Chastity Pill

"Fine, you can stay over," you relent, watching Devon's shoulders sag with relief. "I should go set up the guest room."

"Sounds good," Devon sighs dramatically, saving the game. "Now I won't have to explain this--" she gestures down, "--to my nosy neighbors."

You lead her to the guest bedroom--your home office that doubles as visitor accommodation when needed. Devon trails behind you, her bare feet making soft padding sounds against the hardwood. You notice she's walking slightly... oddly. There's a shuffling quality to her gait, thighs pressing together with each step.

"You okay?" you ask, pushing open the door.

"Huh? Yeah, fine," she says quickly. "Just... these feet are weird. Everything's weird. Being short is weird."

The guest room is simple but comfortable--a daybed that converts to a queen, a desk with your work computer setup, and neat shelves holding your gaming collection. Devon immediately gravitates toward your rare games, fingers outstretched like a moth to flame.

"Don't even think about it," you warn. "You're small now, I can easily take you."

"You wish," Devon scoffs. She plops down on the edge of the bed, the yellow dress pooling around her like a buttercup. "So... pajamas? Unless you want me sleeping in this cupcake advertisement."

"Right." You open the closet where Veronica has organized your new gender-swapped wardrobe with military precision. "Let me check what we've got."

You push past the goth attire to find the sleepwear section, hoping for something that won't make Devon throttle you. Most options are black satin or lace--definitely not Devon-appropriate.

"What about these?" you ask, pulling out a black shorts and tank top set that looks relatively normal. "They might be big on you, but..."

Devon wrinkles her nose.

"Beggars can't be choosers," you remind her. "It's either this or whatever's in your Paradise Mall bag."

Devon's eyes dart to the shopping bag of rental clothes, face contorting in horror. "Fine. Hand over the goth pajamas."

You toss her the set and turn to leave. "Bathroom's stocked with fresh towels if you want to shower. I'll go find you a toothbrush."

"Wait," Devon calls, suddenly looking uncertain in a way old-Devon never did. "Do you... I mean... do you think this Breeder thing is actually serious?"

The vulnerability in her voice stops you. You turn back to see her sitting on the bed, tiny feet barely touching the floor, dark eyes wide.

"I don't know," you admit. "But we should probably look at exactly what we're dealing with."

You sit down at your computer and open a browser, typing "X-Change Breeder effects detailed" into the search bar. Devon hovers behind you, the heat from her body surprisingly noticeable--she's running several degrees warmer than normal.

The top search result is from a medical journal: "Comprehensive Analysis of X-Change Breeder Variant Physiological and Psychological Effects."

"Well, this looks legit," you mutter, clicking the link.

As the page loads, Devon leans closer, her breath tickling your ear. You catch her scent--like ripe peaches and vanilla. It's definitely not perfume - must be something her body naturally smells like.

"Holy shit," Devon whispers as you both scan the document. The clinical language doesn't soften the alarming content:

"...subjects experienced progressive intensification of breeding urges, typically beginning within 6-12 hours of transformation and peaking between days 3-5. Physical symptoms include elevated body temperature, increased vaginal lubrication, pelvic discomfort described as 'emptiness' or 'aching,' and frequent involuntary presentation postures..."

You scroll down to the psychological effects section:

"...cognitive functions remain intact, but decision-making becomes compromised when fertility-related stimuli are present. Subjects report intrusive thoughts of insemination and pregnancy, often described as 'alien' to their normal thought patterns. Resistance to these urges diminishes steadily throughout the cycle..."

"This is bullshit," Devon declares, backing away from the screen. "It's pseudoscientific garbage. I'm fine. I mean, yeah, I feel a little weird, but nothing like... that." She gestures dismissively at the screen.

You turn to face her. "Devon, you're honestly radiating heat like a furnace. And you literally just ate your weight in pizza--which the article specifically mentions as 'increased caloric intake.' It seems like at least some of this stuff is happening."

Devon's cheeks flush. "That's just... I was hungry from the transformation!"

You scroll further, reaching that particularly concerning section: "Orgasmic Recalibration."

"Subjects universally report inability to achieve climax through conventional masturbation or non-insemination sexual contact. The pleasure centers of the brain become rewired to respond exclusively to the presence of seminal fluid in the reproductive tract..."

"Okay, that part is definitely exaggerated," Devon says quickly--too quickly. "Like, how would they even test that? Did they just have a bunch of dudes..." she trails off, her flush deepening. "Seriously. Don't buy it."

You notice her pupils dilating as she reads the screen, her breathing becoming slightly shallower. The article's descriptions of insemination might be clinical, but Devon's body seems to somehow respond to them.

"Look," you say, closing the browser, "you're staying here tonight, and we'll figure this out. But you need to be honest with me if you start feeling... whatever this is... getting worse."

"I'm FINE," Devon insists, backing toward the door with the black pajamas clutched to her chest. "Totally fine. Normal. Regular. Just gonna go change now."

She darts into the hallway bathroom, leaving you alone with your concerns.

While waiting, you text Veronica:

You: Devon is staying over tonight. In the guest room.

You: Turns out the X-Change he took has some weird side effects. Nothing serious.

Veronica's response is delayed--probably at her business dinner--but eventually comes through:

Veronica: Excellent! Keep your little friend close where you can monitor him. Her? Whatever.

Veronica: I'm at dinner with the Matsuhisa execs. So much sake. The CEO keeps making me do shots with him.

Veronica: Look at this menu. $200 for FISH SPERM. I'm not kidding.

[Image: elegant menu with "Shirako" listed at $200]

Veronica: I ordered it. Company card lol

Veronica: One of the VPs just asked if I was married. I said "emotionally" and showed him a picture of you. The BEFORE you pic obviously.

Veronica: They'd die if they knew what I did to my boyfriend before leaving town

Veronica: Miss your dick but love your tits. Can't wait to play with both someday. V confused by my own sexuality right now.

You're formulating a response when Devon returns, swimming in your black pajamas. The tank top hangs off one delicate shoulder, and she's had to roll the shorts' waistband several times to keep them from falling off. The effect is both comical and oddly endearing.

"These are stupid," she announces, tugging at the drooping neckline. "Everything is stupid. Being girl-shaped is stupid."

"Better than the tiny stuff in your bag?"

"Marginally." She pads back to the guest room. "So, we still on for gaming tomorrow? I want to tackle that dragon by the lake."

"Yeah, assuming the contractors don't blow up the apartment first," you say, following her. "They're coming at 8AM."

"What kind of psychopaths start work at eight?" Devon groans, climbing onto the bed. After reading that Breeder stuff, she seems to be avoiding pressing her thighs together, keeping them slightly apart even as she sits.

"The kind Veronica pays extra to finish quickly," you explain. "Just stay in here if you don't want to deal with them."

"Oh, I'm sleeping until at least noon," Devon declares, then yawns--a tiny, high sound nothing like her former foghorn. "This body is fucking exhausted. Must be all the..."

She trails off.

"...anyhow, I swear, the next time I see a low-budget, bargain-basement technology, I'm walking in the opposite direction," she grumbles, arranging pillows aggressively. "This is classic Devon luck. You get big goth tiddies, I get reproductive Stockholm syndrome. Stupid."

"If you start feeling weird--weirder--wake me up," you say, leaning against the doorframe.

"I'm not going to wake you up because I'm horny, Alex," Devon says, rolling her eyes. "That would be the ultimate friendship ender."

"That's not what I meant," you protest, though the thought sends an uncomfortable jolt through you.

"Besides," Devon continues, a strange glint in her eye, "I'd obviously just, you know, handle it myself. Like any rational person." She mimes a crude masturbation gesture, then immediately looks horrified at herself. "I mean--not that I--that was a joke!"

"NO MASTURBATING. For multiple reasons. Anyway, there's water and snacks in the kitchen if you need anything during the night."

"Thanks, man," Devon says, her voice softening. For a moment, you see your old friend behind those unfamiliar eyes.

"What are friends for if not supporting each other through gender transformations?"

Devon snorts, then flops backward onto the bed, limbs starfishing across the mattress. "This bed is way better than mine. Why does Veronica have a nicer guest bed than my actual bed?"

"Because she's Veronica," you say simply. "She researches anything she gets for days before getting it."

"Okay, I'm crashing," Devon yawns again, wider this time. "This stupid little body has like zero stamina."

"Night, Devon."

"Night, big tits."

You close the door, hearing Devon's voice call out one more thing: "And for the record, I'm NOT going to turn into some cum-crazed baby factory! I have SELF-CONTROL!"

Something about the declaration sounds less convincing than it should.

Back in your bedroom, Veronica has sent more texts:

Veronica: They're making me do karaoke now. Send help.

Veronica: No wait they're putting on my song!! Gotta go melt these Japanese businessmen's faces with my Gaga 💘

Veronica: Btw, your little friend isn't sleeping in OUR bed, right?

Veronica: Kidding! Mostly!

Veronica: Maybe I should be jealous? You two looking hot together? KIDDING!

Veronica: Too much sake. Calling car now. Love you, miss you, sweet dreams my big tiddy goth princess 😘

You: Devon's fine in the guest room. Having a weird day.

You: We're both exhausted from transformation stuff. Going to sleep.

You: Love you too. Knock 'em dead tomorrow.

You put down your phone and stare at your reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Despite having lived in this body for over 24 hours now, the sight still shocks you. The pale girl staring back is objectively beautiful--curved in all the right places, with those enormous breasts defying gravity despite their weight.

"I am never going to get used to these," you mutter, cupping the underside of one breast experimentally. The weight is substantial, the skin soft and sensitive even through your t-shirt.

You change into your own pajamas--black silk shorts and a matching camisole that does little to contain your chest. The sensation of silk against your nipples sends shivers down your spine, a strange new erogenous zone you're still learning to navigate.

Finally, you climb into bed, immediately encountering the nightly puzzle: how to arrange your new appendages comfortably.

"Whose brilliant idea was it to attach two sacks of pudding to the front of human bodies?" you mutter, shifting onto your side.

Your first attempt at a sleeping position is your usual--stomach down, face sideways on the pillow. The moment you settle, however, your tits compress painfully beneath you, tissue squishing against your ribcage like water balloons in a vice.

"Fuck!" You flip to your back, where a new problem emerges. Your breasts immediately slide sideways, slipping into your armpits like they're attempting an escape. The camisole does nothing to contain them--the silky material actually accelerates their migration, like two pale jellyfish drifting toward opposite sides of your chest.

"This is ridiculous," you whisper, tugging them back to center, only to have them immediately begin their outward journey again the moment you release them.

You try your right side. Your lower breast squashes against the mattress while the upper one flops forward, landing heavily on its twin with a soft PLAP that jiggles both mounds. The weight makes your skin stick together in the valley between them, already growing damp with a fine sheen of sweat despite the perfectly regulated temperature.

"Nope." You roll to your left side. Same problem, different direction.

You grab an extra pillow and try tucking it under your top breast for support. This works for approximately thirty seconds before your arm falls asleep from the awkward angle.

Sighing deeply, you lie flat on your back again and try placing your hands on your stomach. Those traitorous tits immediately slide into your armpits. You reposition them, cupping one in each hand and holding them in place, but then your arms get tired.

The clock reads 1:17 AM.

You try building a pillow fortress--one between your knees, one under your head, another hugged to your chest to provide breast support. For three blessed minutes, you think you've solved it. Then your left foot starts to cramp.

By 1:45 AM, you've tried seventeen different positions, including one that involved placing a pillow directly on top of your breasts to "weigh them down" (it didn't work--they just absorbed the pillow like quicksand). Your skin is hypersensitive from all the shifting, sheets feeling alternatively too rough and too slippery against your new body.

The clock now reads 2:26 AM. Sleep remains elusive. Your brain refuses to quiet, cycling between worries about Devon, tomorrow's contractors, and the alien feeling of your new form.

On top of this, there's a strange, persistent ache between your legs. A tingling awareness that wasn't there before, like a part of you has woken up and is impatiently tapping its foot, waiting for attention.

Your eyes drift to the nightstand where the black vibrator sits. It looks obscenely obvious there, like it's practically winking at you.

"No," you tell it firmly. "I already did that today. No way I have to do it again."

But your body isn't listening. Your big nipples have hardened against the silk, and the tingling between your legs intensifies.

You reach for your phone instead, thinking maybe some mindless scrolling will bore you to sleep. Without conscious intent, your thumb taps the private browser icon, and before you've fully admitted to yourself what you're doing, PornHub's familiar orange and black logo fills your screen.

"Just to help me fall asleep," you rationalize, already tapping your saved playlist: "ULTIMATE CUMSHOTS."

The video starts playing--a compilation of facials, each more excessive than the last. These had been your go-to videos in your male form: guys getting to empty their balls over pretty faces. You turn the volume down low, conscious of Devon sleeping down the hall.

You watch as a blonde pornstar takes a massive load, thick cum ropes streaking across her eyelids, nose, and quivering lips. You wait for that familiar surge of blood to your groin, that instinctual male response to seeing such visual domination.

Nothing happens. Your pussy doesn't even tingle.

"What the fuck?" you whisper, genuinely confused. You skip ahead to what used to be your favorite scene--a petite brunette handling two guys at once, their synchronized cumshots plastering her from forehead to chin like glazed donut icing.

Your new body remains stubbornly unmoved.

Instead, your mind fixates on a practical concern: *Is that going to drip into her eyes?*

These videos used to make you rock hard in seconds. Now they might as well be cooking tutorials.

"Fucking hell." You exit the compilation and scroll through your other saved playlists: "COCK HEROES VOL 3," "ULTIMATE GOON HYPNO," "CUM TRIBUTE COLLECTIONS."

Fifteen minutes later, you've cycled through six different videos. Your fat tits lie uselessly on your chest, nipples soft under the silk, completely uninterested in the proceedings.

You switch tactics, opening "Popular with Women" out of desperation.

"Let's see what the ladies like," you mutter, scrolling through. The thumbnails look different right away--fewer gaping assholes and cumshot close-ups, more mamby-pamby passionate kissing and actual storylines. You roll your eyes at how cliché this is. Like every guy, your brain is WAY too fucked up to get off to this! Right?

You select a video called "Romantic Morning Sex with Lena Paul" with cynical amusement. "This is going to be boring as--"

The video opens with a muscular guy with tousled hair gently kissing his way down a woman's neck. The camera lingers on his shoulders, the flex of his forearms as he braces himself above her.

Something shifts inside you--a subtle clenching sensation deep between your legs.

"What the *fuck*?" you whisper again, this time with more interest than frustration.

The man in the video takes his time, murmuring praise against the woman's skin, his hands roaming with purpose. The camera angle captures his face--his intense focus, the way his jaw clenches when she arches against him.

Your nipples harden once again, straining against your silk camisole.

"No. Are you fucking kidding me?" you hiss, both embarrassed and intrigued. You feel a distinct dampness gathering between your legs--not quite wet yet, but definitely headed that way. "Fluke."

You tap out of the video. This can't be right. You try another compilation from your old favorites: "MYLKED: CUMSHOT COMPILATIONS."

Nothing. Again.

Back to "Popular with Women." This time you select "BLACKED: Lena Paul Is A Bad Wife" with a snort. "Let's see if the whole BBC thing is actually--"

Halfway through the intro, before anyone's even naked, your pussy does that clenching thing again. Did you actually gasp? The anticipation, the forbidden nature of the setup, the way the camera lingers on the male performer's confident smirk--it's doing something to you.

"This is ridiculous," you whisper, but you don't stop the video. Instead, your thighs squeeze together almost involuntarily, creating a pressure against your increasingly slick pussy lips. "You mean I don't know what I LIKE anymore?"

You navigate to another video: "POV Pussy Eating Close Up Until She Cums."

The thumbnail shows exactly what it promises--a close-up of a woman's pussy being devoured by an eager tongue. In your male form, you might have clicked on this out of clinical interest, but it wouldn't have been your first choice.

Now, though, as you watch the performer's skilled mouth work, your own pussy practically weeps in response. You can almost feel the phantom sensation of that tongue against your new anatomy. Your clit throbs, and you instinctively press your thighs together harder.

"Holy shit," you breathe, finally admitting to yourself what's happening. Your arousal patterns have completely rewired themselves.

You grab the vibrator from your nightstand, already knowing you're going to need it. You pull aside the silk shorts, revealing your pussy to the cool night air. Its outer lips are swollen and slick.

You power on the vibrator, the low buzz filling the quiet room. Cautiously, you touch it to your inner thigh, testing the sensation, like Veronica had showed you this morning. Electricity shoots through you--your nerves are on fucking fire. The vibrations travel up your leg straight to your pussy, which CLENCHES once again in eager response.

"When in Rome," you whisper, moving the vibrator closer to your entrance. "Or maybe, when a Roman." On the screen, the woman is moaning as her partner's tongue focuses on her clit, circling it with obvious skill - and INTENTION. That's part of it.