“A Mysterious Boy (Feminized to Marry a Woman)” was just published

A Mysterious Boy  -Feminized to Marry a Woman (by Yu Sakurazawa) has been published on Amazon.

35-year-old renowned writer Sarah McCartney is a secret lesbian with a fear of betrayal in love. She lives a lonely life with her maiden aunt, Mary.

When returning from a writing workshop, Sarah finds a young man being manhandled by thugs in the shady area of Moss Side. Sarah scares away the thugs with her emergency whistle and brings the unconscious man home. The young stranger is about 18 years old and is unusually beautiful, with thick black hair and dainty chiseled features.

The young man is accommodated in the guest bedroom. Sarah stays by his side the entire night. When the young man regains consciousness the next morning, he claims to be a woman and Sarah’s spouse.



A Mysterious Boy

Subtitle: Feminized to Marry a Woman

Chapter 1 – The Beautiful Stranger

It was a surreal April night. I was driving home from a writing workshop I had conducted in Hulme. Helping students write, revise, edit and finally share their works in front of the entire gathering never failed to give me a satisfied halo around my head. As I entered Moss Side, I felt my heart beat faster.

Moss Side was a particularly notorious area in Manchester. It wasn’t one you drove in at 12 pm in the night. It was a dodgy area infamous for drug dealing, gun crimes and violent turf wars. Except for one or two youngsters, presumably students, not a soul was in sight. I drove on, grateful that I had my emergency whistle in my handbag. It was the loudest one available in the market and alerted people within 50 meters of one’s range of a dire situation.

I stuck to the main road, trying to enjoy the drive in spite of a palpitating heart. As I drove on, an obstacle forced me to come to a screeching halt. A sign obstructed the road. I hopped off my Range Rover to get a closer look at the sign. It said: “Work in progress. Sorry for the inconvenience”. I cursed my bad luck. The main road, which would take me to my home in Whalley Range, was blocked.

My mind raced, considering various options. Taking an especially isolated back street short cut seemed to be my only option. I hopped back into the car, reversed it a bit and reluctantly drove into the dreaded back street.

Half a kilometer went by uneventfully. “So far, so good” I said heaving a sigh of relief. I had barely relaxed when I saw three men getting off a black, dusty Dacia Duster SUV. They were all podgy, unkempt-looking guys, who looked too old to be students.

I felt my hands go clammy. The men were definitely thugs. I felt my panic rise as I noticed another person with them. It was a young man in a plain white-t-shirt, a thin suede jacket and blue jeans. He appeared scared and rattled, as if he was being threatened. I watched in horror as the thugs threw the young guy out of the car. I parked my car to the side of the road, gingerly stepped out, retrieving the emergency whistle from my handbag and putting the loop it was attached to around my neck. I felt myself break into a sweat as one of the thugs salvaged a deathly 7-inch knife from his trouser pocket and held it to the young man’s neck. It was then I thrust the emergency whistle into my mouth and blew it with as much power as my lungs could muster. The thugs started, disoriented for a moment. They then turned towards me, fear writ large on their faces. It was as if they had noticed me for the first time. I vaguely wondered if they recognized me as famous author Sarah McCartney.

The thugs got into the car. One of them revved up the engine. Before I knew what was happening, they had started the car and sped away. I tried to see the car number, but the number plate had been smudged with mud.

My immediate concern was the young man. He was, presently, lying still on the other side of the road. I crossed over and examined him. He was no more than 18 years old and had the most delicate beautiful face on earth. At the moment, he wasn’t moving at all.

I bent down and felt his pulse. It was quite strong. I breathed a sigh of relief. The boy had only passed out due to fear.

I drove the car to the other side and half-dragged, half-carried the boy into it. He wasn’t more than 5’6 inches tall and didn’t weigh more than 55 kilograms. Therefore, it wasn’t very difficult. My own muscle strength developed from spending two hours every day at the gym made the task easier.

I salvaged my cell phone from my purse and explained the situation to Dr. Thomas Christie, my family doctor. Dr. Christie advised me to stay calm and told me that he’d leave for my house straightaway so that he could examine the young man. I steadily drove to Whalley Range and came to a halt only when my huge brick ancestral home came into view.

Dr. Christie and Aunt Mary came rushing out at the sound of the car engine. One glance at Dr. Christie’s bespectacled, bearded face reassured me. I remembered the sixtyish family doctor ever since I was a child and hadn’t seen anyone as competent in his profession.

Aunt Mary’s sweet round face was creased with concern. My good-natured, high spirited maiden aunt, who typically wore colorful clothes and a bright smile, was a tad less cheerful today. She had obviously heard about the incident at Moss Side from Dr. Christie and was worried about me.

Since the servants had gone to bed, the three of us carried the unknown boy into the guest bedroom on the ground floor. Dr. Christie got his stethoscope out and examined the boy thoroughly. He also checked the boy’s blood pressure. Dr. Christie then turned to me and said:

“His vital parameters are normal. The young man has had too much of a shock, that’s all. He may be unconscious for a few hours. Please inform me the moment he wakes up”.

“Alright, doctor” I said and escorted Dr. Christie out of the house “Thank you for obliging me at such a late hour”.

“Not at all”. Dr. Christie bade me and Aunt Mary goodbye and drove away.

I asked Aunt Mary to go to bed and chose to sit by my guest’s bedside. He was breathing evenly and was sleeping like a baby. I appraised his thick black hair, chiseled nose, bow-shaped red lips and delicate hairless hands. This man was too beautiful to be a male!

How lovely he would look in a matching lingerie set, stockings and high heels! A layer of eyeliner on those delicate eyelids and a bit of lipstick on the shapely lips would transform the beautiful stranger into an exquisite woman!

I felt my cheeks flush as I became aware of my thoughts. They were so unethical that I wouldn’t have dared to mention them to anybody. My readers and acquaintances knew very little of my personal life. Except for Aunt Mary, my only living relative, no one knew that I was into women. Aunt Mary was the only person who knew that in my entire 35 years of existence the only person I had loved and dated was my girlfriend, Jenny Cummings. With her merry blue eyes and jolly laugh, Jenny had been my world when I was a gawky 19 year old studying in Oxford. My world had come shattering down when I’d caught my girlfriend in bed with a male undergraduate. The shock of deceit had been so strong that I hadn’t allowed myself to love anyone after the incident. I had, instead, channelized all my energies and emotions into writing. It had paid off; in less than five years after the publication of my first book “The Love Fool”, I had become the best-selling author in Britain. My own ancestral wealth, combined with the book royalties I received, made me a billionaire. I gave several newspaper and television interviews, but refused to comment on my personal life. The impression most people had of me was of a dedicated unmarried author, who was too busy to look for a husband.

I presently wet my guest’s lips with a wad of cotton, admiring their shape, color and texture. I splashed some water on my eyes and tried hard to stay awake. Going off to sleep wasn’t an option, as my guest was likely to regain consciousness at any moment.

At six am in the morning, his eyelids fluttered open.

“Hello” I said smiling reassuringly at the boy “I found you last night. You had been pushed out of a car by a gang of thugs. You were unconscious, therefore I brought you here”.

Much to my surprise, my guest’s lips curved into a charming smile: “Come on, Sarah” he said in a sweet, girlish voice “you and I attended a party last night and had a gala time. I hadn’t been pushed out of any car by any thugs! Why do you make up such bizarre stories, my darling?”

I was taken aback by the boy’s words. It seemed to me that he was psychologically disturbed and couldn’t distinguish fantasy from fiction.

“You are confused” I tried to explain “I found you unconscious on a road at Moss Side last night. You and I are strangers to each other”.

“Strangers?!” the boy yelled incredulously “How could you say that, darling?! I’m your wife Anora!”

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