Get yourself under control?

You clench your fists and grit your teeth, trying desperately to assert control over this unfamiliar body. "I'm a man, dammit!" you growl, your feminine voice undermining your determination. "This is just some weird dream or hallucination. I can beat this."

You stomp to the bathroom mirror, gripping the edges of the sink until your knuckles turn white. The reflection staring back at you is undeniably gorgeous—full lips, high cheekbones, long eyelashes framing startlingly bright eyes. Your hair has grown longer, cascading in silky waves past your shoulders.

"Get it together," you whisper to your reflection. "You're Daniel Douglas. You've never let a woman control you, and you won't start now."

But as the words leave your mouth, another wave of arousal—stronger than before—crashes through your body. Your knees buckle, and you collapse to the cool tile floor, gasping. Your nipples harden painfully against your thin shirt, and between your legs, your new sex pulses with an insistent, hollow ache that demands satisfaction.

"No," you moan, but your hands betray you, one sliding up to cup your breast while the other moves between your thighs. The sensation is electric—unlike anything you've experienced before. Your fingers brush against the damp fabric of your jeans, and your hips buck involuntarily.

"Oh god," you pant, your mind clouding with unfamiliar desires. The pleasure spirals through you, making coherent thought impossible. You're dimly aware that you should stop, that this isn't helping, but your body refuses to obey.

Your fingers work faster, rubbing against your clit through your jeans. Your other hand squeezes your breast rhythmically, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You're building toward something, a peak you've never experienced from this side. Your breathing comes in short, sharp gasps, and small whimpers escape your throat.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you chant, losing yourself in the sensations. The pressure builds to an unbearable intensity, and then—

You come with a cry, your back arching against the bathroom floor, toes curling, thighs clamping around your hand. The orgasm washes through you in waves, far more intense and prolonged than any you've experienced as a man. When it finally subsides, leaving you panting on the cold tile, you feel strange—lighter somehow, but also... confused.

You blink at the ceiling, trying to remember what you were so upset about. Something about... a curse? It seems less important now. Your thoughts feel fuzzy, less precise. You giggle, the sound surprising you. Was that your voice? It sounds nice.

Slowly, you pull yourself to your feet, swaying slightly as you look in the mirror again. The woman looking back is flushed, her pupils dilated, lips parted. She's beautiful. You are beautiful.

"Wait," you mumble, trying to grasp a thought that feels just out of reach. "I was trying to... what was I doing?"

The doorbell rings, startling you from your daze. Mike. You remember calling him, though you can't quite remember why. Something about needing help? You smooth down your shirt and run fingers through your tousled hair, a strange anticipation building in your stomach at the thought of seeing him.

As you walk unsteadily toward the door, you feel wetness between your thighs and a renewed stirring of desire. The curse has claimed its first victory—your orgasm has diminished your intelligence, just as the rules warned, making resistance that much harder.