Chapter 2
That’s right. Giggles.
Confused and slightly agitated, you pull the phone away from your ear and stare at it, dumbfounded. Were you hearing things right? Was Amanda giggling? Why in the world would she be laughing at a time like this?
"Am-amanda?" you stutter, unsure of yourself.
"Yeah, Taylor," she says, her voice light and untroubled. The amusement in her voice only deepens your confusion. "You always were the adventurous one," she adds, punctuating the statement with another peel of laughter.
"Amanda, what the fuck? I just told you I-" you start, but she cuts you off.
"I know, Taylor," she says, her tone more serious now. "About the Breeder and all. Mom and Dad already told me. Actually, they planned this."
Your mouth drops open in shock. Planned? They planned this?!
"That's right, Taylor," Amanda says, as if reading your mind. "They cut a deal with the Wilsons."
You feel a wave of nausea wash over you. The Wilsons? Your older neighbor and his wife. The realization hits you like a ton of bricks.
Apparently, the Wilsons have been having trouble conceiving. In their desperation, they've offered your family a significant amount of money for surrogacy. They preferred someone they knew, trusted, a family familiar to them. And they were willing to pay a steep price for it, including the cost of the Breeder pill.
"And since you were so eager to play around with those pills, Mom and Dad thought... well, they were quite sure you'd end up taking it anyway."
Your mind is spinning. This couldn't be happening. But as Amanda lays out the details, the horrifying truth starts to sink in. The family cruise, the conveniently misplaced Breeder pill, Amanda's casual acceptance of your transformation.
"But... but what about the Wilsons? Are they really there with you right now?”
Amanda laughs again, this time a little more maliciously. "No, silly, they're not on the cruise! Actually, Mr. Wilson is right across the street, sitting in his house. He's waiting for you to call, Taylor. To let him know you're ready."
The line goes silent. You can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. This was real. This was happening. This was planned.
You swallow hard, the room spinning around you.
The taste of betrayal is bitter in your mouth. You feel a lump forming in your throat. The reality of everything is sinking in.
"Taylor," your sister's voice interrupts your wild thoughts, "of course, you don't HAVE to do anything. We’re not MONSTERS. The Wilsons said they'd cover the cost of the Breeder pill and pay us $20,000, regardless of whatever happens next. But if you WANT to go all the way with this, they're more than willing."
Your mind whirls. The room tilts on its axis. You're left in the sudden silence of the house, still holding onto your phone as Amanda hangs up, leaving you to your thoughts and the reality of your situation.
You feel a sick lurch in your gut. Mr. Wilson was at home, right now. Waiting for you to call. Waiting for you to go over there and...
"Fuck!" you exclaim as the enormity of the situation smacks you right in the face. What the absolute fuck were you going to do?
And so, you stand there, staring at your reflection. Your attention drifts from your bright, green eyes, to the cute, freckled cheeks, to the cherry-red lips. Unconsciously, your hands wander down to your waist. Your fingertips trace your slim figure underneath the baggy, oversized shirt you're wearing. Further down, they meet your firm, round ass. You want to cringe, but instead, you squeeze it.
"Fuck!" you say again. Why can’t you help yourself?
Your own voice echoes in the quiet bathroom. The slap of your hands on your ass echoes in the silence. Disgust, loathing, yet... Something else too? You can practically taste the cognitive dissonance in your mouth, sweet and sour.
You squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed by the flood of conflicting emotions. Looking into the mirror again, you see Taylor staring back at you - a pretty girl with wide hips - clearly perfect breeding material, sans the tits.
You're terrified of becoming her, ashamed at your family's betrayal, disgusted with your own lack of control, and yet, there's something else. Something more primal, more powerful. It's a nagging, aching need to feel full. To feel complete.
That insistent throb between your legs. And that knot in your chest. It's no secret where they're leading you. As much as you want to deny it - you're imagining Mr. Wilson, waiting for you…
"No!" You snap out of your dirty thoughts, pulling away from the mirror. You shake your head desperately as if trying to shake off your own twisted fantasies.
You tell yourself you're stronger than this, that you're not just some breeding machine. You have dreams, ambitions. You had plans, dammit. Being a mom was never a part of it. Being a woman was supposed to be temporary. Fun. A taboo thrill. An escape from the normalcy. It was the furthest thing from wanting to become a stay-at-home baby factory.
But the truth is planted firmly inside you, literally. You're not just a woman. You're a breeder. You've been marked for motherhood - tagged, bagged, and ready to fill.
"Fuck!" You say again, slumping against the bathroom wall, sliding down until you're huddled on the floor, your head buried in your hands.
Determination fills you. Screw this. You can fight it - you MUST fight it. There's only one thing you can do. Resist. You will resist your body's urges.
"Tyler, you're stronger than this," you tell yourself. You stand up, straighten your back, and muster every bit of strength and dignity you still have left. “Deep down, you're a man, and you won't be defined by this fucking pill.”
You leave the bathroom, leaving Taylor behind. At least, you desperately hope so.
—
Day 1 (30 days to go):
You wake up huddled in the corner of your bedroom, sleeping on the floor, as if putting distance between you and the bed will somehow dissuade your body's hormonal urges.
You spend the day pacing restlessly, trying to keep busy. Simple tasks take monumental effort. Even eating is a struggle; everything tastes off. Your hand shakes as you lift a cup of coffee to your lips. Deprived of sleep, your eyes heavy and bloodshot, you jump at every little sound. It’s only day one, and already, you’re losing yourself in a storm of panicked thoughts.
—
Day 2 (29 days to go):
You've pitched a new idea to yourself: indulge in "manly" activities.
Maybe if you act like a guy, you'll get to suppress the hidden biological urges. You spend the day lifting weights, working on your dad’s car in the driveway, playing video games. But every time you bend down to check the engine's oil level or grit your teeth to lift the heavy weights, your hips scream with an utterly alien sensation - the aching emptiness.
Day 3 (28 days to go):
The urge to masturbate becomes even stronger, even though you know how much of a mistake it would be to try.
Your body is like a pent-up bomb, ticking, every nerve-end hypersensitive. You decide to meditate, hoping to tame the beast within you. You take deep, calming breaths, but the second you close your eyes, all you can see is a waving flag bearing a huge sign: "FERTILITY AT PEAK. READY FOR BREEDING."
You come out of your meditation session sweating and trembling.
Day 4 (27 days to go):
You've barely slept in days. It’s too risky.
Slipping into unconsciousness means risking lewd dreams, dreams you can’t control, and you fear you'll wake up with your fingers buried in your pussy. To stay awake, you marathon action films, avoiding romantic comedies like the plague.
Yet, every leading lady, every mother or pregnant character, sends your pulse racing. You do research online to figure out a list of movies without these triggers.
Day 5 (26 days to go):
You are so over-sensitive that even your clothes brushing against your skin sends shivers down your spine now, and it’s getting worse every day.
You sit naked in your room, curled up in a corner, trembling like a leaf. You barely eat; even drinking water feels like a task. Your body feels bloated. So fucking full. You're losing the battle, and you know it.
Day 6 (25 days to go):
You can't even look at yourself in the mirror. Your reflection is a cruel slap in the face. The sight of your breasts, your hips, your pussy, all scream that you're built to be filled. You're hornier than you've ever been, and it's making you feel ill. The thought that the Wilsons are right across the street, waiting, sends you into a frenzy.
Day 7 (24 days to go):
You catch a glimpse of a pregnant woman on the cover of a magazine. Her swollen stomach, her radiant face, the invisible aura of impending motherhood - it all affects you so deeply; you can feel your womb twinge in response, aching to be swollen and full. It's almost like your body is MOCKING you.
Day 8 (23 days to go):
You have a breakdown.
You cry.
Sob.
Scream.
You're a disaster of a man, trapped in a woman's body, one that's ready to breed.
You’re living a nightmare vaguely reminiscent of Kafka's Metamorphosis. But there’s no chance for a philosophical epiphany here, just the horrifying realization that your mind and your body are a joined system, so interlinked, that you can hardly bear separating the two. It’s like denying gravity.
Day 9 (22 days to go):
Turns out, your list of approved movies was slightly flawed, you let a scene through. The sight of a pregnant woman on the screen has you on the brink of a breakdown.
You innately recognize her beauty, her glow.
Unbidden, uncontrolled, your hands roam over your flat stomach, your empty womb. Your body reacts viscerally. You gasp, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of arousal so powerful it leaves you shaking. The taboo sensation is followed by a deep sense of shame.
You dry the tears streaming down your face, feeling the walls of your resistance crumble. It's a futile battle, and somewhere deep down, you've known that all along.
Shaking, your hands reach for your phone. The number you've been avoiding is glowing on the screen. Mr. Wilson's number. You take a moment, your heart pounding in your chest, before you finally press the call button.
The phone rings, your breath hitching as you await the deep, masculine voice on the other end. You’re a shaky mess; the female, soft voice that comes from your mouth shocks you.
"Mr. Wilson... It's... Taylor…"
You choke, and the simple words send shivers down your spine.
"I'm ready." You whisper, the heavy realization of your capitulation sinking in.
—
The Wilsons' house is a modest, single-story home with a well-kept garden out front. The sight of the marigold flowers and the smell of fresh-cut grass fill you with nostalgia.
You've been here countless times before as Tyler, but this is the first time you're stepping through the door as Taylor, and the shift in perspective is overwhelming.
Lucy greets you with a warm smile. She's wearing a flowy sundress, hair neatly curled, the image of a perfect, wholesome housewife.
"Taylor, come in, dear," she says, her gentle voice filled with compassion...or is it pity? You swallow, and follow her inside.
The living room is charmingly retro, filled with abstract paintings and knitted throws, but you barely notice the decor. Your attention is focused on the pudgy man sitting on the couch, a large folder spread across his lap. Derek.
The man who you're here to mate with.
He rises, smiling broadly, and extends a hefty hand towards you.
"Taylor! Good to see ya," he booms, his voice echoing off the walls. His hand is warm and firm, but when your hands meet, you can't help but glance down at the noticeable bulge in his jeans. He follows your gaze, and chuckles awkwardly. Your face burns.
Dinner is served shortly, an old-fashioned meatloaf with mashed potatoes. The meal is lavish, painstakingly prepared, but your stomach churns at the smell of food.
Lucy serves you a slice of warm apple pie, the sweetness assaulting your sensitive tongue. She clucks sympathetically when you hardly touch your food. You make an effort to eat, every bite filled with tension.
Finally, Derek reaches for the folder on the coffee table. It's the contract, filled with legal jargon and binding clauses that you're too flustered to fully comprehend.
AGREEMENT FOR THE PROVISION OF GESTATIONAL SERVICES
THIS AGREEMENT is made this 10th day of August 2025, by and between the undersigned, Derek and Lucy Wilson, (hereinafter collectively referred to as the "Intended Parents"), and Taylor (nee Tyler), an individual of sound mind and legal majority (hereinafter referred to as the "Surrogate"). The parties hereto are all willfully entering into this Agreement with the understanding and intent that the Surrogate will provide gestational services on behalf of the Intended Parents as more fully set forth below.