He abandons you

As it hits you — a thick, scalding rush deep inside - he grips your throat roughly as his cock pulses while he unloads.

Your walls clamp down on him, and the world whites out. Your spine arches, your mouth opens in a silent scream, and the orgasm tears through you like a current, every nerve firing at once. His cum floods your cervix, and the drug does what it does — locks the pleasure to the seed, amplifies it, stretches it out as your legs keep shaking and your vision remains blurred.

You are slumped, tiny, in his strong arms, and he holds you collapsed against his chest, his cock still twitching inside you.

You stay slumped, wrecked, as your hear his heartbeat thud in his chest.

His fingers loosen from your throat. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, breathing in sandalwood and bergamot, and whisper, "Please — again. Please, I need it again."

He doesn't move.

"Please," you repeat, your hips shifting, trying to stir him back to hardness inside you. "I'll do anything. Just one more. Please."

He pulls out, almost tossing you aside.

The sudden emptiness is a physical shock — your pussy clenches around nothing, cum leaking down your inner thigh in a warm trickle. He stands, tucking himself back into his trousers with clinical efficiency, and you reach for him, fingers grasping at his wrist as he shrugs himself back into his shirt. He steps back, out of range.

"No," he says. Flat. Final. "Enough - for now."

The word lands like a slap. You blink, mouth still open around the shape of please. He returns to you, and reaches for the collar around your neck. You feel his fingers at the clasp, the small click of the lock releasing, the sudden absence of weight against your throat. He holds the collar for a moment, then turns and hangs it on a small hook mounted on the wall beside the leash, the two items dangling together like discarded tools.

He picks up your clothes — the flimsy cheongsam that might as well be tissue paper — and drops the little pile on the floor at your feet. A card lands face-up on top of the pile, followed by a folded sheet of paper.

"Trial information. Your instructions."

The words blur in your mind. What on Earth happens next?

You're still sitting on the bench, legs parted, his cum cooling between your thighs, staring up at him. He doesn't look at you. He swiftly re-ties his tie, runs a hand through his hair, and walks out without a word.

The bass thumps somewhere far away. You sit there for what might be ten seconds or ten minutes, your body still humming, your mind blank. Then the cold creeps in — the air on your wet skin, the emptiness of the space without him, the silence where his voice had been - even though you remain mind-blurringly hot. Hot for him. Hot for his cock. Hot for any cock.

You have to do something, have to move.

Standing gingerly to your feet, you lift up the cheongsam. Slipping into it, you are struck - and embarrassed - by how revealing it is. What were you thinking doing this, turning into a girl, dressing like this in a place like this?

The fabric clings to your sweat-damp skin, your nipples still hard and visible through the thin fabric. You fold the card and the trial sheet into a clumsy wad it in your fist. Your legs are unsteady as you push through the curtain and step back into the club.

The crowd is thicker now. Bodies press in from every side, the bass vibrating through the floor and into your bones. Faces turn toward you — men, all of them, their eyes tracking you with the precision of predators sensing wounded prey. The drug is still in your system. You can feel it — the heightened suggestibility, the way each gaze that locks onto yours feels like a hook in your chest, pulling.

You try to walk straight. Toward the exit. One foot in front of the other.

"Hey." The noise catches your attention, but you ignore it. You just need to get home now and take stock.

"Hey, don't ignore me!" The voice barks more persistently. Even though you want to keep going... you find yourself stopping, in explicably, and swinging round. Why did you do that?

As you turn, you see the face attached to the voice and it makes your stomach lurch — greasy skin pocked with old acne scars, thin lips yellowed at the edges, eyes too close together, a gut straining against a stained shirt. He smells like stale beer and cigarette ash. Thoroughly aroused though you remain, his face, and body, are nothing short of repulsive. Yet his greater size, and the way he looms over you, still gives you the odd buzz that your new body - you hope temporary new body - craves.

"Come over here and give me a kiss," he says.

Again you find yourself curiously obeying, without thinking. It is like your body moves before your mind can catch up.

"Fuck," you think to yourself, "It's the Compliance part of the pill!" You stomach drops with panic at the dangerous situation you are in.

Compelled by the pill you approach him, and step up on tiptoes - underscoring how small and vulnerable to him you are - to try to reach his noxious face.

He chuckles to himself - perhaps shocked someone as hot as you are is showing such interest in him - as you tilt your face up, and press your mouth hesitantly to his.

His lips are chapped and wet. No sooner have you brushed them, but his tongue thrusts past your teeth. Your mouth and nose fill with the stench taste of halitosis, cheap liquor and something sour.

His hand grips the back of your neck, holding you there. Your stomach turns, but you don't pull away. You can't pull away. The pill won't let you.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he's grinning. Yellow teeth. "That's a good girl." One hand smacks your arse, roughly. His other drops to his belt.

"You wanna suck me off?"

The word yes forms in your throat before you can stop it, and at the same time as you drop yourself to your knees.

"Must be my lucky day you filthy, slag!"

He doesn't wait for you to drop to the ground. He's already undoing his zipper, pulling out a cock so small it barely clears his palm. The smell hits you before your knees do. It is a sickening mixture of sweat, unwashed skin, and something rancid underneath.

You are on your knees on the filthy club floor. The bass pounds. People walk past, barely glancing down. You take his micro-dick into your mouth — it's barely more than the head, a stubby thing that tastes like salt and grime. You suck it because he told you to, because the drug makes his words into commands, because your mouth is already moving. He groans above you, his fingers tangling in your hair, his hips jerking. It takes less than a minute. He grunts, and a thin, bitter spurt hits the back of your tongue. You swallow because that's what you do now - but at the same time your stomach knots and you feel yourself chundering....

"Bllaaaaaaah," your mouthful of spunk and half of the contents of your stomach erupt over his crotch and his trousers.

"You bitch!" he shouts, shoving you roughly away to the floor.

He is immediately off to the bathroom ranting and raving as he clasps his trousers around his embarrassing excuse for a cock. "Disgusting little slag, fuck off out of here and don't come back."

Finally - a useful command. Instead of resting on your knees, your compulsion forces you to stand quickly. As you do, the taste of him coating your mouth, his cum still leaking from your pussy, the card crumpled in your fist, you feel utterly ashamed.

On your feet, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and push through the crowd toward the glowing sign that reads Reception.

The woman behind the counter barely looks at you. "Cab?" you manage. Your voice sounds wrong — thin, scraped.

She picks up a phone. "Address?"

You give it. She relays it, hangs up. "Five minutes. Wait outside."

You nod and turn toward the door, your heart hammering against your ribs. Five minutes. A cab. The ride home, alone, with this pill still pulsing through your bloodstream and every command still lodged in your chest like a live wire. The night air hits you as you step outside, cold and sharp, and you wrap your arms around yourself, staring at the empty street.

Five minutes. You just have to survive five minutes.