Bespoke Compliance-Breeder

“The pill... the pill was a bespoke Compliance Breeder. One of my own creations.” He rocks his hips slightly from side to side, causing the direction of his cock inside your pussy to switch, pushing against your yearning wall, and then another - teasing you with that shallow penetration.

The pulse of his cock, how good it feels pressing against you, the thought of how great it would be for him just to slam it into you properly distract you as you try to work out the consequences of such a pill. Even as you grapple with trying to think, you can't help but emit another whimper. You just want him - need him - to fuck you silly now.

“For the next twelve hours, you’re going to be as horny as a little bitch in heat - but you will also be as fertile. Any cum inside you is likely to give you twins. At the same time, you’ll consent to anything and everything anyone tells you to do, even letting them cum inside you to inseminate you.”

Your mind reels, but your body sings. It makes a terrifying, perfect kind of sense.

“The best part?” he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You can only come if someone cums inside you. Without that - and I think this may have been slowly dawning on your already - you are just going to keep slamming up against a wall of huge arousal but no satisfaction. The second you feel a hot load filling you up though, you’ll get an instant, filthy, lights-out orgasm."

Your pussy clenched on the head of his huge dick. Boy did you feel like it needed filling up.

"I know you've played all coy about whether you are a real girl or whether you were already pilled, but the beauty of this pill is that there is no way yet for me to find out unless you'll finally 'fess up. If you did have a pink pill first… it'll just make you even more hyper-horny for the entire duration... although some of the effects may linger after you change back.”

A relief - of sorts. Though you couldn't, surely, let him inseminate you? Equally though, could you face a further 12 hours of this torture? He’d described your complete and utter subjugation, painting a picture of twelve hours of pure, unthinking debauchery.

And yet, the more you thought about this dilemma, the more your brain fogs a little, in favour of a profound, earth-shattering relief. You don’t have to think. You don’t have to choose. You just have to feel.

“So what's it going to be my little bitch on heat?” he asks, his voice holding the entire weight of the decision.