Nobody saves you

As you're forcefully guided into the bustling changing room by the bullies, a sense of dread washes over you like a tidal wave. The room is a whirlwind of activity, filled with the buzz of hair dryers, the clatter of makeup brushes, and the excited chatter of the stylists and artists. You feel completely overwhelmed by the chaos, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggle to make sense of what's happening.

"Alright, ladies, let's get this show on the road," Jake barks, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. "We've got a special guest to doll up tonight."

Kevin and Jessica flank you on either side, their eyes glittering with malicious glee as they push you forward into the fray. You stumble and nearly fall, but they catch you roughly by the arms and hold you upright, their grip like iron vices digging into your flesh.

"Time to make you into the belle of the ball, Simon," Jessica purrs, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. "And I've got just the costume in mind for you."

You try to protest, to beg for mercy, but your words are lost in the cacophony of the room. The stylists and artists pay you no mind, too busy fussing over their other clients to spare you a second glance. You feel like a lamb being led to the slaughter, helpless to resist the inevitable fate that awaits you.

With a wicked grin, Jessica saunters over to the costume jars lined up along the far wall, her eyes alight with mischief as she surveys the options before her. She takes her time, deliberating over each choice with exaggerated theatrics, until finally, she plucks a slip of paper from the jar marked "Girls" and holds it up triumphantly for all to see.

"And the lucky winner is…" she declares, her voice dripping with excitement. "Princess Peach!"

Your blood runs cold at the mention of the iconic video game character, your mind reeling at the thought of being **** to embody such a feminine and, dare you say it, sexy figure. But before you can protest, Jessica is already shoving the slip of paper into the hands of a nearby stylist, her grin widening into a malicious smirk.

"Looks like we've got our winner, boys," she crows, turning back to you with a gleam in her eye. "Now, let's see what magic these lovely ladies can work with you."

With a rough shove, you're propelled into an empty seat among the line of hairdressers and stylists, the workers eyeing you with a mix of curiosity and amusement. You squirm uncomfortably under their scrutiny, feeling exposed and **** in your current predicament.

"So, we've got ourselves a little femboy, huh?" one of the stylists remarks, her voice laced with amusement. "Never thought I'd see the day when a boy like you would be transforming into Princess Peach."

The others chuckle at her comment, their laughter ringing in your ears like a mocking chorus. You grit your teeth in frustration, feeling a surge of anger and humiliation bubbling up inside you. But there's nothing you can do except sit there and endure their taunts, resigned to your fate as the object of their amusement.

"Alright, let's get started, shall we?" the stylist says, snapping you out of your reverie. "We've got a lot of work to do if we're going to turn you into the belle of the ball. Or should I say, Peach of the ball?"

As you sit in the chair, the stylists and hairdressers descend upon you like a swarm of bees, each one armed with their own tools of transformation. They waste no time in getting to work, their hands moving with practiced precision as they set about reshaping your appearance from head to toe.

First, they tackle your unruly hair, combing through the tangled mess with ruthless efficiency. It's long and unkempt, a wild mane of chestnut brown that falls in disarray around your shoulders. But with each snip of the scissors and stroke of the brush, it begins to take on a new life, transforming into a golden cascade of silky strands that shimmer in the harsh glare of the salon lights.

"Damn, this boy's got some hair on him," one of the hairdressers mutters, her voice tinged with admiration. "But don't worry, honey, we'll have you looking like a princess in no time."

They work tirelessly to bleach your hair, the harsh chemicals stinging your scalp as they strip away the natural color and replace it with a soft shade of blonde. It's a painful process, but you grit your teeth and bear it.

Next comes the makeup, layer upon layer of foundation and powder applied with expert precision to smooth out your skin and create a flawless canvas for the final touches. The makeup artists work tirelessly, their brushes dancing across your face as they accentuate your features and conceal any traces of stubble or blemishes.

"Girl, you've got some serious shadow going on," one of them remarks, her tone sympathetic. "But don't worry, we'll make it disappear like magic."

And disappear it does, as they expertly contour and highlight your face, sculpting your cheekbones and jawline until they're as sharp and defined as any Disney princess. They pay special attention to your eyes, lining them with kohl and sweeping them with shimmering eyeshadow until they sparkle like diamonds in the light.

But perhaps the most challenging part of the transformation comes when they turn their attention to your body. You're already slim and slender, with long limbs and delicate features that lend themselves well to the feminine ideal. But there's one thing that sets you apart from the women around you: your lack of curves.

With clever contouring, the stylists work to create the illusion of a more feminine figure, using contouring to sculpt the appearance of breasts that are small but perfectly formed, the subtle curves adding a touch of femininity to your otherwise boyish physique.

And as the transformation nears completion, you can't help but marvel at the person staring back at you in the mirror. Gone is the awkward, insecure boy you once were, replaced by a vision of beauty and grace that you never thought possible.

As the stylists and costume designers finish with your makeup, they waste no time in moving on to the next phase of your transformation: the physical embodiment of Princess Peach.

They start by addressing any remaining traces of masculinity on your body, meticulously shaving away every last bit of body hair until your skin is smooth and pristine. It's a humiliating experience, one that leaves you feeling exposed and ****, but you grit your teeth and bear it.

Next, they produce a cleverly padded bra, designed to accentuate your figure and create the illusion of feminine curves without the need for prosthetics. The stylists work with deft hands, expertly positioning the padding to enhance your chest and give you the appearance of a more voluptuous silhouette. It's a strange sensation, having your body reshaped in such a manner, but you try to push aside your discomfort.

As they fasten the costume around your body, you can't help but feel a sense of dread creeping in. The outfit is a sexier, more erotic version of Princess Peach's usual attire, with shorter hemlines and tighter fabrics that leave little to the imagination. It's a far cry from the modest, demure image of the video game character you once idolized, and you can't help but feel a pang of disgust at the thought of parading around in such revealing clothing.

But your protests fall on deaf ears as the stylists continue to work, their hands moving with practiced precision as they adjust and refine every last detail. They add accessories and embellishments, transforming you into a vision of femininity that's both alluring and unsettling in equal measure.

And as you stand there, clad in your costume and surrounded by a sea of admiring onlookers, you can't help but feel a sense of resignation wash over you. This is your fate now, whether you like it or not, and there's nothing you can do to change it.

But deep down, beneath the layers of makeup and padding, you know that you'll never truly be Princess Peach. You'll always be Simon, the awkward, insecure boy who never quite fit in. And as you stare into the mirror, you can't help but wonder what will become of you now that you've been thrust into this strange and unfamiliar world of femininity and fantasy.