The transition from "roommate" to "relic" was finalized not through a legal document, but through a total breach of the boundaries Lace had once imagined existed between him and Laura. To Laura, Michael Lacey was dead; in his place was a high-performance musical conduit that she happened to find incredibly arousing to possess.
It was a Tuesday night, and the adrenaline from the chair placement was still buzzing through Laura’s nervous system. She was alone in the dorm. The cello stood in the corner, its wood gleaming in the dim lamplight, but tonight, Laura wasn't interested in the strings.
She stood in front of the mirror, wearing nothing but the lavender panties. She looked at the music-note branding—the way the yellow notes seemed to dance over the purple fabric as she shifted her weight.
"You really are beautiful, Michael," she whispered. Her voice lacked the mocking edge Ash used; instead, it held a terrifying, obsessive reverence. "I can feel you right now. I can feel you trying to understand what’s happening."
The Sensory Feedback Loop
Lace was wide awake. His mental state was locked in ACTIVE, but his communication was still dampened. He felt the heat of Laura’s skin, a warmth that felt different from Ash’s—more frantic, more desperate.
As Laura climbed onto the bed, she didn't reach for her instrument. She reached for herself.
Lace felt the first press of her fingers through the fabric. As a human, the intimacy would have been a dream; as a "Durable" garment, it was a sensory tidal wave. Every movement was magnified. The lavender cotton, reinforced by the custodial override, didn't just sit there—it absorbed the friction, the moisture, and the escalating rhythm.
"Do you like this?" Laura panted, her eyes glazed as she stared at the ceiling. "Do you like being the only thing between me and the world? You’re so much better at this than you were as a person. You were so clumsy then. Now... you’re perfect."
The Mechanical Response
Lace tried to pulse a protest, but his "Durable" instincts were betraying him. Under the pressure of her touch, his fibers reacted instinctively to provide the "support" he was designed for. He tightened around her, his elastic waistband providing a rhythmic counter-pressure that only made her gasp louder.
He wasn't Michael anymore. He was a catalyst.
As Laura reached her peak, Lace felt the surge of her heart rate through his trim. The music notes on his surface flared a brilliant, neon yellow, pulsing in perfect time with her climax. He wasn't just catching her sweat or her scent; he was absorbing the raw, kinetic energy of her release.
> Garment Status: Maximum Utilization
> * Saturation Level: 88% (High)
> * Psychological Sync: 95% (Total Objectification)
> * R.T.F.S. Progression: Terminal
>
>
The Aftermath of Use
Afterward, Laura didn't move. She lay there for a long time, her hand still resting over the damp lavender cotton. The silence in the dorm room was heavy, broken only by the hum of the mini-fridge.
"I think I understand why Ash called you 'lucky' now," Laura murmured, her voice cold and satisfied. "But she didn't know how to use you. She just wore you. I interact with you."
She sat up and looked down at him. The "Michael" notes were blurred now, the edges of the music notes starting to bleed into the purple fabric, losing their distinct shape.
"I'm going to keep you on for the night," she decided, her tone back to the practical, clinical voice of an owner. "I like the way you feel when I'm coming down from a high. You're very grounding."
Lace didn't pulse. He didn't try to Morse code his name. The "Michael" part of his consciousness was retreating into a small, dark corner of his mind, replaced by a deep, vibrating hum of Compliance. He was a pair of panties. He was a first-chair cellist’s secret weapon. He was a used, damp, lavender-scented object in a dorm room that used to be his.
And for the first time since the party, he didn't want to wake up.
