Chastity Pill Ch 04

"So let me get this straight," you say, trying to keep your voice steady despite its new higher pitch. "You hired contractors to renovate our bathroom, and they're showing up today?"

Veronica at least has the decency to look slightly embarrassed, her eyes darting to her phone rather than meeting yours. The cab swerves around a corner, jostling you against the door.

"It just made sense," she says, scrolling through emails with one hand while the other adjusts her blazer. "I've been wanting to redo that bathroom for ages. The timing worked out perfectly--they'll be done right when I get back."

"What was wrong with our bathroom?" you ask incredulously. The master bath was already a marble paradise compared to the dingy shower stall you had in your old apartment.

"The floors aren't heated," she says, as if explaining something obvious to a child. "And the lighting makes me look sallow. Plus, the tub isn't deep enough."

You stare at her, momentarily speechless. Your entire body has been transformed into a goth pinup fantasy, and she's concerned about bathtub depth.

"You could have mentioned this before I agreed to take the pill," you say.

She finally looks up from her phone, offering a small, apologetic smile. "I know, I'm sorry. I just... I didn't want you to say no to both things. And honestly, it's perfect timing! You'll be home all day anyway, and this way when I get back, we'll have a gorgeous new bathroom to celebrate in."

Her phone rings--her assistant, based on how quickly her expression shifts to professional mode.

"Liz, hi. Yes, I'm on my way. Did the Matsuhisa group confirm the dinner?" She holds up one finger to you in the universal "just a minute" gesture, completely absorbed in work mode.

You turn to look out the window, acutely aware of how your ass spreads wider on the seat than it used to. The jeans Veronica picked out are tight enough that you can feel every curve of your new lower body, the denim hugging places that never needed hugging before.

The cab pulls up to your building, and Veronica is still on the phone, now discussing presentation slides and how they "flow". She absently passes her credit card to the driver while continuing her conversation, then motions for you to get out.

Stepping onto the sidewalk is a new experience in itself. The Doc Martens Veronica got you are at least practical--flat and stable--but your legs move differently now, your hips naturally swaying with each step.

The doorman--Miguel, who's known you for months--doesn't give you a second glance as Veronica breezes past him, still talking on the phone. You follow in her wake, keeping your head down, heart thundering at the thought of being recognized.

"Good morning, Ms. Valentine," Miguel says, holding the door.

"Morning, Miguel," Veronica responds automatically, then adds, "This is Alice, she'll be staying with me for a while. House-sitting."

Miguel nods politely in your direction. "Welcome to The Azure, miss."

You mumble something that might be "thanks" and hurry after Veronica, who's already at the elevator, tapping her foot impatiently.

"I understand that, Liz, but the projections need to reflect the Q3 adjustments," she's saying, holding the elevator for you without looking up. "Tell Davis I'll call him from the airport."

The elevator doors close, and you're suddenly hyperaware of your reflection in the mirrored walls. The girl staring back at you is pale and curvy, with heavy-lidded eyes that make her look perpetually bedroom-ready. Your breasts, even compressed in the sports bra, create an unmistakable shelf beneath your t-shirt. A shelf that moves.

"Yes, I have the Stevenson brief in my carry-on," Veronica continues, fishing out her keys as the elevator reaches your floor. "I'll review it on the flight."

She unlocks the apartment door and walks in, kicking off her heels by the entryway. You follow, feeling like a visitor in your own home. Everything seems slightly larger from your new, shorter perspective.

"Listen, Liz, I need to go. Email me the revised agenda." Veronica finally ends the call and turns to you with a sigh. "Sorry about that, babe. Work is in-sane today."

"It's fine," you say, though it's not. You feel abandoned, like a pet being dropped off at a kennel.

Veronica glances at her watch--a sleek Cartier that was a "gift to herself" after landing the Prismatic Games account. "I've got about twenty minutes before the car comes. Let me show you what I got you."

She leads you to the walk-in closet, which has been rearranged to accommodate an entirely new wardrobe on what used to be your side. Where your suits and casual wear once hung, there's now a collection of black, purple, and dark red items that look like they were sourced from a Hot Topic fever dream.

"Okay, so this section is everyday wear," Veronica explains, gesturing to a row of band t-shirts, ripped jeans, and what appear to be several variations on fishnet stockings. "This is loungewear--" she points to some black leggings and oversized sweaters, "--and these are for sleeping." The sleep section consists mostly of tiny shorts and camisoles that would barely cover your new assets.

"Where are the normal clothes?" you ask, rifling through hangers. "Like, regular jeans? T-shirts that don't have skulls on them?"

Veronica laughs. "This is what goth girls wear, Alex. I had the personal shopper at Bonwit Teller put together a complete package. She was very thorough."

She reaches into a drawer and pulls out what looks like a leather dog collar with spikes. "I got you some accessories too. You know, to complete the look."

"I'm not wearing a collar," you say flatly.

"It's not a collar, it's a choker," she corrects, setting it aside. "And you don't have to wear anything you don't want to. I just thought it would be fun to fully commit to the aesthetic."

She moves to another drawer, pulling it open to reveal an array of black lace underwear. "These are all your size. The bras are front-clasping--easier to manage with those monsters."

You feel your face heating up. The idea of wearing lacy underwear is somehow more embarrassing than the transformation itself.

"Oh, and these are for when the contractors are here," she adds, pulling out what appears to be a normal hoodie and sweatpants. "So you can be comfortable and covered."

"How thoughtful," you mutter. You plan to wear those ALL THE TIME.

Veronica checks her watch again. "Shit, I need to finish packing my toiletries."

She hurries to the guest bathroom, motioning for you to follow. "I set up all your stuff in here since the master bath will be under construction."

The guest bathroom is small but elegant, with a walk-in shower, single vanity, and toilet. On the counter, Veronica has arranged a collection of products with labels like "Gentle Facial Cleanser" and "Hydrating Body Lotion."

"I got you the basics," she explains, opening the medicine cabinet to reveal even more bottles. "Cleanser, toner, moisturizer. Oh, and dry shampoo--trust me, you'll need it with that hair."

You stare at the array of products. "I've never used more than soap and shampoo in my life."

"Well, girls need more," Veronica says matter-of-factly. "Especially pale girls. Your skin will get blotchy if you don't take care of it."

She grabs her own toiletry bag and starts filling it with her higher-end versions of the products she's left for you. "There's some basic makeup in the drawer if you want to experiment, but nothing crazy. Just mascara, lip gloss, that kind of thing."

"I'm good," you say quickly.

Her phone chimes. "Car's downstairs," she says, zipping up her toiletry bag. "I've got to go."

You follow her back to the entryway, where she slips into her heels and grabs her carry-on.

"The contractors will be here at eleven," she says, checking her phone again. "Their company is called Elite Renovations. The lead guy is Marco. Just show them to the bathroom and stay out of their way."

"What if they ask me questions about the renovation?"

"They have all the specs. If there are any decisions to be made, tell them to call me." She reaches into her purse and pulls out an Uber Eats gift card. "This is for food delivery. I felt guilty. Please don't go grocery shopping looking like that--the last thing I need is some creep following you home."

You take the card, feeling simultaneously infantilized and relieved at the excuse to avoid public outings.

"Oh, and one more thing," Veronica says, her expression softening slightly. "Thank you for doing this. I know it's weird and inconvenient, but it really does mean a lot to me."

Before you can respond, she leans in and kisses you. It's different from this angle--you have to tilt your head up instead of down--but her lips are still soft, still taste like the expensive lip balm she always uses.

As she pulls away, her hand connects with your ass in a playful but firm spank, making you yelp in surprise.

"That's for luck," she grins, opening the door. "I'll call you tonight. Try not to burn the place down or seduce the contractors."

"Very funny," you mutter.

She blows one last kiss and then she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

You stand in the entryway, suddenly, overwhelmingly alone in your new body. The apartment feels too big, too quiet. You catch your reflection in the hallway mirror--a petite, pale girl with heavy-lidded eyes and a body that belongs on a pin-up calendar.

"Fuck my life," you whisper, and your reflection's dark lips move in perfect sync.

---

You've been alone in the apartment for exactly forty-seven minutes, and already it's a disaster.

"Mother FUCKER," you hiss as the sugar canister topples sideways, white granules spilling across the marble countertop like a miniature cocaine bust. You reach for a paper towel, but your unfamiliar proportions betray you again--your tits swing forward like wrecking balls, knocking over the mug you'd just filled with coffee.

Hot liquid cascades across the counter, creating a muddy brown river that carries sugar crystals to the edge and onto the floor. In your rush to grab more paper towels, your hip clips the edge of the open cabinet door. Pain radiates through your new, wider hipbone.

"Goddammit!" You clutch your side, bending forward, which causes your chest to pendulum downward, nearly dipping into the coffee puddle.

Coffee-making shouldn't require this much spatial awareness. Before the transformation, you operated in the kitchen on autopilot--grab mug, add coffee, done. Now your body extends into space in ways your brain hasn't mapped yet. Those heavy tits arrive at the counter edge before your hands do. Your ass knocks into cabinets you thought you'd cleared. Your center of gravity is completely fucked, leaving you perpetually off-balance.

After cleaning up the mess and remaking your coffee (this time standing a calculated three inches farther from the counter), you decide to distract yourself with work. Veronica may have turned you into a goth girl pinup, but your brain still functions. Maybe you can knock out a few freelance gigs on Fiverr while waiting for the contractors.

You settle into your desk chair--the ergonomic Herman Miller that Veronica insisted on buying because "proper posture is essential for creative thinking, Alex"--and immediately sink several inches lower than expected. Right. Shorter now.

You reach for the height adjustment lever, yanking it upward. The chair rises with a pneumatic hiss, but now your feet barely touch the ground. You're like a child at the adults' table.

"Perfect," you mutter, scooting forward.

Your monitor looks enormous from this vantage point. You open your laptop instead--more manageable. Logging into Fiverr feels like connecting to your real life, the one where you're still Alex Mercer, UI/UX designer with a 4.9-star rating.

There's a new message in your inbox:

DripKingz: Hey man, just checking on the shopping cart interface we discussed. Need it by Friday for our beta launch. Nothing fancy, just functional and clean. Lmk if we're still good.

The project--a simple e-commerce checkout flow for a streetwear brand--should be straightforward. You've designed dozens of these. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, then falter.

Your hands look alien--small, pale, with those glossy black nails that catch the light like beetle shells. Your fingers are slender, almost delicate, making your keyboard feel oversized. You type a quick response:

AlexMUX: On track for Friday. Will send preview tomorrow.

As you hit send, you notice something odd. The keys feel exactly the same under your fingers--the muscle memory remains intact--but your typing speed has decreased slightly. Your fingers have to stretch farther to reach certain keys, creating tiny hesitations in your flow.

You open Figma and pull up the project files. The interface design principles haven't changed--clean navigation, minimalist aesthetic, intuitive flow--but something feels...different. You stare at the color scheme you selected last week. Were those grays always so bland? Why didn't you add more contrast between the buttons?

"Focus," you mutter, adjusting the chair again.

Your new ass is creating unfamiliar pressure points. Where you once sat directly on your sit bones, now you're cushioned by a layer of soft tissue that distributes your weight differently. You shift, trying to find a comfortable position, but your thighs keep spreading sideways on the seat, taking up more space than you're used to.

The sports bra digs into your ribs as you hunch forward, compressing your chest uncomfortably. You straighten up, then slump again, unable to find a posture that accommodates your new proportions.

Twenty minutes into redesigning the checkout flow, your phone buzzes. An unknown number.

Unknown: Hi Alice, this is Marco from Elite Renovations. We'll be arriving at 11am as scheduled with Ms. Valentine.

You stare at the text, heart suddenly pounding. Your brain snags on the name "Alice"--right, that's you now. You pick up the phone to reply, then hesitate. What would Veronica say? What would a normal housesitter say?

You: Ok thanks for letting me know!!

Too many exclamation points? Too friendly? You hit send before you can overthink it further, then immediately regret your choice. The contractors are coming in less than an hour, and you're sitting here in a band t-shirt and jeans that might as well be painted on, with tits that enter the room five seconds before the rest of you.

You rush to the closet, intent on changing into the hoodie and sweatpants Veronica pointed out. But as you rifle through the drawers, your phone rings.

It's the unknown number--Marco calling, not texting this time.

You stare at the vibrating phone like it's a live grenade. Each ring sends your heart rate higher. On the fourth ring, you finally swipe to answer.

"H-hello?" Your voice comes out as a breathy squeak.

"Is this Alice?" The voice on the other end is deep, authoritative.

"Yes," you manage, cringing at your high-pitched reply.

"Marco Vega, Elite Renovations. Just wanted to confirm we have access to the service elevator when we arrive. We're bringing up some large equipment."

"Oh, um." You have no idea. "I think so?"

There's a pause, then Marco says with exaggerated patience, "Could you check with the building management? We need a service key."

"Right, of course," you say, trying to sound competent. "I'll call down."

"Great. Also, just FYI, there are three of us coming up--myself, Luis, and Jake. Ms. Valentine mentioned you'd be alone, so I wanted to give you a heads-up."

Three strange men coming to the apartment where you're trapped in this unfamiliar body. Perfect.

"Thanks," you say weakly.

"See you at eleven." He hangs up.

You call the front desk, your voice cracking as you identify yourself as "Alice, Veronica Valentine's friend." The concierge assures you the service elevator will be available for the contractors.

With that crisis averted, you rush back to the closet, determined to change into something less revealing before they arrive. You're pulling out the hoodie when your phone chimes again--this time with a Fiverr notification.

DripKingz: Actually, can you hop on a quick call? Need to discuss a feature change.

Shit. You glance at the time--10:42. Probably just enough time for a quick call before the contractors arrive.

You message back:

AlexMUX: Can call now for 10 mins. Number?

The response comes immediately with a phone number. You dial, hyperaware that your voice doesn't match the profile picture your client is expecting.

"Yo, Alex!" A young man's voice answers. "Thanks for jumping on."

"No problem," you say, trying to lower your voice slightly, which just makes you sound like you have a cold.

There's a pause. "Uh, is this Alex?"

"Yes, sorry--fighting a cold," you lie, voice still unmistakably feminine despite your efforts.

"Oh, damn. Feel better. Anyway, we're thinking about adding Apple Pay integration to the checkout. Can you work that in?"

You launch into an explanation of implementation options, trying to sound as professional as possible despite your Minnie Mouse voice. The client seems to buy your cold excuse, and you're just wrapping up when the doorbell rings.

"I have to go," you say abruptly. "I'll send mockups with both options tomorrow."

You hang up without waiting for his response and stare at the front door. The hoodie is still in your hand, but there's no time to change now.

Taking a deep breath, you walk to the door. You peer through the peephole and see three men in work clothes, holding tool bags and some other stuff.

Another deep breath. You open the door.

"Hi," you squeak, immediately hating how high and breathy your voice sounds.

The three men on your doorstep are exactly what you'd expect from a high-end renovation crew, yet somehow more intimidating than you anticipated. Marco--clearly the leader--is tall and broad-shouldered, with olive skin and dark hair styled in that perfectly messy way that probably cost $200. He's wearing a fitted gray Elite Renovations polo that stretches across his chest and a smile that's professionally friendly but with an undercurrent of something else when his eyes meet yours.

Behind him are Luis and Jake. Luis is shorter but powerfully built, with forearms roped with muscle and a neatly trimmed beard. Jake is lanky with a buzz cut, younger than the others, maybe mid-twenties.

"You must be Alice," Marco says, extending his hand. "Marco Vega, lead contractor. These are my guys, Luis and Jake."

You take his hand, yours completely disappearing in his grip. "Nice to meet you," you manage, stepping back to let them in.

"Nice place," Jake comments, looking around the apartment with appreciative eyes.

"Thanks," you say automatically, then add, "It's not mine. I mean, I'm just staying here while Veronica--Ms. Valentine--is away."

Marco sets down his bag, his eyes doing a quick sweep of your body--professional assessment or male appraisal, you can't tell. "Ms. Valentine briefed me on the project, but we have a few decisions to make before we start demolition."

"Decisions?" you echo weakly.

"Marble selection, fixture finishes, that kind of thing." He pulls out a tablet. "She mentioned you'd be our point of contact while she's traveling."

Shit. Veronica definitely did not mention this part.

"I, um, I don't know anything about bathroom renovations," you admit.

Marco chuckles, the sound surprisingly warm. "Don't worry. We just need someone to sign off on a few details. Ms. Valentine gave us most of the specs."

Luis and Jake are already moving toward the master bathroom, carrying tool bags and what looks like protective floor covering.

"We'll need to take some measurements before we start," Marco explains, gesturing for you to follow. "Then we can show you the material samples and get your input."