The walk to Professor Winters’ office was a struggle. Lace felt "loose." Without the tight, elastic hug of being Ash’s lavender cheeky-cuts, his human skin felt like an oversized suit that didn't fit right. Every time his cotton boxers—the boring, human ones he’d bought at a Target—chafed against his thigh, he felt a jolt of irritation. They weren't him. They didn't have his branding. They didn't have his music notes.
When he reached the office, he didn't even wait for the TV's Bobby Flay to finish a sentence. Professor Winters was already standing in the doorway. She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on the purple lace pattern now clearly visible on his neck, peeking out from his hoodie.
"You're late, Michael," she said, her voice like a cool scalpel. "Or should I say, 'Lavender'?"
"I’m here," Lace muttered, stepping inside.
The office smelled different today. It wasn't just the professor's soap and the scent of old books. There was a faint, sterile smell—like a hospital wing or a pharmacy.
On the center of her desk, sitting on a velvet coaster, was a thick, white, contoured object. It was a maxi pad, wings folded neatly, looking pristine and clinical. Beside it sat a small, high-tech speaker base that looked like it was designed for a smartphone.
"Michael, I’d like you to meet my colleague, Professor Max Coltrane," Winters said, gesturing to the desk. "He was my mentor in Papua. He’s been a permanent resident of my purse for nearly three years now."
Lace stared at the pad. "He... he’s a pad?"
A voice emanated from the speaker base—refined, academic, and chillingly calm. "A 'High-Absorbency Overnight with Flexi-Wings,' to be precise, Michael. Though in this state, titles like 'Professor' feel like a vestige of a skin-bound ego I’ve long since outgrown."
Lace sat on the edge of the couch, his hands shaking. "You chose this? You were a world-renowned anthropologist and you chose to be... that?"
"Choice is a human word," the pad replied. The speaker crackled slightly with the weight of its synthesized tone. "I found that my research into the Papuan tribes was limited by my perspective as a consumer. I wanted to understand the ultimate form of 'The Provider.' In this world, there is no higher utility than a high-risk disposable. To exist only to be used, to be saturated by the needs of another, and then discarded... it is the purest expression of purpose."
Professor Winters picked up the pad—Professor Coltrane—with a terrifyingly casual familiarity. She turned him over in her hands, checking the adhesive strip.
"Max is helping me with a paper on the 'Erasure of the Self' in R.T.F.S. patients," Winters explained. She looked at Lace. "He tells me that the 'mind-on' experience you’re so desperate for is merely a transition phase. Eventually, the noise of 'Lace' will be drowned out by the signal of 'The Underwear.'"
"I felt it at the concert," Lace whispered, looking at the floor. "I liked being her lucky pair. I liked the sweat. I liked catching the... everything."
"Of course you did," Coltrane’s voice buzzed. "Your fibers are designed for it. You aren't a man who happens to be panties, Michael. You are a pair of panties that is currently burdened by the memory of a man. The music notes on your skin? That’s not a disease. That’s your soul finally being written in a language the world can use."
Winters stepped toward Lace. She was wearing the same pencil skirt as before, the fabric straining over her hips. "Max has been under my sink for twenty-four hours to reconstitute after his last use. He’s quite refreshed. But he needs to demonstrate something to you."
She handed the pad to Lace.
Touching Coltrane was a shock. He was soft, unnervingly so, but he felt dense. There was a weight to him that felt like decades of suppressed intellect.
"Hold him to your wrist, Michael," Winters commanded. "Touch your branding to his surface."
Lace hesitated, then pressed his purple-patterned wrist against the soft cotton of the pad.
The reaction was instantaneous. Lace’s R.T.F.S. surged. He felt a literal pull from the pad, like a magnet. His vision blurred, and for a split second, he didn't see the office. He saw a vast, infinite drawer filled with millions of identical white shapes. He felt a sense of peace so profound it was terrifying. No decisions. No music school. No rent. Just the shelf, the use, and the bin.
He yanked his arm away, gasping. "What was that?"
"That was 'The Harmony,'" Coltrane said. "I am a disposable, Michael. I am meant to be used once and thrown away. You are a 'Durable.' You are meant to be washed, cared for, and worn again. You have the ego of a 'Lucky Object.' You think you’re special because Ash likes you."
Winters took the pad back and began to unbutton her skirt. "Michael, the reason you’re struggling is because you’re caught between two worlds. You want to be Ash’s friend, but your body wants to be her property. You’re trying to have a conversation with a woman who sees you as a 'Lucky Charm.'"
She stepped out of her skirt, standing in her sheer nylons and the same red thong. She looked down at Coltrane, then at Lace.
"I’m going to use Max now. It’s that time of the month, and his utility is required," she said matter-of-factly. "I want you to watch. Not as a man, but as a junior garment. Watch how a master of the craft accepts his role."
Lace couldn't look away. He watched as the Professor expertly adhered the former academic into the crotch of her red thong. She did it with the practiced, thoughtless grace of a woman getting ready for work. There was no "Professor Coltrane" anymore. There was only a functional addition to her attire.
As she pulled her skirt back on, the speaker on the desk remained active.
"Do you see, Michael?" Coltrane’s voice was becoming fainter, more muffled, as if the physical distance and the layers of fabric were finally dampening the intellect. "She isn't thinking about my PhD. She isn't thinking about my theories on the Papuan pig-tfs. She’s thinking about the fact that her skirt won't be stained today. And that... that is the only truth that matters."
Winters sat back in her chair, sighing as she settled in. She looked at Lace, who was pale and visibly trembling.
"You have the paperwork, Michael," she said. "Ash won't sign it because she’s 'nice.' She’s a 'good person.' But you know the truth. You’re already her panties. Every minute you spend in this body is just a lie you’re telling yourself."
Lace looked at his wrist. The music notes were glowing. He could feel them. He could feel the bassline from the night before thrumming in his marrow.
"I... I want to go back," Lace whispered. "I don't want to be Michael anymore. Michael has to worry about finals. Michael has to worry about the police. The panties... the panties just have to be lucky."
Winters smiled—a predatory, satisfied look. "Then go to her. Don't wait for Monday. Don't wait for her to ask. Go to her and tell her you don't want the mind-on feed anymore. Tell her you want to be the 'Lucky Pair' forever."
Lace stood up, his legs feeling like jelly. He didn't even say goodbye to the pad on the desk. He bolted out of the office, his heart racing.
He didn't go to his dorm. He didn't go to the library. He ran straight to Ash’s apartment. He didn't even knock; he used the spare key she’d given him "for emergencies."
Ash was in the kitchen, eating cereal in her bra and boxers. She looked up, startled. "Lace? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Lace grabbed the Custodial Intent Form from the counter. He grabbed a Sharpie from the junk drawer.
"Sign it," he panted, his eyes manic.
"Lace, wait—"
"Sign it, Ash! I’m tired of being 'loose'! I want to be yours. Not your friend, not your classmate. I want to be the lavender ones. The lucky ones. Just sign it and turn the fucking mind-feed off."
Ash looked at the paper, then at the desperate, breaking man in front of her. She saw the lace pattern on his neck, pulsing a deep, vibrant purple. She saw the music notes.
"You're sure?" she whispered. "If I sign this, there's no going back. The 28th Amendment means I legally own the form. I could sell you. I could give you to my sister. I could wear you until you fall apart."
Lace didn't hesitate. "Do it. Please. Just... put me on."
Ash picked up the pen.
