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.
1. PREAMBLE: WHEREAS, the Intended Parents are unable to conceive a child due to genetic disorders and have sought the assistance of the Surrogate to carry to term a biological child of the Intended Father, thereby fulfilling the Intended Parents' dream of parenthood; and
2. DUTY OF SURROGATE: WHEREAS, the Surrogate, of her own free will, has agreed to provide gestational services for the Intended Parents, using her own body as a vessel for conception, gestation, and parturition, so as to bring forth a child biologically related to the Intended Father, she will submit herself to the fertilization attempts of the Intended Father for the purpose of achieving pregnancy and will bear and deliver a child (the "Child").
2.1. MODE OF FERTILIZATION: The fertilization of the Surrogate's ovum will be achieved through the process of direct contact insemination, that is, sexual intercourse, performed by the Intended Father. For the avoidance of doubt, the Surrogate acknowledges and consents to engage in sexual intercourse with the Intended Father for a minimum requirement of ten (10) occasions or until pregnancy is achieved.
2.2. ANTICIPATED PHYSIOLOGICAL EFFECTS: The Surrogate acknowledges that she has been apprised of the potential physiological effects of the gestational process, including but not limited to substantial changes in physical form, emotional sensitivity, and hormonal balance. The Surrogate further acknowledges that the Intended Father is undergoing pharmaceutical treatment to increase his ejaculate volume, thus intensifying the insemination experience.
2.3. FREQUENCY AND TIMING: Each single act of insemination shall involve no less than two (2) ejaculations performed by the Intended Father within a period of fifteen (15) minutes of each other. Any ejaculations within the said period will be considered as part of one insemination attempt.
3. OBLIGATION OF INTENDED PARENTS: The Intended Parents shall provide the Surrogate with a payment of $20,000 upon completion of the pregnancy and delivery of the Child, payable within thirty (30) days after the birth of the Child.
4. LIMITATION OF LIABILITY: The Surrogate and her legal heirs, assigns, agents, and representatives hereby fully release, forever discharge, and agree to hold harmless the Intended Parents and their respective legal heirs, assigns, agents, and representatives from any and all claims, lawsuits, demands, actions, causes of actions, liabilities, losses, damages, costs or expenses, whether at law or in equity, whether known or unknown, arising out of or in any way connected with any injury, illness, or malaise resulting or to result from the Surrogate's ingestion of the "Breeder pill" or any related medical intervention or pharmaceutical treatment.
5. TERM AND TERMINATION: This Agreement shall commence upon the execution of this Agreement by all parties and shall continue until the Surrogate delivers the Child and fulfills all her obligations as stated herein, unless earlier terminated in accordance with the terms of this Agreement.
6. JURISDICTION: This Agreement shall be governed by the laws of the State of Florida and the autonomous region of Summer City, without regard to its conflict of law principles.
IN WITNESS WHEREOF, the Parties hereto have executed this Agreement as of the date first above written.
Derek Wilson
Lucy Wilson
Taylor (nee Tyler) Johnson
Derek leans back, his gaze earnest as he says, "We want you to know, Taylor, that we appreciate what you're doing. It's...well, it's a hell of a thing. We'll be here for you, every step of the way. And remember, this doesn't have to be a one-time thing. If you ever feel the urge to...well, you know, don't hesitate to drop by."
His words blur together, becoming a background murmur to the rush of blood pounding in your ears. All you can focus on is the heat building in your lower belly, the way your thighs clench together instinctively.
Throughout the conversation, Lucy sits quietly, her fingers twirling around the cutlery. When she starts speaking, her voice trembles slightly with excitement.
"I...I have a condition," she admits, her gaze dropping to the plate. "It's genetic. You know, even the most advanced treatments in Summer City...they can't do a thing." Her smile is brittle. "So, when I found out about... about this idea, that Derek proposed, I... I was thrilled. Imagine that, right? I...I can't... can't wait to hold a baby in my arms..."
You're torn between sympathy for Lucy and self-loathing at your own situation. You pick up the contract, your fingers trembling as they trace the line where you're supposed to sign. You feel a surreal vertigo as you lift the pen. A thousand thoughts bounce around in your head, the majority of them involving your newfound breeding status.
—
Dinner is finished, the dishes are cleared, and the three of you are left in a heavy silence, the signed contract sitting ominously in the center of the table. The ticking of the clock is deafening in the quiet room.
Derek finally breaks the silence. He shifts in his seat, turning to you with a knowing smile.
"So, Taylor, you ready?" he asks. His voice is low and slightly raspy, and it sends a shiver running down your spine.
Your mouth goes dry. Instinctively, you cross your legs tight, feeling your heart pound in your chest. You nod, not trusting your voice to not betray your nervousness. The understanding smile he sends your way confirms that he's aware of the inner turmoil you're going through.
He gets up from his chair and extends a large hand towards you. You take it, feeling the calloused texture. He leads you towards the stairs, his firm grip a reminder of the reality you're stepping into. Lucy stands up too, her fingers nervously picking at the hem of her dress.
The air is heavy with anticipation.
The stairs creak under your weight, the noise jarring in the silence of the house. Derek's steps are right behind you, his large presence comforting and terrifying all at once. You glance back at him, meeting his steady gaze, and it sends a jolt of arousal straight to your womb.
Lucy follows behind, her steps lighter, more hesitant. When you catch her eye, she gives you a reassuring smile, but her eyes betray her anxiety. After all, it's her dream you're about to fulfill.
The hallway at the top of the stairs is lit in a soft, dim light. Derek leads you to a room at the end, his hand never leaving yours. When he opens the door, the sight of a spacious bedroom, with warm, inviting colors greets you.
It's a haven, a sanctuary, a breeding nest.
The large bed in the center of the room is covered in plush blankets, soft pillows scattered across it. The air in the room is perfumed, a scent you can't quite put a finger on, but one that makes your stomach flutter.
You step inside, glancing around the room. You can feel Lucy's quiet presence behind you, her nervous energy tangible.
Mr. Wilson steps away for a moment, leaving you alone with Lucy.
Your heart is pounding, and you can feel the breath catching in your throat. Your body is aching, craving, on the edge of a precipice that you've been avoiding for days. Your thoughts are foggy, your skin hyperaware of every slight touch.
The bathroom is a modest affair, a suburban sanctuary with beige tiles and a frosted window that showers the room with soft, diffused light. A fluffy white rug sits in front of a porcelain bathtub, and the scent of lavender soap hangs in the air.
Lucy guides you inside, her hand gently holding your arm. She's nervous, just as you are, her eyes darting between you and the neatly folded set of clothes on the counter.
In a soft voice, she instructs you to take off your sweatpants and sweatshirt. You comply, your fingers trembling as you pull the clothes away, exposing your body to the cool bathroom air. You're left standing in nothing but your boxer shorts, your skin prickling under her gaze.
"Would you mind if I...?" she gestures at your hair, her fingers twitching. It's clear she's trying to make the situation less uncomfortable, less awkward. You shrug, giving her the go-ahead.
She gently sets her hands into your locks, carding her fingers through the flame-haired tresses. It's a soft, intimate gesture, filled with a strange blend of maternal affection and nervous anticipation.
As her fingers deftly braid your hair into two pigtail braids, she says, "He... Derek... he likes them." The words are barely audible, nervous whispers.
Once she finishes, she steps back, seemingly lost in thought before she hesitantly reaches for a set of clothes from the counter. "He, um... he likes this, too," she says, revealing the white, strappy lingerie.
First, she helps you into the white garters. The smooth satin straps hug your thighs gently, the garter belt sitting low on your hips. The intricately designed lingerie piece has a white lace front, tiny bows on the straps, and a matching thong that leaves nothing to the imagination. It’s parted around your actual cunt slit, allowing full access.
As she dresses you, she spritzes you with her perfume. The scent of vanilla and fresh peonies fills the air, and you feel a surge of arousal.
For the last bit of preparation, she pulls out a small makeup bag, applying a touch of blush to your cheeks, enhancing your freckles. A swipe of mascara lengthens your lashes, and a tinted balm gives your lips a natural, rosy pink hue. With each stroke of her hand, you transform more and more into Taylor, into the feminine vessel, the submissive breeder.
In a shaky voice, she warns you about what might happen next. "You see, Derek is taking these supplements," she explains, looking down at her hands. "They... they make him... well, pretty large down there. It might hurt a bit in the beginning."
The mere mention of her husband's cock sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine, your slick heat pooling between your legs.
Out of nowhere, you feel a wetness trickle down your thighs, your pussy throbbing with unfulfilled desire. You gasp quietly, leaning against the counter for support.
Lucy, still nervous as ever, hurries to clean up the liquid, her fingers brushing against your heated skin. "It's... it's the pill," she explains. "During ovulation, you'll be... well, wet. Really wet. It's a sign that you're at your most fertile. It's going to be... a lot."
With every passing moment, the reality of what you're about to do sinks deeper into your thick, hormonal haze. And as the anticipation coils tighter in your stomach, your mind begins to surrender to the physical cravings of your body. The dire need to be filled, to finally reach that elusive peak. The craving to breed.
You slowly approach the bathroom’s full-length mirror, your heart hammering in your chest. You've never seen yourself like this before, never imagined you could look like this. The crisp white lingerie stands in stark contrast even against your pale skin. The lace bra cups barely contain your small, perky breasts, the pink nipples pebbled and brushing against the barely-there fabric.
Your slender frame is accentuated by the waist-cinching garter belt that dips right under your navel. Your hips, wide and tempting, flesh out the thong perfectly – a tiny piece of fabric disappearing into the deep crevice of your round ass.
As you turn around, you're met with the reflection of your ass cheeks, plump and juicy, roped in by the strappy white lace. The sight of your own ass bisected by the thong, vulnerable yet enticing, makes your breath hitch in your throat. A low, needy whimper escapes your lips.
Your makeup is dewy, giving you an almost ethereal radiance. Your freckles seem to be dancing under the soft sheen of the blush, playing up the innocence and girlish charm. Your lips, plump and tinted pink, look delectably soft.
Lucy hugs you, whispering appreciative words against your hair, "Thank you... this means so much to us."
With a desperate, choked sound you mutter, "I look like…” but then you stop yourself.
The unfinished thought seems to hang heavy in the air.
Gently, Lucy guides you to the bed. The satin of the sheets feels cool against your heated skin. The bed is big, comfortable, four-poster with a wispy canopy that only accentuates its old-school charm.
She carefully positions you on the bed, fluffing up multiple pillows behind your back, under your hips. The depth of the mattress under your knees, your raised pelvis, the support under your lower back – it's all determined to maximize your comfort but also to provide the perfect angle for insemination.
You feel the coolness of the satin sheets under your ass, your legs slightly parted, your knees bent. Every small adjustment she makes, every tug and pull, positioning you just so, makes your pussy clench in anticipation.
Then, she beckons Mr. Wilson inside.
