The transition back to being a man was usually a relief, but the morning after the concert, Lace found himself wishing the timer on the TFRM app had run out hours ago.
He spent the night on the hardwood floor of Ash’s bedroom. She had been too exhausted—and frankly, too drunk—to do more than peel her jeans and "lucky" panties off in a single, tangled heap before collapsing onto her mattress.
For an object with an active mind, time is an agonizingly slow crawl. Lace spent six hours as a crumpled ball of damp lavender cotton. The sweat from the show had cooled, turning his fibers stiff and clammy. The smell he had been "proud" of during the set—the scent of Ash’s hard work—now just felt like a heavy, suffocating weight.
He couldn't move. He couldn't even sigh. He was just a "cheeky" cut undergarment tucked partially inside the leg of a pair of black skinny jeans.
The Morning Scrub
At 9:00 AM, the sunlight hit the floor, and so did Ash’s feet. She groaned, nursing a visible hangover as she stepped over the pile of clothes.
"Ugh... Lace?" she croaked, squinting at the floor. "You still awake in there?"
Lace pulsed his waistband—a weak, exhausted flutter.
"Right. Sorry, dude. That was a long night." She reached down and untangled him from the jeans. The sensation of her dry, warm hands was a shock to his chilled fabric. She didn't put him back on, though. Instead, she carried him to the bathroom sink.
"You're pretty gross," she admitted, turning on the warm water. "I promised I'd wash you if I let you keep your brain on. Can't have you fermenting in the hamper."
The "wash" was a sensory nightmare and a bizarrely intimate experience. The warm water felt like a torrential flood, soaking deep into his core. Then came the soap—a high-end, floral-scented detergent. Ash scrubbed him between her knuckles, her movements brisk and efficient.
To a pair of panties, this was the equivalent of a deep-tissue massage combined with a chemical peel. It was invasive, it was rough, and for some reason, the R.T.F.S. in Lace’s mind made him crave it. He was being "maintained." He was being cared for as an object of value.
The Reversion
As Ash wrung him out—a dizzying, twisting pressure that felt like having his spine turned into a wet towel—the TFRM app on her counter chimed.
[SESSION COMPLETE: REVERTING TO HUMAN FORM]
The change was violent. The sink was too small. Lace’s limbs exploded outward, knocking over Ash’s toothbrush holder and sending her skincare bottles clattering into the basin.
Lace slumped against the cold tile of the bathroom floor, gasping for air. He was naked, soaking wet, and smelled intensely of "Spring Meadow" detergent.
"Jesus!" Ash yelped, clutching her chest. "Give a girl a warning! You almost took my eye out with an elbow."
Lace didn't respond. He was staring at his chest.
The Marks of the Trade
The purple discoloration on his wrist had spread. It now crept up his forearm in a delicate, lace-like pattern. But worse were the music notes. They weren't just on his wrist anymore; a small cluster of them had appeared right over his heart, faint and yellow against his pale skin.
He felt... different. His skin felt too loose, his bones too heavy. He felt "unstructured" without the tight, elastic hug of being a garment.
"Lace? You okay?" Ash asked, her annoyance softening into genuine concern. She leaned down, offering him a towel.
"I felt it all, Ash," Lace whispered, his voice cracking. "The sweat. The... the vibrations from the bass. All of it."
"I told you it wasn't a picnic," she said, sitting on the edge of the tub.
"No, it's not that." Lace looked up at her, his eyes wide. "The Professor was right. When you were on stage... when people were looking at you... I didn't feel like a guy in a girl's pants. I felt like I was part of you. I felt like I was helping you win."
Ash went quiet. She reached out and traced the new music notes on his chest with her thumb. "That’s the R.T.F.S. talking, Lace. That’s the dependency. You're starting to like the 'purpose' more than the person."
Lace leaned into her touch instinctively, his heart rate spiking just like his fibers had when she’d snapped his elastic. "Is that so bad? You said I was lucky. You said you didn't miss a note."
Ash looked at the envelope from the Professor still sitting on the counter. "The paperwork she gave me... it’s a 'Permanent Use' waiver. If I sign it, and you sign it, the app’s safety timers get disabled. You stay as the panties until I decide to let you out. No auto-reversals. No 6-hour limits."
Lace looked at the lavender panties—now just a damp, empty scrap of fabric—lying in the sink next to him.
"We have that second session with Winters on Monday," Lace said, his voice trembling. "She wants me to talk to her 'colleague.' The one who lives in her purse."
"The maxi-pad?" Ash snorted, trying to break the tension with a laugh. "Man, this world is fucked up. You really want to go through with that? If you keep going, Lace, those music notes aren't going to be a 'pattern' anymore. They're going to be your skin."
Lace stood up, wrapping the towel around his waist, but his eyes stayed on the sink. He could still taste the detergent in the back of his throat. It didn't taste like chemicals anymore. It tasted like clean.
"I have to go," Lace said. "I need to see what that 'colleague' has to say. I need to know if the mind ever really stays 'on' once the branding covers your whole body."
