Yes, go and take rest to process everything

13:40 | Saturday 2 Aug 2025 | Putney, London

"I need a minute," you tell David, pressing your fingertips against your temples. "This is all happening so fast."

David nods, his eyes still lingering on your exposed midriff where the crop top ends inches above your tiny white shorts. "Yeah, of course. Take whatever time you need."

You retreat to your bedroom—Alex's bedroom, you remind yourself—and sink down onto the edge of the bed. The box of revealing clothes sits beside you, a tangible reminder of how drastically your life has changed in just two hours. You place the phone face-down on the nightstand, wanting a moment without Becky's bubbly intrusions.

"Just five minutes to think," you whisper to yourself, lying back against the pillows. Your new body feels strange against the mattress—breasts that weren't there this morning pressing against the tight crop top, the exaggerated curve of your hips and ass making you hyper-aware of your new shape.

You close your eyes, intending only to gather your thoughts, but your transformed body has other plans. The exhaustion of the transformation catches up with you all at once—the physical stress of bones shifting, tissues expanding, hormones flooding your system. Your consciousness slips away before you can fight it.

You dream in pink. Fragmented images of your hands moving across a screen, designing a body. Becky's laugh echoing as you fiddle with sliders, adjusting curves and features with careless abandon. You hear your own voice, deeper and more familiar, saying "Lock in" over and over while David watches from the doorway.

When you finally stir, the bedroom is bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. Your eyes flutter open, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar weight on your chest, the tickle of long hair against your shoulders. For one blissful second, you think it might have all been a dream—until you feel the tightness of the crop top across your breasts and the pressure of the tiny shorts digging into your expanded hips.

"No," you groan, "still here."

You reach for your phone, and the screen illuminates with a flurry of notifications. The time reads 19:15, and a pulsing red alert dominates the display:

⚠ CLIMAX COUNTDOWN: 30 MINUTES REMAINING ⚠

Becky's animated face pops up, her expression a mixture of concern and glee. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty! Better hurry—you've got just half an hour before things get... interesting!"

A strange heat pulses through your lower belly, a tingling sensation that wasn't there when you fell asleep. Your thighs press together involuntarily as an unfamiliar need begins to build.

"What's happening?" you ask, voice thick with sleep and something else—a breathy quality you don't recognize.

"Remember those settings you programmed?" Becky giggles, twirling a strand of digital hair. "The ones that said your perfect girlfriend needs to climax every eight hours or she gets all hot and bothered? Well, tick-tock, honey!"

The warmth intensifies, spreading outward from your core to your breasts, which suddenly feel tender and sensitive against the fabric of your crop top. Your fingers twitch with an urge to touch yourself—an urge that feels foreign yet increasingly urgent.

"But I didn't mean to—" you start, but Becky cuts you off.

"Doesn't matter what you meant, babe. It's what you programmed! Thirty minutes to climax, or that big brain of yours starts to get all mushy and simple."

As if to prove her point, you feel a momentary fogginess descend—a brief struggle to form a complete thought before it clears again. A warning of what's to come.

"Fuck," you whisper, pressing your thighs together tighter against the growing need.

19:15 | Saturday 2 Aug 2025 | Putney, London

[TIMER] | Climax deadline | 00:30 remaining