[Introduction] Juan is a happy-go-lucky young man, but his beloved wife Moira seems to be unhappy with her gender. She suggests that both of them go to Everland, a country bordering south west England, where people change into members of the opposite sex.

Once there, Juan transforms into the beauteous Jasmine and Moira into a handsome man, Glenn. Jasmine discovers that the rules of Everland are a bit unconventional: women and castrated men are expected to be registered and to wear a collar bearing details of the registration around their necks. The abovementioned people are also to have a leash attached to the D-rings of their collars and are chained by their masters.

When Glenn is brutally bashed up, Jasmine is roaming the streets all by herself. The cops find her and take her to an animal detention center where she thrown naked into a large cage along with large male dogs. Jasmine and the dogs are to be gassed to death the following day.

A magnificent black Great Dane comforts Jasmine and the most beautiful soul-to-soul love blossoms between the two. The next day, both of them escape being executed. Jasmine goes home to her husband and the Great Dane disappears into a forests. Are the two destined to meet again?


Juan/Jasmine: is the protagonist of the story. At the beginning, he is a robust 31 year old man of 5’11, with honey-wheat hair and chocolate brown eyes. He owns a farm and a ranch and enjoys deer-hunting, shooting, raising thoroughbreds etc. He loves his wife to distraction, but finds that she is unhappy in England. After going to Everland, Juan transforms into a beautiful big-breasted, long-legged woman called Jasmine. J

Moira/Glenn: is the petite wife of Juan. With her small oval face, petite 5’4 frame and dark hair, she is extremely feminine-looking. However, it is clear that she is unhappy with her gender. Moira suggests to Juan that both of them go to a country called Everland, where people are changed into members of the opposite sex. Juan accedes. Once there, Moira finds herself transformed into a tall (6’3), strong, handsome young man with a deep voice. Comfortable with his gender identity, Glenn is now able to love his partner more fully.

The Great Dane: is Jasmine’s soul-mate. He is handsome, with a beautiful black streamlined body and loving liquid black eyes. When Jasmine is put in a cage with him at the animal detention center, the Great Dane licks to comfort her.

Thompson: is the cruel, lecherous manager of Everland Animal Detention Center. He is about 40, is gangling, has a long chinless face, a balding head and piercing blue eyes. He is so cold that he coaxes Jasmine into having sex with him just minutes before her scheduled execution.

Denise: is a 70 year old benign-looking woman with thick salt and pepper hair. Since she is above 50, Denise wears a platinum collar, but doesn’t have to be leashed and owned by a master anymore. She is the guardian of her 22 year old granddaughter, Ada. Denis invites Jasmine home and explains the rules of Everland to her over tea.

Ada: is the 22 year old granddaughter of Denise. She is dark-haired and pretty. Ada is collared, leashed and owned by Denise. After Denise’s death, Ada faces the grim future of being euthanized.

Betty Moore: is the 55 year old director of Everland Broadcasting Station and host of the talk show ‘Crossing a Line’. Betty has a cheerful bright square face with high cheekbones, short ash blonde hair and kind grey eyes. Like all women over 50, Betty wears a platinum collar around her neck.

Greg Bentley: A famous human rights lawyer invited to speak in Betty Moore’s talk show, ‘Crossing a line’.

Rob Turner: The minister in charge of Woman & Child Welfare in Everland. Also a guest on Betty Moore’s talk show.




Beyond Gender & Species

Chapter 1 – When I was ‘He’ and He was a ‘She’

It was a clear cloudless day. The sun reflected from the surface of the leaves, else bounced off the lakes. The morning birds were in the air, singing cheerfully. I was returning home with a rifle in hand and the body of a roe deer I had just killed slung on my back. ‘You killed mighty cleanly’ I congratulated myself on not having created a mess ‘not a spot of blood on your clothes’. I checked my clothes as if seeking confirmation for my own thought. There wasn’t a drop of blood on my polo necked grey t-shirt, coarse denim trousers, brown suede jacket or matching gum boots. The realization that I was an expert hunter made me break into a jaunty whistle. I was a pretty cool bloke in every sense of the term.

Appearance-wise, I was considered ‘good-looking’. Personally, I considered myself just average, but my friends insisted I looked like a young God. I was of average height by British standards, 5’11 perhaps, and had a robust healthy build. My face was square with an especially prominent jaw and the bones on my face high and well-chiseled. My eyes, sheltered beneath bushy dark eyebrows, were chocolate brown. My pals said they are deep and rich, but my wife, Moira said they appeared quite grim and piercing when I was enraged. Fury, I admit, happened sometimes. Moira often provoked me and I did retaliate.

My hair was what poets would describe as honey-wheat. It was wavy and used to fall over my face in soft curls as a child, but later I kept it cropped short. Soft curls would hardly have behooved a macho man of 31! Furthermore, if I gave any appearance of vulnerability, my wife wouldn’t have taken me seriously. I wanted her to acknowledge that I was the head of the household, let me make all the crucial decisions and respect me unconditionally. After all, doesn’t the primeval order of nature dictate that females have to be subservient to males? And that their only purpose in life is taking our mind off our worries, catering to our needs and pleasure? I often told Moira this, but she didn’t understand. She believed in the egalitarianism of men and women.

Immersed in my own beauty and gender politics, I had been blind to the beauty that surrounded me. I looked at it with renewed eyes. I was fortunate to live in a picturesque countryside with plush meadows, monuments, castles, memorials and fairy-tale little villages with lush roses growing even on the streets. It was perhaps not as nice as the South West, with its rugged coastline, lovely sandy shores and pretty fishing villages Moira and I had lived in until a year back, but gave me enough land to further my profession of animal rearing. I had a farm in which I raised cows, chickens and roosters for food. Opposite the farm, I had a ranch where I breed thoroughbred horses for racing. It was a pretty rough job, but then I was a tough weather-beaten man! Besides, my horses won all the bets and punters were queuing up to tote booths to wager on my horses! It was a heady feeling!

My ‘piano-key’ smile widened as home came into view. ‘Home’ was a pretty English cottage made of brick and stone and had a white-painted thatched roof. I had grown rushes, creepers and blood-red roses around it in a single year. Ten bean rows grow on one side of a hedge and a hive of honey bees is clustered on one side of the cottage. It was a pretty sight.

But the prettiest sight was inside, probably scouring and washing the washbasin. I straightened my posture and ran a palm across my chin to find out if my beard was adequately grizzled. My guy pals told me that women found grizzled chins macho: they just had to rub their rough chins on their wives’ smooth cheeks and necks to make them orgasm! I wished Moira was as obliging. Nevertheless, it was not for the want of trying on my part!

As I had expected, she was doing dishes, with her back towards me. I admired her hour-glass figure accentuated by the figure-hugging floral hosiery dress and the shapely calves pushed slightly upwards by the four inch high heels she was wearing. I, then, whistled and said ‘Look what I’ve got! It’s venison for lunch!’ jauntily.

Moira turned to face me sulkily. She was pretty with a small oval face, with very delicate bones. She was a petite 5’4 and carried her fragile small-boned self with grace. Moira was a very feminine dresser and had a plethora of dresses in pastel shades in her wardrobe. Her hair was straight and dark and was currently pulled back in a no-nonsense pony-tail. The eyes beneath those trim brows were coal black. Right now, they were flashing irritably at me from beneath knit brows. Her full red lips were pursed in a sulky pout.

‘I’ve already plucked the chicken’ she said moodily.

‘Okay, venison for tomorrow then’ I said, keeping my good-temper ‘Skin it and freeze it, yo!’

‘I wish you wouldn’t do that!’ Moira bristled.

‘Do what?’ I asked. I was beginning to get rather edgy myself.

‘Say “yo” and whistle’ she said critically ‘it is disrespectful. It makes me feel objectified. And the other day was the limit–’. She stopped abruptly.

‘Which other day?’ I demanded icily ‘Enlighten me, please’.

‘That other day when you splashed water at me and joked about my wet tits in front of your friends’ Moira’s voice became a low hoarse whisper ‘It was humiliating’.

‘Hey, can’t you take a joke?’ I asked incredulous.

‘A joke, yes’ she said empathically ‘humiliation, no’

‘Okay, I am sorry’ I said acerbically ‘what else did I do wrong? Let me do all the apologizing at one go’.

‘The other day, when I was carrying the basket-chair from the lawn indoors, you immediately made a dash and snatched it from me’ she said nearly crying ‘I am a woman, Juan, not an invalid’.

‘Is trying to help a bad thing?’ I asked aghast.

‘You weren’t trying to help’ my wife accused through angry tears ‘You were trying to show me down in front of your friends!’.

‘Crazy woman!’ I said, banging the door roughly behind me ‘mad as a hatter!’. As I walked off in a huff, I could hear Moira’s furious bawling right up to the end of the street.

I spent a sulky day at the ranch, gloomily cleaning barns, branding horses, saddling and unsaddling them and getting young colts accustomed to wear a halter. A field hand came by and informed me that one of the cows in my farm, located just across the ranch, was having trouble calving. I rushed there, greased my palms and immersed myself in the task. With much effort, we managed to pull the calf out. It was useless. The calf was dead.

Rendered moodier by the loss, I came home. My wife was sitting, still sulking in the corner. ‘Chicken’s in the fridge. Help yourself’ her sentences were short and clipped.

I went to the fridge to find the chicken stone cold. I was cheesed off. ‘For God’s sake woman’ I bristled really annoyed now ‘Couldn’t you microwave it? It’s the least you can do for your husband’.

‘Why not do it yourself?’ Moira replied snappishly.

‘…Because, it’s your duty!’ I said flaring up ‘I go out and earn a living. You stay at home and maintain the house!’

‘I could go out and work too!’ said my wife belligerently ‘I am better educated than you, Juan!’

‘You poor poor, girl’ I said suddenly softening towards her ‘you really are unhappy, aren’t you?’

At the first show of tenderness, my wife burst into tears. It seemed that the frustration that she had had pent up for a life-time came rushing out in a deluge of tears. ‘I am sorry, Juan, I didn’t mean to insult you’ she said.

‘What’s the matter, Moira?’ I gently asked.

‘I don’t know’ she breathed ‘It’s just that–I resent all this…household work. It makes me feel bovine—like one of your cows. Being just a housewife is bad for my self-esteem. I wish to be up and about, smart and independent’.

‘Okay, you could go out and work’ I said grudgingly. It’s true that I wanted her to be at home, but I couldn’t bear to see her so sad.

‘Juan’ Moira’s tone suddenly turned conspiratorial ‘would you like to be a woman?’

‘Ha ha…why not?’ I said frivolously ‘the prospect of being dressed in all those bras, corsets and panty hoses is already making me orgasm!’

Moira accepted my words in all seriousness. ‘Well, a friend of mine was telling me about this country called Everland’ she said in a voice feverish with excitement ‘It’s a town in which you and your significant other turn into members of the opposite sex. If we settle there, I can live as a man and you–as a woman…’.

‘Where is this place?’ I asked skeptically.

‘It’s somewhere outside of the UK…to the south west’ Moira said enthusiastically ‘I’ll talk to my friend again to find out the details. She said that there was only a single secret train from a clandestine England station going to Everland…’.

‘Okay, let’s pack immediately’ I said.

I packed my belongings and noted that Moira has packed hers with an exuberance that exceeded mine. I really hoped my wife’s friend was serious, and that Everland actually existed, because I couldn’t afford to waste time on a silly wild goose chase. Moira and I left home and walked a few miles. As we traipsed down the hillocks, I caught sight of a red board which read ‘Station to Everland’ in no uncertain times. We reached the station and found that it was a compact little place with a pretty little ticket counter and a few seats painted in red. A very old woman with folds on her neck gave us the tickets. ‘So far, so good’ I thought in my mind. I checked the time on my watch. It was 3 am.

A miniature blue train, the tiniest I’d seen so far, arrived in about fifteen minutes. ‘Good luck!’ the lady at the counter called out as Moira and I got in. We acknowledged her remarked with a wave and took our seats. But for us, the train had no passengers .The ticket-collector, an inscrutable young man of about 22, checked our tickets and gave them back to us. I wondered if he’d heard of the unusual nature of Everland. From his expression, it was impossible to say.

We passed the cobblestones of Oxford, caught a glimpse of the coast at Brighton and Bournemouth, before sleep overtook me. I don’t know for how many hours I had dozed before the abruptly halted train suddenly shook me awake. ‘We’re there’ said my wife with a huge grin on her generous mouth. I peeked out of the window. Sure enough, the white station board had ‘Everland’ painted on it in dark blue letters.

As we disembarked, I found it impossible to say what time it was. The weather was such that it could have been well over midnight or a little past noon. My still sleepy mind was in no mood to analyze. I just followed Moira who carried both our bags. ‘Honey’ I asked in a soporific voice ‘I guess we’ll have to check into a lodge or an inn?’

‘We don’t need to, hubby dearest’ Moira said in a low, secretive voice ‘I’ve already rented a house, via the telephone’.

‘You have?’ I said incredulous. My wife was a more competent woman than I had dubbed her to be.

‘It’s right around the corner’ she said indicating a whitish building ‘the owner said he’d be waiting with the key’.

I followed Moira to the house. A non-descript man of indeterminate age stood in front of it, obviously waiting for us. He handed Moira the key, wished us ‘good luck’ and went away.

‘Why the fuck is everyone wishing us good luck with such vengeance?’ I wondered out loud ‘It’s goddamn scary’.

‘We’ll know by tomorrow morning’ said Moira letting us in and locking the door firmly behind her.


To read the rest of the story please click here.

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