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“Imposed Womanhood” a forced feminization story

“Imposed Womanhood” a forced feminization story authored by Yu Sakurazawa has been published.

[Introduction] 44-year-old orthopedic surgeon Nikhil Lobo has everything going for him—a great career and a loving wife. He and his wife Danielle are soon planning on starting a family. When Nikhil is in Bangalore for a felicitation, he is befriended by an amiable young man called Percy Pinto. Percy insists on giving Nikhil a lift, but abducts and incarcerates him instead. During captivity, Nikhil is castrated and asked to do humiliating things like put on makeup and dress in brassieres and miniskirts. He is also sexually assaulted by his captors. Meanwhile, Danielle is held hostage in her own home by a woman called Sophia. Sophia is the leader of the gang which has abducted Nikhil. The gang demands a ransom of Rs. 3 Crore for Nikhil’s and Danielle’s release. However, they don’t let the couple free go even after receiving the money. Soon, Nikhil’s harrowing journey towards transitioning into Natasha begins. Why is the gang forcibly feminizing him?

 

Imposed Womanhood

by Yu Sakurazawa

 

Chapter 1 – Born under Enviable Stars

A tall athletic body. A posh house in Cuffe Parade overlooking the Marine Drive. At 44, renowned orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Nikhil Elias Lobo, had it all.

He glanced towards and smiled at the shapely redhead standing in the kitchen. She was scribbling on her notepad as she made herself coffee. His 27-year-old wife Danielle Bisset was the most precious possession in Nikhil Lobo’s life. He had met her the previous year during a visit to the Louvre Museum in Paris. Danielle had worked as museum staff. The museum was nearly closing, and Nikhil had reserved an early morning flight to Mumbai the next day. Danielle had helped him see the painting of Mona Lisa and the sculpture of Venus and Cupid in the nick of time, before the museum closed for the day at 5pm. A much grateful Nikhil had taken the gorgeous Danielle for coffee after the two had talked for hours. Nikhil learnt that Danielle had taken a course in English and edited manuscripts of English books during nights and weekends.

Nikhil himself had many feathers in his cap. He had graduated from the Mumbai Medical College, and subsequently, done his MS from Safdarjang and UCMS in Delhi. He currently worked as the head surgeon at Shetty College of Medical Sciences in Mumbai. He had earned a great reputation for treating patients with musculoskeletal injuries like cartilage damage, hip and shoulder problems, knee injuries and so on. He was revered by each soul who graced the earth.

Nikhil believed in providing a model for his patients by adopting a healthy life style, replete with a balanced diet and lots of exercise. His twinkling eyes, stylish goatee and flat belly had won Danielle over. Even after Nikhil had returned to India, he and Danielle had kept in touch. Three months later, Danielle had flown over. She and Nikhil had got married in a huge, flamboyant ceremony. It happened three years ago.

Just when he had thought that his personal and professional life couldn’t get any better, Nikhil heard that he was going to be presented with the “Best Surgeon Award” during a felicitation ceremony, which was to be held at the Bangalore branch of Shetty group of hospitals.

Danielle had decided not to attend the function. She worked from home and had a deadline to meet. She promised to watch Nikhil live from the comfort of their home. Nikhil was upset at first, but agreed with Danielle.

He flew down to Bangalore and stayed in the luxurious Oberoi Hotel. The Shetty Institute of Medical Sciences, Bangalore, the venue of his felicitation, was located about 20 minutes from the hotel.

On the D-Day, Nikhil dressed in an immaculate grey suit with a pink tie that Danielle had gifted him. He took a cab to the felicitation venue. The award ceremony was a showy one attended by politicians, stalwarts from the medical and other professions and of course, the media. After a brief speech by the hospital dean, Nikhil was presented with a shining golden trophy. He soon found himself talking to a dozen noisy reporters, thrusting microphones in his face. The sound of thunderous applause reached his ears. Nikhil smiled. He felt invincible.

A buffet lunch was organized after the felicitation. As Nikhil heaped mashed potatoes and chicken curry on his plate, a man ambled up to him. He was in his early 30s and wore a black suit.

“Hello Dr. Lobo, I’m Percy Pinto” he said in an airy tone “you had fixed my grand mom’s knee a couple of years ago. The surgery was a terrific success. Good old granny can walk without the help of a stick now”.

Nikhil grinned broadly. “A pleasure, Percy” he said “glad your grand mom is doing well”. Several patients came to Mumbai especially to see Nikhil. He had operated on so many people that he obviously didn’t remember the man’s grandmother.

Nikhil continued heaping food on his plate. Percy too got himself a plate and served himself meat and vegetables.

“All of us have immense respect for you, Dr. Lobo” he continued “We think of you as God. My little nephew wants to grow up to be a doctor like you”.

“Thanks” said Nikhil beaming. He was irked by Percy’s presence, but welcomed his praise. He found a table and sat down. Percy sat down next to him.

Over the next twenty minutes, the younger man prattled on. Nikhil didn’t mind. The conversation was flattering with Percy singing praises of him.

Every two minutes, Nikhil caught the eye of a well-known politician. Other well-respected doctors nodded at him. However, noticing that Nikhil had company, no one disturbed him.

After the meal, Nikhil was overcome by the sudden urge to get away from the noisy hospital grounds and retire to the peaceful seclusion of Oberoi Hotel. Just when he was thinking of booking a cab, Percy offered to drop him.

“Oh, no” said Nikhil “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you”.

“It’s no inconvenience, doctor” replied Percy smiling “my family and I owe you so much; this is the least I can do for you”.

Nikhil considered the offer. Taking a lift from the grateful Percy wasn’t a bad idea. He would get to the hotel sooner. Booking a cab was usually a hassle.

“I’ll take you up on your offer” he said suavely. In a minute, Nikhil and Percy traipsed down to the car park and got into Percy’s car. It was a well-worn Alto, unlike the posh Mahindra SUV Nikhil drove.

Percy made small talk as he drove down the lovely MG Road. He talked about his family, automobiles and politics. He had an absorbing manner of speaking; soon Nikhil found himself hanging on to every word that Percy said. He came to his senses only when Percy turned into unfamiliar little side street, instead of the beautiful wide road that led to Oberoi Hotel.

He spoke up. “I’m not too familiar with Bangalore” Nikhil said “but I think you have taken the wrong turn”.

“Oh no, Dr. Nikhil” said the younger man “I was born and brought up in Bangalore. Know the damn city like the back of my hand. I don’t even need a Google map or any of the other shit people use nowadays. This particular turn will take you to Oberoi Hotel faster”.

His tone was mellow, like a soothing massage. Nikhil found himself pushing his seat back and reclining. He felt he might fall asleep right there and then.

He was rudely awakened by Percy. The young man held an inconspicuous little pistol in one hand and ordered Nikhil to get off.

***

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Prisoned in Femininity – Forced Feminization Series

Title: Prisoned in Femininity
Author: Yu Sakurazawa

Angela is a 35-year-old female patient, who has been living in Aspen Hospital for a decade. She apparently suffers from amnesia and has no memory of her life before coming to Aspen Hospital. The amnesia was apparently the result of a head injury that Angela had suffered from when in a car accident 17 years ago. The car accident had evidently killed her parents.

Angela has everything going for her: a beautiful face, body and caring hospital staff. She also has a loving extended family comprising of a paternal uncle and two male cousins. However, Angela distrusts them all—the staff, the family and her own body. A sole memory and an incongruous tattoo prove that she was born a man, not a woman.


Prisoned in Femininity

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Fettered

I gazed out of the window at stony hill tops, long rushes and listened to the sounds of a nearby river. It was a cold Saturday morning, insufficiently warmed by the central heating of Aspen Hospital. I had been shut away at the hospital for about ten years now; I recalled, as my eyes took note of black clouds gathering over in the high skies. There was a hint of rain, probably even of a thunderstorm.

I lay back against my overstuffed white pillow. Today was one of my better days as I remembered some things like the fact that I had been in Aspen for 10 years. Most of the time, I had trouble remembering what I had done a couples of days or even a few hours ago. They said I had some sort of amnesia. The forgetfulness was apparently caused due to a head injury I had suffered as a result of a car accident, which had killed both my parents. That’s what the hospital records said.

They said I had been 18 when the accident occurred; I was 35 now. I had been in Aspen Hospital for only a decade; seven years of my life was unaccounted for. I tried hard to remember what had occurred during this time, but failed. Neither could I recollect the first 18 years of my life. All I could recall was being shut up in this mirthless place with its bleak white walls, locked and barred doors and shuttered iron windows.

I threw myself on the bed and started to cry. Things were hopeless and didn’t show any signs of improvement. I yearned for a bit of sunshine, the sight of highland horses, mallard ducks and fluffy white clouds floating in the air. But apart from my books, I had nothing. They wouldn’t even allow me to have pen and paper. The dean, Theodor Hickman, said that I needed to rest. “You’ll need to get alright as soon as possible, won’t you?” he’d said grinning from ear to ear “how would that be possible if you’re scribbling away until the wee hours of the morning?” He pretended to be cheerful and avuncular. But Dean Hickman’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. They always remained hard and vigilant. I didn’t trust the man with my eyes open. Nor did I trust anybody else in this godforsaken place.

Presently, I heard a knock on the door. Nurse Daisy Hill walked in, wheeling a tray. “Good morning, Angela” she said with exaggerated brightness “I hope you slept well”. Nurse Hill’s plump face had the same fake smile plastered on it. Her tiny porcine eyes were wary. Didn’t these fiends get tired of pretending forever?

“Yes, somewhat” I said out aloud. I observed Nurse Hill making the tea and setting the cup on a tray along with a couple of unappetizing biscuits.

I knew that something was seriously wrong with Aspen Hospital and its staff. But who would believe me? I was a patient who sometimes couldn’t even remember my own name or what I had eaten a couple of hours ago. All I could do was eat, sleep and do some of my daily chores.

Nurse Hill offered to brush my hair as I sipped my rather milky tea. She gave me a functional square mirror to look at my face. I had a narrow beautiful face, a sharp aquiline nose, full red lips and a headful of long thick straw-colored hair. I was a classical beauty, but the realization of the fact brought me no joy. My cheek was pale like that of a vampire who was kept away from sunlight. My wide blue eyes appeared haunted. Even though I couldn’t remember much, my face told a story of repressed horrors and unspeakable secrets. I was not the person they said I was. I was someone else.

Of course, I couldn’t remember who I really was before I came to Aspen Hospital. There wasn’t a shred of personality I could call my own.

Nurse Hill brushed my hair in brisk, efficient strokes. My hair shimmered, and I wished I was allowed to wear something smarter than the drab blue hospital gown. As far as I remember, I wasn’t allowed to wear anything else.

This was a fucking prison. I’d escape someday. But what was the use. I’d always feel trapped because I was not the person they said I was. I definitely was someone else.

There was another knock at the door. A tall, hefty middle-aged guy walked in. He was dressed in white and was carrying some sort of a kit. I remembered that he was Luke Stevenson, the other nurse who had been taking care of me for the past decade.

“Trust you’re feeling better this morning” he said gruffly.

I nodded warily. I watched Nurse Stevenson open the kit and prepare a huge injection. In a minute, he caught hold of my left arm and emptied the contents of my injection into a vein. I tried to remember why the injection was being administered, but couldn’t. I opened my mouth with the intention of asking Nurse Stevenson about it.

Before I could do that, my arms and legs started jerking uncontrollably. I felt a familiar anxiety seize me. As I thrashed my limbs, I felt my mind growing hazy. I couldn’t remember my name any more, where I was or what I was doing here.

The nurses tried to hold me down on the bed with their powerful arms. Nurse Stevenson retrieved a piece of cloth from somewhere and stuffed it in between my teeth. I realized that he did that so that I didn’t bite my tongue.

“I’m having a violent epileptic fit” was my final coherent thought before I lost consciousness.


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Feminized by Hypnosis – A Transgender Suspense Story

  • Title: Feminized by Hypnosis
  • Category: A Transgender Suspense Story
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa

Adam Beckwell is a 21-year-old student of finance. He is 5’7 and slender, with brown hair and soulful brown eyes. Adam is always gloomy, fears expressing himself and is disgusted by sex. He is teased by his classmates and called “stuffed shirt”. Adam is easily suggestible and believes each word his psychiatrist tells him. He is emotionally dependent and is incapable of making his own decisions.

Susan Farley is Adam’s 19-year-old neighbor. She is 5’7 and slender, with black hair and cornflower blue eyes. Susan loves life. She has a sunny temperament, dresses boldly and isn’t afraid to express herself. She loves the good things in life like writing poetry and masturbating. Susan takes a writing class in London, where she meets the love of her life.

When Adam develops depression and meets psychiatrist, Dr. Ella Brown, she suggests that he and Susan may be the same person. Ella convinces Adam that he suffers from Dissociative Personality Disorder as well as Gender Identity Disorder. She tells Adam that Susan represents his self and encourages him to express himself as Susan would. Slowly, Adam develops a desire to feminize and develop a body like a woman’s.



Feminized by Hypnosis

Subtitle: A Dangerous Therapist

Disclaimer: The representation of Dissociative Personality Disorder and its treatment may not be hundred percent authentic. Artistic liberty has been taken in the representation of the same.

Chapter 1 – Adam, the Stuffed Shirt

I looked at myself in the mirror. The conservative pants, white shirt and grey blazer looked elegant on my slender frame. I considered adding a tie to my attire, but decided against it. After all, I was only a student, not a professor.

My name is Adam Beckwell. The fact that I, a 21 year old guy dressed like a “fuddy-duddy oldie” had become a joke in my college. My choice of attire combined with my long, rather morose face and the incapacity to lighten up made me the butt of many jibes. My batch mates called me a “stuffed shirt” and made fun of my “perpetually constipated look” I chose to think I had a stiff upper lip. My parents had taught me not to display unnecessary emotion.

I hail from Bakewell Village, in the valley of River Wye in Central Derbyshire. Thinking of Bakewell brought back memories of the Monday market, cattle, agricultural lands and Bakewell tart! Being in London for three years had almost made me forget my roots. I loved Bakewell; however, I was also frightened of it…

My mother still lives in the village and I visit her once in 6 months. I have mama’s sensitive brown eyes and bud-like lips. She complains that I don’t go and see her often enough. Mama worked as a kindergarten school teacher and was also a conscientious church-goer. She took me and dad along with her to the mass every Sunday. I was taught to religiously read the bible every day. This sort of puritanical upbringing has shaped my views on life, death and punishment.

Punishment. The word made me think of deceased dad. His ogre-like frame and ruddy face sprang in front of my vision. He was chasing me, half-laughing and half-angry. I ran away from him for dear life. Chills ran down my tender spine. Hairs stood up my five year old neck. Dad succeeded in catching me by the scruff of my collar. He spanked me for being a “bad boy” and for enraging God…

And then, he…

The alarm presently rang loudly. I had set it for a particular time, but was ready before that. I had one last glimpse at myself in the mirror and headed towards college. It is located in Earls Court, the area I have rented accommodation in. I walked down to college, trying to appreciate the pretty streets and houses.

The image of dad lying on the hospital bed barged into my vision. He had been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma Stage IV two years back. He had swollen lymph nodes in his armpits and had lost a gallon of weight. He had survived for only five months after the diagnosis. Mama had been upset that I refused to look after dad during his final days. However, I had been terrified to be around disease and impending death. I had also been petrified to be around dad…

Now, I was disturbed. I noticed that my hands were trembling. I shouldn’t have worked myself into this state. I shouldn’t have thought of Bakewell. I shouldn’t have thought of dad. I shouldn’t have thought of the church.

The past had had a negative impact on my present. When my contemporaries were fucking like bunnies, I’m still chaste. I seem to have no desire to copulate. I regard sex as something, which is animalistic and filthy. However, I don’t tell people that. They would regard me as abnormal.

I’d told my batch mates that I’m saving myself for marriage. This is untrue. I’m petrified at the thought of walking down the aisle and deflowering my wife. I don’t know how I’m going to get around this situation. I’d probably hide under the cloak of religiosity and not get married at all. I could become a theologist and remain unmarried.

Apart from sex, I’m terrified of blood. The thought of a woman on her period disgusts me. Even if I engaged in sex, I’d never do it with a woman on her period. Ugh!

The impressive college campus came in sight. I snapped out of my morbid thoughts and walked inside with a sense of relief. The world of investing and finance took away my mind from other aspects of life. After all, speaking my mind and expressing myself was something that I had been most terrified of….


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Feminized by an Evil Spirit – Never Sleep with Another Man’s Wife

    • Title: Feminized by an Evil Spirit
    • Subtitle: Never Sleep with Another Man’s Wife
    • Category: transgender horror
    • Author: Yu Sakurazawa

15-year-old Yashas is an intelligent boy from a well-to-do family. He has an affectionate dad, a doting mom and a caring elder brother called Renjit. Yashas’s dad, Sreehari has lands spreading over several acres in his native town of Mannarkad. He sells them in order to be able to afford a Rs. 20 crore house in the posh locality of Indiranagar in Bangalore.

After the family shifts to their new home, Yashas starts feeling tired and ill. He can’t recall anything that he has studied and fails his quarterly exams. One evening, while returning from school, Yashas feels that he is being chased by an invisible entity. The entity soon takes possession of Yashas’s body.

Yashas goes home and dresses in his mother’s saree and jewelry. He sits on the floor and starts talking like a rustic female farmhand. Over a period of time, Yashas’s body begins to feminize. In about three months, the paranormal female entity has turned Yashas into a voluptuous young woman.

Will the female spirit ever leave the innocent young lad’s body? Will Yashas (now called Jenny) ever find peace again?


Feminized by an Evil Spirit

Subtitle: Never Sleep with Another Man’s Wife

Chapter 1 –  Extravagance

My name is Yashas Sreehari and I’m the luckiest 15-year-old boy on earth. I attend an elite all boys’ school and stand first in every subject. My friends respect me and the teachers adore me. At home, I’m the apple of my mom, dad and elder brother Renjit’s eye.

My dad, Sreehari runs a well-known CA firm, which provides top quality services in auditing, accounting, business advisory, tax consulting, management consulting, corporate advisory and so on. My mom, Meera is a docile, affectionate homemaker, who has dedicated her entire life to ensure the comfort and well-being of the family. Our cook, Raja and maid, Saroja, help mom maintain the house. Mom is very beautiful, with a slender build, milky white skin and long black hair. Even though I’m a guy, I resemble my mom vis-à-vis build, skin and hair color. My eyes are green like my mom’s.

At 22, my brother is considerably older than me. He acquired a degree in mechanical engineering a year ago and currently works in an MNC. Dad wants him to pursue his MS in Detroit. My brother is ambitious, but is postponing his further studies as he doesn’t wish to leave Bangalore. He doesn’t wish to leave, as he can’t bear the thought of being parted from me. Renjit is the most loving, caring and protective elder brother anyone could have. In many ways, he is like a second dad to me.

I go to school in a jubilant mood. I’m happy as my dad will be returning home tonight, after a week. He has gone to our native town of Mannarkad in Kerala, where we own several acres of ancestral agricultural lands. Rice, tapioca, cashew, coconut, clove, cardamom, bananas and pepper are grown in these fecund lands. I have visited Mannarkad quite a few times; a few days at the plantation are a refreshing break from being in the maddening city. Our loyal farmhand, Mohan, has looked after our lands for over thirty years now. Now, at age fifty, Mohan still continues to toil on our lands. He also manages about twenty other laborers and farmhands. I have met Mohan several times. He is warm and friendly. So, is his relatively young wife, Anusree. The couple has three school-going children.

Presently, dad has gone to Kerala on one of his routine visits to check if everything is well in the plantation. This is just a formality, which is not really necessary. Mohan looks after our lands as if they were his own.

The day goes well. I attend all my classes and spend the sports period in the library, reading a finance magazine. I enjoy taking long walks, but am otherwise not athletic. I don’t engage in sports as I hate getting sweaty and smelly. The other boys sometimes tease me because of my aversion to sports. They call me a sissy, but go no further than that. My enviable grades in academics stop them from severely insulting me about my lack of athletic prowess.

I return home and change into jeans and a t-shirt. Mom gets me a snack, after which I sit down to do my homework. Renjit returns home from office at 7 pm and the two of us go on a long walk. When I return home, I discover that dad has returned from Kerala. He looks ruddy, healthy and excited, like he always does when he returns from the countryside. However, I feel that this time; dad has something unusual up his sleeve.

We meet at the dining table over dinner. Over platefuls of boiled rice and fish curry, dad tells us about his visit to Mannarkad. He tells us that the crops are flourishing and that the farmhands are doing well. Then, with his brown eyes sparkling excitedly, he changes the topic. “Do you all remember the ready-made house in Indiranagar that I had liked? How would you like to live in it?” he abruptly asks.

Indiranagar is a posh area in Bangalore. I think of the house dad is talking about. It is a huge two storied building, with a stone finish. It has a huge courtyard with a swimming pool, a tennis court and a massive wrought-iron gate. It is an impressive establishment, but lacks the homeliness of our traditionally-built cream-colored Jayanagar home, with its huge swing and sweet little garden.

I steal a glance at mom and Renjit. Going by the expression on their faces, I gather that they feel the same way as me.

Mom looks at dad disapprovingly. “We have lived in this house for 25 years, ever since we were married” she tells him “we’ve had a lovely time here. We’ve raised both our boys here. I love the temples and parks in this area. Though we are Keralites, we’ve grown close to our local Kannada-speaking neighbors. I wouldn’t like to shift to Indiranagar”.

“I agree with mom” says Renjit “Indiranagar may be a posh locality, but it lacks the charming, conservative aura of Jayanagar. Also, Indiranagar has too many clubs and pubs. Mom won’t feel comfortable in such a locality”.

“You’re wrong; Indiranagar is traditional” dad points out “it has an association that organizes classical Indian music and dance programs. Performing arts, theatre and drama is also promoted in the locality. Indiranagar has some of the best gyms, tennis and basket ball grounds, so you boys will be happy”.

I wrinkle my nose. Dad looks at me disapprovingly and says, “Don’t do that, Yashas. You have to take more of an interest in sports, you know”.

“I know” I mutter under my breath.

Renjit has a point to make. “Dad, you’d said you had managed to raise only Rs.10 crore” he says “while that palatial Indiranagar house costs a whopping Rs. 20 crore! Did you manage to raise that extra Rs. 10 crore so soon?!”

A mysterious smile tugs the corners of dad’s lips. “That’s why I had gone to Mannarkad” he says “to talk to Mohan–about the land sale”.

Mom looks aghast. “What land sale?” she asks “what in the world are you talking about?”

“I’ve decided to sell my ancestral lands to the owner of a chain of rubber-manufacturing factories” says dad bluntly “he’s going to make a down-payment of Rs.10 Crore, with which I can buy the Indiranagar house for you guys”.

Mom’s face goes ashen with shock. “You’re going to sell the lands, which belonged to your ancestors?” she says in a whisper.

“Of course, Meera” dad says irritably “there’s nothing to be upset about. I am a successful upwardly-mobile man with a lovely family. I have to own that palatial Indiranagar house as a status symbol”.

“Dad, everyone knows that you are a successful person” Renjit points out “you don’t need any status symbols to prove your worth!”

“Keep quiet, Renjit” says dad “you’re not grown up enough to interfere with my decisions!”

“Your dad is right, Renjit” says my docile mother “please don’t speak to him in that haughty tone”.

“Sorry” Renjit murmurs. I reflect on how paradoxical mom’s nature is. Though she disagrees with dad, she doesn’t want his children to question his decisions. On most occasions, mom too doesn’t question dad’s decisions, but accepts them passively. According to mom, dad is the head of the family, who has given us the best possible life. He knows what is best for us; hence we must never ever disobey him.

“What’ll happen to Mohan and the other farm hands” I can’t help asking “they’ll have nowhere to go once you sell the lands”.

“I’ve spoken to the rubber-factory head; he has promised to give all my farmhands jobs in his factory” says dad “when the factory comes up, more and more people in Mannarkad will be employed. The town will prosper. If Mohan wishes, he could work in the rubber factory. Or else, he could shift to Bangalore. I’ve given him the option of working as a peon in my firm. I’ve also offered to provide living quarters for him and his family”.

“I’m glad the farmhands won’t starve” I say. I’m not euphoric with dad’s decision to sell the lands, but am relieved that the farmhands will be employed once the factory is constructed. It is a matter of solace that they will have alternative employment. I look at mom and Renjit’s faces and surmise that they feel the same way.C


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A Slippery Slope in a Sales Pitch (Forced in Work in Girls’ Uniform)

Eric Saldana/Primrose: is a 24-year-old car salesman. He is only about 5’6, slender and has a feminine face. He has brown eyes and hair. Eric’s success has enabled him to get married at age 22. He supports his wife and infant daughter. He doesn’t want his wife to work, but wishes to provide for her. Eric is a good, but unethical salesman. He manages to sell cars, but also tweaks showroom rules. He truly cares about the preferences of customers though. He loves his family so much that he makes many sacrifices for them. One of them is undergoing gender change and becoming Primrose.



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A Slippery Slope in Day Trading – A Reluctant Auditionee

  • Title: A Slippery Slope in Day Trading
  • Subtitle: A Reluctant Auditionee
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: MTF

18-year-old Raj Dixit is sick of his life. He finds studies boring. His part-time job is monotonous. His alcoholic mother and avaricious father call him a freeloader. They nag Raj to contribute to the family income.

Raj can’t sleep in the night. He is plagued by nightmares of the scarring experiences he had as a child actor.

One evening, Raj runs into Vimal Chopra, the producer who had first cast him in movies. Raj confides his financial troubles in Chopra. Chopra convinces Raj that he can become rich through day trading. Raj uses his meager savings and borrows a huge amount from Chopra for leveraged trading. The next day, Raj buys and sells stock under Chopra’s advice. At the end of the day, he has suffered a huge loss. He now owes Chopra a hefty sum.

Chopra wants his money back immediately. He offers Raj an alternative — to star in one of his movies and repay him from his salary. Little does Raj realize that Chopra intends casting him in
a female role.



A Slippery Slope in Day Trading

Subtitle: A Reluctant Auditionee

Author: Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Parents’ Cash Cow

My lips were dry. The satchel weighed heavily on my back. Sitting through 7 hours of lectures on economics, sociology and history had been tedious. I was exhausted. Yet I decided to walk home from my college near Horizon Hospital to my small two bed room flat in Ghatkopar. I didn’t have much money on me and wished to save on bus charge.

I reached home and poured myself a glass of water. Neither of my parents gave me even a glance. My father was busy with his translation work. He was not 60 years old yet, but had opted for early retirement after a road accident had left him wheel-chair bound. When he was hale and hearty, dad had worked as a school teacher, teaching Marathi to hordes of children.

My mother was sitting on a well-worn sofa in the living room. Her gaze was the unfocused one of an alcoholic. She swayed from side to side. A big bottle of gin was clenched firmly in one delicate, long-fingered hand. My mom took a long swig of it. She drank it neat.

Mom worked as a cook in a few houses. After work, she relaxed with a drink. Sometimes, that one drink multiplied into many. During these times, mom became aggressive, abusive and quarrelsome. She called my dad impotent and me a wimp. Dad mostly remained silent during these times. I felt greatly upset and argued with my mom.

Presently, my students started trickling in. They were about 10 years old and 5 in number. I helped them with their homework, earning Rs. 2,500 per month. I wished to buy good clothes, shoes and reference books. Since my parents could give me only a limited amount of cash, I had decided to start giving tuition classes for the neighborhood children to earn some money.

I taught for a grueling three hours. Finally, my students collected their books and left my home. I was dead tired. I walked to the bathroom and splashed my face with tap water. As I dried it with a towel, I could help admiring myself in the full-length bathroom mirror.

My skin was milky white. My features were chiseled and delicate. My eyes were mysterious emerald green. My head was replete with thick, glossy black hair.

My figure was slender. It was that way naturally, without my having to exercise. For a minute, I wondered why I wasn’t on the silver screen. I hastily withdrew my thought. I recalled that I had spent 5 years of my childhood as a child actor and had hated every minute of it.

It had all begun when I had accompanied my mom to the grocery store. A tall man with high-cheek bones had swooped in on us, eyed me greedily and said,

“You’re beautiful, kid. Would you like to act in the movies?”

I hated films. I scarcely remembered having seen more than 2 or 3 of them up to that point. I wanted to study hard and grow up to become an astrophysicist.

“No” I said shaking my head.

“Oh shut up, Raj” said my mom roughly gripping me by the shoulder. She turned to Chopra, grinned from ear-to-year and said,

“Of course he’d love to. Are you a film producer or something?”

“Yes” affirmed the man “I’m currently producing a movie called Nanhi Jadugar (a little female magician) along with three other producers. We were looking for a beautiful female child to play the lead. Raj is a boy, but a pretty one. Would you be kind enough to bring him to the auditions tomorrow? It’s in Andheri West”.

“I sure will” simpered my mom. She was unable to contain her excitement. The next day, she made me skip school and dragged me to the audition in an old rundown building. The other kids assembled in the hall were all girls. I felt shy and awkward to be the only boy auditioning for a part meant only for girls.

When my turn came, I said my lines out reluctantly. Yet I was selected for the lead role. The part required me to wear a frilly frock and a wig of bobbed hair. I loathed being dressed as a girl. I threw a tantrum and refused to go for the shoots. My mom whacked me, put me in a frock and dragged me. Dad also forced me to go. He reminded me that I had several lakhs of rupees riding on me.

Nanhi Jadugar became a big hit. Chopra gave me a new screen name: Baby Angel. The audience accepted me as a girl. I received numerous other film offers, all for girl’s roles. My parents forced me to act in all of them, as they wanted to benefit from my earnings. The next five years passed in a haze of casting calls, sweaty auditions, memorizing dialogues and being put in alien scenes I couldn’t fully relate to. The “acting” involved mugging corny lines and hamming it up on screen. I used to perform tacky melodramatic scenes, emotionally distancing myself from what I was doing. My mom would sit at the farthest end of the sets, eying me like a hawk to make sure that I didn’t flee the place.

My school life became hell. The fact that I performed girls’ roles caused much amusement. My classmates called me derogatory terms like “hijra” or “chakka” (which mean transvestite). I remember an instance when a group of class mates had accosted me in the school restroom and pulled my shorts down in order to ascertain if I indeed had a penis.

The incident left me scarred. I came home crying. When I narrated the day’s incidents to my parents, they laughed out loud and said that I was over-reacting. They didn’t realize how traumatized I was.

I reported to the studio sets the next day, still disturbed by the previous day’s happenings. Dev, a lanky, brown-skinned 14-year-old tea boy, noticed that I was upset. He asked me what was wrong. Dev was the only person who cared about me and understood my feelings.

I reiterated the unsavory events of the previous day. Tears began running down my cheeks. Dev listened attentively, his face growing graver by the minute. At the end of my narrative, he shook his head sadly and said,

“Your classmates did a terrible thing. I’m sorry you had to go through such an ordeal”.

I smiled through my tears. “Thank you for understanding” I said.

Dev pinched my cheeks affectionately and smiled. “Now cheer up” he said “a cute boy like you shouldn’t be crying”.

“Do you like me only because I look cute?” I asked Dev.

Dev thought for a moment. “No” he said after a while “I like you because you are a hardworking boy, just like me. I also like you because you are kind-hearted”.

“Am I kind-hearted?” I asked. This wasn’t a quality I had reflected on.

“Yes, you have a heart of gold” Dev confirmed “other child actors treat me like a shit. They yell at me all the time and order me around as if I was their personal servant. You aren’t like that. You treat me with respect”.

“You deserve to be respected” I said smiling.

Three years later, I turned 12. Much to my parents’ disappointment, I stopped getting movie offers. I went to school like a normal kid and lost touch with all the people in the movie world. I also forgot all about Dev.

I shifted my school, so no one in my new school (and later, college) knew I was Baby Angel. No one teased or taunted me any longer. Yet the agony of my past lingered. Every time, I found myself attracted to a girl and wished to approach her, a voice inside me called me “hijra”. And every time I watched a man and a woman engaged in coitus on one of the numerous free porn videos on the internet, a persistent voice jeered and challenged me “Chakka, can you perform like him?”


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Never Insult a Feminist – Feminized for Feminism

27-year-old Debashish “Deb” Ghosh is a beautiful young man who runs a cabaret business. He meets Reema Shome, a young scientist cum feminist, through a dating site. Fascinated by Reema’s intellect, Deb marries her. However, after marriage, he becomes chauvinistic and controlling. Deb begins to resent his wife’s devotion to her career. One night, the couple has a terrible quarrel. In the heat of the moment, Deb slaps Reema.

Reema leaves home and moves in with a female friend. Deb tries to contact her, but Reema avoids him. Meanwhile, Deb is abducted by Reema’s coworker and put in a life-threatening situation.



Never Insult a Feminist

Subtitle: Feminized to Learn Feminism

Chapter 1 – My Beguiling Date

The cabaret show was over. The lights had come on. Customers, who had been swilling alcohol, were beginning to leave. Yet she wasn’t here.

I checked my phone for messages. “I’m right at the intersection. Will be there in 5 minutes” she had written. I wondered what she would be like. I had never met a woman through a dating site before.

Her name was Reema Shome. She was 30 years old. She was a scientist at Imperial City Laboratory, researching the physiology of digestion. Apart from work, Reema had a few areas of personal interest like traveling, playing the sitar and taking long walks. She and I had decided to meet only after exchanging a few text messages. I had told Reema that I worked in the entertainment business, but hadn’t told her I owned “Shake your Booty”, the cabaret club we were meeting in.

A young bespectacled woman walked in. I recognized her as Reema. Her white pants, skin-colored silk skirt and nude sandals flattered her delicate frame. “Debashish?” she asked smiling uncertainly. She was quite pretty, with small dainty features. The photos I had seen hadn’t done justice to Reema’s beauty.

I smiled at Reema and led her to one of the tables. “Yes, I’m Debashish Ghosh” I confirmed “but friends call me Deb. it’s nice to meet you”.

Reema gracefully slid into one of the seats. “Likewise” she said “I must say you’re very handsome”.

I laughed self-consciously as I took the seat opposite my date. Indian women generally didn’t give compliments so quickly after meeting a man. I found Reema’s boldness refreshing, though “handsome” wasn’t the adjective people generally used to describe me. My eloquent green eyes, slim aquiline nose and cushiony lips had earned me the sobriquet, “beautiful”.

“I’ve never met a scientist before” I told the woman sitting in front of me “what exactly do you research?”

Reema went into complicated details about digestive glands, conditioned reflexes and the functioning of the cortex. Her voice was clear like a ringing bell. She spoke in a clear, confident manner and used sophisticated scholarly language. The form and content of Reema’s speech was starkly different from the coquettish whispers and crude slangs of the cabaret dancers at “Shake your Booty”. Also, the women I came across on a day-to-day basis seemed to have the intelligence quotient of birds. Needless to say, I found Reema’s intelligence very attractive.

Reema seemed to like me too. She was pleasantly surprised to find out that I managed a whole cabaret-club on my own “at the young age of 27”. My world of glamour was diametrically opposite of Reema’s. The contrast fascinated Reema and she seemed keen on dating me again.

After a whirlwind romance lasting for a few weeks, Reema and I got married. Reema’s parents weren’t happy that their daughter was marrying a guy who was in the entertainment business. They firmly refused to attend the wedding. Reema’s parents had dreamed of a son-in-law who was a doctor, engineer or a scientist like their daughter. They, however, sent me many presents which included an Alto car, a Rolex watch and some cash. I didn’t refuse the gifts. Ancient Indian custom says that it is okay to accept gifts from one’s wife’s parents. Many people say that the “dowry system” is bad, but I wasn’t one of them.

Since my parents were dead, I invited a few old friends for my wedding. Reema too invited her friends and colleagues. They were all warm and cordial, especially a man called Saurav Dutta. He was a tall guy in his mid 30s, well-built and attractive in a rugged way. Saurav worked as the caretaker of the animals that the scientists at Imperial City Laboratory used for experiments. He was in charge of bathing the dogs, getting them food on time and keeping their cages clean.

I noticed Saurav’s immaculate white suit, Gucci loafers and Ray Ban sun glasses. “He appears too well-off for a caretaker” I whispered in Reema’s ear.

“He is quite well-off” Reema replied “Saurav’s family owns a pawnbrokers shop. Saurav works at Imperial City Laboratory just as a pastime”.

“That explains his Gucci loafers” I said satisfied.

The first few weeks of my marital life were smooth. Reema and I bought a house in the quiet homely neighborhood of Garia. Reema was an excellent cook, who prepared an array of cuisines like French, Japanese and Italian. The taste of the food was indistinguishable with the food I’d eaten at restaurants. Reema always arrived home from work early and prepared piping hot food for me. After years of eating out of cans as a bachelor, having a wife at home was a luxury.

My friends too liked Reema. When they visited, my wife served them food with utmost poise and grace. Reema always wore a saree (traditional Indian garment) when we had visitors. “You’re a lucky guy, Deb” they said “Reema bhabhi (sister-in-law. A respectful term used to address/refer to a married woman) is a successful career woman as well as a great wife. She cooks like an angel. She dresses in a traditional manner. Women these days can hardly cook! Besides, they would hardly take the trouble of wearing a saree!”

It was clear that my buddies envied me. They had every reason to. Reema was a perfect wife until she became too busy with her work. Doing further research on the physiology of digestion and the theory of classical conditioning kept her out late for three days in a row.

One night, I returned home hungry and dog-tired. Work had been hectic, with the dancers kicking up a row, demanding higher wages. Reasoning with the girls and requesting them to stay at “Shake your Booty” until I could afford to increase their salaries had sapped me of all energy. I walked into the house to realize that Reema had still not returned.

I took a reconnaissance of the kitchen to realize that Reema hadn’t cooked for the night. I felt raw anger bristle at the back of my neck. Reema was becoming a careless wife. Was her career so important that she had to neglect her duties as a housewife?

She couldn’t expect me to cook after a hard day at work. Husbands just didn’t do that. My parents had brought me up to believe that. I wasn’t going to change now. Picking up a ladle after marriage was beneath my dignity.

I wearily lay down on the front-room couch. Fifteen minutes passed. I heard the door latch open. Reema hurried in. She appeared disheveled in a crumpled Salwar-Kameez (an Indian dress with a long top and loose roomy pants. It is typically worn with a veil called the dupatta). A few strands of hair had strayed out of her ponytail and were flying in all directions. Reema carried a shopping bag in one hand.

“I’m sorry I got late” she said apologetically “you must be hungry. I’ll make something”.

“Yeah” I said not moving. The sight of Reema irked me. My beautiful wife had begun to neglect her physical appearance.

Reema dashed into the kitchen. I followed her and stood at the doorway. She boiled some water in a vessel and put some instant noodles in them. I felt my irritation rising. Before I could control myself, I found myself saying,

“You made me wait for so long and now you’re making me something out of a packet?”

Reema turned towards me. Her face was white with shock and disbelief. “I’m so sorry” she said “I could prepare something better, but that will take time. Since you’re very hungry, I thought I’d make something instantly”.

“That’s not fair” I said bridling “when I married you, I thought I’d signed up for something…better. Not a wife who neglects her appearance and comes home late from work”.

Reema’s dusky face turned red. She looked at me with flashing eyes and said: “When I married you, even I thought I was getting a better deal”.

“What do you mean?” I asked offended “I have been the perfect husband”.

Reema heaved a sarcastic sigh. “Perfect husbands don’t control purse strings the way you do” she said “after all; our bank accounts are joint ones. I earn as much as you. Why must you control all my purchases?”

“When did I control the purse strings?” I asked indignantly “you spend on whatever you wish”.

“I wished to buy a branded handbag the other day, but you put your foot down” said Reema furiously.

I felt something within me snap. “That thing cost a whopping Rs.30K!” I yelled “some families struggle to earn even Rs.3K per month!”

“Ha!” Reema spat “So suddenly, you’re a spokesperson for the poor?” She had her head cocked to one side and had archly raised an eyebrow. Her wide mouth seemed to mock me. I felt myself losing all control. I could barely contain my hand as it flew up and made resounding contact with my wife’s cheek.

Reema recoiled in shock. She caressed her slapped cheek with her dainty palm and ran out of the kitchen.


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Trapped (subtitle:Feminized for Revenge) has been published

Oliver is a handsome 32-year-old chartered accountant, who runs his own CPA firm in London. He has come a long way from his delinquent, teenage days in Blackpool, when he was forced to commit several indiscretions by school bully, Jake Hornsby.

Oliver hits rock bottom when his girlfriend, Mia Jones leaves him for a Frenchman. He takes a road trip to get over the break up and stops at a bar cum restaurant called Movers & Shakers for a brew and a bite. Oliver notices that the waitresses at the bar behave strangely on noticing him. Oliver begins getting strange vibes from the place.

He thinks of leaving it as quickly as possible, but stops at the restroom first. He is captured by two men, who seem to be operating on the orders of a woman called Madam X. Oliver is subsequently feminized, pimped, forced to have a uterus transplant and carry a baby to term. When the infant is six months old, Oliver (now Olivia) is wrenched away from her and is taken to work in what is evidently a Baby Formula factory, but turns out to be another ghastly faculty where Olivia’s body is exploited.

Who is Madam X and why is she inflicting these tortures on Oliver? Is Madam X a jealous colleague, competitor or flustered ex-girlfriend of Oliver’s?




Trapped

Subtitle: Feminized for Revenge

Chapter 1 – The Swashbuckling CPA

Phones were ringing everywhere. Secretaries were buzzing from one department to another. It was an active mid-morning in a posh, multi-storied office in Kensington. Dressed in a double-breasted purple suit, Oliver Knight answered his forty-ninth call of the day.

At 32, he had his own CPA firm in London. Oliver had started as a Certified Professional Accountant 9 years back and had established his own firm, Knight & Co. only two years back. Knight and Co. prioritized helping smaller companies to grow and establish themselves in the market. It also helped start-ups with business plans, loan applications and venture capital funding.

Knight & Co. had done terrific business since its inception. The credit for its success had gone to the blonde, swashbuckling godfather of the company. Oliver was as well known for his classical good looks as he was for his energy, dedication and expertise.

Presently, Oliver was in a pensive mood. “I have every reason to be proud of myself” he thought gazing out of the huge, transparent glass window “after all, I have come a long way since my Blackpool days”. Oliver was lost in a day dream for a couple of seconds before Lily Little, his personal secretary gently knocked at his door.

There was nothing “little” about Lily. She was a big, strong warrior-like woman with an inner personality to match. She made sure that Oliver’s schedule was flawlessly managed and was a major factor that had contributed to his stupendous success.

Presently, Lily said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but I wish to remind you of your meeting with. Ms. Jones. You’re to meet her at Coffee House at 11:30”.

“Oh yes, I’d forgotten!” said Oliver jumping to his feet “I hope Mia won’t be furious!”

Mia Jones was Oliver’s girlfriend of six years. He had met her through an online dating site and had been in a steady relationship with her ever since. Mia was everything Oliver appreciated in a woman—energetic, enthusiastic and extremely charismatic. She had been interning in special education in France for the past 4 months and had returned to England only the previous day. Mia had called him and said that she had wanted to talk. Her voice had sounded grave. Oliver wondered if Mia might broach the subject of marriage. She’d hinted that she was keen on settling down and having a baby.

Currently, Oliver rushed to Coffee House, which was situated right opposite his office. The slim, elfin form of Mia came into his line of vision. She looked adorable in a polo-necked t-shirt and a pair of rust-colored leather pants.

“Hey there!” Oliver greeted rushing to embrace Mia. He was shocked to discover that Mia didn’t hug him with the fervor that he was used to. Oliver drew back and took a peek into his girlfriend’s face. It was a deathly white.

“Oh my God!” he said in a shocked whisper “what happened, darling?!”

“Actually…” said Mia “I’ve met someone else…” Guilt was apparent on her paper white face.

Oliver collapsed on one of the nearby easy chairs and held his head in his hands. He felt that his world had come to an end.

“Who’s the guy?” he asked dully after a while.

“Filberte” Mia replied “he proposed to me before I returned. I have decided to marry him and start a family as soon as possible”. She remained standing, wringing her hands in distress.

“Ok” said Oliver dully. He was familiar with Filberte Armel. He was one of the guys who had interned along with Mia. Over her weekly Skype chats with Oliver, Mia had incessantly talked about Filberte. She had mentioned him in a jocular vein. She had found it amusing that Filberte ordered girly, sugar-induced cocktails when they went on an outing. Mia had also mimicked Filberte’s accent. Little had Oliver guessed that Mia had been falling in love with the unusual Frenchman.

“Guess his preference for Mojitos won you over” said Oliver smiling sardonically.

“Please don’t be sarcastic, Oliver” Mia said, suddenly bristling “There are so many things about Filberte that I like. He is compassionate, wears his heart on his sleeve and is not shy to kiss me in public…In our entire six years together; you never did anything of that sort!”

“Sorry, but public display of affection is not my style” hissed Oliver and got up to go. Mia picked up her handbag and tucked it under her arm. The two walked in awkward silence until Oliver had hailed a cab and had safely seated Mia in it.

The two gazed at each other for a while. Mia looked immensely apologetic. Oliver felt his heart being ripped to a million shreds. He wondered if he’d ever feel whole again.

“All the best” he said with a dry mouth.

“Wish you the same” Mia said softly.

Then the cab-driver drove away taking Oliver’s beloved ex with him.

***

Oliver returned to the office in a daze. Lily reminded him that he was to attend a one hour seminar in which Oliver was to speak about personal money management. Oliver walked into the conference hall and delivered the speech confidently. After the lunch-break, he went about his tasks competently. Yet inner peace evaded him.

He couldn’t believe that Mia had left him. Mia, who had said that they were made for each other… Maybe he should have hurried up and proposed to her right before she left for France. At 34, Mia had been concerned about her ticking biological clock. She had probably accepted Filberte’s marriage proposal on a “first-come-first-served basis”.

After 8 pm, Oliver went to his aesthetically furnished home, which was also located at Kensington. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and tried to suppress the horrific, recurring memory that had tormented him for the past 15 years. He usually succeeded in keeping it at bay, but today’s heartbreak had left him weak-willed. “No, leave me alone!” Oliver yelled like a lunatic. Yet the memory barged into his consciousness.

“She’s coming!” Jake’s ugly, raspy voice said “Quick boys, pin her down!” He pointed to a sylph-like, blonde woman who was walking in our direction.

“Jake, I really don’t wish to be a part of this!” 17-year-old Oliver protested. Theo said something similar.

Oliver felt his cheek sting. Belatedly, he realized that he had been slapped by Jake. Jake proceeded to whack Theo, too.

“Do as I say, you boneheads!” he hissed dangerously “otherwise, I’ll chop your heads off and send them to your parents”.

Oliver and Theo had the uneasy feeling that Jake would do what he had threatened to. They reluctantly caught hold of the unsuspecting girl and pinned her down, while Jake raped her—viciously and repeatedly.

The woman’s horrified face and bloodcurdling screams made Oliver sick to the stomach. No one heard her, as they were seemingly miles away from civilization. Then there had been blood, blood everywhere, seemingly oozing out of the victim.

“Damn!” Oliver presently said, swatting his aching forehead. He hadn’t always had a charmed life. Much of it had been spent in the city of Blackpool, where 65% of the population was unemployed and the living costs disproportionately high. His father had a business, which had suddenly run into a huge loss, forcing Oliver to shift from a public school to a terrible state-funded one. Unfortunately for Oliver, the school had a gang of bullies headed by a notorious boy called Jake Hornsby.

Jake and his gang were sullen, cynical youth involved in a number of shady dealings such as home made sex video circulation, drug smuggling, alcohol bootlegging and so on. It was also rumored that they hacked corporate programs. Jake also took perverse pleasure in bullying weaker mortals in school. Oliver had initially become the victim of Jake’s bullying, but was later forced to carry out tasks and run errands for the gang.

Oliver detested doing dirty work for the gang, but was forced to in order to save his skin. He remembered the consequences of his recent refusal to edit a homemade sex video. Jake and gang had punched him until he had a black eye and two broken ribs. Fearing further backlash from Jake and company, Oliver had told the school counselor and his parents that he had fallen down the stairs and hurt himself.

From that day onwards, Oliver hadn’t dared to refuse any chore Jake had for him. He had smuggled drugs, bootlegged alcohol and also helped Jake hack computer programs.

One fateful day, Jake developed sexual attraction to Jessica Lavin, a 20-year-old married woman who lived in the same colony as him. She was a devout girl, evidently married to a quiet, decent insurance agent. Even though Jake was built like a gorilla, he had a thing for small, delicate women. Jake made many attempts to talk to Jessica, but she wouldn’t even look in his direction.

That was when Jake hatched a plan to assault her. Jessica attended a computer class every evening and would take a particular deserted short cut on her way back home. Jake had discovered that and had arranged for Oliver and another boy named Theo be present to pin Jessica down, while he had his wicked way with her.

Oliver and Theo were reluctant to be a part of the heinous crime, but Jake had threatened them with dire consequences if they didn’t participate. Oliver and Theo had pinned the girl down with much distress, while Jake assaulted her. The crime had been reported an hour later. Since the criminals had been below 18, they had been sent to a reform school instead of prison.

When Oliver came out of a reform school after a year, his family had shifted to London. Oliver’s father had recovered his business losses; hence Oliver was in a position to attend a good public school. He immersed himself in academics, graduated from Cambridge University and became a successful CA.

Success hadn’t obliterated the past from Oliver’s memory. The face and the screams of the rape victim still haunted him.


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“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!”

Click here to read the rest of the story!

“The Devil with an Angel’s Smile” was just published

Willie Hall is a confused 18 year old trying to find his purpose in life. He becomes fascinated by 30 year old Bella Myra, who is a spiritual teacher, blogger and social media celebrity. The desire to be with Bella takes Willie miles away from Utah to Costa Rica. He joins a 2 year diploma in New Age Spirituality at Flora, a spiritual retreat cum learning center run by Bella and her husband, Marcel.

Willie has a revelation during the Inner Child Meditation. He has been abused as a child by his own dad. Through hypnosis and other techniques that tap into the subconscious, Willie learns that he was a famous gay man in his past life. Furthermore, Willie learns that he is a woman trapped in a man’s body.

Will Bella Myra help Willie get in touch with his true inner self?



The Devil with an Angel’s Smile

Subtitle: Feminized by a Spiritual Catalyst

Author: Yu Sakurazawa

***

Chapter 1 – My Life’s Purpose

According to my aunt Mary, my birth in Salt Lake City Hospital was a doomed one for my father.

My father had been present at the birth together with his sister Mary. He was holding my mom’s hand and murmuring reassurances in her ear. He had suddenly been pushed back by the medical team. He had felt them panic and drop the forceps on the floor with shock. My dad had been confused as to what had been happening. Then, dad had been aware of color: of the doctor’s white coats and strong blinding lights. The glare had been so harsh that my dad’s head had started reeling.

Then he had seen blood. The red of mom’s blood had been everywhere, in rivers and torrents. My dad had felt his head reeling. His world had eventually turned dark.

When he regained consciousness, the doctors had broken the news to him. Mom had lost much blood and had died of heart failure. Somebody had evidently cleaned me up and handed me over to my bereaved dad. With my blonde baby fuzz and soft grey eyes, I had reminded my dad of mom.

At first, my father had felt pure, unadulterated love for me. After all, I was the living, breathing proof of the profound love that had existed between him and mom. However, as days progressed, dad started missing mom badly. Her demise had left a void that he realized nothing could fill.

It was then that he had apparently started hating me. I was the one who had been the cause of his beloved wife’s death. Our housekeeper narrated an incident when I had been bawling for quite a long time, but dad had not even bothered to pick me up. My horrified nanny had apparently emerged from the bathroom and pacified me. She and the housekeeper had been shocked by the apathy exhibited by my dad. Since that day, dad had remained distant and aloof from me.

Dad became a recluse after mom’s death. He spent all his time either in his office or in his study. I was brought up by a string of nannies and governesses. Dad spoke to me only functionally. He didn’t seem to care whether I ate, studied or slept. He had enough money to keep me in moderate luxury, but all I yearned for was his love. I wanted dad to speak to me, take me out and wished to be cocooned in his warm fatherly embraces. But such was my fate that dad never even patted me on the shoulder. He detested me so much that he shirked away from my touch.

He gave all his energy to his company. I tried to live my life by studying and developing passions like skiing and horse-riding. However, as much as I tried, I found it difficult to develop an emotional bond with anyone. The lack of a solid support system led me to deteriorate in academics, develop a mild heroin addiction and lose interest in activities that I had previously enjoyed. I graduated from high school with only average grades.

The downslide in my academic record caused me great frustration. However, I always depicted a keen interest in law. I was riveted to “Suits”, a television show on corporate lawyers and read Erle Stanley gardener’s Perry Mason’s books by the dozen. Perry Mason was a brilliant lawyer cum detective. I was fascinated by him in suits. Going by my obsession with law, dad assumed that I was going to study at Harvard Law School as join his company as the company lawyer. I went to a tacky party to booze and snort away my fears. I returned home at 5 am the next morning; stoned and reeking of sex with some cheap slut. Dad was in his study. He emerged out of it, red with fury and yelled at me for having been away for the entire night.

“You stupid little bastard!” he bellowed “don’t you have any concerns about your future?!”

“No” I said and laughed in his face. Before dad could fly at me and slap me hard, I ran up to my bedroom and banged the door shut. I was lost and didn’t know what my purpose in life was. In fact, I hardly knew what to do next.

I picked up my smartphone and started browsing through random YouTube videos. A breathtakingly gorgeous woman caught my eye. She was a white Caucasian female of about 30, with shimmering dark hair and sensual green eyes. The description of the video said, “Find your negative imprint, find your life by Bella Myra”.

Bella Myra. I enunciated the name slowly and deliberately. It sounded so sensuous and exotic, like the woman herself. I clicked on the video. In the video, Bella spoke about finding the opposite of what you like, so that you could pinpoint your desires more accurately. For example, if you hated darkness, you desired more light in your life.

Bella’s voice was low, husky and seductive. I felt myself getting drawn in.

I also listened to Bella’s words. I paused the video and reflected on what I hated. The list comprised of failure, chaos and hatred, which meant that I desired success, clarity and love.

If Bella had been able to draw the above life-changing answers from me, she must be a good spiritual teacher indeed. I became more interested in the woman. A quick google search told me that Bella was a new-age spiritualist, blogger and a Costa Rica-based spiritual practitioner. She claimed to have psychic powers and extrasensory abilities like telepathy, clairvoyance, clairsentience et al. Bella also ran a non-profit organization called Myra Foundation, which reportedly aimed at bringing about positive changes in the world.

Bella claimed to be a reincarnation of Indian spiritual master Jiddu Krishnamurti. She claimed to be from another planet and had apparently come to earth to change the course of events. She had walked the aisle multiple times and was currently married to a man called Marcel Garrel, who worked with her.

I noted Bella’s supernatural beauty and the conviction with which she taught. Maybe, other dimensions really existed and Bella could help me get in touch with the truth of who I really was. Maybe Bella could also help me get in touch with mom, a woman I had barely got a chance to meet…

I ran a quick internet search about the courses Bella Myra offered. Bella owed a retreat called Flora in the heart of Costa Rica, where she offered short meditation courses and a 2-year diploma in “New Age Spirituality”. The course covered techniques to activate chakras – the third eye, the heart chakra, the throat chakra and so on. Bella also invited experts in yoga, breatharianism and the like to deliver lectures to its students. The course fee was a whopping $ 90,000, which was nearly double the fee at Harvard Law School.

I was pensive for a few moments. My dad had assumed that I’d study law at HLS and work as a legal adviser at his company. He’d pinned his ambitions on me, yet didn’t nurture me the way he was supposed to. Dad seemed to be under the impression that hate, anger and resentment would egg me on to be an achiever.

I needed nurturing and support by a woman, preferably a gorgeous woman like Bella Myra. I would attend a sample session organized by her and then decide whether I wished to take the two-year course or not. To attend the sample session, I’d have to travel to Costa Rica.

It was difficult to get dad’s permission to travel 3 thousand and odd miles just to attend a sample class, but I managed. It was a relief to get away from the dry arid desert-like Utah to the lush, tropical Costa Rica.

Flora Center was a beautiful retreat, with rich green wide open spaces and fountains. The interiors were calming, adorned with a huge statue of the Buddha, meditation crystals and aromatic healing oils. They were also decked with Bella’s “Frequency Paintings”, each representing a different vibration in the universe. Bella believed that each situation in our lives was of a certain frequency, just like channels in a radio. She claimed that she could visually see the components a particular frequency was comprised of. For instance, she saw “Wealth” as a specific design. The frequency of “Love” appeared in a certain way to Bella. She would paint the design she saw, so that those who looked at the paintings assumed its frequency. For example, if I wanted love in my life, I would be exposed to a painting which represented love. I would eventually vibrate at the same frequency as the painting and attract love into my life.

In the evening, I was supposed to take the synchronization class. I took a seat among 20 other people opposite a stage, which seemed to be meant for a performer. I stole a glance at the other group of 20 people; they seemed to be an assorted group of different ages. According to Bella Myra, if a given number of people had chosen to congregate in a room, it meant that they had similar problem and similar desires. I glanced around at the lackluster tabbies, old stooges and hippie buffoons around the room. “Do you all yearn for love?” I wondered. “Do you all want a direction in your life?”

Before I could reflect further on Bella’s questions, Bella strode on stage. She wore a flowing green Gucci gown, stiletto heels and skilful makeup. Her face wore a brilliant, slightly predatory smile and her long legs were tattooed with several little motifs.

I felt the energy in the room changed. It was full of something raw, primal and sexual. Bella was a spiritual teacher and at the same time had an undeniable raw carnal appeal to her.

“Good evening, everyone” Bella said in her low, husky voice “welcome to my synchronization workshop. As some of you may know, I’m able to visually observe vibrations. Please feel free to ask me your questions. Though you may not realize it, the problem of one is problem of another. The desire of one, is the desire of another. Please don’t just sit there thinking, “this question does not apply to me” because it does. If it didn’t, it wouldn’t have come into your life. Keep that in mind and listen carefully”.

Bella spoke peremptorily, like a queen talking to her slaves. Her speech had the quality of an actress delivering the performance of her life.

Yet I loved the woman. She was so full of life that she passed on the vibes to me. I didn’t feel like the neglected son of a still-grieving husband anymore. I felt like a living, pulsating creature I was supposed to be.

People began asking questions in a shy, hesitant manner. Bella took on all the questions with panache and answered them as skillfully as she applied her makeup. In the middle of answering a question, Bella stopped mid-sentence and gawked at me. The group of 19 assembled people followed her gaze. As Bella’s sensuous green eyes seared my body and soul, I felt a slow blush creep up my smooth pink face. The Goddess was looking at me!

“Hello, young gentleman” Bella said almost flirtatiously “what’s your name?”

“Willie Hall” I said feeling my heart hammer away in my pigeon chest.

“Your aura is pure crystal white, Willie” said Bella “if your Kundalini Shakti is awakened, you’ll have limitless potential. It could change your life and that of those around you”.

“Kundalini Shakti…” I said blinking confusedly “what’s that please?”

“Kundalini Shakti is the divine power lying latent in every human being” Bella said “it lies coiled in the base of your spine, much like a serpent. When awakened, it travels through your spine and reaches your crown chakra. Then, you are a super powerful, super intelligent person”.

I was awestruck at Bella’s observation. Up to this point, I had just thought of myself as a lost kid who had traveled all these miles in search of spiritual succor. And now, I was being told that I had a high probability of channeling a power, which could make a great difference not only in my life, but also in the lives of other people.

“How do I access this power?” I asked.

“You could try awakening it by practicing the fire breath” said Bella Myra spewing forth a series of short exhalations through her lovely nostrils “otherwise, I could teach you, if you take up the 2-year course here at Flora”.

I nodded. I had come to a decision. I would study meditation and yogic practices at Flora for the next two years. I mentally said goodbye to HLS and “hello” to a new way of life.

The Devil with an Angel’s Smile

Subtitle: Feminized by a Spiritual Catalyst

Author: Yu Sakurazawa

***

Chapter 1 – My Life’s Purpose

According to my aunt Mary, my birth in Salt Lake City Hospital was a doomed one for my father.

My father had been present at the birth together with his sister Mary. He was holding my mom’s hand and murmuring reassurances in her ear. He had suddenly been pushed back by the medical team. He had felt them panic and drop the forceps on the floor with shock. My dad had been confused as to what had been happening. Then, dad had been aware of color: of the doctor’s white coats and strong blinding lights. The glare had been so harsh that my dad’s head had started reeling.

Then he had seen blood. The red of mom’s blood had been everywhere, in rivers and torrents. My dad had felt his head reeling. His world had eventually turned dark.

When he regained consciousness, the doctors had broken the news to him. Mom had lost much blood and had died of heart failure. Somebody had evidently cleaned me up and handed me over to my bereaved dad. With my blonde baby fuzz and soft grey eyes, I had reminded my dad of mom.

At first, my father had felt pure, unadulterated love for me. After all, I was the living, breathing proof of the profound love that had existed between him and mom. However, as days progressed, dad started missing mom badly. Her demise had left a void that he realized nothing could fill.

It was then that he had apparently started hating me. I was the one who had been the cause of his beloved wife’s death. Our housekeeper narrated an incident when I had been bawling for quite a long time, but dad had not even bothered to pick me up. My horrified nanny had apparently emerged from the bathroom and pacified me. She and the housekeeper had been shocked by the apathy exhibited by my dad. Since that day, dad had remained distant and aloof from me.

Dad became a recluse after mom’s death. He spent all his time either in his office or in his study. I was brought up by a string of nannies and governesses. Dad spoke to me only functionally. He didn’t seem to care whether I ate, studied or slept. He had enough money to keep me in moderate luxury, but all I yearned for was his love. I wanted dad to speak to me, take me out and wished to be cocooned in his warm fatherly embraces. But such was my fate that dad never even patted me on the shoulder. He detested me so much that he shirked away from my touch.

He gave all his energy to his company. I tried to live my life by studying and developing passions like skiing and horse-riding. However, as much as I tried, I found it difficult to develop an emotional bond with anyone. The lack of a solid support system led me to deteriorate in academics, develop a mild heroin addiction and lose interest in activities that I had previously enjoyed. I graduated from high school with only average grades.

The downslide in my academic record caused me great frustration. However, I always depicted a keen interest in law. I was riveted to “Suits”, a television show on corporate lawyers and read Erle Stanley gardener’s Perry Mason’s books by the dozen. Perry Mason was a brilliant lawyer cum detective. I was fascinated by him in suits. Going by my obsession with law, dad assumed that I was going to study at Harvard Law School as join his company as the company lawyer. I went to a tacky party to booze and snort away my fears. I returned home at 5 am the next morning; stoned and reeking of sex with some cheap slut. Dad was in his study. He emerged out of it, red with fury and yelled at me for having been away for the entire night.

“You stupid little bastard!” he bellowed “don’t you have any concerns about your future?!”

“No” I said and laughed in his face. Before dad could fly at me and slap me hard, I ran up to my bedroom and banged the door shut. I was lost and didn’t know what my purpose in life was. In fact, I hardly knew what to do next.

I picked up my smartphone and started browsing through random YouTube videos. A breathtakingly gorgeous woman caught my eye. She was a white Caucasian female of about 30, with shimmering dark hair and sensual green eyes. The description of the video said, “Find your negative imprint, find your life by Bella Myra”.

Bella Myra. I enunciated the name slowly and deliberately. It sounded so sensuous and exotic, like the woman herself. I clicked on the video. In the video, Bella spoke about finding the opposite of what you like, so that you could pinpoint your desires more accurately. For example, if you hated darkness, you desired more light in your life.

Bella’s voice was low, husky and seductive. I felt myself getting drawn in.

I also listened to Bella’s words. I paused the video and reflected on what I hated. The list comprised of failure, chaos and hatred, which meant that I desired success, clarity and love.

If Bella had been able to draw the above life-changing answers from me, she must be a good spiritual teacher indeed. I became more interested in the woman. A quick google search told me that Bella was a new-age spiritualist, blogger and a Costa Rica-based spiritual practitioner. She claimed to have psychic powers and extrasensory abilities like telepathy, clairvoyance, clairsentience et al. Bella also ran a non-profit organization called Myra Foundation, which reportedly aimed at bringing about positive changes in the world.

Bella claimed to be a reincarnation of Indian spiritual master Jiddu Krishnamurti. She claimed to be from another planet and had apparently come to earth to change the course of events. She had walked the aisle multiple times and was currently married to a man called Marcel Garrel, who worked with her.

I noted Bella’s supernatural beauty and the conviction with which she taught. Maybe, other dimensions really existed and Bella could help me get in touch with the truth of who I really was. Maybe Bella could also help me get in touch with mom, a woman I had barely got a chance to meet…

I ran a quick internet search about the courses Bella Myra offered. Bella owed a retreat called Flora in the heart of Costa Rica, where she offered short meditation courses and a 2-year diploma in “New Age Spirituality”. The course covered techniques to activate chakras – the third eye, the heart chakra, the throat chakra and so on. Bella also invited experts in yoga, breatharianism and the like to deliver lectures to its students. The course fee was a whopping $ 90,000, which was nearly double the fee at Harvard Law School.

I was pensive for a few moments. My dad had assumed that I’d study law at HLS and work as a legal adviser at his company. He’d pinned his ambitions on me, yet didn’t nurture me the way he was supposed to. Dad seemed to be under the impression that hate, anger and resentment would egg me on to be an achiever.

I needed nurturing and support by a woman, preferably a gorgeous woman like Bella Myra. I would attend a sample session organized by her and then decide whether I wished to take the two-year course or not. To attend the sample session, I’d have to travel to Costa Rica.

It was difficult to get dad’s permission to travel 3 thousand and odd miles just to attend a sample class, but I managed. It was a relief to get away from the dry arid desert-like Utah to the lush, tropical Costa Rica.

Flora Center was a beautiful retreat, with rich green wide open spaces and fountains. The interiors were calming, adorned with a huge statue of the Buddha, meditation crystals and aromatic healing oils. They were also decked with Bella’s “Frequency Paintings”, each representing a different vibration in the universe. Bella believed that each situation in our lives was of a certain frequency, just like channels in a radio. She claimed that she could visually see the components a particular frequency was comprised of. For instance, she saw “Wealth” as a specific design. The frequency of “Love” appeared in a certain way to Bella. She would paint the design she saw, so that those who looked at the paintings assumed its frequency. For example, if I wanted love in my life, I would be exposed to a painting which represented love. I would eventually vibrate at the same frequency as the painting and attract love into my life.

In the evening, I was supposed to take the synchronization class. I took a seat among 20 other people opposite a stage, which seemed to be meant for a performer. I stole a glance at the other group of 20 people; they seemed to be an assorted group of different ages. According to Bella Myra, if a given number of people had chosen to congregate in a room, it meant that they had similar problem and similar desires. I glanced around at the lackluster tabbies, old stooges and hippie buffoons around the room. “Do you all yearn for love?” I wondered. “Do you all want a direction in your life?”

Before I could reflect further on Bella’s questions, Bella strode on stage. She wore a flowing green Gucci gown, stiletto heels and skilful makeup. Her face wore a brilliant, slightly predatory smile and her long legs were tattooed with several little motifs.

I felt the energy in the room changed. It was full of something raw, primal and sexual. Bella was a spiritual teacher and at the same time had an undeniable raw carnal appeal to her.

“Good evening, everyone” Bella said in her low, husky voice “welcome to my synchronization workshop. As some of you may know, I’m able to visually observe vibrations. Please feel free to ask me your questions. Though you may not realize it, the problem of one is problem of another. The desire of one, is the desire of another. Please don’t just sit there thinking, “this question does not apply to me” because it does. If it didn’t, it wouldn’t have come into your life. Keep that in mind and listen carefully”.

Bella spoke peremptorily, like a queen talking to her slaves. Her speech had the quality of an actress delivering the performance of her life.

Yet I loved the woman. She was so full of life that she passed on the vibes to me. I didn’t feel like the neglected son of a still-grieving husband anymore. I felt like a living, pulsating creature I was supposed to be.

People began asking questions in a shy, hesitant manner. Bella took on all the questions with panache and answered them as skillfully as she applied her makeup. In the middle of answering a question, Bella stopped mid-sentence and gawked at me. The group of 19 assembled people followed her gaze. As Bella’s sensuous green eyes seared my body and soul, I felt a slow blush creep up my smooth pink face. The Goddess was looking at me!

“Hello, young gentleman” Bella said almost flirtatiously “what’s your name?”

“Willie Hall” I said feeling my heart hammer away in my pigeon chest.

“Your aura is pure crystal white, Willie” said Bella “if your Kundalini Shakti is awakened, you’ll have limitless potential. It could change your life and that of those around you”.

“Kundalini Shakti…” I said blinking confusedly “what’s that please?”

“Kundalini Shakti is the divine power lying latent in every human being” Bella said “it lies coiled in the base of your spine, much like a serpent. When awakened, it travels through your spine and reaches your crown chakra. Then, you are a super powerful, super intelligent person”.

I was awestruck at Bella’s observation. Up to this point, I had just thought of myself as a lost kid who had traveled all these miles in search of spiritual succor. And now, I was being told that I had a high probability of channeling a power, which could make a great difference not only in my life, but also in the lives of other people.

“How do I access this power?” I asked.

“You could try awakening it by practicing the fire breath” said Bella Myra spewing forth a series of short exhalations through her lovely nostrils “otherwise, I could teach you, if you take up the 2-year course here at Flora”.

I nodded. I had come to a decision. I would study meditation and yogic practices at Flora for the next two years. I mentally said goodbye to HLS and “hello” to a new way of life.


Click here to read the rest of the story!


Forbidden Red Shoes (subtitle: Feminized by a Curse) was just published!

15-year-old orphan Max Robinson is adopted by the kindly Samuel Wright, a businessman. Samuel owns a striptease club called Tantalize and has a 15-year-old daughter called Ava. Ava is loving and giving towards her foster brother. However, she allows no one to touch her one possession: her red shoes.

Three years pass. Max shows a great knack for business, making Samuel to see him as the natural successor of his business. After Ava tragically passes away in a car accident, Max can’t resist the temptation to wear her red shoes…

A series of strange occurrences follow this event. Max’s body begins to feminize and he loses his penis…



Forbidden Red Shoes

Subtitle: Feminized by a Curse

Chapter 1 – My Sister Ava

I was 15 years old when I lost my parents. They had been textile mill workers, who had become victims of a freak accident. As I sat smoking away my sorrow in a street in Nottingham, a man approached me. He was smartly dressed in an expensive brown suit, loafers and a hat.

“Smoking is harmful, son” he said “you should kick the habit”. The man’s face was crinkled and his eyes were kindly grey.

“It’s not a habit, sir” I said, “but a reaction to tragedy”.

“A tragedy?” the man enquired “what happened?”

“I lost both my parents” I said “they died when a fire broke out in the textile mill they worked in. “I have nowhere to go. I have nothing to do”.

“From today, you have me” the man said “I’ll adopt you. You can call me dad. I’ll educate you and bring you up like my own son”.

***

The man happened to be Samuel Wright, the owner of the biggest striptease cum pole-dancing club in the UK. I moved into his posh, spacious house in Caster Field and was soon readmitted to school.

My new father was a widower with a daughter called Ava. Ava was benevolent and beautiful, with long blonde hair and kindly grey eyes. She was happy to have a brother and the two of us became great friends. Ava shared everything with me: smiles, possessions and secrets. However, there was one thing she didn’t let anyone touch: her red shoes.

They were the most tantalizing pair made of soft suede, with six-inch glass heels. They weren’t just any red, but crimson, like a drop of richest blood. The shape and contours were more bewitching that those of a woman’s body.

They were the most beautiful things in the world.

I caught myself gawking at the shoes often. I dreamt of them during the day and could hardly concentrate on my studies. I dreamed of them in the night and woke up sweating. The shoes excited me so much that they gave me wet dreams.

I longed to touch them and run my fingers on their contours. How soft the suede would feel against my hands! I yearned to run my hand over their silhouettes and feel the icy coolness of the heels. The longing grew into such an ache that I asked Ava if I could touch the shoes just once.

“Oh Max, I love you so much” said Ava apologetically “but I can’t let you touch those shoes. I don’t let anyone touch those shoes. I’m sorry”.

“Why is that so, Ava?” I asked “why don’t you let anyone touch them?”

“The shoes are a family heirloom” Ava explained “they are passed on from mother to daughter. My deceased mom gave them to me when I was 5 years old and asked me to wear them when I grew up. The shoes are the only reminder I have of my mom. I can share anything in the world, but not my red shoes!”

“Come on, Ava” I tried to persuade “I belong to your family now. Your father is my dad and you are my sister. Had your mom been alive, she would have considered me her son. I am sure she wouldn’t have minded if your brother touched those shoes!”

“That’s the point!” said Ava bursting into peals of laughter “you’re my brother, not sister! Had you been a girl, I might have considered letting you touch those shoes!”

“Fair enough” I said shrugging “I shall not ask again”.

***

Over the next two years, I grew into a taller, attractive young man. People found my tanned complexion, glossy raven black hair and striking green eyes very attractive. However, my hands and feet remained small. Much to my surprise, my shoe size didn’t change beyond 7.

Ava had grown up to be attractive too. Her hair had grown longer, complexion smoother and features more chiseled. We still had great affection for each other, but weren’t attracted to each other. The sibling bond between us grew by the day.

Since Ava didn’t take any interest in business, dad saw me as a natural successor. I learnt that Tantalize was a family owned company founded by dad, who owned 30% of the company’s shares. The remaining shares were owned by Lucas Wright, dad’s younger brother, Charlotte Hughes, the deceased Mrs. Wright’s sister and Ezra Green, a man who owned a cabaret in Manchester, Dylan Hughes, Charlotte’s husband and Isabella Wright, Lucas’ wife. The primary shareholders were directors on the board and also core members of the management. The only outsider in the family business was the manager, Mr. Logan Wood, a man with a sensible head on his shoulders. He was responsible for controlling family politics and ensuring that the business ran smoothly.

I was deeply interested in business, but found my mind flitting elsewhere. They routinely wandered to Ava’s beautiful, suede red shoes. I had promised not to touch them, but often found myself yearning to feel them.

I watched enviously whenever Ava put them on for a date or any other special occasion. I would longingly watch her practice ballet in them. The shoes were not strictly meant for ballet, however Ava often danced in them. When Ava practiced her slow, controlled movements and pirouetted around her room, I would hungrily eye her shoes.

If only she’d allow me to touch them once, just once.


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My Dad Was My Hero (subtitle: Feminized to be a Hero) was just published

36-year-old Zack Rossi leads an ideal family life with wife, Donna and 16-year-old daughter, Aria. All is well until Donna accidentally kills a woman at a crossing. The woman had abruptly crossed when the traffic lights had turned green. However, lawyer Wade Ferri claims otherwise. He represents the accident victim’s 93-year-old father, Antonio Serra. They claim that the traffic light was still red when Donna started the car. Ferri and his client even have a fake witness ready. It soon becomes clear to the Rossi family that the mafia has contacted Mr. Serra. Together, they are fabricating a vicious claim against the Rossi family, so that they can extort a huge amount of money from them.
The Rossi family agrees to an out-of-court monetary settlement. When they are unable to pay the demanded amount, the mafia threatens to take Aria away and force her into prostitution. Donna volunteers to go instead of the daughter but is rejected by the mafia guys. Instead, they agree to take Zack with them.
How much money can a feminized Zack make for the mafia? Will he ever return to his family again?



My Dad was My Hero

Subtitle: Feminized to be a Hero

Author: Yu Sakurazawa

Preface

I was born into a middle-income family in Rome. My dad was a school teacher and my mom worked in a bank. When I was 13 and chasing a football into a busy street, a truck nearly squashed me. My dad, who was standing on the footpath a few meters behind me, was quick to act. He dashed towards me and pushed me towards the safety of the footpath. Unfortunately, he couldn’t save himself on time. The truck hit him and he died on the spot. Dad sacrificed his life in order to protect mine.

From that day onwards, I ceased to regard my dad as a mere human being. He was my deity, my very exalted hero. I worshipped him and vowed to grow up to be just like him.

At 18, I shifted to Naples to get a degree in Sales and Marketing. I was a hermit and spent much of my time alone. One of my few trips was to a nearby supermarket, where I made all my daily purchases. Daniela Rossi, the 20-year-old cashier at the supermarket, gave me a special smile every time. She was an average-looking ash blonde, but her smile brightened my day. Soon, Daniela’s smile became more precious to me than the purchases I made at the supermarket. I asked her out. We dated for a couple of months, enjoying a young, carefree life.

When I was 19, Daniela fell pregnant. Most guys would have been freaked out at the prospect of becoming a father by 20, but I wasn’t. I looked forward to becoming one. I already loved my unborn child fiercely and vowed to do anything for him/her. I wished to be my kid’s hero the way my dad had been mine.

Daniela and I got married at a local church. Nine months later, she gave birth to the cutest baby girl. We named our daughter Angelina, as both Daniela and I loved music. With her red hair and wide green eyes, Angelina resembled me.

16 years passed in the batting of an eyelid. Angelina grew up to be a gorgeous, affectionate young girl. Many young guys adored Angelina, but Angelina claimed that she loved only me: her dad! I was glad to note that Angelina had as much fondness and reverence for me as I did for my deceased dad.

I had everything I could ever have wished for.


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Feminized for Inspiration

  • Title: Feminized for Inspiration
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: MTF

Alicia Tinley, a 34-year-old author, has just won the Man Booker Prize for her book “When it Happened”, which revolves around the “corrective” rape she and her partner Lia Costa had suffered 17 years back. The Booker Prize catapults Alicia into fame after which she marries Theo, a beautiful 21-year-old Briton with sea green eyes and flaming red hair. In many ways, he reminds Alicia of Lia…

Alicia starts writing her next novel and is inspired to write the story of Desire, a young carefree trans woman. Alicia is only used to writing about events which have transpired in reality. She, therefore, decides to feminize her husband–for inspiration.



Feminized for Inspiration

Chapter 1 – Man Booker and Marriage

Theo came into my life after 17 years of lonely existence. He was a typical 21-year-old British youth who was in Italy on a solo holiday. Everything about Theo charmed me: his flaming red hair, his porcelain smooth skin and his easy laugh. After a whirlwind romance lasting for a couple of weeks, the two of us got married in a secluded church. A few newspapers got the wind of it and carried a small news report about my marriage.

Appearance and status-wise, I was a total foil to Theo. Owing to my being of mixed descent (my father was British, while my mother was a mixture of Italian, African, Greek and French!), I had unusual looks: a tall angular body, a darkish face and wild black curls. My smoky eyes were so intense that people often thought I was a witch. However, I was nothing of that kind. I was a professional writer, who, at age 34, already had 17 years of writing experience.

I had recently won the Man Booker Prize for my 5th novel “When it Happened”. Like all my other works, “When it Happened” was a rehashed version of the true incidents that had occurred in my life. Winning the Man Booker had catapulted me to international fame. Alicia Tinley was now a household name! I had won prizes for my other novels, but the £50, 000 I had received as the Booker Prize money brought about a noticeable change in my lifestyle. I bought a classical white mansion in Sirmione, into which my husband and I shifted after our marriage.

Being married to Theo brought out qualities, which I didn’t know existed in me. I became more responsible, decisive and protective of my mate. Maybe it was the age difference between me and Theo, or my intrinsically masculine nature, but I wore the trousers in our marriage. While my home-loving husband pranced around the house; cooking, cleaning and watering potted plants, I typed away on my keyboard. The desire to provide a good life for my partner made me work harder. I was currently writing a serialized version of a novel, which appeared every week in a local English newspaper.

I was also in the habit of buying my husband little gifts. I remembered every little detail Theo told me, observed every small thing he was interested in and bought him things he appreciated. For instance, Theo had told me that he liked making miniature sculptures and I gifted him a cool set of sculpting tools on his birthday! The smile, which appeared on my husband’s face, was worth living a thousand lives! It reminded me of someone else’s, whom I had been trying to forget for the past 17 years ….

At 13, I met and fell in love with my classmate Lia Costa. She was a pretty girl with a fair delicate face, soft green eyes and intense red hair. Lia and I became inseparable friends and, soon, something more …. My conservative Christian family soon caught wind of our “friendship” and dissuaded me from seeing Lia. But their words had no impact on me. I continued to go my own merry way. My mom pinched, caned and castigated me, to no avail. My dad yanked my black curls and burnt my neck with a lit cigarette. Yet my love for Lia was so strong that I continued to see her for a good 4 years … until that incident with the man with a sharp knife, wearing a bandana … I can still remember his cold, grey eyes staring into my own as he brutally penetrated me and then Lia, in spite of my screaming and trying to get him off her. He was much stronger than I was. This was “Corrective Rape”—evidently meant to “cure” those who pursued same sex relations.

Before I could recover from the shock of what had happened, I realized that my own parents had hired the man to commit the heinous deed, so that I would be cured of my “affliction” and grow up to be “normal”. My entire world went to pieces upon learning the truth. I cut off relations with my family and moved out of home. As a 17-year-old kid who had just graduated from high school, I couldn’t expect to get the best of jobs. I worked at a supermarket by day and wrote for newspapers at night. My articles became very popular (the points they made and emotions they conveyed apparently struck a chord with readers). I soon graduated to writing novels and was approached by a British publisher. The rest, as they say, is history.

I never saw Lia after the rape. I just couldn’t muster enough strength to fight my parents any more. Shortly afterwards, Lia was found lying in a pool of blood. She had fatally slashed her wrists. I don’t know if she killed herself due to the trauma of rape or the heartbreak of our separation.

I had been a mental wreck after she died. I blamed myself for what happened and couldn’t sleep for several nights. I channelized my anguish into work, which is the reason I was able to produce such a vast amount of work in a relatively short period of time.

I didn’t date. In fact, I barely spoke to people. I became a classic example of a recluse, someone who spoke to people only functionally. My colleagues at the supermarket were a jaunty lot; they longed to include me in their conversations, but I didn’t reciprocate. My hermetic nature made me mysteriously attractive and a few men wanted to date me. I kept them all at arm’s length. All men reminded me of my rapist … I secretly loathed members of the opposite gender until I met Theo.

Theo was different. He may have been genetically male, but had the heart and soul of a woman. He understood subtle emotions, fleeting impulses and irrational fears (of which, I had plenty). He was talented, without being egoistic. Loving, without being possessive. He was happy to let me be the dominant in the bedroom. He was willing to have his hands tied, bottom spanked and being called “Slave”. My fetishes mattered more to Theo than his own pleasure. My husband was content to play the “bottom” to my “Goddess”. I took great care not to degrade him too much as I fiercely loved him. I can safely say that I loved Theo as much as I had loved Lia. As I gazed into Theo’s soft green eyes and caressed the curve of his feminine waist, I realized that he reminded me of Lia. My dead love had been resurrected and returned to me in the form of my beloved husband. For the first time in years, I had a reason to be grateful to God. Theo was the best prize I had won by far.


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Feminized in the Name of God

  • Title: Feminized in the Name of God
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: MTF, transgender

Feminized in the Name of God is a transgender story deeply rooted in the Indian “devadasi” system.

The Devadasi System is a tradition prevalent in South and Western India in which an adolescent girl is dedicated to a temple deity. She is “married” to God in an elaborate ceremony called the Pottukattu. “Devadasis” literally mean “female servants of God” and were originally expected to serve the temple deity, keep the temple courtyard clean and dance for wealthy patrons. The devadasis could either choose to remain single or have a partner(s).

With passing time, the devadasi system just became an excuse to push young girls into prostitution so that they could financially support their families. The system became an excuse for upper caste men to sexually exploit young girls belonging to lower castes. By supporting the devadasi system, the Brahmins (the uppermost caste in India, who were typically custodians of the temple) gave religious sanction to prostitution.

Although Devadasi Abolition Bill was enacted in 1947, the system continues even today. As many as 3,000 young girls are secretly dedicated to temples every year and fall prey to exploitation and sexually transmitted diseases.

The protagonist is Laksh who was born as a baby boy from Anita, a devadasi. Anita’s mother has the total control of the devadasi family. The grandmother regrets that Laksh was born as a boy and tries to raise him as a dancer-girl.



Chapter 1 – My Fateful Birth

I was born on 9th January 2000 in a whorehouse. “Damn” said my grandma evidently “a boy is no good to me”. I could imagine the disappointment on her painted face and the dejected drooping of her heavy silk saree-clad body. Grandma herself had been a prostitute in her youth and had also made a lot of money by selling her daughter’s (i.e. my mother’s) body. Grandma was an avaricious woman who forced my mother to dance for and provide sex to many clients. When my mother was pregnant with me, grandma had fervently prayed that she would deliver a baby girl so that another young body in the house could be sold.

Not that women like my grandma openly called themselves prostitutes. They called themselves devadasis or the female servants of deva (God). The moment a girl of the devadasi clan attained puberty, she was “dedicated” to worship and service the deity of a temple. She was believed to be married to God and couldn’t marry a mortal. However, devadasis typically slept with partners of their choice. In recent times, the devadasi system had been reduced to just selling one’s body under the sanction of religion.

My grandma had apparently stood regarding me for a long time. My lily-white, Caucasian complexion had her salivating. Fair skin was highly priced in the meat market; grandma wanted to take complete advantage of mine. “Anita” she said to my mom “Your son is as fair as milk. He has taken after his father and isn’t dusky like yourself. You know what I’m thinking, don’t you?”

“I don’t have any idea” said my mom clutching me protectively.

“You’re a fool, Anita” said my grandma “you have no business sense whatsoever. Don’t you recognize an opportunity when you see one?”

“All I see is a child, mother” my mother had said obstinately.

“Sure, but he could also bring us loads of lucre” said my grandma “I would like to bring my grandson up as a girl and call her Lily. I’d love to dedicate Lily to God when she reaches puberty. Since the child has lovely fair skin, men would be willing to pay a fortune to sleep with her just once”.

“You’re crazy, mother” said my mom evidently crying “I certainly will not allow you to do any such thing. My son will grow up abiding by the gender he is born into. I shall call him Laksh, which means aim/destination/target. I want him to go to school, study hard and grow up to become an academician”. “Ha! Send him to school!” my grandma scoffed “no child in our community has ever gone to school! The admission form in school is bound to ask for the boy’s father’s name and his surname. What will you tell them? We devadasis don’t know who our fathers are. We don’t have surnames. All we are born to do is serve God and men!”

“I’ll manage to admit Laksh to a school” my mom had muttered defiantly “there is no need for you to worry about that”.

“Very well, Anita” said my grandma “have it your own way. But do what you might, you will never be able to avert the fate destiny has for this child!”

Little had my mother known about my grandma’s evil scheme. Grandma had secretly vowed to feminize me.


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Voices from the Past – transgender thriller/mystery

  • Title: Voices from the Past
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: thriller, suspense, transgender, mtf

The protagonist is 21 year-old Briton, Peter Wright who marries his sweetheart, Libby Brown. The two visit Kolkata for their honeymoon. The newlyweds decide to visit the Dakshineshwar Kali Temple to seek blessings of the deity. When inside the temple, Peter Wright goes into a trance and starts hearing a voice. The voice commands Peter to walk along the banks of the River Ganges, cross a mini forest and stop at a side street where vendors sell women’s clothes, jewelry and makeup items. Under the influence of the hypnotic voice, Peter dresses like a woman and sits under a tree for hours until his wife finds him.

The voice persists and seems bent on feminizing Peter. Is it a supernatural force or does it only exist inside Peter’s head?



Voices from the Past

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Honeymooners

I met Libby Brown when I’d gone to Globe Theatre to watch the play Romeo and Juliet. I had been so touched at the depiction of the star-crossed lovers that I couldn’t help breaking into tears. Libby, who was seated beside me, giggled mercilessly. She found it funny that a man could cry in public.

“I must say you are in touch with your feminine side” she said snickering “I have never seen a man get as emotional as you”.

“To each his own” I replied offended at Libby’s (who was then a stranger to me) teasing “I’ve never seen a woman who sits dry-eyed at a heart-wrenching play”.

“I’m in touch with my masculine side” replied Libby unperturbed “my parents have brought me up to be strong, independent and unemotional”.

“We’d make a good pair then” I said lightly, regaining my spirits.

After the play finished, Libby and I walked around the area together and had a cup of coffee. Libby was a tall, big-boned blonde with a big heart and laugh. She was a foil to my dark-haired, small-boned, not-very-tall (I’m 5’6) self. However, both of us shared similarities: we were both young (21 years old), freshly graduated and eagerly looking forward to what life had in store for us.

After a few weeks of dating, Libby and I got married. Our families weren’t too thrilled as they thought that she and I were too young to get hitched and hadn’t seen enough of each other. However, Libby and I were happy to have got married. We knew each other well enough to want to spend the rest of our lives with each other.

Or so I had thought.

When it came to deciding our honeymoon destination, my wife left the choice to me. “You’ve married me in good faith, Pete” she said “I’ll let you wear the trousers in the house”.

“That’s nice of you, honey” I said “but I’d rather think of the two of us as equal rather than me being the master of the house”.

“Whatever, darling” said Libby “but I want you to decide where we go for our honeymoon”.

That was a kind offer. Libby was being very generous. I gave the matter some thought. Rich images of a foreign land bombarded my vision: the vast meters of a cantilever bridge, the beating of drums and the blowing of conches and the aroma of fish cooked in mustard oil. I dreamt of a land, which was vibrant and fecund, yet had underlying currents of something dark and terrifying…

I realized that the place I was thinking about was Kolkata, the capital of West Bengal. My parents, who had loved traveling, had lived in different countries during their prime. They had lived in India for about two years, when I was between 8 and 10 years old. My parents had supported the family by teaching English. After our stint at India, the family had had moved to Thailand.

Apart from the cultural shock I had experienced, and feelings of being overwhelmed by the vivid sights and sounds of the city, I didn’t remember much of Kolkata. I didn’t remember if I had been home-schooled or sent to a mainstream school, whether I had any friends or if my parents had been amiable with the locals. This was strange considering I was grown up enough to remember many more details…

The impression Kolkata had left on me was a beautiful one, but under its glorious surface lay a malevolence, which I couldn’t, at the moment, identify. Yet I felt the intense desire to revisit the charismatic city. It was as if a force outside of me was luring me to revisit the banks of River Ganges (or Hooghly as it is known in Kolkata) along with my wife.

“Kolkata” I presently said to my wife “I’d like to romance you in Kolkata, my sweet”.

“That’s a rather unusual choice” said my wife peering curiously into my face “I knew you had a taste for the exotic, but didn’t expect you to surprise me to such an extent…”

“I’m sorry if my choice has disappointed you” I said apologetically “we could change the destination if you like. Perhaps you’d like to go to Paris, a more conventionally romantic city?”

“No!” said my wife scornfully “Paris is so clichéd—almost every honeymooner goes there. I’d be happy to go to India. I believe it has a great air”.

“Don’t make the mistake of confusing the whole of India to be the same” I said laughingly “one region is as different from another as chalk from cheese”.

***

Libby and I got a 3 month tourist visa to India. We planned a good one month holiday in the country and flew straight to Kolkata. The two of us arrived at Dum Dum Airport and booked a hotel room in the Esplanade Area, which was at the center of the town and was situated close to all the tourist hot spots in the city.

As Libby and I drove through the city, I reveled in its rich sights, sounds and colors. London was gorgeous, but had a conservative sterility to it which was offset by the sensual fecundity of Kolkata. Kolkata was so engorged with rich cultural, literary, religious and artist flavors that I found my senses reeling. Yet I know that in the underbelly of this beautiful city lay a deep dark secret, which was of personal significance to me.

I told myself that I was imagining things because of heat and tiredness. Once inside the hotel room, my wife and I had a shower by turns and ordered some food. After resting for a while, my wife browsed the tour itinerary.

“Man, this city is an eclectic mix of different places!” she said “I wouldn’t know which to see first…you choose the first place, Pete”.

“Not again” I groaned in mock exasperation “I seem to have married a woman who suffers the dreaded disease of indecision”

“Yes” agreed my wife spiritedly “the chief reason I married you is so that you make all our life’s decisions!”

“Okay ma’am” I said rolling my eyes “please read out the places listed in the itinerary”.

“Sure” said Libby skimming the itinerary “there is Victoria Memorial, Indian Museum, Science Museum, Fine Arts Museum…”

“England has hordes of museums too” I said in a monotonous voice “and I’m sick and tired of them. Let’s see something, which is unique to India…something of religious significance perhaps?”

“How about the Dakshineshwar Kali Temple?” Libby said “we’d also get a close view of River Ganges, considered to be one of the most sacred rivers in India”

“Good choice” I said “we’ll go there tomorrow after breakfast”


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The Androgynous Model

  • Title: The Androgynous Model
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: transgender, mtf, romance fantasy

Oliver Evans, an 18 year old androgynous model, is terrified of heights. His manager cum best buddy, Jasper Robinson, tricks Oliver into going to Morocco, where Oliver models for renowned photographer Dame Felicity Wright. Oliver finds himself mesmerized by a group of female Shikhat (traditional Moroccan dance) dancers. He starts dancing with them. The dance moves come to Oliver magically, even though he has never heard of nor learnt the Shikhat dance. Oliver discovers that he is comfortable in a female dancer’s costume. He, eventually, begins to develop a desire to transition into a woman. Oliver’s desires turns life as he knows it topsy turvy, but helps him find the love of his life. After becoming “Amina”, Oliver discovers the reason for his fears.



The Androgynous Model

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Androgynous Model Oliver

I was a model named Oliver Evans. At 16, I had taken part in a reality show on a local television channel. I got noticed by a renowned modeling agency called Green Silvers. The first commercial I’d done was for a winter wear company. My green eyes, pouty lips and slender girlish frame became an overnight rage. Now, by 18, I had walked the ramp for the crème de la crème of fashion industry including Dolce & Gabbana. My feminine face had been splurged on the cover of many fashion magazines including The British Vogue.

The macho male look was passé in England: No one liked brawny, bearded guys anymore. The modeling industry wished to hire effeminate guys like myself to showcase their clothes and to advertise their accessories. Maybe it was the combination of a beautiful man wearing uncompromisingly male clothes, which caught people’s imagination.

In spite of my girlish looks, I was a rugged male at heart. I liked hanging out with other men, guzzling beer and playing cricket. I liked checking out girls in my spare time. Not that I had any difficulty getting them into bed. Any girl would feel flattered to sleep with Oliver Evans.

I had been with many girls, but didn’t have a steady girlfriend. I wasn’t a flirt or a womanizer and would have eventually liked to settle down with the right person. However, I just hadn’t found my soul mate! All the women seemed to be after my good looks and money…nobody loved me for my soul.

I loathed my long hair. But since designers seemed to like my look, I didn’t chop it off. I, however, made sure that I only showcased men’s clothes. I’d never have worn a skirt for a million pounds!

My best friend, Jasper Robinson, was my manager cum agent. He had guided me through the modeling world, managed my career and introduced me to agents, clients, photographers and designers. I attributed my success to Jasper’s dedication and the career plan he’d made for me.

One day, Jasper came into my office looking flushed and excited. “You’re in luck, Oliver boy” he breathlessly said “Dame Felicity Wright wants to work with you”.

“Dame Felicity Wright?!” I cried incredulously. I was unable to believe my luck. Felicity Wright was one of the biggest names in the photography world. She was one of the few photographers below the age of 35 to been bestowed a title by the queen. If Felicity wanted to work with me, I must have been making massive waves in the modeling world.

“Very much” said Jasper presently “but she has one condition”.

“What is it?” I asked curiously.

“Felicity wants to shoot you in Morocco” said Jasper.

“Damn!” I said “you know that’s not possible!” Disappointment pulled me down like a dead weight. Here I was, being presented with an opportunity of a lifetime. Unfortunately, I couldn’t grab it.

“Get over it, Oliver” said Jasper “you can’t afford to say ‘no’ to Dame Felicity. It will destroy your career”.

“I know” I cried dismayed “but in spite of trying, I’m unable to get over my fear of heights and of flying. I have gone to various psychologists and psychiatrists, but they have been unable to cure me of my phobia. I have lost many international assignments due to that”.

“Yes, everybody isn’t like Dolce & Gabbana” replied Jasper “Dolce & Gabbana understood your fears and shifted their fashion show from Milan to London”.

“Could you please talk Dame Felicity into shooting in the UK?” I pleaded with Jasper “we could have studio sets that resemble Morocco”.

“I did, but Felicity isn’t budging from her stance” replied Jasper heaving a sigh “she says she can’t imagine you in any other place but Morocco”.

“That’s really weird” I said “and I seem to have lost the opportunity of my life”.

“Yeah” said Jasper “but it wouldn’t hurt to have a drink with Felicity”.

***

That weekend, Jasper and I had a drink with Dame Felicity Wright in one of the swanky pubs in Glasgow. I was dressed in my trademark baggy pants and black Metallica T-shirt. Dame Felicity was congenial, down-to-earth and carried her title lightly. She was in her early 30s, but looked much younger.

“You’re such a beauty, Oliver” she said stroking my long blonde mane “I was super keen on working with you. Can’t you change your mind and come to Morocco?”

“I wish I could, Felicity” I said “but the prospect of sitting on a flight is enough to give me a heart attack. I am terrified of heights; hence I have avoided trekking, rock climbing, paragliding etc all my life. When on the terrace of a building, I don’t dare look down!”

“But what is the source of your fear?” asked felicity pouring me some more wine into my goblet “did you lose your loved ones in a plane crash or something?”

“I have no idea about the source of my fear” I said “I lost both my parents, but not in a plane crash. Mom died of cancer. My dad died of a broken heart a few months afterwards”.

“I am sorry” said Felicity grimly “perhaps I shouldn’t have asked”.

“No worries” I said as Jasper poured me another drink “Jasper has been my family since my parents passed away. He’s an angel sent on earth to watch over me”.

“Come on, mate, don’t embarrass me” said Jasper flushing to the roots of his thick dark hair. Felicity, meanwhile, poured me another drink.

Soon, my companions’ faces began turning hazy. Before I knew it, I could feel my world turning dark.

***

I woke up after what seemed like an eternity in the back seat of a cab. Jasper and Felicity were sitting in the front seat. They smiled benignly at me as I woke up and rubbed my eyes in confusion.

I looked around me. The place the cab was parked in was some sort of a crowded market place. People around me walked wearing long, loose garments with full sleeves. Some of them wore a hood and yellow slippers without a heel. They yanked sheep and goat along with them. The people around me looked like Arabs or moors. They weren’t Caucasians, and I definitely wasn’t in the UK!

“Where in the world am I?” I asked perplexed.

“You’re in Morocco” replied Jasper calmly “Dame Felicity brought you here in her private jet”.

“But…” I asked still confused “how did you manage? I hardly remember a thing!”

“We drugged your wine” said Felicity unconscientiously “and brought you here when you were in deep throes of sleep”.

I was upset at being tricked. It made me furious that Jasper had been in cahoots with Felicity in her little scheme.

“That was an unprofessional thing to do, Felicity” I said “I didn’t expect a titled personality like yourself to do such a thing”.

“I’m a girl first, a titled personality later!” protested Felicity “and I am a girl who was desperate to shoot you in Morocco”.

“Sure” I said “but I didn’t think you’d resort to devious methods to get me here” I said. Dame Felicity looked ashamed of herself. .

“And you Jasper?” I said turning to my best buddy “how could you betray me like this? Had I woken up on the private jet, I could have suffered a heart attack! It seems like you care much more about your commission than my life”.

“Please don’t misunderstand me, mate” said Jasper apologetically “I did this only so that you can progress in your career”.

“Leave me alone, the two of you” I said still miffed “I want to be by myself for a while”.

“Let’s reach the hotel and rest…” suggested Felicity “Joe and Will, members of my crew, have already reached the hotel. They took another cab. Jasper and I were on the way to the hotel from the airbase when you woke up. The cab driver has gone to get himself a cup of mint tea and will be returning shortly”.

“Leave me alone for a while please” I repeated my request.

Felicity and Jasper shrugged and got off the cab.

“We’ll get you Couscous, a delicious local dish” said Felicity grinning from the window “that should cheer you up”. She then turned away and walked off with Jasper, leaving me alone in a cab in a foreign town.


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Abigail Resurrected – A Professional Mourner

  • Title: Abigail Resurrected
  • Subtitle: A Professional Mourner
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: mtf transgender, horror, romance suspense

18-year-old Noah Edwards is a professional mourner. He has lost his parents a long time back. Noah attends 18-year-old Abigail Lewis’s funeral along with his colleagues. Abigail is a sick, young girl who has succumbed to an unusual type of tuberculosis. At the end of the funeral, Abigail’s mother, Imogene Lewis, asks Noah to stay back. She offers him a job for a large sum of money. The job entails Noah dressing up like the deceased Abigail by wearing her clothes, donning a blonde wig and blue contact lenses.



Abigail Resurrected

Subtitle: A Professional Mourner

By Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – The Offbeat Career

I walked into the dingy, dark office. A man in his 50s, with a scraggly beard and a pair of rimless glasses, asked me to take a seat. His name was Leo Harris and he headed a group of professional mourners known as “Forget-Me-Not”.

Leo went through my resume for a few minutes and said: “From what I perceive, you haven’t had an easy life. Welcome to my little group of professional mourners. Going by your pale, little face, I don’t think you’d have much trouble squeezing out a tear or two”.

I nodded in a dignified manner. There was some truth in Harris’s words. My life was hard. This was a reality, which no amount of time would change.

My name was Noah Edwards and I was no prince. I had grown up in extreme poverty, with a wastrel of a father and an alcoholic mother. My parents lived on social security and managed to send me to a community school. There was never enough to eat and countless times we went to bed with no electricity in the house. I got sick of starving and shivering in the cold and started doing odd jobs like mowing the garden, raking leaves and helping the neighbors to clean out their garage. This helped us afford a few things besides bread. The family could now buy corned beef and potatoes, and a few cheap fruits like apples or oranges.

My parents died in a freak accident when I was 12. I sustained myself by working in a nursery. The state wouldn’t give a council house to a minor, hence I was homeless. I slept on park benches and in tube stations in the nights.

Belonging to a group of professional mourners was a unique experience. My friends and I would go from funeral to funeral, pretending to be one of the guests. My pals and I would think of the saddest movie we’d seen and weep copiously. I personally used The Schindler’s List to cry, but the girls used The Notebook or Fault in our Stars.

Before attending any funeral, we did a thorough research on the deceased person, so that no one would become suspicious of us. It required much effort and some amount of method acting. In the few months I had worked as a professional mourner, I had attended the funerals of all types of people: the gentleman who had lived up to be a hundred, a woman who had traveled the world and a child who had died in his infancy.

One nippy winter morning, Harris called me and my friends over to his office. “Funeral at 10 am” he said tersely “a group of young professional mourners required”.

“Who’s the victim?” asked Heidi White, a tall, hefty girl in the group.

“18-year-old Abigail “Abby” Lewis” said Harris.

“She was the only child of single parent, Imogene Lewis. Abigail had always been a sick child and had suffered from myriad health problems like a weak heart, inability to put on weight etc. A few months back, she was diagnosed with tuberculosis…it was pretty advanced when detected, she passed away. Dying of tuberculosis is extremely unusual in this day and age, but it happened in Abby’s case”.

“Why is Imogene Lewis hiring professional mourners?” I asked. “Abby had many friends surely?”

“She didn’t” replied Harris grimly. “Owing to her health problems, Abby had to be homeschooled. Imogene taught Abby herself as the mother and the daughter shared a very close bond. Abby was reclusive; she didn’t emerge out of her room when relatives and family friends visited. She barely left the house. Now that Abby is dead, Imogene is devastated, as you can imagine. What saddens Imogene the most is that Abby doesn’t have friends of her own age mourning for her. Hence, she contacted me and asked me to send a few young mourners over to their house in Surrey”.

“I’m glad we are going to Surrey” said Heidi “it would be good to be out in the countryside, out of the hustle and bustle of London”.

“Please remember that this is not an outing” warned Harris “a young life has been snuffed out cruelly by fate. It is a sad situation. Mourn as if you were close friends of the deceased girl. In case anyone asks, tell them that you met Abby online and visited her at home. Tell them that Abby was kindly, benign, sweet…general stuff like that. And the dress code is strictly to be followed: black gowns for the girls and black suits for the guys.


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Slippery Slope in a Reality Show – Feminized by Destiny

  • Title: Slippery Slope in a Reality Show
  • Subtitle: Feminized by Destiny
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: mtf, transgender

The 23-year-old protagonist is one of the contestants of Pyar Villa, a reality show in which 7 dashing guys are supposed to woo 7 lovely damsels. Though not interested in women, Sanjay, the protagonist, idly courts a leggy dusky beauty named Jacqueline Lobo. Prince Ash, the winner of a major model hunt, is introduced as a wild card entry on Pyar Villa. Slowly but surely, Sanjay begins to develop feelings for the ruggedly handsome Ash. Ash reciprocates Sanjay’s feelings and the two men begin a secret affair. Ash coaxes Sanjay to dress in women’s clothes bringing the latter’s suppressed desire for feminization to surface. However, Sanjay suffers heartbreak when Prince Ash proposes to Jacqueline on the final episode of Pyar Villa. Sanjay resolves to live the rest of his life as a woman. She is now called Simi.



Slippery Slope in a Reality Show

by Yu Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – Pyar Villa: The House of Love

Being the son of the affluent Rajesh Saluja got me into Pyar Villa, a TV show hosted by STV India. Dad was particular that I get a life outside of my dental clinic and socialize with girls like a “normal” 23-year-old guy. Pyar Villa (The House of Love) provided the perfect platform to find true love, or so its creators claimed. The contestants would be searching for it in front of a bunch of cameras and a million viewers.

7 guys (including me) and 7 girls were housed in a villa on the outskirts of Delhi. The guys were supposed to mingle with the girls, perform fun tasks and exhibit their talents to win the damsels over. The show was hosted by Rahul Batra, an STV MJ and Indiana Amour, a former cabaret dancer. I was given a spacious room in the villa. I also met and had a passing conversation with Vishal Grover, the guy in the room next to mine. Vishal gave me nice, friendly vibes in spite of being a competitor at the show.

Later that day, I was introduced to the other guys and girls. The girls were apparently attracted to my lean slender body and boyish face. The guys didn’t pass any comments, but I could tell that they too found me cute. The cameras soon started rolling and the guys were asked to socialize with the girls, who waited for us in the swimming pool of the villa. None of the girls interested me, but I started flirting with a leggy dusky beauty called Jacqueline Lobo aka Jackie. Jackie reveled in the attention she received from me and believed that we had established a true “heart-to-heart” connection. Over the next few weeks, Jackie and I became close and were known as the “love birds” of the villa. However, except for a sense of camaraderie, I felt nothing for my “lover-girl”.

One sunny day, Rahul and Indiana had a surprise for us. They introduced a wild card entry to give us regular guys some stiff competition. When the latest competitor walked into the villa, the girls nearly swooned. The new contestant was none other than the drop-dead gorgeous Prince Ash, the winner of Glamour Manhunt Contest. As Ash came into the villa and flashed his famous piano-key smile, I could feel a flush creep up my neck. Prince Ash shook hands and interacted with all the contestants of the villa. When he took his hands in mine, I could feel myself blushing ever more. I stammered when I spoke and could barely maintain eye contact. Ash seemed to notice my discomfiture and gave me a secret smile.

Over the next few days, I was acutely conscious of Ash’s gaze on me. When I performed a task which required me to paint Jackie’s body, I could feel Ash’s dark eyes bore into me. His expressive eyes seemed to speak and they said: “Sanjay Saluja, I wish to paint your body”.

During a task in which the guys were supposed to splash scented water on the girls they were wooing, Prince Ash threw a bucketful of fragrant water on me! The hosts and the contestants saw his act as a joke and laughed, but I knew otherwise. Ash’s gesture may have been frivolous, but his intention was not.

During another Pyar Villa task, all the guys were supposed to write down their darkest fantasies on a sheet of paper, but not sign their names underneath it. The girls were supposed to guess whom the respective fantasies belonged to. Since I was afraid of revealing my deepest fantasies, I settled for an innocent one. I penned that I’d like to take Jacqueline on a romantic date on a beach. The other guys were bolder. They wrote about wanting to have orgies and group sex. One anonymous guy had expressed the desire to court another guy from the villa. None of the girls could guess who this particular fantasy belonged to.

But I knew. One glance at Prince Ash’s smirking face only confirmed my knowledge.


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Embarrassing Punishment – A Transgender Romance Story

  • Title: Embarrassing Punishment
  • Subtitle: A Transgender Romance Story
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: transgender, mtf

Jacob King is the protagonist of the story. He is 26 years old, has brown hair and aquamarine blue eyes. Jacob is 5’6 and is thin as a rake. He is boastful and claims that if made president of the Blue Bonnets Association, he’ll be able to extract maintenance dues from a habitual defaulter in 3 months. Jacob also says that if he fails in his self-imposed challenge, he will live the rest of his life as a woman and even take female hormones. Jacob fails in the bet, which forces him to transition into a woman. Transitioning affects his life negatively: he loses job and his wife leaves him. Life changes for the better when Jake meets the owner of an adult movie house. Jacob moves to LA and starts appearing in adult films.



Embarrassing Punishment

Chapter 1 – Clash of Egos

I was having drinks with a few other residents of Blue Bonnets, our apartment block. My booze pals for the night were sixty three year old Thomas Owens, a retired bank manager and Mason Scott, a thirtyish ginger who worked as a restaurant manager. Since Blue Bonnets was one of the few apartment complexes in our little town in Texas, we had formulated a Management Committee (MC) with its own rules and regulations. Mr. Owens was the President of the association and Scott doubled as secretary cum treasurer.

Since my wife Natalie wasn’t present at our little party, I had already had a pint too many. I was thought of as “condescending” and “overconfident”; I felt invincibly so now. “You guys from the MC are useless!” I said taking a swig from the whiskey bottle “you haven’t been able to collect dues from the habitual defaulter in 3 long years! I would have done it in 3 months flat!”

The habitual defaulter I was talking about was Ahmed Khan, an Indian immigrant. Ahmed’s maintenance dues over the last three years had soared to hundreds of dollars.

“We’ve tried our best, King” replied Mr. Owens quietly “but it hasn’t been possible”.

“Why not?” I demanded “you should have cut off his water and electricity supply! Had you deprived Ahmed of the rights and facilities enjoyed by the other residents, he would have coughed up the money immediately!”

“We couldn’t do that” said Mr. Owens “Ahmed Khan’s case is a bit different”.

“Rubbish!” I said “you’re giving excuses! The MC is useless, that is the Gospel truth. Had I been the president, I would have extracted the dues from the guy in three months!”

“Fine” said Mr. Owens growing red with rage “you become the president. I pass on the baton to you. I shall be handing Mason my resignation letter tonight”.

“Good decision, Mr. Owens” I said cockily “you will be amazed at how quickly I accomplish the mission!”

“What if you fail?” asked Mr. Owens with passive belligerence.

“I shall not fail” I said with zest “If I do, I will live the rest of my life as a goddamn woman and even take female hormones!”

***

Scott chuckled embarrassingly at my ridiculous declaration. But Mr. Owens didn’t bat an eyelid.

“Say you’ll become a woman in writing and also put your signature” he said. He opened his briefcase and gave me a sheet of paper and a pen.

With a slightly quivering hand, I wrote the follows.

“This contract entered into on the 13th day of December 2017 by William Owens, retired employee at Dollars Bank, 45, Blue Bonnets Apartment, Texas and Jacob King, teacher at Texas High, 45 Blue Bonnets Apartment, Texas, do hereby agree to the terms given and described below:

1) I, Jacob King, promise to extract dues from defaulter Ahmed Khan by the 13th of March 2018, failing to do which I shall dress and live as a woman for the rest of my life.

2) I, Jacob King, also agree to take female hormones to become entirely feminized in case I fail in my mission of extracting dues from defaulter Ahmed Khan before the 13th of March 2018.

I showed the lines I had penned to Mr. Owens and Scott. Mr. Owens nodded in approval. Scott showed no reaction. But as I picked up the pen again to sign, Scott rushed to my side and grabbed my hand.

“You’re making a mistake, King” he said “Ahmed Khan isn’t the typical defaulter…for many reasons. It might be nearly impossible to extract dues from him…”

I smiled benignly at Scott. He, a soft-spoken hulk of a man, was one of the kindest persons on earth. The residents of Blue Bonnets called him “Gentle Giant” for a good reason.

“Nothing is impossible, my friend” I said “especially for Jacob King”.

“Maybe” said Scott “but please don’t sign”. His grip on my hand tightened.

My temper got the better of me. “Leave me alone, Scott!” I said releasing my hand from his grasp “I’m a 26 year old man, not a child! I take responsibility for my actions!”

Scott reluctantly let go of my arm and took his seat beside Mr. Owens. As I signed, a slow, sadistic smile spread across Mr. Owens’s face. “I hope the braggart bastard fails and pays” he seemed to be thinking. Scott just sat resignedly, holding his head in his hands.

***

The next morning, Scott came to my apartment to hand me the appointment letter. “You’re the president of the association now” he said, “but I wish you hadn’t created and signed that silly contract last night”.

“Why not?” I demanded “I’m going to win anyway”.

“I hope you do” said Scott sincerely “but it isn’t easy to collect dues from Ahmed Khan. He is a Muslim AND an immigrant”.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I said baffled “he should be treated like any other defaulter”.

“You are too naïve, King” Scott chided “it’s hard to treat Ahmed like any other defaulter. The president of the US has made too many remarks against immigrants and Muslims. If we cut off Ahmed’s water and electricity supplies, and deprive him of other rights and facilities that the other residents of Blue Bonnets enjoy, it will appear that we are discriminating against him”.

“The situation is a tricky one” I said, “but I can handle it”.

***

In the evening after school, I freshened up and went straight to Ahmed Khan’s house. His young and pretty wife opened the door. She was crying so copiously that mascara had rolled down her cheeks. Mrs. Khan’s hair was disheveled and framed her face like Medusa’s locks.

“What happened, Mrs. Khan?” I asked shocked by the young woman’s appearance.

“The bastard left me” was Fatima Khan’s response.

I surmised that she was referring to her husband. I waited for Fatima to say more.

“My parents warned me against marrying him” she continued “they didn’t trust Ahmed Khan one little bit. Also, they couldn’t understand why I would want to marry someone thirty years older…but Ahmed was so disarmingly charming and such a glib talker, that I fell in love with him and accepted his marriage proposal…my parents disowned me after my marriage…”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Khan” I said somewhat impatiently “but what’s wrong at the moment? Where is Mr. Khan?”

“He has fled to Oman to be with his family” said Fatima breaking into tears again “I believe he already had a wife and grown children before he married me. And now I have been abandoned in their favor. My parents will not take me back. I am broke and don’t have a job. I’ll soon have to find one, or else I’ll starve!”

My stomach lurched as I digested this piece of information. With events having taken a turn for the worse, it would be harder to extract maintenance dues. Yet I boldly persevered.

“Mrs. Khan, your husband hasn’t paid the maintenance money for 3 years” I said “it has soared to hundreds of dollars. Are you aware of this?”

The shock on Fatima’s Khan’s face was evident. “What?!” she said “Oh no!”

“Yes, Mrs. Khan” I said “I request you to pay the amount ASAP”.

“But I’m broke, Mr. King!” Fatima cried “I don’t have a dime. That bastard even sold my gold earrings, which were my only possession!”

“I understand, Mrs. Khan” I said, my mouth going dry “but can’t you arrange for the money somehow…maybe contact your parents in India?”

“No way!” said Mrs. Khan “they don’t want to see my face ever again, do you think they’ll lend me money?!”

“I guess not” I said.

“I request the association to give me time” said Fatima composing herself “I’ll earn an honest living and clear the dues. But it may not happen overnight”.

***

Three months passed in the batting of an eyelid. Ahmed Khan didn’t return. Fatima Khan had found herself a job, but hadn’t made enough money to pay her maintenance dues. I couldn’t bring myself to force an abandoned woman to beg, borrow or steal and cough up the money. I was assertive, but not heartless.

On the night of 13th March 2018, Mr. Owens came to my apartment. “You’ve lost the bet, King” he said simply “you’ll now have to keep your side of the bargain”.


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Playmate – A Transgender Romance Story

  • Title: Playmate
  • Subtitle: A Transgender Romance Story
  • Author: Yu Sakurazawa
  • Category: MTF, Transgender, Romance

Ten year old Derek has been more like an adoptive “sister” to Rupert Meadows, the young scion of a rich business family. It is customary for 11 year old Rupert to dress Derek as a “bride” and playact being married to him. Disapproving of the two boys’ closeness and silly games, Rupert’s father sends Rupert away to a boarding school in Berkshire and, subsequently, to the US, far away from Derek. When the two guys meet as adults, sparks fly.  Derek undergoes sex change to please his lover. Derek is now known as Darlene.

Darlene and Rupert are very much in love until the burglary of Rupert’s mother’s expensive black pearls casts a shadow of suspicion on Darlene’s character and strains the relationship between her and Rupert.




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