- Title: The Birth of Delilah
- Series: Gender Swap Fantasy
- Author: Yulia Yu. Sakurazawa
- Gender Swap Type: MTF
[Introduction]
An alpha-male who has very low opinion of woman is trapped in woman’s body. After his transformation, he finds himself injured, homeless, gets kidnapped and enslaved. How is he (she) going to live the rest of his/her life?
[Characters]
Tyro
Tyro is a thirty-five years old loner. He has the looks – impressive height, well-built body, strong jaw and a distinctive Greek nose.
He categorizes himself as an energetic alpha-male but deals with many suppressed anger. Due to a painful divorce, he has very low opinion of women. That’s why his small business has a specific profile: he sells and installs surveillance systems for catching cheating wives.
Although he’s financially stable, he still lives in an existential crisis. He denies every weakness and judges everyone from this point of view. He cannot cope with his own feelings and he blames women for everything.
Delilah
Tyro is trapped in a female body. He is told that his name is Delilah. After his transformation, he goes through hell–injured, becoming homeless, gets kidnapped, treated as a slave.
Kimi
An eighteen-year old Chinese girl with an innocent, child-like mindset, who also gets kidnapped.
Ballsy
A client of Tyro. He is a real macho, a wealthy club owner, who wants to keep her ex-dancer, now wife under twenty-four-seven surveillance.
Patricia
A shy, blond divorcee, whose lack of confidence meets Tyro’s animalistic attitude.
[Sample text – less than 10% of the story is shown due to restrictions of KDP]
Chapter One – In High Dudgeon
The red caviar’s fleshy pearls glowed on the porcelain plate, Ballsy squeezed lemon on his smoked salmon and stuffed his face with it. He didn’t even bother to put clothes on, he lied on his leather sofa with only a bathrobe on, loosely tied. Saliva and fish meat blasted out from his mouth as he asked the man in front of him.
“How long will this take, Mista Hunter? You know, I want you gone by the time my wife gets home.”
“This is the last camera for this room,” Tyro said, stretching on a leather to reach the corner. Sweat rolled down on his spine, and his mind kept spiraling around an ice cold wheat beer. After he saw his client’s, Ballsy’s eating habits, he didn’t fancy lemon with the beer anymore. The giant black man started to count the cash on the marble table.
“Good, good. I still couldn’t come up with a cover story if Tiffany finds ‘em.” Ballsy spread his legs, and Tyro accidentally looked. He understood immediately where the nickname came from. His impressive, big balls hung between his legs, like two mature coconut. Tyro grimaced and could barely swallow his jealousy. Until now, he thought Ballsy’s name origins in his looks: a tattooed, Pitbull-looking, shaved bold millionaire who muscled his way through from being a bouncer to own a chain of night clubs. An ultrasensitive mafia guy who doesn’t want to be called mister, because “it’s for the chlorides, not for the coloreds,” he said when he showed up this morning in Tyro’s coffin-sized office and hired him for double-prize if he installed the security system today.
Tyro attached the last wire to the camera, and placed a white, plastic cover on it. The observing, artificial eye was barely invisible; he doubted if Tiffany will spot them. But he didn’t keep track of it, how many times he had been asked the same question. Jealous husbands confused if they were doing the right thing, waiting for some back up. So Tyro told Ballsy the same what he answered to everyone. “It’s her, who’s under suspicion. If she finds the cameras, you can tell her the truth; that you like to keep an eye on your property. But if she has nothing to hide, no need for a scene.”
“Which is the truth, damn right! When I found her, she was just a kid, hustling by the road. Oh, man, her ass was mere perfection! She was so fine, that I offered a deal to the pimp right on the spot. Tiffany didn’t blink twice and she was the best paid dancer in the club. So makes sense, makes sense,” he nodded, lost in his thoughts. “She came with the big money, she better knows her place.”
“Exactly.” Tyro climbed of the ladder, closed his kit and raised his eyes on his ‘big money’. “Look man, spying on your wife is not cool.” When Tyro said this, the client wrinkled his eyebrows, but didn’t interrupt. “But in my experience, if your woman is cheating, you can ask it nice, ask it twice, she will only spit lies into your face. There are occasions when you need to dig deep to reveal the truth, if she doesn’t have the balls to confess.”
“Tyro Hunter, you are a philosopher, man!” Ballsy gave him high-five. Tyro wanted to answer: I learned it the hard way, but usually he kept his thoughts to himself. Maybe that two seconds of hesitation was the reason, but Ballsy added on a serious tone: “If I can do anything for you, just let me know.”
Tyro couldn’t imagine what could possibly happen where he will need a mafia guy’s helping hand, but he said: “Thanks man, much appreciated.”
They took care of the finances, and Tyro headed to his tiny red coupé to avoid meeting the infamous dancer / newly-wed Tiffany. He parked the car under the palm trees, but during the hours, the shadow crawled further and now the whole car was ablaze. The leather seats burnt his butt even with jeans on. He wiped of the sweat from his face with a huge relief and thanked God he had finished this job without getting involved in any mobster drama.
* * *
The sun was about to set, and rush-hour crazies raced on the road in the amoeboid splatters of sunrays reflecting on skyscrapers. Street-lamps lit up and he drove by a road block and scattered metal pieces left behind of a recent car crash. He had to slow down and the weaving rows slowly moved towards the city center. 7:32, Tyro read on the digital clock; in less than half an hour he had to be at the pub to meet his cousin, Lou.
His eyes wandered on a huge billboard by the road. A man in suit smiled at him with great confidence: “If you have doubts, you better act first”, the slogan said. “Call the Surveillance Aid today” and his phone number followed. He was impressed how he looked on the huge ad. A tan guy in suits with trimmed beard, casual clothing showing two thumbs up. Friendly but professional, he thought and leaned back satisfied. Two years ago, after his divorce, he looked like a used-up alcoholic, and now he was on the top of his game. Still, some bitterness was left behind. He always found some evasive answers when he was asked why he built up a business on jealous husbands who try to restore some faith in their spouses. Tyro was aware of how problematic fidelity and trust can be, but he lost hope in women—sometimes, he felt—for good.
He had three missed calls already from Lou when he finally rolled in the parking lot, the wheels burnt on the concrete. It was five minutes to eight. Lou was waving at him in his usual floral shirt, shorts and flip-flops. No wonder why he never gets laid, Tyro thought.
“Hurry up, mate, the chicks can’t wait to meet us! It’s like a Canaan in there!” Lou said in his strong Australian accent and he led the way to the Mediterranean pub, called the Neon Lizard Paradise. Tyro spotted a blondie smoking by the entrance. She wore a red cocktail-dress and extremely high heels. If the others are like her, it’s gonna be a harvest tonight.
“Do you see? Hot MILFs everywhere, hungry for sex . . . I told you that speed dating rules!” Lou said and tucked his shirt into his shorts. Tyro was hesitant whether he should have warned his cousin, his outfit was miserable already, no need to highlight it more, but he remained silent and focused on the long-awaited wheat beer.
After the first gulps was he finally able to really take a closer look on the Neon Lizard Paradise’s speed dating event. There were a few guys kneeling by the bar, wearing numbers instead of a name card. Lou and Tyro also received theirs after the registration, Tyro was number 9. My lucky number, he thought. Ten round tables were placed in one huge circle in the middle of the room. Lemon and orange trees in huge flower-pots divided them from the boxes by the windows where other guests were chatting and curiously peeked toward the dating arena.
A chubby, gothic lady dressed in black leather, silk and lace told them the rules. “Five minutes per person, check YES or NO after talking to a partner. If a lady and a man voted a mutual YES, the gentleman gets the woman’s phone number.” She kept blinking towards them through her huge glasses. I hope she won’t make a pass at me; her huge boots could cause a big harm in my ass, Tyro thought, and looked for the blondie he saw outside. She was number thirteen, clearly alone, with a Martini in her hand.
Everybody was seated in the big circle, a bell rang. One man and one woman, five minutes to talk then switch to the next table. Tyro only agreed to accompany Lou, because his cousin became more desperate every year. He was a looser by default, at least this was Tyro’s impression, a socially-awkward accountant . . . not the best combination. So he needed a wingman, and Tyro had nothing better to do. He had no expectations, but if a bonus shagging came to his way, he never said no.
A Lilliputian nurse, a recovering sex-addict who looked like an itching hyena, a broken butch with mommy and daddy breathing on her neck for grandchildren, and a shy librarian, shy like a mouse, this was on the menu so far. Tyro was bored out of his mind and kept counting the minutes until he could meet Number Thirteen.
Her slim legs crossed, she sat like a queen. She had giant green eyes and countless freckles on her shoulders. Yummy, Tyro thought.
