Chastity Pill Ch. 06

DING-DONG-DING-DONG-DING-DONG-DING-DONG!

You rush to the door, jerking it open mid-ring, only to find... nobody? Your eyes automatically go to normal height, but there's just empty hallway.

"Down here, fuckface."

You lower your gaze a full foot and find yourself staring at a tiny, furious Asian girl drowning in men's clothing. A black T-shirt that reads "RESPAWN OR DIE TRYING" hangs like a dress off one shoulder. Baggy jeans are rolled up multiple times at the ankles and cinched at the waist with an ethernet cable.

"Devon?" you gasp.

"No, it's the fucking tooth fairy," the girl snaps, voice a bizarre blend of Devon's familiar sarcastic cadence but in a high, melodic register. "Let me in before anyone sees me."

You step aside as Devon storms past, struggling to carry a backpack that now seems cartoonishly large, along with a Paradise Mall shopping bag and a Steam Deck case.

"There. Happy now?" Devon spins around, arms extended dramatically. "I'm a GIRL. I spent TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY OF MY HARD-EARNED DOLLARS to become a GIRL. So we can play FUCKING ELDEN RING."

You stare.

"WORST DEAL EVER," she continues. Her features are delicate--heart-shaped face, button nose, full lips--and despite the oversized clothes, she's even a bit stacked!

"Holy shit," you breathe. "You're... cute."

"I know, right?" Devon's angry facade cracks for a split second, replaced by a pleased expression before immediately switching back to outrage. "I mean, fuck you! This is YOUR FAULT! I'm FIVE FEET TALL. Five feet! I lost nearly a FOOT of height! And look at these!" She grabs her breasts through the baggy shirt."

You can't help but start laughing.

"Oh sure, laugh it up, Elvira," Devon snaps, but there's no real heat in it. "At least I don't look like I fell into Hot Topic's basement and emerged as their final boss."

Her eyes narrow suddenly, focusing on your face.

"Wait, are you wearing lipstick?" She marches closer, peering up at you. "You're wearing MAKEUP to sit around your own APARTMENT? The fuck?"

"No, I'm not! They're just like this now."

"Bullshit." Devon suddenly lunges, trying to rub your lips as if to wipe off lipstick.

"Get off me!" you laugh, holding her at arm's length, which is quite easy given her size. Devon's arms windmill ineffectually.

"SHOW ME YOUR LIPS, MERCER!"

"I SWEAR they came this way! The lipstick is baked in!"

Devon stops struggling. "That can't be right. Like, genetically? Is goth in your DNA now? Are you telling me lipstick is GENETIC?"

"I don't know how it works!"

"Because that has serious scientific implications." Devon starts pacing. "Like, if pills can give you specific aesthetic features, then is personal style actually biological? Is being a goth an actual subspecies? Are we just unearthing dormant genetic code that--"

She stops abruptly, staring at something on your inner arm where your sleeve has ridden up.

"Wait, is that a TATTOO?"

Your hand flies to cover it, but it's too late.

"Holy shit," Devon breathes, suddenly all up in your personal space. "Did Veronica choose a pre-inked body? Does your Goth Barbie form come with ACCESSORIES?"

"I--"

"What does it SAY?" Devon lunges for your arm again, this time successfully grabbing it and pushing up your sleeve before you can stop her. She reads aloud, "'Daddy's Little Disappointment'?! What the FUCK?"

You yank your arm back, face burning. "There are others too."

"SHOW ME." Devon's eyes are wide with delight. "This is the greatest thing I've ever seen."

"No way."

"Come on! I had to become an entirely different race! The least you can do is show me your factory-installed body art!"

Reluctantly, you lift the back of your shirt to reveal the "Property of Veronica Valentine" tattoo.

Devon falls silent for a full three seconds--the longest she's been quiet since arriving--before erupting into peals of laughter so violent she has to lean against the wall for support.

"SHE BRANDED YOU?" Devon wheezes, tears forming in her eyes. "Like ACTUAL CATTLE? Oh my GOD. This is too good."

"It's-"

"Dude, your girlfriend put a RETURN ADDRESS on your ASS!" Devon is doubled over now, shaking with evil giggles. "What does she think is gonna happen? Someone's gonna mail you home if you get lost?"

You cross your arms defensively, which only pushes up your substantial cleavage.

"Speaking of which, holy fucking TITS, Mercer!" Her laughter cuts off as she straightens up, eyes wide. "Veronica really went all out, huh? You're basically a sex doll with legs!"

You tug your hoodie tighter. "Yeah, well, at least I FIT in my CLOTHES."

"Touché," Devon concedes, looking down at herself. "I look like a kid playing dress-up in dad's closet." She kicks off her oversized shoes. "These were falling off every two steps."

You find yourself circling each other now, both curious and horrified by the other's transformation.

"So you're what, Japanese?" you ask.

"They didn't say." Devon shrugs.

"It's weird that the three of us all have black hair now," you observe. "Me, you, Veronica."

"RIGHT?" Devon explodes, clearly having thought the same thing. "Is this some big joke? Or do female friends usually coordinate hair colors? Is this like a science thing, like how women who live together sync up their periods?"

"I don't think that's actually scientifically proven--"

"BUT WHAT IF IT IS?" Devon is in full conspiracy mode now. Typical. "What if X-Change pills can actually sense the hair color of your social circle and adjust accordingly? What if there's a HIVEMIND aspect we don't know about?"

"What are you TALKING about? No!"

Devon shakes her head. "I'm just saying, it's suspicious. Veronica is clearly part of the alien hivemind, and now she's bringing us into the fold. First she takes our dicks, then our hair, then our thoughts."

You roll your eyes. "Veronica's not an alien."

"That's what she WANTS you to think," Devon insists. "She probably implanted a tracking device in those gigantic funbags." She gestures to your chest.

"Can we not call them funbags?"

"What would you prefer? Mommy milkers? Calcium cannons? State droopers? Squishers? Meal tickets? Honka-honka-bonk-bonkas? Baby feeders-"

"Devon?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

"Make me, big tits."

You don't know what possesses you, but the next moment you've launched yourself at Devon, locking her in a headlock like you've done a thousand times before. Except this time, your breasts mash against her back and her much smaller body is far easier to overpower.

"Ack! No fair using your massive weight advantage!" Devon squirms, trying to escape.

"Are you calling me fat?" you demand.

"I'm calling you STACKED!" Devon manages to slip free, darting away with surprising agility. "Seriously, those things must weigh like ten pounds each."

"They're heavy," you admit.

Devon's eyes narrow speculatively. "Can I touch them? For science?"

"NO!"

"Come on! I can show you mine!" She starts fumbling with her shirt to lift it. "They're like... flesh-water-balloons attached to your chest! Don't you want to compare notes?"

"I do not!"

"Fine," Devon huffs, dropping her shirt. "But I think as men of science, we're missing valuable research opportunities here."

"So what's in the bag?" you ask, pointing to the Paradise Mall shopping bag. You know what's in it, but you'd like to change the topic.

Devon's face twists in disgust. "My 'rental clothes.' Apparently when you use the New-U, you don't just get a random body, you get random outfits too. Cause it's not like you can predict what size you'd be."

"Let's see."

"They're HORRIFYING," Devon warns, dumping the contents onto your sofa.

A cascade of pastel fabric spills out--floral patterns, lace edges, strappy tops, and short, fluttery skirts. You pick up what appears to be a yellow sundress.

"Oh, that's... very..."

"Yeah. Apparently the New-U machine wants me to look like I run a fucking cupcake blog."

You dig through the pile. "Some of these aren't bad?" You hold up a (tiny) pleated skirt.

"I will literally die before I put that on," Devon declares. "It's so SHORT. And PINK."

"Well, you can't keep wearing those clothes," you reason, gesturing to her current outfit. "They're literally falling off."

Devon sighs dramatically. "I know. That's why I'm going to ask you a favor, and if you ever repeat it to anyone, I will murder you in your sleep."

"What?"

"I need help figuring out how to put some of this shit on," she mutters. "Like, what the fuck is this?" She holds up a strappy contraption.

"That's for your boobs," you explain.

"I KNOW THAT," Devon snaps. "But like... how? Where do the arms go? Is this the front or back? Why are there so many STRAPS?"

You stare at each other, two clueless dudes in women's bodies, completely out of their depth when faced with lace.

"Check for tags? The tag goes in the back," you suggest. "Probably."

"This has three separate tag-like things!" Devon waves the bralette frantically.

"Can you just try it? Take the pile to the guest bathroom and just... try stuff on. I'll help if you REALLY need it."

Devon gathers the clothes with a look of absolute martyrdom. "If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, call the fire department."

While she's changing, you decide to check in with Veronica.

You: He did it. You now have TWO women in your apartment.

Veronica: PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN

You: Pretty sure that would violate some kind of friendship code

Veronica: Fine. Details then. What does he look like?

You: Tiny Asian girl, like 5 feet tall. It's WEIRD.

Veronica: Is he cute? Be honest.

You: In a bubbly way that does NOT match his personality.

Veronica: This is the best day of my life.

You: He's trying on his "rental clothes". They're all super girly.

Veronica: I AM GOING TO CALL RIGHT NOW. SEC.

"WHAT THE FUUUUUUCK!"

Your phone rings before you can respond to Veronica's text, her FaceTime request lighting up your screen. You glance at the bathroom door--Devon's still changing--and answer.

"Hey, this isn't a good ti--"

"Where is he?" Veronica demands, her face filling your screen. She's in what appears to be a corporate bathroom, pristine marble walls behind her, expensive lighting casting her features in a flattering glow. Despite having traveled all day, she looks immaculate--hair glossy, makeup perfect, not a hint of jet lag visible.

"Still changing," you whisper. "And she'll kill me if she knows I'm showing-"

"WHERE THE FUCK IS THE HOLE FOR MY HEAD IN THIS THING?!" Devon's voice bellows from the bathroom.

Veronica's eyes widen with delight. "Oh my god, his voice is so CUTE!"

"Shhh!" You turn down the volume. "Don't let her hear you. You need to get this unfiltered."

"It's like a tiny rage monster! I love it already!" Veronica is practically vibrating with glee. "Put me somewhere I can see when he comes out."

"Veronica--"

"Do it or I'm telling Devon about the time you cried watching The Notebook."

You sigh and prop the phone against a lamp on the side table, angling it toward the bathroom door just as it flies open.

Devon emerges in a flurry of pastel fabric and fury. She's wearing the yellow sundress, but it's twisted awkwardly, and there's a distinct bulge at the lower back suggesting the zipper isn't fully done up.

"This," Devon announces, gesturing down at herself, "is BULLSHIT."

From the phone, you hear a tiny gasp followed by poorly suppressed laughter.

Devon freezes. "What was that?"

"Nothing!" you say quickly.

But Devon's eyes narrow, scanning the room until they lock onto your phone propped against the lamp. Her expression morphs from confusion to horror to rage in the span of milliseconds.

"YOU'RE FACETIMING VERONICA?!" she screeches, lunging for the phone.

You dive to intercept, but Devon is surprisingly quick in her tiny new body. She snatches the phone and glares into the camera.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the puppetmaster herself," Devon hisses at Veronica. "Enjoying your handiwork from afar, you sadistic, control-freak alien?"

Veronica's laughter bubbles through the speaker. "Oh my GOD, you're ADORABLE!"

"I will END you," Devon seethes, which only makes Veronica laugh harder.

"Your dress is on wrong," Veronica points out between giggles. "The zipper goes on the side, not the back. And your left strap is twisted."

Devon looks down at herself in confusion. "The zipper goes on the SIDE? What kind of stupid design is that?"

"A flattering one, if you'd wear it correctly," Veronica says. "And actually, yellow is a great color on you. Brings out the warmth in your skin tone."

"I don't WANT warmth in my skin tone! I want my DICK back!"

"In the meantime, you should really fix that strap. It's digging into your shoulder," Veronica purrs.

Devon huffs but awkwardly reaches up to adjust the strap.

"And maybe pull the bodice up a little. You're not utilizing the structure correctly," Veronica continues, clearly enjoying her role as style consultant.

"The what-ice?" Devon looks down at her chest in confusion.

"The... top part?" you offer helpfully.

"Why doesn't it just say 'top'? Why does every woman thing need its own special word?" Devon complains, but tugs at the dress anyway. "Is it better now? Are my 'lady lumps' arranged according to protocol?"

Veronica snorts. "Much better. You actually look cute now instead of like you're wearing a rumpled parachute."

Devon preens for a microsecond before catching herself. "Whatever. Looking cute isn't the point."

"Then what is the point, Devon?" Veronica asks, her voice dripping with amusement.

"To PLAY ELDEN RING," Devon exclaims, throwing her hands up. "Which we COULD BE DOING RIGHT NOW if everyone wasn't so obsessed with my dress!"

She thrusts the phone back at you and stomps over to the entertainment center, yellow dress swishing around her legs. The effect is somewhat undermined by the fact that she's still barefoot and the dress is indeed much cuter now that it's properly adjusted.

You bring the phone closer to your face. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Veronica says, glancing over her shoulder. "I need to go back to my meeting, but keep me updated. And get a picture if you can?"

"Not happening."

"Fine. Have fun with your tiny rage girlfriend," Veronica winks. "She's actually kind of hot."

"Don't be weird," you warn.

"Me? Never." She blows a kiss. "Love you. Don't let her break anything expensive."

The call ends just as Devon lets out a triumphant "AHA!" having successfully connected her Steam Deck to your TV.

"Are you done gossiping with your overlord?" Devon calls, not looking up from her setup.

"She says you look cute," you report, moving to the couch.

"Tell her I hope her alien mothership leaves without her," Devon mutters, but there's less venom in it now. She straightens up, yellow dress fluttering around her thighs, and places her hands on her hips. "I'm starving. Like, legitimately might pass out if I don't eat in the next fifteen minutes."

"Pizza?"

Devon's eyes light up. "Veronica's paying, right? I mean, through the gift card?"

"Yeah."

"Well then," Devon rubs her tiny hands together with alarming glee. "Give me your phone. You clearly can't be trusted with it anyway."

You hand it over, and Devon immediately opens the Uber Eats app, thumbs flying across the screen with the muscle memory of someone who's ordered far too much takeout.

"So let's see... we need the Meat Monster family size... extra pepperoni... garlic knots... those weird cheese stick things you like... buffalo wings..." Devon's voice becomes a rhythmic chant of food items. "Ooh, they have a new cheesy bread? Add that. And a two-liter of Coke. No, make it two two-liters."

"That's a lot of food for two people," you observe.

"I'm making up for the money I spent to get into this body," Devon says without looking up. "Plus I feel like I'm STARVING. Like, my stomach is literally eating itself. Is that a girl thing? Do girls just feel like they're dying of hunger all the time?"

"I've been pretty hungry too," you admit.

"Must be the transformation. Probably takes a lot of calories to rearrange your entire biology," Devon theorizes, still adding items to the cart. "Plus I'm basically two-thirds of my original size, so I probably need to eat proportionally more to compensate for the increased metabolic demands of a smaller body with faster cellular turnover rates."

"That doesn't make ANY sense. Like literally zero sense."

She hands back your phone to show an order total that makes your eyes widen.

"Devon! That's like three days worth of food!"

"How much is on the gift card?"

"Five hundred, but--"

"Then we're FINE," Devon dismisses, flopping onto the couch and picking up her controller. "Press order and let's start gaming. I've been waiting for this all day."

You shake your head but place the order. The estimated delivery time is 45 minutes.

"So," you say, settling onto the couch beside Devon, careful to leave enough space between you. It's weird now that you're both... differently shaped. "What's this region lock challenge again?"

Devon's face lights up with the special fervor reserved for gaming strategies. "Okay, so the rules are simple. We have to clear out one entire region before moving to the next. And--this is the good part--we have to use a completely different weapon in each region."

"That sounds fun," you say, logging into your PC across the room.

"It's GENIUS is what it is," Devon insists. "Forces you to actually explore each area fully instead of just rushing to the endgame. Plus it makes you try different builds!"

She's bouncing slightly on the couch cushion in excitement, which causes her modest chest to jiggle under the yellow dress--a fact she doesn't seem to notice or care about.

"I was thinking I'd take Morning Star for Limgrave," she continues, navigating through the game menus. "Bleed damage is super effective early game, especially against that fucking Tree Sentinel."

The mention of weapons reminds you of something. "Hey, what was that side effect you mentioned at the mall? The one that came with your transformation?"

Devon's animation falters for a microsecond. "Oh, that. It's nothing. Just some weird thing the pharmacist mentioned. I wasn't really listening."

She's lying. Devon's a terrible liar at the best of times, but in this body, it's even more obvious--her cheeks flush instantly, and she won't meet your eyes.

"Come on, what is it? You can tell me."

"It's literally nothing. Doesn't matter."

"Devon."

"Look, it was called 'Breeder' or something," she finally mutters, staring fixedly at the TV. "The guy said maybe I can get pregnant? But who cares? It's not like I'm planning to have sex in this body. And it goes away when I change back."

You freeze, an uneasy feeling settling in your stomach. "Breeder? Are you sure that's what he said?"

"Yeah, why? Is that bad?" Devon glances over, catching your expression. "What? WHAT? Why do you look like that?"

"I've heard things about that," you say slowly. "Let me just... check something real quick."

You minimize your game and open a browser window, typing "X-Change Breeder side effects" into the search bar. The results make your stomach drop.

"Devon."

"What? You're freaking me out."

"According to this, Breeder isn't just about being able to get pregnant," you say, scanning the information. "It's... kind of intense."

"Define 'intense'?"

You swallow hard. "It says people with the Breeder effect get overwhelming urges to mate. Like, primal breeding urges that are hard to control."

Devon's eyebrows shoot up. "Okay, but I don't feel any weird urges. Just hungry."

"And..." you continue, reading further, "apparently you can't... um... orgasm without..."

"Without what?" Devon demands.

"Without being... inseminated." You look up from the screen. "By a guy."

There's a moment of perfect silence, broken only by the Elden Ring menu music in the background.

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!" Devon finally explodes, leaping to her feet. The movement makes her dress flare out dramatically, which would be comical if the situation weren't so serious. "You're telling me I can't cum unless I get CREAMPIED BY A DUDE?!"

"That's what it says here, yeah," you confirm grimly. "And there's more. The pregnancy chance is really high. Like, 50% per... event."

"Event?! You mean per FUCKING?!"

"Yeah. And if you do get pregnant..." you hesitate, "it says you won't change back. At least, not until after the baby."

Devon stares at you, face cycling through expressions too quickly to track, before finally settling on abject horror.

"So you're telling me," she says in a dangerously quiet voice, "that I paid two hundred and seventy dollars to become a fucking cum receptacle that can't even get off without letting a GUY NUT in me?"

"That seems to be the gist, yeah."

Devon collapses back onto the couch, looking shell-shocked. "I knew that wheel was too good to be true. God, why do I always pick the CHEAPEST THING? This is a problem with me!"

"Have you felt any... urges?" you ask cautiously.

Devon opens her mouth to deny it, but then pauses, a strange expression crossing her face. "I've been feeling this weird... I don't know, like an itch? But not really an itch. More like a clenching. In my..." she gestures vaguely at her lower half, "down there. It started maybe an hour ago, but I figured it was just part of having a new... equipment setup."

"Shit," you mutter. "That's probably it starting."

"But it's not BAD," Devon insists, looking more like she's trying to convince herself. "It's just... there. Like a background discomfort. Like when you need to pee but you're in the middle of a boss fight."

You shoot her a skeptical look. "The article makes it sound pretty intense."

"Yeah, well, articles exaggerate everything for clicks," Devon says dismissively. "Besides, it's not like I'm instantly going to turn into some cock-crazed nymphomaniac just because of some side effect. I still have my BRAIN."

"I guess..." you say, unconvinced.

"Look, I'll be FINE," Devon emphasizes, grabbing her controller again with renewed determination. "People turn down their urges all the time. How bad could it be?"

Before you can respond, the doorbell rings, and Devon practically teleports to the door, flinging it open to reveal a startled delivery guy balancing a precarious tower of pizza boxes and bags.

"FOOD!" Devon announces, grabbing the boxes from him without ceremony.

The delivery guy glances between you and Devon, looking a bit shell-shocked.

"That'll be... it's already paid for," he says, eyes lingering on Devon's legs.

"Good," Devon snaps in her high, sweet voice, completely oblivious to his stare. "Bye now."

She closes the door in his face and immediately carries the bounty to the coffee table, flipping open the top box with the reverence of a priest unveiling a sacred relic.

"Oh my god, it smells so GOOD," she moans, the sound disturbingly sensual.

You grab plates from the kitchen, but by the time you return, Devon has already folded an entire slice into her mouth, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk's.

"SHO GOOOPH," she manages around the mouthful, reaching for another slice before she's even swallowed the first.

You watch in mild horror as Devon--tiny, delicate-looking Devon--inhales pizza like she's being paid by the slice. Half the Meat Monster disappears in record time, followed by four garlic knots and a fistful of cheese sticks.

"Aren't you going to eat?" she asks, finally pausing long enough to breathe.

"Yeah, just... impressed with your technique," you say, helping yourself to pizza.

The next few hours pass in a blur of gaming and food. Devon remains true to her word--despite the occasional shift in posture or grimace that suggests her "itch" might be intensifying, she stays laser-focused on Elden Ring, shouting instructions and obscenities at the screen.

"ROLL TIMING, ALEX! ROLL TIMING!" she shrieks as your character narrowly dodges a Tree Sentinel attack.

"I AM ROLLING!"

"YOUR TIMING IS GARBAGE!" Devon's tiny hands grip the controller so tight you fear for its structural integrity. "THIS BOSS IS LITERALLY DESIGNED TO PUNISH PANIC ROLLERS!"

"We should fight Godrick tomorrow," she says, yawning so wide her jaw audibly pops. "I'm getting too tired to dodge properly."

"Yeah, good call," you agree, saving the game.

Devon sits up suddenly, looking uncertain for the first time since she arrived. "So, um. It's getting late."

"Yeah."

"And I don't really want to go back to my apartment like..." she gestures down at herself.

"No, that would be awkward."

"Plus Uber will charge me surge pricing this late."

"True."

"And I don't want to navigate the bus system in this body. I'd definitely get murdered."

"Probably."

Devon looks at you with expectant eyes. "So..."

You sigh, knowing where this is going. "You want to stay over."

"Just for tonight!" Devon says quickly. "Or, well, maybe until we finish the game? It's not like I can go to work like this anyway--I already told them I have COVID."

You hesitate. On one hand, having Devon stay over means less private time with Veronica on video calls. On the other hand, letting Devon go home alone while experiencing progressively stronger "breeding urges" feels irresponsible.