Snow

“So what brings you here?” a handsome stranger asked, sliding onto the stool next to me.

“Frustration, mostly,” I joked, and he offered to help. How could I say no to someone so eager—and so easy on the eyes?

He dragged me to the men’s bathroom and into the last stall. Before I could catch my breath, he pushed my dress up, shoved two fingers inside me, and I mewled at the sensation. “Don’t tease me,” I breathed. “I’m already frustrated enough as it is.”

He chuckled, then pulled out his cock and thrust into me in one smooth motion. Finally—something real. The dildos and vibrators could never compare to the real thing. He fucked me hard, relentless, until tears streamed down my cheeks and my legs shook beneath me.

“You’re a tough cookie, huh?” he said, still buried inside me. “All that and you still didn’t cum?”

I huffed, breathless. “I took some stupid pill. Didn’t think it’d actually work.”

I explained the whole thing, and he started laughing. Then he looked at me with a glint in his eye. “Alright. Let’s test that out. Get on your knees.”

I sighed and lowered myself to the filthy floor beside the toilet.

“Open up,” he said. I obeyed, sticking out my tongue. He stroked himself and shot a few spurts of cum onto my tongue.

“What the hell? I thought you were going to—” I started, but I swallowed anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get what you want. But it’s rude to ask someone to do that before they’ve even come, don’t you think?”

I rolled my eyes but bit back my retort. My hand slid down between my legs, fingers circling my clit in anticipation. I could already feel the pleasure building as he positioned his cock at my lips and let go.

The salty, warm taste flooded my senses, and I pushed my mouth forward, desperate to catch every drop. I quickened the pace of my fingers, feeling an orgasm coil low in my belly. I gulped as fast as I could, the remnants spilling down my chin and soaking the front of my dress in warm piss. I drank more, frantic now, and just as he finished, the orgasm crashed over me like a wave—my cheeks flushed, walls clenching around my fingers, a loud moan tearing from my throat. It had to be the best orgasm of my entire life.

“Holy shit, I didn’t think that was for real,” the guy exclaimed, and I just hummed in agreement. I hadn’t thought it would be like this either.

“I think you’d make a fine meat urinal,” he joked. And the idea didn’t sound so bad at all.

He helped me up, and we stepped out of the stall—only to find a handful of men standing at the urinals, staring at us. He walked behind me, slid his hand under the neckline of my dress, and pulled my tits out into the open.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.

“Didn’t you say you were frustrated?” he whispered in my ear. “These guys have had a lot of beer. Imagine how much piss that is. Are you really going to let all that go down the drain?”

I thought about it. It was disgusting. But I really wanted to cum like that again.

So I got on my knees.

The guy grinned and turned to the men. “Fellas, we’ve got ourselves a fine little slut of a meat urinal here. She can only cum when you piss in her mouth. Who’s up for a demonstration?”

I looked up at the men, parted my lip, and opened my mouth.

Pill 2: From now on, people will only look at your tits or your body when you're talking. No one will ever meet your eyes when you say something again.

I’ve always struggled with anxiety—crippling, throat-tightening anxiety that made even the simplest interactions feel like climbing a mountain. Eye contact was my worst enemy. The moment someone’s gaze met mine, my mind would go blank, my words would tangle on my tongue, and I’d forget what I was saying mid-sentence. The silence that followed was always unbearable, stretching out like an accusation. So when I heard about this pill—this little miracle in a capsule that promised to quiet the noise—I didn’t hesitate. I took it without a second thought, desperate for anything that might make me feel less broken.

And now? I’m so much happier. I don’t have to force myself to meet anyone’s eyes anymore. The weight of their stares no longer pins me down. I feel confident—almost invincible—when I speak, even to people who once terrified me. Like my professor, who used to single me out for my silences, scolding me for not paying attention or failing to respond during his lectures. He’d look at me with that familiar disappointment, and I’d shrink into my seat, wishing the floor would swallow me whole.

Not anymore.

“Sir, I’ll try harder. I promise,” I say now, pressing my arms together to push my tits up, because his gaze has already drifted down to them. I’ve learned to dress for maximum effect—clothes that hug my curves, that leave little to the imagination, that make sure the pill works at full efficiency. Tonight, it’s a tank top with a lace cutout, no bra underneath, the fabric clinging to every contour.

He swallows, his eyes darting away before returning, helplessly drawn back. “Y-you should focus more on class,” he stammers, “and dress more appropriately.”

But he can’t look away. I rise from my seat and cross the room to his chair, watching him gulp as my tits hover at eye level. His hands twitch in his lap, fingers curling and uncurling like they’re fighting a losing battle with restraint. I made sure to lock his office door behind me. It’s just the two of us now.

I stop directly in front of him, close enough that he could reach out if he dared. “I try so hard,” I say, tilting my head with a coy smile. “But I need some extra assistance too. And as my professor, isn’t it your duty to help me?”

Another beautiful side effect of the pill—combined with the way I look now—is that people find it incredibly hard to say no to me. My words seem to slip past their defenses, landing exactly where I want them. I can see the proof straining against his trousers, the unmistakable tent of his arousal.

I pull my tank top up, and my tits bounce free, heavy and bare in the dim office light. I take his trembling hands and guide them to my chest, pressing his palms against my skin. “Now,” I whisper, “about that extra credit.”

His fingers twitch, then curl, and I know I’ve won.

The pill truly changed my life. It didn’t just quiet my anxiety—it gave me a weapon. And I’m never going back to the girl who couldn’t look anyone in the eye.

Pill 3: Your pussy leaks constantly. If you wear panties, they will be wet all the time. If you don’t, you’ll have juices running down your leg constantly.

I've never been a fan of panties—they always felt restrictive, unnecessary. But now, wearing them has become genuinely impossible without making an absolute mess of myself. Every pair I put on turns into a soggy, clinging disaster in no time flat. After the third load of laundry in a single week, I threw my hands up and decided to hell with it—panties were officially out of the question.

But that came with its own set of problems. Without anything to absorb the constant drip, my juices would streak down my inner thighs, pooling in the crease of my knees whenever I sat down. By the end of the day, I'd leave a damp mark on every chair I occupied. Pants were a lost cause too—the fabric would cling and stain, and I’d spend the rest of the day mortified, crossing my legs and praying no one noticed the dark patch spreading between them.

So I switched to dresses. Short ones. Long ones had the same pooling issue, but with a hemline that brushed my knees, the wetness would just soak into the fabric from the inside out. No, short dresses were the only real solution—barely grazing my upper thighs, giving my pussy room to breathe, letting the air circulate and dry things out just a little.

To manage the flow, I started keeping a small toy inside me whenever I went out. It helped absorb some of the mess, but my body had other plans. I’d get so turned on—just from the friction of walking, from the breeze against my bare skin—that the toy would grow slick and start to slip out. I’d have to duck into a bathroom or turn away from strangers to push it back in, hoping no one noticed.

I was on the train home one evening, standing near the doors, when I felt the familiar warm trickle start its slow crawl down my thigh. I shifted my weight, trying to ignore it, when the train lurched suddenly and I stumbled backward—right into someone’s chest.

“Miss, are you okay?” a voice asked. A pair of hands steadied me by the hips, firm and warm.

I turned and smiled, brushing off the embarrassment. “Yes, thank you.”

But the toy had become too slick, too wet to stay in place. I felt it threatening to slide out, so I turned my back to him, parted my legs just slightly and carefully pulled it free. Without thinking, I brought it to my lips and licked it clean—trying to dry it off, to stop it from making an even bigger mess. I didn’t realize he was watching until I heard his voice again, low and curious.

“What is that?”

I froze, then whispered the truth—quietly, shamefully. A toy. To keep my pussy from dripping everywhere. He raised an eyebrow, and before I could say another word, the train jolted again. This time, he stepped closer, crowding me against the door with his body. His hand slipped beneath my dress without asking—three thick fingers plunging straight into my soaking cunt, gathering up the evidence of my constant need. He pulled them out slowly, glistening, and brought them to his own lips.

He licked them clean, his eyes never leaving mine. And my pussy, traitor that it is, only grew wetter at the sight.

“Miss,” he said, tucking his fingers away and reaching for his belt, “if you really want to stop dripping all over the floor, that little toy isn't going to cut it.”

I looked at him, heart hammering, thighs slick with my own desire. “Will you help me?”

He smiled—slow, certain, hungry—and guided me to one of the empty seats. He sat down, unbuckled his pants, and pulled out his cock, hard and ready. His hands found my hips, and he pulled me down onto him in one smooth motion, the back of my dress hiked up for easier access. I spread my legs wide, taking him deeper, letting him fill me completely.

And that day, I finally understood the truth: to stop dripping like a pathetic, needy slut, all I really needed was a cock to stuff me full.