Serving Time

Serving Time

Chapter 1

By Kris Cherita

"You're not going to get a better deal," Clint's lawyer told him. "You're lucky your mindscan showed that you could probably be reformed without more drastic measures. It helped that this was your first offence, you were just a passenger, and you'd only just turned 18, but since you were legally an adult..."

Clint gritted his teeth. It had been his 18th birthday party, and while he was still seven years under legal drinking age in the state, he'd blown.09 on the breathalyzer. After one congratulatory glass of cheap champagne, his older brothers had given him a stein glass of beer and kept refilling it... though at least he wasn't as drunk as John Jr., the eldest, who'd been the one to suggest stealing the Corvette and had driven it into a heritage-listed tree. The gas-powered car wasn't streetlegal in 2044, and neither was driving it on manual on public roads, though since it was after midnight, the fact that he'd done 190 mph through a school zone wasn't on the list of charges he'd face when he was finally discharged from hospital. Unlike Johnny, Clint had buckled his seatbelt when the high speed chase with the police had begun, even though his brother had called him a pussy for doing it - and unlike Johnny, he'd escaped with relatively minor injuries, had been conscious and able to call home to tell them to hide the guns before the cops arrived, and had been discharged from hospital the same week, able to walk with only a minor limp.

"But a reform school? Are they serious?"

"They don't call them that anymore," the lawyer said. "And if you keep your nose clean, you'll be up for a review at the end of the school year - "

"Yeah, okay, but..."

"Your masculinity rating is only two percent below toxic," she warned him. "Your testosterone is just under the upper range for normal, but your environment -- boys only school and an all-straight all-male household -- puts you at extreme risk. Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Not at present."

"Have you ever?"

"Not really," he muttered. "I don't get to meet many girls."

"That's going to count against you, too. The judge thinks incels should be in cells."

"I'm not an incel! I just..."

She nodded. "Don't get to meet many girls? Well, that's going to change. But if you blow this, it won't just be a few months in an all-female environment: it'll be the Ludovico treatment, which is probably the minimum you'll get if you go to trial. So, do you want to take the deal?"

"All-female?"

The lawyer nodded. "They found that if there are even two men in the school, they tend to spend too much time talking to each other rather than with the women. So it'll be you and about twenty women your own age, plus the staff, and no special considerations for you being male. Do you want the deal or not?"

Clint blinked. This sounded more like a sexual fantasy than a punishment. He suspected there had to be a catch, but he replied, "Yes, I'll take it."

*

The house mistress, Ms Danning, looked Clint up and down and shook her head slightly. "We'll store your clothes and any other personal belongings. I'll find some new clothes for you after your shower, and issue you your ankle bracelet after the nurse has seen you. Choices are going to be limited, I'm afraid; you're not too tall, but those shoulders could be a problem." She placed a flat cardboard carton on her desk. "Empty your pockets, then get undressed."

Clint reached into his pocket, then hesitated. "You need my phone?"

"You can have it back on weekends, if you behave. I'll keep it safe, and you're not going to need the phone or money the rest of the time. No phones allowed in the dorm at night. If someone needs to contact you, they can call or message me."

He sighed, and handed over the phone, his keychain, and his aviator sunglasses. "Where do I get undressed?"

"Here," she said, raising her eyebrows. "I need your clothes. The showers and the nurse's office are just down the hall."

Clint bit his lip, then removed his denim jacket, then his sneakers and socks, then pulled his T-shirt over his head, stood, undid his canvas belt and unzipped his cargo pants. Danning looked at him impassively, waiting. Clint turned around and pulled his trousers and boxers down, then stepped out of them and held them in front of him. He wasn't a shower, nor even much of a grower, his cock only 5 1/4" long on a good day. Unable to look her in the eye, he stared at the framed certificate for her M.A. in psychology on the wall behind her, noticing that her first name was Lauren. Not that he could imagine ever using it.

"Fold them, and put them in the box," Danning said, picking up the keychain. She dropped this in the carton on top of the clothes and closed the lid as Clint stood before her with his hands covering his groin. "Okay," she said, opening a drawer in her large desk and placing the sunglasses and phone inside. "Out the door, turn left, showers at the end of the corridor. Nurse's office is on the left as you come out, toilets on the right."

He nodded, and walked carefully towards the office door and into the corridor. Cameras watched him from both ends of the hall, and he kept his hands in front of his flaccid cock until he had to open the door to the bathrooms. The sign on the door simply said 'SHOWERS', with nothing to say whether they were intended for men, women, or both.

He was relieved to find the room empty, though there was enough mist in the air and on the mirrors that ran the length of one wall to indicate that it had only recently been vacated. There was also a strong smell of different perfumes on the air, and when he grabbed a cake of pink rose-scented soap, he noticed a few short curly hairs on it. He turned the water on, and plucked the hairs off before soaping up his body. After a two-minute navy shower, he grabbed a towel from a stack next to the tampon dispenser and dried himself off. He was dismayed to discover that it was too short to wrap around his waist like a skirt, so he dropped it into the laundry hamper and walked, as defiantly as he could manage, back into the corridor and knocked on the door of the nurse's office.

The nurse, a plump but voluptuous black woman in pastel pink scrubs sitting behind a desk, looked him up and down as he entered. "You must be Taylor," she said, as she donned a pair of blue nitrile gloves. "I'm June. Okay, get up on the table, face up." She walked over to the examination table, and sniffed. "Did you have a shower?"

"Yes!"

"Uh-huh. I may have to watch you next time. You seem to have healed up pretty well from the car crash; your file said you broke four ribs, but I don't see any bruises. They cause you any pain?"

"Not any more."

"They give you regenine in the hospital?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "Any side effects?"

"Just some itching."

"That's normal. No pain? Headaches? Dizziness? Insomnia?"

"Restless legs. Some difficulty getting to sleep," he admitted.

"I'll give you something for that that won't make you drowsy during the day. You should sleep well enough, though you might have some weird dreams. Okay then." She grabbed his genitals, not ungently, and examined them. "Okay, no obvious signs of STDs on this side. When's the last time you had sex?"

"Um... you mean, with somebody else?"

"For a start. Any form of penetration, active or passive."

"Um..."

"Never? Your file says you're eighteen."

"Last month."

"Hmm. Your file also says you're cis and you identify as a Kinsey Zero; that's exclusively heterosexual. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Okay. How often do you masturbate?" When he hesitated, she said, "You're going to be sharing a dorm with three other women. If they complain, report you for bad behaviour, it'll go on your file. Too many complaints or even one serious one, you go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200. Lesser infractions, like not cooperating, will go on your record when they review your probation and can get you extra work detail, no weekend leave, no phone time, and so on."

He decided against asking what else 'and so on' included. "What if I snore?"

"If it's bad enough, I have masks and meds that can fix that," she replied, not smiling. "Now answer my question."

"Two or three times a week," he mumbled.

"We only change the sheets here once a week. And if the women complain..."

"I get it."

"Good. Roll over and spread your cheeks."

"What?"

"Did they check your hearing when you were in the hospital?" she asked, a little more loudly. "Or do you need me to announce it over the P.A.? Roll over and spread your cheeks."

He complied, and she took a micro-flashlight out of her uniform pocket. "Okay, could be cleaner -- a lot cleaner -- but looks healthy enough. Now close your eyes and put your hands behind your head. I'm going to spray your back with a nanogel. It'll be itchy for a moment, but not as bad as the regenine, and I'll get you to shower again to rinse it off after three minutes. Hot or cold shower, doesn't matter which, but use a clean towel and make sure you put it in the laundry hamper."

The itching -- from his armpits down to his ankles - was as bad she'd predicted, though it was his asshole that itched the most, and he was relieved when she clicked her nurse's watch and told him to hit the shower. He was too busy scratching his back to bother covering his groin when he burst into the corridor, and he saw Ms Danning emerging from her office. She looked at his nakedness impassively as he cornered and barged into the shower room, glad to see it was still empty. He did as the nurse had ordered, and returned to her office. She told him to return to the table, and examined his back again before telling him to roll over and cover his eyes. "Did they shave you at the hospital, or did you do it yourself?"

"I've been doing it myself since I got out." He'd tried growing a moustache when he was 16, but it had been more carroty than his strawberry blond hair and looked like a bad rash. His physics teacher had suggested nominating it for an Ig Nobel prize as an experiment whose results should never be reproduced, and Clint had remained clean-shaven ever since. Even the regenine hadn't done more than spark the growth of some orange bumfluff and a line of hairs around his mouth that looked as though he'd been eating pumpkin pie.

"Okay, good. Well, close your mouth and hold your breath for as long as you can." He felt the tingling of the nanoids in the spray on his face, then his chest and down to his navel. "Okay, you can breathe now," she said. She avoided spraying his groin, but covered his legs down to the tops of his feet. She waited for three minutes, then sent him back into the showers. It wasn't until he rinsed himself off and towelled himself dry that he noticed the hair on his chest had gone. He looked down and saw that his legs were now equally hairless, and even his armpit hair had fallen out. He threw the towel into the hamper and hurried back into the nurse's office. "What have you done?"

"I've saved you the trouble of shaving, for about a month," June replied. "Now, put one foot up on that stool -- whichever one you want your ankle monitor on."

That, at least, Clint had expected, and he lifted his left leg. His eyes widened as he saw the gadget she pulled from the carton on her desk: instead of the black band and box he'd seen in movies, the anklet was pale pink with a floral pattern and the slogan 'Property of Pridemore Girls' School' in a glittery crimson. "You want me to wear THAT?"

She clipped it around his left ankle. "They're a lot lighter than they used to be. You'll hardly notice it, and then you'll forget it's there."

"That's not what I meant!"

June shrugged. "We need to know where you are. That'll send an alarm if you leave the grounds without permission, or if you go more than twenty miles away if you get weekend leave. That'll take you as far as the mall in town. Now, clothes." She reached into the carton and extracted a set of pink scrubs similar to her own, also with the 'Property of Pridemore Girls' School' printed on the front and back of the top. She placed these on her desk, then reached further into the box and removed a rainbow-coloured tie-dyed T-shirt, a pair of pale pink ballet slippers and a pair of bubblegum pink briefs. "These should all fit -- the shoes are stretchy, and we'll order you some sneakers so you can go outside. What size do you take?"

"Fourteen."

"Okay. I'll find you enough clothes for the rest of the week by tonight."

"You want me to wear THOSE?"

"I wouldn't recommend going to class naked." She wrote his name on a sticker the size of a playing card, and when he donned the scrubs top, she stuck the sticker onto his chest, just above his right nipple. "It's nearly lunchtime, so go back down the hall to the dining room. You'll meet your classmates there, and they'll tell you where to go. Any questions?"

*

The only person in the dining room when Clint arrived was an attractive Mexican woman with a yellow apron over her scrubs and a red visor cap over her long black ponytail. She looked young enough to be a fellow inmate rather than an employee, and smiled at his nametag, then asked whether he had any dietary restrictions and served him up a lunch similar to the one at his usual school. "Don't worry," she said, "dinner is better. Sit anywhere."

"Thanks." Twelve women walked in over the next few moments, none of them sitting at his table, until a busty brunette placed her tray on the table, sat opposite him, and stared at his nametag for a few seconds before bursting out laughing. "Hello, Cunt," she said cheerfully with a hint of Southern drawl, as two of her friends joined her at the table.

"What?" Clint looked down at the sticker on his scrubs top, and blinked. "No, my name's Clint. That's an L, that's an I..."

"Doesn't look like it to me," said the brunette. "Pleased to meet you, Cunt. My name's Maggie."

"Is Cunt your first name or your surname?" asked the blonde girl sitting to his left.

"Neither. My name's Clint, not -."

"Clit?" said Maggie. "Well, that should be useful if you try to escape."

"What?"

"They'll have to send female cops to look for you," Maggie explained. "The men will never be able to find you."

The two other women, and several at neighbouring tables, laughed, and Clint felt his face going as pink as his panties.

"Do you have a surname?" asked Maggie. "Calling you Cunt could get confusing, considering how many cunts there are in here already."

"We could call her Pussy," said a dark-haired girl sitting at the next table. She wore the same pink scrub pants as everyone else in the room, but not the top. Her T-shirt showed a man in a white suit jacket standing below a sign that read 'Rick's Café Americain'. "Like Pussy Galore, in Goldfinger."

Maggie nodded approvingly. "Pussy Galore. I like the sound of that."

"My name isn't Pussy," Clint protested. "How many times do I have to tell you? It's Clint. C L I N T."

"Like the actor," said the girl in the Casablanca T-shirt.

"Oh yeah," said a Japanese girl sitting behind him. "Clint Howard. He was in Apollo 13, and the original Star Trek, and his brother Ron was -"

Maggie shook her head. "Nah. Clit doesn't sound like a girl's name to me. I say we go with Pussy."

"Clint's not a girl's name. It's --"

Maggie feigned shock. "Your parents gave you a boy's name? Well, don't worry. We don't deadname here. What would you like us to call you?"

Clint drew a deep breath, and asked in a carefully mild tone, "What's a deadname?"

"It's someone's old name from before," said a white girl with dreadlocks, who wore a tie-dyed T-shirt all but identical to Clint's. "Before they had their real gender confirmed."

"This IS my real gender."

"Nah," said Maggie. "There must be some mistake. This is a girl's school. Boys aren't even allowed in here -- so if you're here, you must be a girl, and if you're a girl, you need a girl's name. Like Pussy."

"Or we can think of another name for you," said the girl on Clint's right. "We had a girl here once who'd been called Andy by mistake, so she changed it to Angie. Short for Angelina."

"And we called Reggie Gina," said Maggie. "And Topher changed her name to Sissy Chrissy."

"We have to do it," explained the girl on the left. "If Danning finds out we let a boy into the dorms, we'd all be in deep shit. Especially you. So you'd have to sleep on the floor in the corridor or somewhere -- and the corridors don't have aircon."

"This is bullshit," said Clint. "Your nurse examined me. She knows --"

"June's a good sport," said Maggie. "She'll keep your secret. What's the matter? Don't you like Pussy?"

"Hell, yeah, but not as a name! Look, what about my surname? Taylor?"

Maggie shook her head. "We already have a Taylor," she said. A young woman with curtain bangs waved.

"If you don't like Pussy," the girl in the Casablanca t-shirt said, "how about Kitty?"

Clint sighed. "How about Kit?" He suggested. He knew there'd been a famous scout named Kit Carson, and a writer named Kit Marlowe, though he'd heard that the writer was gay. Not great, but better than being called Pussy.

"Kitty will do," Maggie conceded. "Okay, Kitty-cat, I guess we can hide you in one of the dorms. Who has an empty bunk?"

Three of the girls -- the one in the Casablanca T-shirt, a pretty Asian with a waist-length multicoloured braid and a skinny blonde with a pixie cut - raised their hands.

"Well, there's your roommates -- Amber, Nova and Serenity. They'll take good care of you. So, you still at school?"

*

"Don't worry about Magnolia," said Nova, as the trio showed Clint the way to their dorm. "She's been here longer than any of us, except maybe Danning and June. I'm not even sure she wants to leave, though she'll probably have to in a few months, when she turns twenty-one. That's your bunk there, and I'm on top, unless you really want to swap?"

"No, the bottom bunk will suit me." He was relieved to see that the interior of the room wasn't pink; the walls were a pale yellow, the ceiling white, the floor the same fake woodgrain vinyl as the corridor. All of the women had introduced themselves after he'd agreed to answer the name of Kitty, and while he'd only remembered a few of the names other than those of his new roommates, none of them had been called Magnolia, so he guessed she was the busty brunette who'd called herself Maggie. He relaxed slightly now that the teasing seemed to be over, at least temporarily. The trio seemed friendly enough, and were even fairly attractive in their own slightly weird ways. They showed him to the classrooms, and apart from the slightly disorienting sensation of being surrounded by young women -- even the English teacher on the 3V was obviously female, and the math tutor an androgynous non-binary - rather than young men, it soon began to feel like a normal school day. The scrubs were more comfortable than his usual school uniform, and the satin panties, once he was used to the idea, felt remarkably comfortable. Dinner that night was noticeably better than the canned stew or chili that he normally had at home. After dinner, the girls who weren't on kitchen duty either went to the little library to study, to the rec room, or to their dorms.

Magnolia hogged the remote for the 3V in the rec room, but as a youngest son, Clint was used to that - and while watching women's roller derby wouldn't have been his first choice, it was more entertaining than the right-wing news stations his father watched nearly every night he was at home and which weren't available on the building's wifi. Nova had warned him that their web access was monitored and a lot of sites and channels were blocked, and he wasn't particularly surprised to find that that included Pornhub, Fuxtel, MRATV and all the torrenting sites he knew. He found the experience of going into a unisex bathroom and hearing a woman pissing in the next cubicle both unsettling and weirdly arousing, his cock swelling enough to make it difficult to continue peeing until after she'd gone, but the first big surprise of the night came when they were all told to return to their dorm, where his roommates began undressing ready for bed.