The isolation blues are getting to me.

I know I’m not special. Everyone’s been doing their best. But how long can a healthy young woman stay at home with nothing to do besides watch Netflix? I know I shouldn’t be complaining. Plenty of people have it way worse than me. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to stew.

I’m supposed to be in college, but they sent us home to keep us safe. I appreciate it, but I want to see my friends!

I’ve watched every season of that baking show on Netflix and I haven’t found anything else that keeps me entertained. All that creamy goodness on top of those cakes makes my mouth water.

I can already feel my waistline expanding, so I turn the TV off. There is no use in looking at what I can’t have.

But with no TV I’m too bored, so I pull out my phone and start scrolling. I’ve become addicted to a new video app that seems to know me better than I know myself. The short vids are almost scarily relevant to my interests.

Today they are kind of weird though.

Tits.

That’s my first thought when I see the cute girl with a slightly vacant, giggly expression. I’m not gay or anything, but she’s hot. Even a straight girl could see that.

“I’m having so much fun and I’m glad it’s safe now!” the bimbo chirps at me.

“What?” I know she can’t hear me but I can’t help but ask.

“We’re looking for testers for a new treatment. All your worries will melt away! Link in the bio!” She makes a peace sign and smiles so wide it makes my mouth hurt. And even though I know it’s probably just some porn bot, I click through. I’ve heard rumors about a treatment for the thing going around, the thing that’s been keeping me cooped up for months. If there’s a way to be safe, I want to know about it.

I can’t be the only one, judging by how long it takes the website to load. And I’m relieved to see that it’s not porn.

Really, I think it’s just a normal website. And I can’t fault them for their marketing tactics. It got me to click through. And right in the center of the page is the button I’m looking for: Worry Prevention Trial.

It’s not more specific, but it’s not like I need it to be. The world is falling apart. What else could they be talking about?

I click on the link. I’m ready for things to change.

***

Of course they can’t just accept me. I spend more than a week filling out forms. They want to know all about my hobbies, my friends, all of that. They even want the contact numbers for other college girls I know. I suppose they’re just being thorough, so I give them what they want.

If that's what it takes to be healthy, I’ll do it.

They give me instructions on where to go and want me dressed in loose fitting clothing. What’s really weird is they don’t want me wearing a bra or underwear. That’s a little freaky, but I assume they have a reason.

I arrive at the office and they take my temperature. Then there are about a bazillion consent forms I need to sign. They really want to be sure that I’m okay with whatever they’re doing.

I am. I sign everything, barely looking at the pages. What’s the worst that can happen?

I’m led into a room with bright pink paintings on the wall and pictures of girls that look just like the one I saw in the app. Former subjects? I’m not sure and I’m a little afraid to ask. A glance in the mirror on the wall shows just how much I’m not like them.

My boobs aren’t too big, though the chill in the air has my nipples peeking out through the fabric. I’ve never worn heels that tall in my life. Yikes! I’d be tumbling over in no time. And my hair is certainly not that shade of blonde. I’d guess the girls are around my age though, eighteen, and ready to take on the world.

Though I’m pretty sure they’re taking it on with their wet pussies. I’d rather use my brain.

I shiver.

A few minutes later a woman comes in. She’s practically bursting out of her cardigan and is full of smiles.

“Hi Angie! I’m so glad you’ve come to join us! We’re going to keep you here while you undergo treatment and then you can do whatever you want with no risks. Isn’t that great?” She’s bubbly and happy and it’s a bit freaky.

She sets the tray she’s holding down and pours a milky substance into a glass. It doesn’t look like medicine. But if this is some strange, all natural formula I’m more than eager to try it. I’m practically drooling at the thought, and it doesn’t hurt that the liquid smells really good. It’s almost familiar, but I can’t identify the flavor.

“Um, are there any side effects?” Maybe I should have asked that first. Too late now. I clutch the glass in my hand.

She giggles. “Nothing you need to worry about. Now, bottoms up!”

I can walk away. This little… bimbo isn’t going to stop me. But I want this treatment. I want this thing to be over with. I don’t want to worry anymore.

I take the glass and tip it back, letting the creamy goodness slide down my throat.