- Title: Forbidden Academy
- Subtitle: Feminized by Hypnosis
- Author: Yulia Yu. Sakurazawa
- Category: transgender horror, mtf, lesbian
Liam Bailey is the 19 year old protagonist of the story. Liam is a British citizen with Nordic looks: pale translucent skin, fair hair and eyes, which are as transparent as ice. Liam has been taking ballet classes for years, but is still not a great dancer. This is owing to the fact that he is too lean and weak to perform the pas de deux (a ballet movement, which entails carrying female dancers over the head). After joining the Sokolov Academy of Ballet in Russia, Liam falls in love with its scion cum principal, Anya Petrovna. He eventually comes under Anya’s trance and is transformed into a beautiful young woman called Lisa.
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Forbidden Academy
Feminized as a Hypnosis
Transgender Horror Series
by Yulia Yu. Sakurazawa
Chapter 1 -There was something about Anya
Somewhere between Moscow and St. Petersburg was a town. It was a small remote one, with a population of just about 50,000 people. Located in the town was a not-very-well-known ballet school called “The Sokolov Academy of Ballet”. In the warm, sultry summer of 2011, I had enrolled there as a student.
Dressed in tight leotards and a vest, I carried a lithe ballerina over my head. She was as light as a bubble and didn’t strain my back. That was saying much because I was a delicate, slightly-built danseur.
The Russian belles around me laughed; their laughter sounded like a merry peal of bells. They did a bourree (a ballet step) around me like a bevy of swans, enchanting in their white tutus, leotards and Pointe ballet shoes. Watching tiny young tightly-held-together female feet, moving back foot and then speedily following with the other, were indescribably beautiful to watch. It was so beautiful that I could hardly believe it was happening.
In the dream-like scenario, only one thing was missing. Anya Petrovna: The dark enigmatic academy cum principal, who apparently taught only once in a blue moon. According to my batch mates and seniors, the semi-retired Anya had seldom taught in the recent past. How I wished Anya reconsidered her decision to retire, and decided to teach us. It would be far more interesting to learn under her rather than being under the tutelage of the insipid, young Mr. Nikolai Blinov. The sinuous way in which Anya carried her voluptuous body; the slow, languid way in which she spoke and the intimate way in which she had looked at me—oh, it was sweet madness! I don’t mind admitting I had a crush on Anya; my curiosity was only exacerbated by the knowledge that Anya was a reclusive and very little was known about her.
I had been learning ballet in London for many years before I decided to study in Russia. I had been devoted to my art, but hadn’t really been a very successful danseur. Yet I couldn’t imagine being anything other than a premier danseur at the ballet. Hence, at 19, I didn’t really think it was too late to apply to top ballet schools in Russia. The Vaganova Academy rejected me. So did St. Petersburg Eifman Ballet. As did umpteen other well-known ballet schools. Finally, when I had almost given up, I got a letter of acceptance from the Sokolov Academy, located in a part of Russia I had hardly heard of. I didn’t remember applying to any academy by the name of Sokolov, and hence was quite surprised. I googled “Sokolov Academy” on the internet. The search results were “zero”. The place didn’t have any internet presence whatsoever.
I didn’t have memories of applying to the Sokolov Academy. Therefore, I wondered if all this was some kind of a hoax or a practical joke played by my chums.
The issue gave me sleepless nights. Finally, after a few days of tossing and turning, and with no resolution in sight; I decided to go to Russia to find out for myself. The mysterious Sokolov Academy had arranged for a one-way plane ticket, and had promised free accommodation. So all I had to do was sit in the plane on the designated date and fly away to the Domodevo International Airport in Moscow.
As I was just emerging out of Domodevo International Airport, a tall, heavily-built man in a chauffeur’s uniform approached me and asked: “Are you Mr. Liam Bailey?” As I listened to his pronounced Ls and hammer-hard Rs, a shiver of excitement ran down my spine. I was indeed in the caviar-replete, vodka-swilling Russia!
“Yes, I am” I confirmed, trying not to show the trepidation I felt.
“Please take a seat, Mr. Bailey” said the chauffeur, opening the door of a shimmering, stately M14 Chaika “Anya Petrovna awaits you”.
“Anya Petrovna?” I asked obviously puzzled “Who is Anya?”
“Anya Petrovna, the owner and principal of Sokolov Academy” replied the man, with a slight rebuke in his voice “one would have thought you’d know”.
“Yes, of course” I replied taking his rebuke in my stride “I was a bit disoriented, that’s all”. I laughed ingratiatingly, hoping to mollify the offended chauffeur. However, the man didn’t respond. He drove for the next few hours in chilling silence. Somewhere along the way, I must have dozed off, for the chauffeur’s thick, hammer-hard voice jerked me awake.
“Please wake up” he said tersely “we’ve reached the destination”.
I groggily opened my eyes to take in the sight of the solid Sokolov Academy. It was a rock solid brick structure, with a tented roof augmented with a Romanesque and Renaissance vault structure. The chauffeur carried my luggage and led me into a spacious lobby. We crossed the house area of the theatre and reached a long corridor. I noticed that a flight of steps led to a set of rooms above.
The chauffeur led me a few meters down the corridor until we’d reached a door. The black name plate had “Anya N. Sokolov” written on it in golden letters. “You go in” instructed the chauffeur “while I’ll go upstairs and deposit your luggage in your hostel room”.
A sudden apprehension seized me. I was suddenly terrified at the prospect of coming face-to-face with the enigmatic Anya Petrovna. Butterflies did a jig in my stomach. I turned to the chauffeur and uneasily asked: “May I go up to my room and freshen up first? I’m afraid I don’t feel very presentable”.
I self-consciously appraised my skinny jeans and brown polo-necked t-shirt. I then proceeded to run my fingers through my spiky light blonde hair. In spite of being a Briton, I had distinctly Scandinavian looks. My skin was as pale as my hair and my eyes were translucent like ice.
“Oh, you look just fine!” said the driver, before sneeringly adding “going by the way you are fuss, one would think you’re a girl!” After aiming this piece of insult at me, the chauffeur began traipsing up the flight of stairs with my luggage. I watched his massive form disappear around the bend and into one of the rooms. I then turned my attention to the door in front of me. I swallowed and forced myself to knock.
“Please come in” said a languid, husky, totally delightful voice. The sound of it gave me goose bumps.
I walked in hesitantly into a spacious office. A curvaceous woman in a form-fitting black skirt and a forest-green full-sleeved top stood with her back to me. Her unbelievably dark hair was held together with an ornamental brooch. Her slim pale fingers held a long cigar.
Even before she turned, my heart thrummed. There was something about Anya. Something exciting, something frightening.
She turned and gazed at me in an intimate fashion, as if she had known me for a long time. Her eyes seemed dark at first sight, but when you looked closely, you saw a mysterious interplay of violet, emerald and myrtle.
Anya wasn’t a conventional beauty. Her complexion was too pale, her jaw a bit broad and her nose slightly crooked. Besides, her form was too full and voluptuous for the standard ballet dancer, assuming Anya still performed. However, Anya was strikingly attractive. Her inky black hair, released from the brooch, spread around her face like an angry cloud. And those double-hooded, heavily-lashed eyes were the most mesmerizing pair I had seen on any woman.
Under the spotlight of Anya’s gaze, I turned numb all over. I felt as though my body was mine, yet not mine. I felt my eyelids becoming progressively heavier, as if they were being pulled down by weights. They were so heavy that they threatened to close. I strived to keep them open with a super-human exertion of will. Slowly, the heaviness I had felt began to lift.
“You are thin, reed thin” Anya remarked, appraising my body “about 80% of the girls here are heavier than you. You’ll find it difficult to perform the pas de deux (the over-the-head lifts)”
Anya’s words didn’t come as a surprise to me. In spite of being on an intensive gym-training program in London, my body remained very lean. My back was inflexible. As a result, I found that I was incapable of lifting most adult female dancers and often injured my back while trying to lift the younger girls over my head.
“Are you rejecting me?” I asked incredulously. I couldn’t believe that after having gone through the jubilation of having received the acceptance letter, the rigmarole of trying to find Sokolov Academy on the internet, enduring a 3 hour 40 minute plane journey to Russia and a few hours’ drive to here, Anya was actually asking me to go back to London.
“No dear boy, you’ve misunderstood me” said Anya in her delightful accent “the immaturity of your body is a defect that age will cure. Besides, we have a well-rounded fitness routine at Sokolov’s. Our academy would focus on strengthening your core and building light muscle to improve your strength and agility”.
“Anya Petrovna” I said dubiously “I have been trying to become stronger ever since I was 7 or 8 years old, with little success. I can’t afford to get my hopes too high”.
“You may lack the faith in your body” replied Anya, with a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips “but I beg to differ”. Her manner was light and flirtatious, yet masked behind it was a kind of energy, or rather, an amalgamation of several agents of nature. This may sound insane, but at that precise moment, I felt that stored within Anya was the heat and glow of fire, the force of the wind, the coolness of water, the life-sustainability of earth and the dream-like quality of ether. It seemed like the whole of Dame Nature had been personified in this one magnificent woman. I had smiled at Anya.
Now I smiled at the memory of our meeting. As I balanced the long slender leg of one of the ballerinas on my shoulder, I gazed abstractedly (and hopefully) at the door. Then I froze as if an apparition had walked in. I was faintly aware of the awed little gasps all around me. For the person who had entered the room, wearing a jade-colored, long-sleeved leotards and matching ballet slippers was none other than Anya herself
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