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

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

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

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

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



A Slippery Slope in a Shakespearean Theatre

A Transgender Suspense Story

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – The Tormented Idol

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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A Slippery Slope in a Wedding: A Bridal Switch

A Slippery Slope in a Wedding

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

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



A Slippery Slope in a Wedding

A Bridal Switch

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Bridal Switch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

A Slippery Slope in a Cabaret

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

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


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

Chapter 1 – In a “Dream”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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