Category Archives: Transgender Horror

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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Forbidden Gift – A Transgender Horror Story

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

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 As a result, the misunderstood child becomes silent and withdrawn.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



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Forbidden Gift

My Story of Feminization and Being a Victim of SRA

inspired by the story of spiritual catalyst Teal Swan

by Yu Sakurazawa

***

Prologue

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

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

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

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

“Do it now, Tessa.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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Forbidden Academy – Transgender Horror Story

Forbidden Academy

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

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



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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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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.



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Forbidden Mirror

The Fatal Gift of Beauty

Chapter 1 – The Presage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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


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Forbidden Hotel – Feminized Perpetually – A Transgender Horror Story

Forbidden Hotel

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

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

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

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



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


Forbidden Hotel

Feminized Perpetually

Chapter 1 – An Incredible Discovery

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

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

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

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

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

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

1) Ambrose Hastings

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

Anyone having information must contact:

1-990-833-9999

The Dartmouth Sheriff’s Office

2) Charles McDowell

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

Anyone having information must contact:

1-990-833-9999

The Dartmouth Sheriff’s Office

3) George Mitchell

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

1-990-833-9999

The Dartmouth Sheriff’s Office

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ash blonde mutely nodded.

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

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

Ria wordlessly nodded, once again.

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


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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.


 

Forbidden Circus – Feminized Forever

  • Trapped in CircusTitle: Forbidden Circus
  • Subtitle: Trapped in Circus – Feminized Forever
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Transgender Category: MTF

Alfred Batista is the protagonist of the story. He is a “pretty” boy, with enormous blue eyes, pink apple-like cheeks and red hair. At 18, he is 5’7 and doesn’t yet display signs of puberty. However, Alfred’s tastes are “boyish”: He is interested in fishing and soccer. Alfred undergoes great distress after he is captured by the circus staff, forcibly dressed as a girl and displayed in the exotic animal menagerie. He bravely tries to escape after the show, but is assaulted by the manager who intends breaking Alfred’s spirit with the barbaric act. However, Alfred still continues working on his plan to escape. In a bid to do so, he gets his best friend, Ethan, captured too. Continue reading Forbidden Circus – Feminized Forever

Forbidden Island: Feminized in Despair

Forbidden Island

  • Title: Forbidden Island
  • Subtitle: Feminized in Despair
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Transgender category: MTF

A Transgender Horror Story:

A handsome young sports man is abducted and is brought to a dark brooding island called Medusa Locks. He is thrown into a gigantic cage and is shocked find 6 other abductees of different nationalities in the cage with him. He is told that he will be used as a guinea pig.

 


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


Forbidden Island
Feminized in Despair

Chapter 1 – The Nightmare Begins

It was a dreamy creamy Sunday morning. Liam Davies woke up and stretched luxuriously. He was in the first flush of youth, 25 or 26 perhaps, and undeniably handsome. At 5’8, he was neither tall nor short and had the sinewy, lightly muscular body of the ace badminton player he was. He had the enviable flat abs of youth, healthy well-toned legs and sturdy arms which had rendered the backhand, backswing and smash with unrivalled panache. Liam’s feet were shapely and rather delicate for those of a man. However, his best features lay above his neck. Liam had the most beautiful face one would have seen on any male of the human species. He had large innocent baby blue eyes, a noble straight nose and lips that were naturally full and pink. The mop of curly hair on his exquisite head was golden and the traces of stubble he had on his otherwise clean-shaven face were of the same hue.

Liam wriggled his still sleepy toes and felt the left side of the bed to find it empty. ‘Strange’ he thought ‘Lauren usually sleeps until 8 am on Sundays’. Then he thought she’d gone to the main laboratory to conduct experiments on her rats, snails, guinea pigs or whatever it was that she used in her in vivo experiments. Lauren or Dr. Lauren Wood was Liam’s wife of two years. She was in her early thirties, broodingly beautiful and extremely mysterious. Her introversion, intensity and intelligence were a total contrast to Liam’s openness, light-heartedness and sportiveness. Liam was simple and good-natured and didn’t wrack his brain about intellectual stuff. This was perhaps why he had been attracted to someone who was his complete opposite.

A little mewling wail brought Liam to his senses. His 6 month old daughter Amelia Jane (AJ, for short) was crying. Liam felt a sudden sense of guilt at not having checked on the baby as soon as he got up. As a dad, he felt the need to be more responsible.

He went to the crib in the next room and picked up his cute baby girl. She was small and pink and a spitting image of her dad. ‘Coochy coochy coo’ Liam softly murmured in baby language that he presumed AJ would understand ‘why is my naughty imp bawling?’. AJ shrieked some more in response.

Assuming hunger was making her cranky, Liam walked to the fridge, balancing AJ sideways against his waist. ‘Lauren must have left a bottle’ he thought looking around the racks. Finding none, he emptied a packet of milk in a container and started mixing baby formula in it. He was gently cooing to AJ all this time.

At this time, they barged in. Three hooded men in black jeans and t-shirts. Two of them carried hockey sticks, one a long butcher’s knife and the third a Smith & Wesson 32 revolver. They were tall, six feet or more, and were much heftily built than Liam. ‘Put the baby down’ ordered one of them, his voice a low menacing growl.

Liam’s first impulse was of disbelief. The second was one of humor. This was surely some kind of a pantomime; one of his friends’ practical jokes carried a little too far. ‘Come off it, Robbie’ he said jauntily ‘I’ve recognized ya’.

‘I am not any Robbie, you faggot’ said one with the knife forbiddingly ‘drop that tone or you’ll be dead meat’. He stepped forward and held the knife against Liam’s throat. The steel of the 7 inch blade caught a ray of the sun and glinted threateningly. It was now that Liam realized that this was no joke.

One of the assailants put his hockey stick down and wrested AJ off Liam’s hands roughly. He threw her on the couch carelessly causing her to little face to go red with shock. She broke into another series of wails. Liam froze in shock.

‘Do what we say, else we’ll kill her’ the one with the Smith & Wesson 32 threatened ‘bash her against a boulder and her wee head will soon smash into pulp. The horrific image the words evoked made Liam feel faint. He breathed deeply to keep himself conscious.

‘I’ll cooperate’ he said faintly ‘please don’t harm the child’.

One of the guys with the hockey sticks ambled up and pinned Liam’s hands behind him. He retrieved a pair of professional looking handcuffs and locked Liam’s wrists with them.

The men roughly yanked him out of his huge Mayfair house. AJ was still hollering her lungs out. Her screams could be heard right up to the front door. One of the thugs salvaged a key from his jeans pocket and locked the door securely. When he was returning it to his pocket, Liam caught the initials LW on the key. LW stood for ‘Lauren Wood’. ‘Hey wait!’ Liam screamed ‘that’s my wife’s key! Where is she, you bastards? What have you done to her?’ This was turning out to be a nightmare. Liam was being yanked out of his house, forced to leave behind a hungry baby all alone. Apart from this, there was a possibility that his wife could be dead. ‘What have you done to Lauren, you sons-of-a-bitch?’

In response, the men tore a piece of adhesive tape from its roll and plastered it tightly against Liam’s pink mouth. ‘That will keep ya from rousing the neighborhood, you wee scunner’ they said bestially ‘Not a sound from ya now, aye?’

All Liam could do now was conjure and suffer limitless petrifying possibilities in silence. The experience was hellish.

The goons dragged Liam through the entire cemented path adjacent to the lawn. When they reached the gate, the one with the knife opened it with a loud clang. A huge dilapidated bluish- grey milk van stood in the corner of the road. They opened the back door, tossed Liam on the cold metal floor and clamorously slid the door close. The thugs with the hockey sticks got into the front seat and shut the door after them with a bang. The armed man and the knife-wielder got into the padded leather seats at the back. The one with the gun pressed the steely metal on the base of Liam’s neck. Liam felt his neck grow soft with sweat. One of the goons inserted the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life after a shudder. As the old milk van pottered along the street, the gunman increased the pressure of his weapon on Liam’s neck. The one with the knife softly ran his lethal metal along the length of Liam’s spine, as if in icy reminder.

They journeyed for about an hour. Liam could hear the men talking among themselves. They used ‘Auld’ to mean ‘Old’, ‘Clatty’ for ‘dirty’ and ‘Glaekit’ to mean ‘Stupid’. They had earlier called Liam a ‘you wee scunner’ to imply ‘you little nuisance’. ‘These blokes aren’t British’ guessed Liam shrewdly ‘the hail from up North: Scotland’. He vaguely wondered what Scottish thugs were doing with him. But then he thought that he perhaps ought not to wonder. He had won the All Indian English Championship at 20. He had 2 gold medals won at the commonwealth games in his kitty. Liam Davies had the world record for the fastest smash at 166mp/h. His current world ranking was No. 2. Modest as he was, Liam couldn’t deny the fact that he was a celebrity. A guy who had made it big and made a lot of money. His photos, Liam was sure, was splashed in all the newspapers in the UK. Therefore, the fact that these thugs were Scottish was really not very surprising

Liam wondered what the motive of the crime could be. ‘Why, the money angle of course’ he answered his own question. For what other reason other than ransom would a man like him be abducted for? Liam was sure Lauren had got a call by now. That is, if she was alive. But then Lauren had to be alive for this abduction to make sense. Else, who would shell out the demanded ransom money? Liam’s father had died two years ago; his mother had followed suit a year later. He had seven or eight siblings, but Liam was barely in touch with them.

‘Long drive ahead. Make him sit up’ commanded one of the hockey-stick wielders to his underlings ‘We were asked to bring him alive’. The lackeys responded by gripping Liam’s sinewy shoulders and roughly hoisting him on to one of the seats. From where he was seated, Liam now had a chance to look out of the window. The party had, by now, travelled a significant distance from Liam’s west end home at Mayfair in London. The temperature had risen marginally. As Liam breathed, he felt salt on his tongue. ‘We’re in the vicinage of the sea’ he speculated. The geography of the land had also changed, giving way to a certain kind of wildness. The scenery had lost its previous picturesque quality and had become rugged: with one mountain rising steeply behind the other, until all of them vied to make the highest peak. The coast of the anonymous sea came into view. It seemed to have a number of inlets, bays and peninsulas, separated from the main bulk of the land by umpteen little rivers. The area was fairly lush and wooded.

As they progressed, it became grimmer. All traces of the sun seemed to have disappeared, leaving in its place angry, thunderous black clouds. For a minute, Liam wondered if it might rain, but soon his speculations were laid to rest. Hurricane like winds travelling at the speed of over 40 km/hr washed over the coast, sweeping the clouds off and with them, all possibility of rain. All that was left behind was a gloomy, dark stillness. The skies were quite grey, as if night had descended. Yet it wasn’t late. Liam conjectured the time to be barely after noon.

They reached the edge of what appeared to be an island. Massive rocks, metamorphosed from igneous rocks heated above a temperature, stood on it. One peculiar one, shaped like a twisted venomous snake standing erect, caught Liam’s eye. He had never seen a metamorphic rock shaped quite like that.

‘Get off’ the men barked. They were still wearing their black masks. Liam obliged like a man in a dark, terrifying dream. They asked him to go and lie down on one of the rocks. The fear of the unknown made Liam’s heart palpitate with fear.

One of the blokes with a hockey stick went to the van and fetched something that resembled a first aid kit. He also got a crate of Scottish whisky with him. All four of them came and stood in front of him like towering giants. Liam was half-sitting, half-recumbent. He’d never felt as vulnerable in his life. He wanted to talk to the thugs, demand what was going on, but the strong adhesive tape on his mouth stifled his words in his throat.

‘Shall we start?’ asked one thug of the other in between puffs of smoke.

‘We could’ said another in a wistful tone ‘but it would be a bit of a shame’

‘What would?’ the first one asked sharply.

‘A comely boy like that. It’s a bit of a waste’ said thug two in a cryptic manner.

‘Cut the Crap, Eddie and come straight to the point’ the first one snapped.

‘Why not do him first?’ said Eddie nearly drooling ‘He seems as smooth as a girl’.

So, the thugs set out with the tasking of ‘doing’ Liam. They made him turn over to lie on his stomach. Then they proceeded to tug at his shorts and underwear. Liam made futile sounds of protest from behind the adhesive tape. Soon, his rear was exposed. Liam could feel the nippiness of the dank sea air on his skin.

The thugs took turns. Four pistons of erect flesh penetrated him and retracted. The searing pain could have made the toughest man cry. However, what affected Liam more was the mortification. ‘Man, I’ve been gang-banged’ he thought in humiliation ‘No one should ever know: not my friends, fans, Lauren, AJ….especially not AJ’. For every child, the parent was the protector and the nurturer. If AJ came to know that her ‘strong daddy’ had been fucked, she would grow up to be a very insecure young woman.

Liam vowed to take the secret of this incident to the grave. After all, the horror had lasted for no more than 40 minutes—a mere speck in the history of time. After the thugs got what they wanted (from a previous overheard conversation, Liam knew it wasn’t his life), they’d leave him alone to return to his wife and child. And they could continue as if nothing had occurred in between to mar their bliss.

Liam’s rapists pulled his underwear and shorts up, restoring his dignity. They retrieved a black scarf from the ramshackle van and blindfolded him. They walked a stretch, but Liam was limping. He left a trail of blood on the sinister black soil. One of the thugs put him on his shoulders as easily as he was a child and carried Liam the rest of the distance. Liam’s astute mind gauged that they had walked about three kilometers.

When they finally removed the scarf veiling his eyes, Liam could see that they were in a sterile white corridor, strongly reeking of a disinfectant. The walls were stark white and the tiles a very chilly kind of a blue. The air was sultry, yet Liam felt an icy chill pass down his spine. The whole aura about the place was that of a hospital, or, to be more precise, a laboratory—cold, impersonal, cruel.

Suddenly, he had a vision of Lauren. She was looking straight into his eyes and quoting one of the supporters of vivisection: “The science of life is a superb and dazzling hall which may be reached only by passing through a dark and ghastly kitchen”. Lauren’s voice had suddenly become unlike hers: raspy, obsessive, insane. The way she had uttered the words had made Liam shiver. Then on impulse she’d asked in a normal, everyday kind of a voice ‘You’ve never seen a lab, have you Liam. Why don’t you come with me today?’. ‘No thank you’ he had laughed light-heartedly ‘You’ve spooked me off them for good’. ‘Besides’ he continued picking his badminton racket up ‘I can’t afford to miss practice—not even to be with my ultra-gorgeous wife’. ‘You little flatterer!’ Lauren had burst out, and then laughed.


 

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Trapped in Lunatic Femininity – Transgender Light-Horror Story

Trapped in Lunatic FemininityThis is a light horror transgender fiction.

  • Title: Trapped in Lunatic Femininity
  • Subtitle: Light Horror Transgender Novella
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Genderswap category: MTF

 

 

 

Characters

Hugo Karr is a social media celebrity with his countless selfies and inspirational stories. His vanity is rooted in his looks and ambitions. His muscular body and darkly handsome, symmetrical features attract women’s eyes, but he needs to learn the hard way that inspiration arises from awful life experiences. Continue reading Trapped in Lunatic Femininity – Transgender Light-Horror Story