Your yearning silences the questions in your brain

Despite your worries, the idea of some further - unintended - transformation sent pulses of heat through your crotch. You are so aroused by this situation.

You should have said something ordinary. Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir. Instead your mouth opened on a sound that wasn’t language at all—thin, punched-out, like he’d put a hand around the idea of her and squeezed.

You can't bring yourself to say it, but what you want to do is whisper to him, “I want to be dosed... I want to be stacked. I want the ones that fray me and the ones that lock me and the ones that make me cheaper. I want Resistance adding days every time I come. I want Breeder so I can’t finish unless you use me. I want Compliant so I don’t get to pretend I have a line. I want—”

Instead, your breath just runs ragged. Your hands find your thighs, nails biting, as if you could pin these urges in place.

But you can't.

"Go on." He was commanding you. "Tell me what you want?"

You lift your head. Eyes wet, mouth parted, the look of someone who’d just discovered the size of her own appetite.

“Don’t make me tell you yet. Make me earn the right to be ruined on purpose. Put one on my tongue while I’m still lying by omission. Let it fight whatever’s already in me. I want the scrape. I want the extra heat. I want you to find out if I’m a real girl or a borrowed one by what the pill does to me in front of you.”

You reach—not for the tray. For his wrist, as you arch your head back, opening your mouth.

"Come on, give me one, please, Master."

What were you doing?

Whatever it was unlocked a strange yearning to be filled.