She possessed all necessary qualities of a ruler and was an efficient sultan. Razia’s romance with Malik Ikhtiar-ud-din Altunia is well known. This book is a product of liberal artisticlicense around such legendary historical characters. This book is NOT an authentic depiction of the course history or of the life, character, sexual orientation of Razia Sultan or any of the other historical characters. The opinions in this book are not intended to hurt the sentiments of, or defame any race, religion, country, community, system or individual.

Chapter 1 – Queen Razia’s Facsimile

The day was hot. Rivulets of perspiration ran down my back. Yet I could swear that particular day was the happiest in my 19 years of existence. I was inducted into the army of Queen Razziat ud din Sultana, more popularly known as Razia Sultan who belonged to the Mamluk dynasty and was the first female ruler of the Delhi Sultanate. She had been inducted to the throne two years before in 1236 at age 31. Currently, a figure wearing a visor came galloping on a white horse. “The sultan is here” one of the other soldiers whispered in my ear “stand at attention”. Since Razia wanted to be taken as seriously as any man, she dressed in male clothes when she appeared in court or on the battle field. Razia’s upper body was covered with a silk caftan (a long coat with front buttons) over which she had worn a vest. As my gaze slid down, I caught a glimpse of her salvar (loose Indian trousers) and silk moccasins that curled inwards. I couldn’t help noticing that even though Her Majesty had made every possible attempt to hide her body, she hadn’t quite succeeded in concealing her luscious shapely figure and small decanter-shaped waist. I was still to see Razia’s face, yet was already besotted by her beauty.

“Warriors!” Razia commanded in her silky yet powerful voice “Please arrange yourselves in the shape of a lotus! This technique, I’ve discovered, is the best way to combat the enemy”.

The lotus technique in Indian warfare was one Razia especially favored. It was a pattern that prompted the archers to arrange themselves at the core, while the infantry and the cavalry arranged themselves around them in the form of petals. Strictly speaking, this was an ancient Indian technique, but Her Majesty still used it as she had great faith in its efficacy.

I took my position at the core and poised my bow and arrows to shoot whenever the queen directed me to. At this juncture, Razia took off her visor, allowing me to catch a glimpse of her jewel studded, feather-decked red silk turban. Waves of luxuriant ebony black hair came cascading down, as Razia freed herself of the visor.

I caught sight of her face for the first time. My world stopped for an entire minute.

I had seen quite a few beautiful women, but Razia was the most beautiful by far. Her heart-shaped face tapered down to meet the most elegant, swan-like neck I had seen on any woman. Her glossy whitish-ocher complexion reflected unrivalled health and vitality. The honey-brown eyes that peeped out through velvety eyelashes were those of a doe’s. Razia’s eyebrows were slender, her unadorned ears like a sea-nymph’s and puffy, heart-shaped lips a rich ruby red.

The queen’s beauty wasn’t the only thing that rendered me immobile. It was something else. That “something else” is so weird that no one would believe me if I told them about it. It was that…I, a 19 year old man, saw a resemblance between myself and Razia Sultan.

Of course, the idle observer wouldn’t have noticed it. This was because they were conditioned to look at me as a male. Also, I don’t claim that my every feature was like Razia’s or that I was a spitting image of the sultan. However, the pallor of the skin, the color and shape of the eyes, nose and mouth were the same. My face was squarer and my frame muscular, so no one could have confused me for Razia as I stood in the battlefield dressed as a soldier. However, at 5’7, I may not have been too much taller than the queen whom I estimated to be 5’5 or 5 feet 6 inches tall.

I was in a delicious sort of a stupor for the rest of the day. I forgot all about shields, armors, javelins and swords and thought only of the enchanting face of the sultan. I returned home and went into my room without bothering to acknowledge my parents or converse with my younger sister, Shaista. I would lie on my bed in sweet yearning, dreaming of putting my arms around that slender decanter-shaped waist, caressing the sea-nymph ears and tracing the arch of Razia’s slender eyebrows with my light kisses. Razia Sultan would melt under my touch and mewl with pleasure. Emboldened by her reaction, my own carmine pink mouth would move to her puffy, heart-shaped ruby-red lips. As I tasted the sweet syrup of her mouth; unsurpassed bliss would flood my body.

I got up from the bed and walked towards my plain full-length no-frills mirror. Like a man in a trance, I gazed at myself for the longest time. In my mind’s eye, I saw my bushy eyebrows trimmed to resemble a slender arch, carmine pink lips reddened to become ruby red and thin flat body padded to resemble a woman’s curves. At this point, a startling truth dawned on me. I realized I wasn’t just in love with Razia Sultan. I wanted to become her.

I fervently wished to be the exacted replica of Razia Sultan. I desired to be her mirror image.

An uncontrollable desire to dress like the queen and ape her mannerisms seized me. However, there was a minor obstacle in the expression of this desire. Since I had seen Razia Sultan dressed only in male attire, I had no idea as to what she looked like in female clothes and jewelry. Since Razia strode and rode dressed like a male, I hadn’t had the chance to observe the dainty gestures of her white hands, the feminine sway of her hips and the womanish fluttering of her velvety eyelashes.

I realized that something had to be done to get around this predicament. I needed to gain access to the queen’s private chamber to see what she looked like, when she dressed as a woman. I had to see my beloved in the full throes of femininity to be able to love her more wholly. I needed to see Razia in the full bloom of her womanhood in order to become her clone.

For the son of a petty shop keeper to sneak into a royal palace wasn’t an easy task. Hence, I rehearsed my part until I was sure I could play it to perfection—even in my sleep. I had also spent a few hours putting together the accoutrements I needed for the role play. After a brief journey by foot, the palace domes and minarets decorated with cribs, zigzags, floral and geometric star designs came into view. Marveling at how the embellished minarets led to the beautification of the city line of Delhi, I approached the guard at the gate. He was a slow, shriveled old man of about 90. However, his eyes were bright and alert.

“Salam, huzoor (Salutations, Sir)” I said “I’d like to meet the sultana please”.

“May I know who you are?” the gatekeeper asked. His piercing blue eyes appraised me suspiciously.

“I am the son of a holy man the queen met at the mosque” I said in naïve, sincere tones “my father wished to gift the sultana a holy armlet that would shield her from the evil eye. Since he is old and arthritis-ridden, my father couldn’t come here himself. Hence, he asked me to deliver the armlet to the queen”.

“An armlet….” Said the old gatekeeper “May I see it?”

“Of course” I said and procured a sequin encrusted armlet I had spent a few hours crafting. Needless to say, it had no holy significance.

“It seems genuine enough” said the gatekeeper, barely bothering to hide the fact that he had previously been suspicious “however, I am not sure if the sultana would be very pleased if I let a strange young man into the royal palace. Give the armlet to me and I shall pass it on the queen myself”.

“I am sorry” I said with resolve “but my father asked me to give the armlet to none other than the queen herself. If you won’t allow me inside, I guess I’ll have to leave without giving the queen the armlet”. After uttering the above words, I turned to go.

“Wait a minute” said the old guard reluctantly. After a whispered consultation with a young colleague, he said: “Fine, we’ve decided to let you in. However, please come out in half an hour. The queen is a busy woman”.

“Thank you” I said and walked into the exquisite palace lawns. I was allowed inside the palace and noticed that its architectural delights comprised of enameled and gilded glass, inlaid metal and woodwork. Plush Turkish carpets covered the smooth marble floors. After passing through an in-house hunting pavilion and a small mosque, I reached the queen’s chamber. Since Razia Sultan prided herself on being as strong and independent as a man, no eunuch guarded the entrance to her chamber. I gazed into the queen’s inner chamber through translucent pistachio green curtains that separated us. The sight that met my eye made me hold my breath.

The queen sat on her royal bed dressed in female attire. She was wearing an opulently embroidered rose pink caftan over a shirt tucked into baggy pants. The ruffles along the neckline and wrists accentuated the daintiness of her wrists so much so that it was hard to believe that the same hands brandished the sword on the battle field! An ornamental small plum-colored cap sat perched over Razia’s beautiful ebony-colored hair. An elegant multi-colored scarf was tied around the nape of her neck. Razia wore curly toed shoes made of silk velvet, embroidered with gilt-silver yarns and seed pearls.

Razia wasn’t free of ornaments. A phul or a hair ornament shaped like a flower hung upside down from the crown of her head. Around nine necklaces made of gold and silver were hung around her swan-like neck, almost reaching her abdomen region. Since it was considered inauspicious for a woman to leave her arms bare, a bajubandh and kangan (armlet and bangle, respectively) adorned her delicate creeper-like arms. Long earrings shaped like a peacock hung from Razia’s delicate ears brushing the fabric on her shoulders. As the queen moved to look at herself in the full-length mirror, the tantalizing fragrance of rose attar (perfume) reached my nostrils.

I let out an involuntary gasp as the queen started undressing. With a slow methodical precision I had known her to possess on the battlefield; she started taking off her ornaments one by one. Then the scarf came off revealing a significant expanse of her creamy neck, followed by the caftan, vest, salvar and shoes. Razia flung the abovementioned on the bed with a kind of stylish nonchalance. It was too late for me now to turn to my heels and run. I watched with petrified fascination, as the queen stripped to her soft muslin undergarments which were embroidered with fine gold thread.

I averted my eyes as the queen stripped down to nothing and disappeared into her bath. Once inside, she drew the opaque sound-proof curtains. At this moment, a force outside my body took possession of me. I found myself scurrying into Razia Sultan’s inner chamber, collecting her clothes and jewelry and stuffing them into a cloth bag that was lying beside her bed. I checked the dressing table in front of the mirror and found an attar bottle and what appeared to be the queen’s cosmetic box. Without stopping to look back, I dashed out of the palace and sprinted without pausing until I had reached the front gate.

“Good, you’re back in twenty minutes” the guard observed looking at the ancient clock in front of the palace. Then, his sharp eyes travelled down to the packet I held in my hand. “What’s that?” he asked in a voice thick with suspicion.

“Oh just the queen’s discarded clothes” I said trying to feign nonchalance “Her Majesty was so pleased at receiving the armlet, that she gave me her old clothes as a gift for my sister”.

“Oh, okay” said the guard buying my explanation “I am sure it’s an honor to be able to wear Her Majesty’s clothes. Your sister is a lucky girl”.

“Indeed she is” I said and tried to suppress an inner gurgle of laughter that threatened to make itself audible. I couldn’t possibly tell the guard that the “lucky girl” was going to be me.


I trained as Razia Sultan’s soldier during the day, a little saddened by the fact that she barely looked in my direction. During the night, I plunged my eager paws into the splendorous treasure trove that I had pilfered from her chamber. I stripped of my coarse soldiers’ habiliments and felt the beautiful soft muslin underwear against my cheek. It smelt of sweat, attar and of…Razia. I put it on and felt that the process of my transmuting into the queen’s replica had begun.

As I put on the lavishly embroidered rose pink caftan, I felt richer than I had ever before. I buttoned the rose-petal shaped buttons, wishing that my bosom also swelled as gently as a woman’s. I salvaged two handkerchiefs from somewhere and stuffed them at the front of my dress. I wore the pistachio green sleeveless, collarless, embroidered vest on top of the caftan and enjoyed the feminine contrast between the rose-pink caftan and the pistachio green vest. I slipped my feet into the queen’s embroidered slipper and found that they were a perfect fit. After wearing the cap, the head ornament, necklaces, earrings, armlets, bangles and scarf, I looked like a mirror image of Razia Sultan.

Well, almost. I still had too short a hairstyle, eyebrows that were too bushy and lips which were too pale to pass off as the queen. Over the next few days, I bought myself a wig, discreetly trimmed my eyebrows and chewed paan (betel leaves preparation) to redden my carmine pink lips. After anointing my body with oil and unguents and lining my eyes with lampblack, I looked so much more like Razia Sultan than before.

Just when I was admiring myself in the mirror, I heard footsteps. I turned around to see my meddlesome fifteen year old sister Shaista standing at the doorway.


Click here to read the rest of the story.


A Slippery Slope in an Airline – Forced to Work in Girls’ Uniform

  • A Slippery Slope in an AirlineTitle: A Slippery Slope in an Airline
  • Series: Forced to Work in Girls’ Uniform
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Transgender Category: MTF

Carlton is the 25 year old protagonist of the story. Carlton is 5’6, has china blue eyes, a small pert nose and wavy brown hair. He has a delicate fit body and dainty hands and feet. Carlton world turns upside down when he meets In-flight Service Manager, Rosaline Wells who insists that he joins Zephyr airlines dressed in a female flight attendants’ uniform. Though Carlton has doubts about Rosaline’s mental balance, he obliges as he wants to be close to Gina, his girl friend. Under Rosaline’s instructions, he calls himself Clarissa Hart and pretends to be a female flight attendant. Carlton all along experiences a powerful attraction for Rosaline Wells. A series of gaffes Carlton commits push him deeper and deeper into the whirlpool of feminization. Carlton eventually transforms into an attractive, shapely, long-haired woman and starts living with Rosaline as her young lesbian wife. In spite of being in a relationship with Rosaline, Clarissa yearns for Gina.

A Slippery Slope in an Airline

Forced to Work in Girls’ Uniform

Chapter 1 – An Attractive Cougar

“Carlton” my girlfriend Gina Brooks pouted “we never get to see much of each other, do we?”. With her baby blue eyes, perfectly bobbed red hair and an above-the-knee A-line shift, Gina looked invitingly pretty. I had been dating this intoxicating flight attendant for five years now, and life was heaven. But the hectic, inflexible nature of Gina’s job left us with little time for each other.

“Yes, baby” I agreed, languidly flipping through my law books “It’s a real pity”. I was studying law, and was currently in the 5th semester, but studying the Civil Procedure Code held no interest for me whatsoever. I craved to be with Gina 24×7, 365 days in a year. However, I had no remote idea as to how to manage this.

“Well, what do you propose we do about it?” Gina indignantly put her arms on her tiny waist. This gesture made my girlfriend look younger than her 25 years. I often teased Gina about how young she looked. And Gina often teased me back. There was truth in what Gina said: I looked closer to 20 than 25.

“Oh, I don’t know” I carelessly said, trying to get my head around procedural law “why don’t you get a job near our apartment? Perhaps you could be a receptionist or something?”. Gina and I shared a 30×30 flat in the Eurasian Cantonment Area of Bangalore. The flat was a pretty modest one, with two bedrooms, a living hall, a kitchen and a bathroom, but pretty much served the needs of a young couple like us.

Gina seized a textbook from my hand and thwacked me on the head. “Oww…what was that for?” I asked shocked.

“For being such a male chauvinist pig!” said Gina thwacking me again “didn’t it occur to you to get a job in my airline? You could complete your law course via correspondence”. My girlfriend worked with Zephyr Airways, which was the fourth largest in India, size-wise and in terms of the number of passengers it carried.

“I could” I said “but how would an administrative job help?”

“I was thinking on lines of a flight attendant, silly!” said Gina impatiently “’a steward’ as they used to say in the good old days. There is an open session going on, so there’s no need to apply. You could just walk into Room No. 9 at the farthest end of the airport and attend the interview in the coming week”.

“Do you think I’d qualify?” I asked taking an objective look in the mirror “the job demands a good personality”. I liked what I saw in the mirror. At 5’6, I wasn’t the tallest male on earth, but was definitely one of the cutest (even if I say so myself). With a pair of china blue eyes, a small pert nose and wavy brown hair, I looked rather like Scottish actor James McAvoy. My body wasn’t overly muscular, but was in shape. “Weight in proportion to height” – that’s what all airlines advertised, right? Well, I had that.

“You know you’ve got it, pretty boy” Gina teased “don’t fish for compliments now!”

“But I wonder if I have the customer care skills…” I said seeking further reassurance.

“Oh, you do” Gina assured me “when it comes to mollycoddling children and pampering grandmas, you can give a trained nanny a run for her money!”

“Then I am mighty glad” I drawled. I flipped Gina over on her back and tickled her neck and dimpled chin. She laughed until tears ran down her eyes and begged me to stop. Oh, the juvenile-erotic games of sweet youth!


On the D-day, I dressed in a double breasted tan suit, with a dark brown tie picked by my girlfriend. The crisp white shirt I wore didn’t have a single crease and its collar was held stiff by a pair of silver collar-stiffeners Gina had borrowed from her dad for the occasion. A pair of classic pearl double cuff-links and roasted coffee bean colored loafers completed my ensemble.

My face glowed with health and vitality. My wavy brown hair glimmered so brilliantly that it would have put men in shampoo ads to shame. I surveyed my teeth: they dazzled like diamonds.

With a few last minute tips and reading of sample in-flight announcements, I was ready to take on the world. Gina and I drove to the airport in her vanilla white Maruti 800 car. Since Gina had already handed over my resume to the HR department of Zephyr Airways, I didn’t have to take the trouble of carrying it along.

The airport was the most overwhelming, yet exciting place on earth. It was spread over 400 acres, had a capacious runway and aircrafts with behemoth wingspans. My loafers made contact with PVC flooring that was perfect and the high ceiling curved ahead of me in an exciting tunnel. People of different nationalities, cultures and professions pulled their trolleys along or patiently waited in the passenger areas. The staff areas comprised of some perfectly dressed people. The attractively lit retail outlets and restaurants beckoned me invitingly.

Resisting the urge to have a Coke, I walked to room number 9. At the entrance of the interview room, Gina gave me an encouraging peck on the cheek and disappeared. I was left to handle the interview on my own. Suppressing the nervousness that threatened to debilitate me, I strode in.

That was the first time I saw her.

45 year old Rosaline Wells, an experienced In-flight Service Manager, was seated beside two non-descript men in identical navy blue suits and two neatly dressed young females. The perfectly tailored light olive-green shirt that Rosaline wore flattered her ripe perfectly spherical breasts and brought out the color of her twinkling green eyes perfectly. She had a long slightly gaunt face with high-cheek bones, a feature that added to her attractiveness. As she stood up, I noticed that Rosaline was wearing a figure-hugging skirt that flattered her voluptuous figure and nude high heeled pumps that made her look three or four inches taller than her already towering 5 feet 9 inches.

“Hello” I said “I am Carlton Hart”.

“Welcome Mr. Hart” said one of the two guys in identical suits “we received your resume and are quite happy with the way you’ve presented yourself. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have other work to attend to. Ms. Wells here will be your sole interviewer”. The men shook my slightly sweaty hands and departed. The two girls (who had obviously been freshly interviewed) thanked Rosaline Wells, gave me a friendly parting smile and left the room. Even though I was nervous, I returned their smiles.

I was left alone with Rosaline Hart. I noticed that though she wasn’t a classic beauty, Rosaline was a very attractive woman.

“Have a seat, Mr. Hart” she said in warm, but professional tones “you don’t have to be nervous”. She pushed back a strand of golden hair and gave me a humorous, slightly skewed smile.

“This is the first time I have applied for the post of a flight assistant” I said frankly. It was a gawky, stupid, bumbling thing to say, but Rosaline took no notice of it. “It doesn’t matter” she said soothingly “as long as you have the interest and aptitude, it’s alright. Besides, we’ll put you through an 8 week period of intensive training before you actually start working on aircrafts”.

Rosaline started off with the expected question. “Why do you want to be a flight assistant?” she asked.

“I would like to be a flight attendant for Zephyr Airways as I believe I have excellent customer service skills and the talent of interacting with diverse customers, both at a personal and professional level. I also understand the importance of team spirit, and would work with my colleagues to create the most comfortable flying experience ever for passengers. I also understand the importance of customer safety, and would be perfectly suited to the exciting, bustling fast paced environment of the aviation industry” I rattled out the notes that I had mugged. Frankly speaking, I sounded rather like a parrot. Throughout the time during which I answered, I was aware of Rosaline’s twinkling green eyes appraising the shape of my forehead, the angle of my nose and the curve of my lips. Simultaneously I had an overwhelming urge, to reach out and touch Rosaline’s shoulder-length thick golden blonde hair. I clenched my arms at my sides and forced myself to smile.

Rosaline smiled too—her funny little lopsided smile. “Your answer is technically perfect” she said kindly, “but I urge you to cast protocol aside and speak from the heart. See me as a friend, not as an interviewer. Why do you think you have exceptional customer service skills?”

“Well” I answered “it’s because I love looking after people. As my girlfriend says I love ‘mollycoddling children and pampering elderly ladies’. There is something about care-giving that gives me the deepest satisfaction. I often feel bad that I’m not able to assist people on a day-to-day basis”.

Rosaline nodded, as if affirming some inner thought. Then she gave me the widest, most brilliant smile ever. It reminded me of water in the sunshine.

“I believe I just got a glimpse into your soul” she said, looking at me in a way that made the small hairs on my body rise “thank you for trusting me enough to….”.

Rosaline went on to ask me further questions vis-à-vis diplomacy, customer safety and professional interactions. In between taking notes, her sparkling green eyes kept returning to my tiny, delicate hands. I was acutely aware of the delicate nape of Rosalind’s neck, the haphazard rhythm of her breathing, the perfect spheres of her breasts and a thin film of perspiration on her upper lip. She proceeded to ask me to read a sample in-flight announcement. I read it as crisply and clearly as I could.

At the end of the interview, Rosaline looked elated. “Congratulations, Carlton” she said “You’ve done tremendously well. I liked the way you answered the questions and the affable manner in which you interacted with your peers. After all, they are your future classmates and coworkers. I am happy to announce that you’re eligible for our 8 week training program. However, after gauging your personality, I’m convinced that you’d be more eligible to be a female flight attendant rather than a male”.

“What?!” I said unable to believe my ears.

“You heard me right, Carlton” said Rosaline “I think you are better suited to be an air-hostess, rather than a steward”.

Click here to read the rest of the story.

The Murder of a Yoga Guru – “Hannah Brown, Transgender Sleuth” series

  • The Murder of a Yoga GuruTitle: The Murder of a Yoga Guru
  • Series: Hannah Brown, Transgender Sleuth
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Transgender Category: MTF

This is the third episode of Hannah Brown – Transgender Sleuth series.

Hannah Brown is the 25 year old transgendered heroine of the detective series. Hannah is 5 feet 4 inches tall, has a commonplace freckled face, brownish black hair and black eyes. Hannah uses her unique identity as an MTF transsexual woman to process information and solve cases. Hannah’s acute observation skills, ability to see connections other people miss and deep insight into human nature make her the perfect detective.

In this episode Hannah signs up for a detoxification and rejuvenation program at a Yoga center which is headed by young charismatic spiritual leader, Swami Sadananda who has 9 million followers. During her stay at the ashram, Hannah becomes friends with a Kiev girl Natalia Adamovicha. Hannah finds Natalia as a transsexual woman.

Natalia leaves for Kiev for an unknown reason suddenly. In the next morning, the devotees of Swami Sadananda find him brutally axed to death.



The Murder of a Yoga Guru

Hannah Brown, Transgender Sleuth

by Yu Sakukrazawa

Chapter 1 – The Disgruntled Manager

Solving two high profile murder cases, excessive job stress and deteriorating relations with my boyfriend made me check into a two week spiritual program in a Yoga Ashram called Ananda Kuteeram (Literally meaning “Abode of Bliss”). It was situated 50 km from Bangalore. It was a center for detoxifying and rejuvenation, spread of 300 acres of beautiful wooded land. The ashram consisted of a main meditation hall, a common yoga hall, a lunch room and segregated dormitories for male and female participants.

The founder of the Yoga Ashram was a young guru called Swami Sadananda, whose organization had its headquarters in Chennai in Tamil Nadu. Swami Sadananda’s organization spanned 20 countries and he purportedly had 9 million followers worldwide.

I currently sat in the huge, high domed meditation hall made of red sandstone, gazing at His Holiness. Apart from me, there were six other people in the room. Swami Sadananda sat on a raised pavilion, with his attractive legs crossed, the way Hindu holy men are often seated. Sadananda’s clean saffron robes complimented the smooth brown color of his skin and the holy sacred thread running diagonally across his bare upper body drew my attention to his strong muscular chest, flat abs and sinewy arms. Swami Sadananda was giving a discourse on expanding one’s horizons and consciousness through control over breathing, so as to experience the complete joy of living. The florescent bulb-adorned behemoth-sized “Om” symbol on the wall behind Sadananda engulfed him like a halo. As he spoke, Swami Sadananda’s almond-shaped eyes shone, his straight nose twitched and red sensual lips parted every now and then into a killer smile, revealing perfect white teeth. I know a holy man has no age or gender, and is supposed to like a father to his acolytes, but I couldn’t control the impure nature of my thoughts. Thirty-five year old Swami Sadananda was the most attractive man I had seen.

As the thought crossed my mind, I felt guilty. Though I was having trouble with Bradley, he was still my boyfriend.

The venerable swami soon moved from “breath control” to “tantric sex”. He said that though he was celibate, he prescribed tantric sex to his followers as a step towards enlightenment. The gathered crowd listened intently. Apart from me, those present in the meditation hall included a Ukrainian woman named Natalia Adamovicha Chaplanski, her brother Mikhail Adamovich and husband, Oleg Chaplinkski. A stylish man, dressed in an expensive Safari suit, sat in the farthermost corner of the hall. He was Diwakar Shetty, the Minister of State for Health. Two of Swami Sadananda’s most ardent devotees, Shiva and Ashok, sat on the floor on yoga mats. They were dressed in similar saffron robes as the guru.

“In tantric sex” the guru was said with elaborate gestures of his hand “we encourage an attitude of deference. In this sexual ritual rooted in tradition, the participants worship one another as an embodiment of deities. They look beyond the physical body and concentrate on sensations and breathing….so that the ultimate aim of the entire joyous act isn’t just an orgasm, but enjoying every moment of divine experience”.

His Holinesses’ almond eyes settled on me. He smiled a low-key, sensual smile. I felt a thrilling sensation in my womb that was sexual, maternal and filial. This was the way I felt when Bradley kissed me. I felt my mind go absolutely blank and felt that I was melding into and merging with the guru, the earth and the entire cosmos. Swami Sadananda had managed to do this without even touching me. He had managed to make me orgasm by the sheer power of his bewitching eyes and killer smile.

“Daughter” he said in a soft, serene voice “please come and sit on your guru’s lap”.

It took me a whole moment to realize that Swami Sadananda was speaking to me. I was taken aback by the unusual nature of his request. But then I remembered that the holy man was asexual and that he didn’t attach sexual connotations to his devotees. I, a grown person, was being beckoned to sit on the guru’s lap akin to a child being invited to do so by its father or mother.

I got up, feeling extremely self-conscious. My olive-green harem pants flapped about my legs and baby-pink t-shirt outlined every curve and contour of my artificially-burgeoned breasts. Though it had been a good three and a half years since I had undergone my final Sex Reassignment Surgery, there were still moments when I felt gawky, unsure and as clumsy as an adolescent.

I slowly walked up to the guru, feeling everyone’s pricking gaze on my neck. Swami Sadananda patted his muscular thighs indulgently, indicating that I sit on them. I gingerly perched myself on the guru’s right thigh, fervently praying I hadn’t got too heavy due to my recent food binges. The swami’s unchanging, benevolent expression confirmed that I was still as light as fluff. He looked deep into my dark eyes with his own mesmerizing ones. His gaze travelled over my hairline that started a little backwards than the average woman’s, flat low brows and slightly big hands and feet.

Swami Sadananda reached out for a bowl containing holy water. He salvaged a table-spoonful from the copper container and poured a considerable quantity into my cupped palms. I knew what devotees were expected to do next. I obsequiously swallowed the yellowish contents. As the pungent waters made their way down, I felt my throat burn. I attributed the burning sensation to camphor, which is a commonly used ingredient in holy water.

Swami Sadananda looked at me approvingly, like a guardian admiring a young child.

“I take it that all is not well in your life?” he asked, his voice sheer sorcery.

“Yes, there is a dearth of peace”, I agreed.

Swami Sadananda’s hands travelled around my lower body, as casually and inconspicuously as only a god man’s can. I felt him explore my groin region with a strange, transcendental yearning in his eyes. Under my buttocks, I could feel his celibate shaft harden. The swami obviously didn’t find what he was looking for, for his arousal soon abated.

Swami Sadananda then took off the necklace of rudraksha (Endnote #1) beads adorning his neck and put it around my own delicate one. “Wear this all the time, even while you’re bathing” he told me dismissively “all your problems will vanish”. He directed me back to my place on the yoga mat on the floor below. The guru’s gaze had suddenly grown impersonal and indifferent. It was obvious that Swami Sadananda had lost all interest in me. I vaguely wondered if I had said or done anything to offend him.

After the short verbal exchange with me, Swami Sadananda went back to his discourse on “tantric sex”. “When the role of the giver is to give in abundance and that of the receiver is to receive, you should stop feeling and acting inhibited” he said “remember that you’re as boundless as the vast blue oceans. You are not inhibited by taboos, be they be social, religious, cultural or personal….”

I felt myself getting woozy, as if I had drunk too much wine. The hall I was seated in started spinning. Swami Sadananda seemed to be suspended in thin air. The pavilion he was sitting on seemed to have disappeared. The swami’s soft, mellifluous voice grew loud, then soft, and subsequently loud again. I vaguely wondered what was happening to me. Was what I was experiencing some sort of an overwhelming devotional frenzy?(that many of Swami Sadananda’s devotees evidently experienced frequently). Or was this the effect of having had only two idlis (rice cakes) for breakfast, instead of my usual boiled eggs, sausage and bacon?

I rubbed my palms together and cupped my eyes with them. The warm darkness of my hands soothed me, promising to soon restore the homeostasis of my body. From seemingly far away, I could hear Swami Sadananda droning on about the hazards of treating tantric sex as a new fad or your partner as the latest sex toy.

The next few sequence of events transpired so quickly, that I wonder if I got the order right. A jowly, prematurely aged man in his early 50s, with murderous eyes and a prominent pot belly barged into the meditation hall. He was all over Swami Sadananda; nipping, scratching, slapping and biting every bit of exposed skin he could find. “You filthy son-of-a-bitch!” the man spluttered angrily “you sadist in a saffron robe…my life is ruined because of you! After fifteen goddamn years of serving you, all I did was take (“misappropriate” as the media put it) 53 lakhs for the benefit of my children! Considering 53 lakhs is a pittance someone like you who collects Rs. 1300 million, you could have easily overlooked my little mistake! But no, you refused to forgive me! I fell at your feet and kissed your fucking toes, yet you were as hard as flint! You FIRED me! Before I knew it, the media was all around me, thrusting their microphones in my face. The TV channels didn’t even bother to blur my face: it was visible to the entire public across 20 nations! The law ten put me on a “fair trail” and I spend 10 precious years of my life rotting in prison!”

In the face of such a vicious attack, all of us had frozen. Even Ashok and Shiva stood still, unable to move.

“Calm down, Praveen Kumar” said Swami Sadananda, desperately trying to protect his face from his disgruntled ex-employees’ blows “you could get a job as a book-keeper again: in a corporate, perhaps. I would have given you your job back, but I’ve replaced you with someone else. But I am sure any other religious organization would be thrilled to have you. You’ve got skills and experience”.

“Thrilled to hire me indeed!” Praveen Kumar spat viciously “that’s a good joke, you perennially smirking bastard! Thanks to the media having flashed my mug all across its screens and front pages of newspapers, everyone recognizes me. Everyone recognizes my pathetic mug, you get it! They say public memory is short, but that doesn’t seem to be the case in a high profile case like this one. Ten years have passed, I have become an old man before my time, yet everyone remembers! And they refuse to employ me. I am yet to send my children to college, and I hardly seem to have any money to give them a good future! We—me, my wife and my innocent teenage kids are on the streets, and it is all thanks to you, you filthy scumbag!”

“Relax, Praveen Kumar, relax” Swami Sadananda tried to placate his incensed former accountant “try and take deep breaths and meditate on your core….try and calm your mind and body….”

“I shall do nothing of that sort, you dog!” bellowed Praveen Kumar turning a dangerous shade of maroon “If anything, I’m going to murder you in full public view!”

Before any of us had a chance to absorb the statement, Praveen Kumar’s huge hands had closed around Swami Sadananda’s smooth neck. The next thing we were aware of was that Praveen Kumar was exerting all the pressure of his enraged body on the latter’s neck, garroting and strangulating Swami Sadananda with all his might.

Please click here to read the rest of the story!



Murdered Queen Bee of a High School – 2nd Episode of Transgender Detective Series


  • Murdered Queen Bee of a High SchoolTitle: Murdered Queen Bee of a High School
  • Series: Hannah Brown, Transgender Sleuth
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Transgender Category: MTF

While on an all-night trek in Riverdale area of “Mini England”, 17 year old schoolgirl, Camellia Davis is pushed to death from a hill. Transgender sleuth, Hannah Brown, is requested to assist the police in the case. Hannah drives down to the scene of the crime and carefully studies all those who had been on the trek with Camellia. The suspects include a middle-aged professor of English literature, a kindergarten teacher in her early 20s and an introverted school-fellow, who was routinely taunted by Camellia. It also includes another classmate who might have begrudged Camellia for having played dirty with her.

As Hannah is sucked deeper into the case and Camellia’s murderer takes another life, Hannah unearths a few more suspects including Camellia’s fiery-tempered stepfather and a male cousin who secretly nurtures a desire to be female.

During the course of investigation, how many shocking secrets will Hannah ferret out? How many suspects discover Hannah’s true gender-identity and use the fact to taunt and assault her and threaten her very life?


Hannah Brown – Transgender Sleuth

Murdered Queen Bee of a High School


It was a full moon summer night. Camellia Davies made her way through the thick wooded area. She now regretted her idea of sauntering away from the group. She never knew the forests of Riverdale could become so convoluted, so long-winding and tortuous.

As she took a step forward, Camellia heard a rustling sound behind her. She tried reassuring herself that it was just the sound of leaves swishing in the wind. Camellia shivered in spite of the heat. She hurried through the secluded forests and climbed a hill in haste. The vegetation grew sparser.

Camellia’s fears dissipated when she reached the top of the hill. The place had its own stark beauty. All around stood boulders and beneath Camellia’s sneakered feet was whitish land. Camellia took a few steps forward and drank into the beauty of the sight that confronted her.

River Glassmere shimmered like emerald gold in the moonlight. Above it rose hills and dales, which were even more wooded than the one Camellia had climbed. As she admired the beauty of the scenery in front of her, Camellia heard a footfall. They were extremely faint at first, like in the forest. Soon they grew closer, until Camellia was convinced that her stalker was standing just a foot away.

She turned, and her face crumpled into angry recognition. She said: “It’s you! Why did you follow me here?”

The stalker merely smiled.

“Listen” said Camellia impatiently “get out of here before I lose my cool”.

The stalker only got closer. Camellia could feel the person’s distinctive breath on her face. She, suddenly, found herself perspiring. The stalker’s intent didn’t seem innocuous. Camellia was right. The stalker slapped her—hard. The sharp zipper of the assailant’s jacket cut through Camellia’s soft cheek, causing a deep vertical scratch. Camellia recoiled in shock. She put one hand to her bruised cheek and discovered it was wet. She was bleeding. The stalker placed one hand on Camellia flat belly and gave her the most powerful push ever. Shock registered on Camellia’s pretty face as she stumbled backwards, eventually falling into River Glassmere.

The stalker turned, heading off in the direction of the woods. The fact that Camellia couldn’t swim came as a great relief. The little bitch would soon be dead.

From a few feet away, someone had seen the murder. As the murderer got closer to the woods, the eyewitness froze. If a person had the gall to murder one individual, killing another would be a piece of cake. The eyewitness ran at lightning speed, in the opposite direction.

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