Being "awake" for the night was a different kind of torture than the bustle of the lecture hall. In the classroom, there was the distraction of the professor’s voice and the constant shifting of Ash’s weight. But in the dark of her bedroom, the world narrowed down to two things: the heat of Ash’s body and the relentless ticking of the clock on her nightstand.
Ash didn't bother with pajamas. She stripped down to her oversized band t-shirt, leaving Lace as her only barrier against the cool air of the room. As she climbed under the duvet, Lace felt the sudden transition from the rough denim of her jeans to the soft, high-thread-count sheets.
For a moment, it was almost peaceful. The pressure was gone. He wasn't being sat on or ground into a plastic chair. He could finally "breathe," his fibers expanding slightly in the freedom of the bed.
The Sleep-Cycle Squeeze
The peace didn't last. As Ash drifted off, her body became a heavy, unconscious landscape. In her sleep, Ash was a "thrasher."
Lace felt every toss and turn with terrifying clarity. One moment he was being pulled taut as she stretched her legs, his elastic waistband digging into her hips. The next, she’d roll onto her stomach, pinning him between her pelvic bone and the mattress.
> Garment Status: Sustained Use
> * Internal Temp: 37.5°C (Steady)
> * Stress Points: High (Hips and Crotch-panel)
> * Mental State: ACTIVE (Sleep-deprived/Delirious)
>
>
Because his mind was on, Lace couldn't slip into the "dormancy" that inanimate objects usually enjoy. He was hyper-aware of the biological realities of being a human's second skin. He felt the slow, steady rhythm of her breath, the occasional twitch of her muscles, and the rising humidity trapped within his own fabric.
The Morning Dread
Around 3:00 AM, the true weight of his decision hit him. He was hungry—or at least, his mind remembered what hunger felt like. His "stomach" was just a layer of lavender cotton, but his brain was sending out signals for glucose that had nowhere to go. He felt a phantom ache in his legs that no longer existed.
He was trapped in a sensory loop. He was the "Lucky Pair," and his only "food" was the warmth and moisture he absorbed from the woman who owned him.
Pffffft.
The sound was small, muffled by the heavy duvet, but to Lace, it was a thunderclap. The sudden warmth bloomed through his fibers. In the dark, silent room, the scent was overpowering. He felt a wave of R.T.F.S. dependency wash over him. A month ago, he would have been mortified. Now, in his delirious, textile state, he felt a sickening spark of purpose.
I'm doing my job, he thought, the music-note branding on his "skin" glowing faintly under the sheets. I'm catching it. She's sleeping soundly because I'm here.
The Sun Rises
When the alarm finally blared at 7:30 AM, Ash groaned and reached out a hand to slap the snooze button. She was warm, her skin slightly clammy from a night of heavy blankets.
"Ugh... Lace," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. She reached down and hooked a finger under his waistband, stretching the elastic. "You still awake, Lucky? You feel... stiff. You need a wash."
Lace pulsed a rapid, desperate rhythm. He wanted to be out. He wanted to be a man. He wanted to scream that he had been awake for twenty-four hours straight and he was losing his mind.
Ash didn't check the app. She just climbed out of bed, her feet hitting the cold floor. "No time for a shower yet. I gotta cram for this exam. You’re staying on for luck, remember?"
She pulled on a pair of sweatpants over him. The darkness returned.
Lace felt a sob build in a throat he no longer possessed. He realized the horror of the "Permanent Use" waiver. To Ash, he was a charm. To him, he was a prisoner. She sat down at her desk, the familiar pressure of her weight returning as she began to flip through her textbook.
"Let's see... 'Transformation Ethics and the 28th Amendment,'" Ash read aloud, her voice vibrating through his very core. "Section 4: The right of the owner to maintain the form of the property for the duration of the custodial contract."
She chuckled, a low vibration that made Lace’s lace trim shiver.
"Sounds like you're stuck with me for a while, Lace. Hope you liked the overnight shift. We’ve got a four-hour exam starting at noon."
Lace’s "mind" flickered. The music notes on his lavender surface were no longer just a pattern; they were becoming his entire world. He stopped trying to pulse "No." He started trying to pulse "Study hard."
The dependency was winning.
