The cab pulls up...

As you hover near reception, you begin to worry about the greasy guy with the micro-dick, any friends of his who might be here, and any other sleazebag that might fancy a pop at you in your suggestible state.

Growing uneasy at where that might lead, you march to the door - as assertively as you can imagine in your freshly-fucked and horny state, while wearing a tiny cheongsam - and into the night.

As the door shuts, the bass drops to a muffled thud. Outside is quiet.

Quiet, and damp, and cold.

You are suddenly even more aware of what a small, thin piece of fabric the cheongsam really is. The chill is sobering, but it doesn't help your nipples, which peak hard against the smooth fabric. You can also suddenly feel, acutely, the remaining sweat on your body and the cooling track of cum running down your inner thigh. The cool air finds it, and you shudder hard enough that your teeth click.

You wrap your arms around yourself and tuck the card and the trial sheet into the cage of your fists so you will not drop them when you shake. Five minutes. You can do five minutes if you avoid everyone else.

As you rock back and forth you try to put the evening's events out of your mind, and soothe your arousal. You just want to get home...

After what seems like an age, you see headlights approach. A dark saloon, roof light on. It pulls up and stops. The driver's window comes down, and you peer in.

You are not expecting to like the driver. He is not young, probably in his early forties. He is soft around the eyes, but they are kind, and he is obviously tall, from the scale of his chest, and how his arms and legs are bunched up in the car. You feel a shiver across you that is not cold. Damn this pill...

He takes you in — the dress, the bare legs, the way you are folded around yourself — and his expression goes straight to concern.

“Jesus, love. You’ll catch your death. You the one waiting on the cab?”

“Yes.”

“Get in, then. Come on. Front’s warmer — heater’s only working this side. You’ll be all right in a minute.”

It is kindness - and you know you should keep away, safe in the back - but it is also an instruction. Your body does not parse the difference.

You totter around the bonnet, the headlights highlighting your pale, spunk-flecked skin, on unsteady heels, open the door.

Dropping into the passenger seat, you take in more of the situation. A thermos in the cup-holder. A knitted hat shoved by the stick. His scent... musty, yet intriguing... and enough to cause you to moisten again between your legs.

The leather of the seat catches on your naked hamstrings, but also comforts after the cold. You still shake.

He leans across to the back of the car, his large shoulder standing in contrast to your slim frame as he does so. Grabbing a woollen throw from behind the seat he settles it over your knees without making a meal of the contact.

“There. Belt on if you can manage. I’ll get the heat up.”

You belt immediately and obediently without thinking. The strap pins the thin silk to your chest.

He clicks the fan to full. Warm air starts, smelling faintly of dust and coffee. He does not pull away from the kerb immediately. He rubs his hands together, glancing at you the way a decent man glances at someone who might cry.

"Where to then?"

You give your address, and he pulls off.

“Funny name that place," he says. "Vanilla Alternative? I do this run more than I like to admit.” A small, embarrassed laugh. “Never been in. Looks posh from the pavement. What is it, then? Hotel? Private club? You don’t have to say if it’s rude to ask, I just... you don’t look dressed for a Tuesday.”

He has asked. Compliant does not care that he offered you an exit.

“It’s a club,” you hear yourself say. Your voice is thin and far too ready. Why are you engaging him like this? You know the answer... and find yourself continuing.

“It's very lavish, but has rooms in the back where people, you know... play."

"Oh yeah," he says, intrigued. "What sort of play? Sex stuff?"

You giggle, and you don't know why. "Yes... sex stuff."

"Go on... don't be coy, tell me what!"

"Well, basically, anything goes. There is a bar, just like a private club, to mingle. There are bedrooms to stay over - with people you know or people you meet. Then a load of hot tubs, massage rooms and themed rooms. Basically it's free love, but with a focus on - do you know 'kink' - well, 'kink' stuff"

You hesitate, giggling once again, "So there are dungeons - they are in the basement - bondage rooms, bondage kit, and all sorts of BDSM scenarios."

He is now rapt, glancing repeatedly down at your crossed, but stretched-out, legs, and breasts. Is he into you?

"So tell me what part you liked most?"

You try to resist... but couldn't...

"I liked all of it... but particularly getting sold at an auction, X-Change pilled by my owner, then fucked silly until I came on other guys' spunk."

The driver adjusts himself in his seat, shrugging his hips. You glance down at his crotch. You are sure his cock is pressing hard against his trousers.

"What so you are a guy?"

"Some things are private," you are able to reply.

"Fuck so you are? Really? Go on tell me?"

Too compliant, again, you confess... "Well, yes, is that a problem?"

"I can't believe it," he says. "Did you do it willingly?"

"Sort of. I had always had a fantasy, as a guy, of being a sexy Japanese girl who guys lusted after. I loved the idea of vulnerability, of men desiring to dominate me, but resisting. I really didn't mean to do any 'sex', but took a pill just to go. A basic pink X-Change. Then it went wrong, and I ended up getting given another on top of it... that's where it all got complicated."

You will yourself to stop. You had to be really careful how much further you go...

"Go on, tell me about it?"

Oh no.

"The man who bought me gave me a bespoke pill - Compliant-Breeder. So I get all the side effects, but lots much worse because I am double-pilled. So I am mega-horny, but can only cum if someone cream-pies me, and I am hugely fertile. And not only that, but if someone tells me to do something, I... I do it. That is why I am telling you all this!"

He stares. He gulps. The indicator ticks once, unused.

“A pill,” he repeats, carefully, “that actually works. And now you will do or say anything I want?”

“Yes.”

“And you went in there like that on purpose?”

“Well, not like this. I wanted to keep control.”

You should stop. You do not stop. The questions have opened a tap.

“And of course," you giggle again, "I didn't go in full of cum. That's from the guys I fucked."

What were you doing?

"I’m still full of it. I can feel it leaking. The pill makes that part of it better... or worse... or maybe better. I don’t know. I wanted the cab so nobody else could tell me what to do.”

Silence in the car, except the fan. His ears have gone red. He looks at the road as if it might save him, then back at you, and there is still concern in it — only now it is tangled with something he is trying not to show.

“Christ. Are you — are you all right? Do you want me to take you to a hospital? A friend?”

“I want to go home.” That is true. “I also still want to be fucked. That’s the pill. I know how it sounds.”

He swallows. Puts the car in gear at last, pulls out, drives like a man who has remembered he has a licence. Two streets. His voice, when it comes again, is gentler than your master's and more dangerous for it.

“You don’t have to sit all clenched up like that. You’ll stay cold. Shift closer to the vents. That’s it — this way. Give the heater a chance.”

You slide. The console is under your hip. The throw slips. The cheongsam has nowhere to go. Warm air hits the wet silk between your legs and you make a sound you do not intend.

He hears it. His hands stay on the wheel.

“That’s the… Compliant thing? If I say something, you just —”

“Yes.”

He is quiet long enough that you think he will be decent. He is decent. That is the problem.

“Tell me if you want me to stop talking.”

You wait for your mouth to take the out. What it does instead is tell the truth, because he asked to be told.

“I don’t want you to stop talking.” You are becoming aroused by the threat of what he might do - and his power to be able to do it.

His breath leaves him. The next lights are red. The cab idles. He looks at your mouth, at the throw riding low, at the trial sheet on your knees.

As the car waits at the lights, you glance again at his crotch. You can see - embarrassingly - the outline of his erection, occasionally pressing out against the fabric.

The light goes green. He does not move off straight away.

“You’re shaking less,” he says. Kind. Observing. Then, because he is only human, and because you have been so ruinously easy with him: “If I asked you to do something - to show me something - would you have to?”

Your hands are already at the hem of the cheongsam.

“Yes,” you say, and the word is relief and doom in the same breath. “If you ask, I have to.”

He stares at your fingers on the silk. The heater roars. The street ahead is still your address if he drives that way.

His voice is almost apologetic.

“All right then, love. Don’t talk unless I ask you to.”

The sentence closes your throat. You swallow the rest. Your stomach turns and your cunt clenches in the same beat.

He drives like a man running a meter. Eyes on the road. Voice level.

“Skirt up.”

Your fingers hook the hem. You tell yourself you are only adjusting it. You are not. The cheongsam bunches at your hips. Cool air and the heater’s weak breath find you at once. He does not look away from the windscreen.

“Wider.”

Your knees part until the outside of your left thigh touches the centre console. Cum has run in a thin line toward the leather. You can feel it moving when the car takes a speed bump.

“Christ.” He says it almost mildly. “He didn’t even wipe you off.”

A van passes the other way. For a second its lights fill the cabin and you are just a small woman in a club dress with her legs open on a cabbie’s seat. Then the dark comes back.

He takes a right that is not, you are almost sure, the way home. Or it is the long way. The streets are narrower. Takeaways. Shut shutters. “Phone.”

You have no pocket that would hold one in this dress. You shake your head before you remember he did not forbid that.

“Left it inside, did you. Even better.” He nods at the glovebox. “Open that.”

You thumb the latch. Inside: tissues, a phone mount, a roll of bin bags, a bottle of water, and a cheap black necktie coiled like a spare.

“Water. Rinse your mouth. You smell like you threw up on someone.”

You unscrew the cap. Drink. Swill. The command does not specify spit or swallow. Your throat chooses swallow because that is what it has been doing all night. The water tastes of plastic. It does not take the other man away.

He holds out a hand, palm up, still watching the road.

“Give me the bottle. Then put your hands on your knees and keep them there.”

You do. The position opens you further. The seatbelt cuts under your breasts. Every bump is a reminder that you are still full of the first man and empty of anything that would let you come cleanly, if the stacked pill is what you think it is.

He drives another minute. Then he says it like he is asking if you want the radio on.

“Undo my belt.”

Your hands leave your knees before the shame can catch them. The buckle is warm from his body. The leather slides. The button of his trousers is next, obvious, waiting. He has not told you to stop at the belt.

The cab is still moving. Streetlights stripe the windscreen. Somewhere ahead is either your front door or a car park he already has in mind.

He does not look at you when he adds the next line, quiet enough that Compliant has to lean in to keep it.

“Go on then, love. You already know how this bit goes.”