School of Feminisation, Part 1 (Criminals to Bimbos, Trophy Women TG) (Patreon)

By FoxFaceStories

A Commission for Slayerangel

Andre, Miguel, and Nicholas are three friends with a choice: either go to prison for their numerous street crimes, or undertake a form of community service at St. Elizabeth’s School for Girls. The young men take the offer, thinking it will just be a brief embarrassment. But soon they discover that they are being transformed into beautiful women with personalities more befitting a productive society!

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School of Feminisation

Part 1: Bad Choices

The three men cheered and hollered as they raced down the highway. Miguel, Nicholas, and Andre had stolen more than a few cars over the last few years of their antics, but they’d never managed to score a freaking lamborghini until now. It was the classic bright yellow colour, low to the road, and fast as a demon. They sped past every car, weaving through the traffic and cutting other drivers off with an aloofness that was borderline psychotic.

“This is fucking sick, man!” Nicholas cried, revving the engine harder as he reached 130mph, well and truly over the speed limit. He was an average-looking man in most respects, but he had bright red hair that seemed to match his need for speed, and icy-blue eyes that spoke to his inner sociopathy. The man revelled in committing crimes, victimising whoever he could that wasn’t in his in-group, all because he enjoyed it and for no other greater reason. Rumour even had it that he used to torture animals when he was a kid before upgrading to people, but Nicholas had never confirmed it. Mind you, he’d never denied it either. All anyone knew was that his rich parents had covered something up with the local judicial system, all hush-hush.

“Who’s betting I can get to one-fifty?” he announced. “Turn any squirrels and cats into goddamn red mist at that speed, am I right?”

“Do it, dude!” Miguel cheered from the passenger seat. “Get us faster, hermano. Gotta go faster, gotta go lightning fucking quick!”

As he said this, Miguel snorted some more cocaine from his forearm, spilling half the powder onto his lap. The line was poorly distributed, but he didn’t give a shit at this point, so long as he chased that magnificent high.

“We’re on top of the world, boys!” he shouted far too loudly. “We fucked those bitches back in the club! We loved ‘em and left ‘em. Those hoes were some nice pussy, and now we can fuck up the club in the next town over with the sickest ride around! Fuck, this stuff is good!”

He was speaking a mile a minute and didn’t even realise it, perhaps because his heart was beating a thousand times a minute as well. The well-built hispanic man lived for moments like this. He was chauvinism personified, wanting whatever he got right now, and thanks to his family wealth and his status as a track and field star, he often got it. It didn’t hurt that he was handsome as hell and knew it, too. He should have been busted for winning competitions with the help of performance-enhancing drugs numerous times, but his family had a great lawyer, and thus he’d never had to mature himself.

“Y’all are crazy up there,” came a third voice, which belonged to Andre. He was a big, heavily muscled man with mid-tone chocolate brown skin and muscles that looked almost as big as his head. People often thought he was dim-witted because of his height and breadth, but in reality he made his money through online cryptocurrency scams, often making connections with others ‘in the community’ - meaning his racial group - that were in need and then preying upon them with ‘opportunities.’ He had acquired a great deal of wealth from his parents which he poured into these plots, and then continued to invest. Of the three of them he most recognised the foolishness of what they were doing as they could topple the pyramid of success he had established for himself. But his mean streak was simply too big to ignore, and Andre was already a big man. The temptation to tear the law a new one, fuck some hot chicks, and go on a drunken, drug-addled bender was too much to resist, especially if he got to start some fights and bash up some male competition in order to score with their girlfriends.

“We should slow down a little, brother,” he told Nicholas. “There’s a speedcam coming up here. I don’t want my credit rating affected.”

“Dude, you already beat the shit out of that lanky Asian guy back at the club!” Nicholas said, half-howling with laughter. “And you’re worried about one camera? This isn’t our car, they can’t pin us!”

“Especially not when we can go faster!” Miguel added. “Don’t be such a weak pussy.”

“I’m not a pussy, I just rather we don’t die here.”

“I thought black guys had big balls, but all I’m hearing is a shrivelled little dick. No wonder I get more than you.”

“Fuck you,” Andre said.

“That’s right, they fuck Miguel!” he responded, speaking in the third person.

“And I fuck them up,” Nicholas said, still howling. He was getting faster and faster. They were crossing the 150mph mark and showing no signs of stopping. The road was a blur, and it was getting hard to see all the cars in time in the darkness of night. Still, Nicholas loved the thrill of danger, while Miguel was high on cocaine and a cocktail mix of other drugs. Only Andre started to get worried.

“Fuck, guys, slow the hell down! I’ve got a big fish on my phone and if I can milk this BLM moron with a false charity scheme then - FUCK!”

They all saw it too late. Miguel was too coked up. Nicholas was too busy laughing and looking back at Andre to hear what he was saying. A car was switching lanes as they turned a wide highway corner and all Nicholas could do was swerve the wheel.

  Swerve it into the car.

“FUCK YOU!” he screeched moments before contact.

And then everything was carnage, destruction, and pain.

***

The judge looked down his long nose at the three men. Andre, Miguel, and Nicholas were all in fine suits, putting on airs of being young men with good prospects. Their lawyers had made them out as much, and it had worked out many times before, especially with the backing of the family wealth of all three men. Still, even with that aid, there was a great deal of tension and uncertainty. Most of their parents were already distancing themselves from the three men, and the news coverage they had received and the enormous public hate had only increased that divide. Miguel in particular was taking it hard, taking what drugs he could despite the plan forced upon him; he couldn’t look Paige Heathers in the eyes, but could always feel her glare. Even Andre had found it hard, and he had a mean stare that he’d offered back to her, but her gaze was steel. Only Nicholas looked straight at her without a care in the world.

“Bitch got lucky,” he said. “Don’t know what she’s whining about in this fucking witness testimony bullshit.”

But it wasn’t nothing. Paige was only twenty four years old, and went to the same college the young men all went to. They had totaled her car and ended her life as she knew it: the wheelchair she was now bound to was proof of that, as was the missing left arm, severed at the elbow.

“Just chuck her into a pool and try to watch her paddle in circles till she drowns,” Nicholas whispered to the other two while the woman gave her speech about the heavy impact upon her life. “Better than letting something like that live.”

Miguel winced, a bit shocked by his friend’s words, but he joined in all the same. “Y-yeah. Not even hot, is she? Hell, those fucking scars probably improved her.”

“The scars are gonna hurt our chances to defend ourselves,” Andre added. “Bet she didn’t even ask for grafts just so she could milk this more. It’s what I’d do. She’s good. A real con, I bet.” 

“Can I remind the defendants that they are expected to listen quietly to this victim impact statement?” the judge said. “Or are you incapable of basic human decency in front of a jury that is to decide your very fate quite soon?”

The three men shut up, though Nicholas continued to smirk, uncaring about the judge’s words. He simply winked at Paige and then relaxed back. He was going to get off, he just knew it. They all did, really. Money always talked, and had for all three of them. But there was something different this time: a lot more media presence for one, not to mention hate campaigns online. The fact that Andre’s cryptoschemes were now being reported on and Nicholas’ past being dredged up and Miguel's possible history with narcotics in professional sports, well, it all made for a lot more uncertainty, no matter how laidback they tried to appear.

That uncertainty was proven right when the jury emerged after a surprisingly short deliberation. The judge asked the foreman to deliver the verdicts on their various charges.

“Your honour, on the charges of reckless driving causing endangerment and serious injury, we find Nicholas Barker guilty.  On the charges of aiding and abetting the theft of a motor vehicle, we find all three defendants guilty. On the charges of drug possession and use we find Miguel Rodriguez guilty. On the charges of . . .”

And on it went. The theme was clear. Guilty, guilty, guilty. The jury explained their findings and the relevant penal code sections of the case, but it was all white noise to the three men. Nicholas in particular seemed to almost reset, his expression completely blank; the first consequences of his life now being delivered. Miguel found tears welling up in his eyes. Andre, on the other hand, struggled with barely contained rage, clenching his fists.

“This is fucked,” he muttered. “I was on my goddamn way up the line. No way am I going down for this.”

But they were. All three of them were. When the sentencing hearing finally came, the judge once more looked down upon the three men. Their parents were absent; the scandal of such a now-infamous incident to half the country was a threat to their own privilege and positions in respectable society. Andre, Miguel, and Nicholas were now outcasts, each of them greatly diminished from their former standing.

“It is now incumbent upon me to decide upon your sentence according to the recommendations of our state’s penal code,” the judge recited automatically. “None of you have shown sufficient remorse for your crimes, not even Miguel Rodriguez here, whose tears fall for his own fate but not for any other’s. Because of much of what has come to light in this case beyond just the grievous injury to Miss Heathers, I can inform all three of you that you will not contend with a prison sentence shorter than fifteen years in length. That will be at least eleven years non-parole period, by the way.”

Miguel was trying not to cry again. Andre bit his lip. Nicholas sneered, hating the judge. Wanting to hurt him in very slow ways.

“However,” the judge continued. “There is an alternative option. A community service order that will require you to proceed through a juvenile correctional school - not a prison, but a dormitory-based school - called St. Elizabeth’s Feminisation School for Girls.”

A silence extended throughout the courtroom. The three men looked at one another, and then to their representing lawyer, who shrugged, clearly as surprised as they were.

“You would need to graduate from this school across the course of your time there, up to the headmaster, but not exceeding six months in length. You will be trained to be productive members of society. The school is thirty years old and gaining prestige everyday, and will suit wealthy boys like you who have great prospects but need correction. It will also suit Paige Heathers, who is already thriving there and repairing herself, I am told, thanks to the innovative practices of the school. This is your choice, young men, and I will allow you to decide, then render the sentence accordingly.

They could not believe it. It was humiliating, embarrassing, and ridiculous, but clearly their parents had pulled enough last strings to get this outcome. Any shame of going to a school for girls would be offset by not having to go to prison for eleven years or longer.

Slowly, each man began to grin, and Nicholas widest of all.

“Told you it would all work out,” he said.

To Be Continued . . .