Lace had expected a shift in perspective, but he wasn’t prepared for the total loss of gravity. Being held was one thing, but as Ash stepped into him, the world became a series of high-tension maneuvers.
He felt her feet slide through his leg holes—a strange, sliding friction—and then the sudden, vertical ascent as she pulled him up. The lavender cotton stretched to its limit, the fibers of his being groaning under the ghost-sensation of his own weight. Then, he snapped into place.
The "fit" was overwhelming. As a human, Lace had imagined being "pressed" against Ash; as a pair of panties, he was the pressure. He felt the heat of her thighs, the rough denim of her jeans being pulled on over him, and the absolute, crushing intimacy of her anatomy.
His "face"—or what felt like his center—was pressed firmly against her. For the first hour, it was a sensory overload of scent and warmth. It wasn't the sanitized, clinical musk of the Professor; this was Ash. It smelled like her coconut body wash and the faint, salty tang of skin that had been rushing to get ready.
The Transit
Being "worn" while moving was an exercise in endurance. Every step Ash took caused the lace trim at his edges to saw gently against her skin. Because he was a "cheeky" cut, he was constantly being tugged and shifted.
> Garment Status: Active
> * Strain: 65% (High tension at waistband)
> * Moisture Level: 12% (Rising)
> * Sensory Input: Maximum (Friction/Thermal)
>
>
"Doing okay down there, Lucky?" Ash muttered as she hopped onto her scooter, the vibration of the engine sending a jarring, buzzing hum through Lace’s entire structure.
He couldn't answer, but he tried to focus his "mind" on the sensation. It was a bizarre duality: he was Lace, the music student, but he was also a piece of 95% cotton construction designed to stay put. He felt a strange, budding pride when he managed to stay perfectly aligned as she leaned into a turn.
The Soundcheck
The venue was a dive bar called The Reverb Tank. It was humid, smelling of stale beer and old cigarettes. As Ash began to haul her gear, Lace learned the hard way what the Professor meant by "purpose."
Ash was working hard. Lace felt the temperature rise. The "Active" mental state meant he didn't just see the world; he felt Ash’s body reacting to the environment. He felt the first beads of sweat break across her lower back, trickling down toward his waistband. As an object, his instinct wasn't disgust—it was absorption. He felt his fibers swell slightly as they did their job, pulling the moisture away from her skin.
Then, she plugged in her bass.
When Ash struck the first low E-string, the world exploded. The sound waves didn't hit his ears; they hit his body. The heavy, rhythmic thrum of the bass guitar resonated through Ash’s hips and directly into Lace’s fabric. It was a deep, bone-shaking vibration that made his "lavender" feel like it was glowing.
The Reality of the Role
Mid-set, the "picnic" ended.
The stage lights were brutal. Ash was drenched. Lace was no longer the soft, dry garment that had left the apartment. He was damp, heavy, and pinned between her skin and her tight stage pants.
Then came the moment he had dreaded—and secretly wondered about. Ash shifted her weight, a sharp movement to reach a high note on the fretboard, and the physical exertion caused a sudden, internal pressure.
Pffft.
It was muffled by the denim, but for Lace, it was a direct hit. The warmth and the scent—acrid and human—flooded his fibers. In a human body, he would have gagged. As a pair of panties, he felt a sickeningly intense surge of utility. He was the barrier. He was the one catching the "dirt" so the world didn't have to see it.
He felt a wave of R.T.F.S. dependency spike. The humiliation was there, but it was being drowned out by a terrifyingly "right" feeling. He was being used. He was fulfilling the exact role Tfrm had assigned him.
The Post-Show Letdown
Two hours later, Ash was back in the "green room"—a glorified closet. She was panting, peeling off her soaked leather vest.
"God, I'm gross," she huffed, reaching into her jeans to adjust him.
Her fingers were cold against the heat of her skin, and for a second, Lace felt the "Active" feed flicker. He was exhausted. Being an object was more tiring than being a person; you had no control over the pace.
She leaned over a small mirror, wiping smudge eyeliner from her face. "You still with me, Lace? You’ve been real quiet. Usually, when guys get to be 'the lucky pair,' they're pulsing like crazy. You're just... sitting there."
She hooked a finger under his waistband, pulling it back to look down at the lavender fabric. He was stained with sweat, the yellow music notes slightly darkened by the moisture.
"You did good, though," she whispered, her voice softening. "I didn't miss a single note. Maybe you really are lucky."
She let the elastic snap back against her skin. The sting was sharp, but Lace felt a hum of affection. He was starting to realize the danger: the more she praised his performance as a garment, the less he cared about being Michael Lacey.
