You need to find another womb for James to fill

You stand in the warm evening air outside the pharmacy, the bag of fertility aids heavy in James’s hand, your thighs still slick under the flimsy summer dress. His words echo—“If it can’t be you, then it has to be someone else”—and jealousy twists in your gut even as arousal throbs relentlessly between your legs.

You swallow hard. “James… wait. We don’t have to fight. There’s another way.” Your voice is shaky, needy. “You have to impregnate someone before the timer runs out. Okay. But it doesn’t have to be me. We can find another woman who’s willing. Then I change back, you change back, and we’re both safe.”

He searches your face, cock visibly straining against his sweatpants. After a tense beat he nods, exhaling roughly. “Fine. Another woman. Tonight. But if this doesn't work, we won't have alot of time left to think of Plan C.” His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you close enough to feel exactly how on-edge he is. “But I’m so fucking worked up I might not make it home without bending you over the hood right here.”

The drive is agony.

Every stoplight, his fingers creep higher up your bare thigh, teasing your soaked folds until you’re grinding against his hand. You stroke him through the fabric in return, feeling him throb and leak. The car smells like pure hormones. By the time you pull into the driveway you’re both trembling, foreheads pressed together over the console.

“We need a target,” you pant, hips still rocking against his slow thrusts. “Someone fertile. Someone who’ll say yes.”

James groans. “Who, then?”

Two possibilities hit you at once.

First: Gwen—your 22-year-old sister, home from college for the weekend, asleep in her old room down the hall. She’s always been flirty, adventurous, and you remember her once half-joking that Jess was the hottest person she’d ever seen. The taboo thrill of watching James breed your own sister sends a forbidden pulse straight to your clit.

Second: a random hookup from the bar downtown. Ladies’ night means plenty of drunk, horny women looking for a no-strings night. Quick, clean, anonymous.

But then the problem slams into both of you at the same moment.

“We won’t know if she’s ovulating,” you whisper, voice catching as his thumb circles your clit. “Even if she says yes, it might not take. We could waste the whole night and still run out of time. And be back to square one.”

James stills, eyes darkening with frustration—then they flick to the pharmacy bag on the backseat. He reaches back, rummages, and pulls out the blister pack of glossy black pills: Frenzy Tabs.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. “We don’t need her to be ovulating,” he says, voice low and rough. “One of these little beauties ramps fertility through the roof—conception guaranteed. We slip her one, wait twenty minutes, and whoever she is will be begging me to pump her full until it takes.”

Your breath hitches—half horror, half shameful excitement. The ethics are murky as hell, but you're stuck between a cock and a hard place.

“So the plan is,” he continues, already rolling a tab between his fingers, “we pick our target—Gwen or some hot stranger at the bar. We get her alone, get the tab into her drink, and then…” He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “I fuck her raw, load after load, while you watch and stay safe. By morning she’ll be knocked up for sure, I’ll revert to myself, and you’ll be a man again.”

The air between you crackles with tension and lust.