The Sharpie felt heavy in Ash’s hand. She looked at Lace—his eyes were wide, pleading, and frantic. The purple lace pattern on his neck was pulsing so hard it looked like a second heartbeat.
She scribbled her name: Ashley Dyer.
The air in the kitchen shifted instantly. The legal weight of the 28th Amendment settled over the room like a physical pressure. Lace didn't wait. He grabbed her phone, his fingers blurring as he navigated the TFRM app. He bypassed the safety warnings and toggled the switch: [LOCK FORM: CUSTODIAL OVERRIDE].
But then, he paused. His thumb hovered over the "Mental State" toggle. He looked at Ash, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"I... I can't do it," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I can't go dark. I’m scared, Ash. I want to be yours, but please... don't turn me off. I don't want to wake up a month from now and realize I missed my own life."
Ash looked at the screen. The "Active" setting was highlighted in green. If she left it on, she’d have a pair of panties that could feel, think, and perceive every single second of being her property.
"Lace, if I leave it on, you’re going to experience everything," Ash warned, her voice dropping to a low, serious tone. "The laundry basket. The drawer. The long days when I’m just sitting in class. The smells. The... everything. You won't be able to escape into sleep."
"I know," Lace said, his eyes locking onto hers. "Just... let me stay. I'd rather be a conscious object than a dead one."
Ash sighed, a dark flicker of something—authority, perhaps—crossing her face. She tapped the final confirmation.
The Transformation
Lace didn't even have time to scream. His body folded in on itself, his bones turning to liquid elastic, his skin weaving into breathable lavender cotton. In less than a second, the man was gone.
Ash reached down and picked up the garment.
Lace was vibrating. It wasn't the "mind-off" stillness of a normal object. Through the fabric, Ash could feel his panic, his awareness, and his sudden, overwhelming proximity to her.
"You still there, Lace?" she asked, her voice booming like thunder in his "ears."
The panties gave a sharp, sudden squeeze around her fingers—a desperate, textile "yes."
The Reality of Ownership
Ash didn't go to the dresser. She went straight to the bathroom.
"Well," she said, her tone shifting. The "friend" voice was fading, replaced by the casual, slightly dismissive tone one uses with a favorite tool. "Since you’re staying awake, you might as well get used to the routine. I’ve got a long day of classes, and I'm already running late."
Lace felt the world tilt as she unbuttoned her jeans. Being "conscious" while she stepped into him was a thousand times more intense than the concert. He felt the rush of air, the warmth of her skin, and then the absolute, crushing transition as she pulled him up.
He was pinned. There was no "Michael" anymore, just a sensory map of Ash’s anatomy. He could feel her pulse through her femoral artery. He could feel the exact texture of her skin.
"God, you're tight today," Ash muttered, adjusting him. "The override must have shrunk your fibers for a better fit. You're really digging in, Lucky."
Lace tried to pulse a response, a rhythm of "I'm sorry," but Ash was already pulling her jeans on over him. The world went dark. Not the "mind-off" dark, but the literal darkness of denim. He was trapped in a warm, humid, lightless void, pressed between Ash and her pants.
The Lecture Hall
For the next three hours, Lace learned the true meaning of "Inanimate."
Ash sat in a plastic chair in a crowded lecture hall. She was bored. She tapped her foot. She shifted her weight every five minutes.
To Ash, it was just a boring Tuesday. To Lace, it was a marathon of pressure. Every time she shifted, he was ground into the plastic seat. He felt the slow build-up of heat. He felt the faint, salt-tinged moisture of her skin as the room grew stuffy.
Because his mind was on, he was hyper-aware of the indignity. He was a music student who should have been in the practice rooms. Instead, he was being sat on by a girl who was currently doodling in her notebook, completely ignoring the fact that her "lucky charm" was a living person.
Suddenly, Ash leaned over to whisper to a friend. "Hey, you got a spare tampon? I think I'm starting."
Lace felt a jolt of pure, cold terror vibrate through his waistband.
"Yeah, here," the friend whispered back.
Lace felt Ash shift, the rustle of the wrapper echoing through his fibers. He felt her hand reach down, the brief movement of air as she adjusted herself.
"Thanks," Ash whispered. She settled back into her seat, right on top of him. "Ugh, I feel like crap. I’m so glad I wore my lucky pair today. I feel way more secure."
Lace pulsed a frantic, rhythmic beat. He was trying to scream through his stitches. He realized now what Professor Coltrane meant. As a "Durable," he was the backup. He was the safety net for every "gross" thing Ash didn't want to deal with. And he was going to be awake for all of it.
The Evening Chill
By 6:00 PM, Ash was back at the apartment. She kicked off her shoes and slumped onto the couch.
"Long day, huh Lace?" she asked, reaching into her jeans to give his waistband a playful tug. The snap of the elastic against her skin sent a jolt of sensation through him that was half-pleasure, half-humiliation.
She pulled her phone out. The TFRM app was still open.
"You're awfully quiet," she teased. "Not enjoying the full experience? You've got a little dampness on your trim, Lace. Looks like you worked hard today."
She didn't take him off. She didn't wash him. She just opened a bag of chips and started watching TV.
Lace was exhausted. His "mind" was reeling from the sensory overload. He wanted to be a man again. He wanted to stand up, stretch his legs, and eat a sandwich. But he couldn't. He was legally locked.
"I think I'll keep you on for the night," Ash said, her thumb tracing the lace border where his neck used to be. "I have an exam tomorrow. I need the luck to stay 'in the zone.' You don't mind, do you?"
Lace pulsed a weak, fluttering vibration. It wasn't a "yes." It was a plea for mercy.
Ash smiled, but she didn't check the app for his "speech" pulses. She just turned up the volume on the TV.
"Good boy," she whispered.
