Charlotte carried you hesitantly through the house, her fingers gripping the thin fabric of your new form like she was handling a fragile artifact. You could feel the tension in her grip, the way her palm pressed against what used to be your torso. Her husband. You were her husband. And now you were… this. A piece of lingerie. A thong, no less. The irony wasn’t lost on you.
“So,” she started, her voice trembling slightly as she moved into the kitchen, placing you on the counter. “We need to talk. About… this.” She gestured vaguely at you, her cheeks flushed.
You tried to sound calm, though your voice wavered. “I know, Charlotte. This is… weird. For both of us. But I’m still me. I’m still Oliver.”
She bit her lip, her gaze darting away from you. “I know you are. It’s just… how am I supposed to deal with this? I mean, you’re… you’re a thong now. A thong, Oliver.” She said the word like it was a curse, her voice rising slightly.
“I get it,” you said quickly, trying to soothe her. “I’m not exactly thrilled about it either. But we’ll figure it out. Together.”
She sighed, running a hand through her long blonde hair. “I don’t even know where to start. I mean… do I… wear you? Is that a thing? Because that feels… I don’t know, weird. Really weird.”
Your heart sank a little at that. The thought of being worn by her—by anyone—felt humiliating in a way you couldn’t quite articulate. “No,” you said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not… not yet, anyway. Let’s just… take it slow.”
She nodded, relief flooding her features. “Yeah. Slow is good. I can’t even imagine… wearing you like that. It’s too… intimate. Too strange.” She paused, glancing down at you. “But what do we do in the meantime? I can’t just leave you lying around.”
You hesitated. “I mean… you could carry me? Like you’ve been doing. Just… keep me with you. I’ll stay out of the way. I won’t… I won’t look or anything.”
She raised an eyebrow, a hint of her usual mischief returning. “You’re a thong, Oliver. You don’t exactly have eyes.”
You flushed, though you weren’t sure how that was possible in your current form. “You know what I mean. I’ll just… stay quiet. You won’t even notice I’m here.”
She chuckled softly, the sound easing some of the tension in the room. “Okay, okay. I’ll carry you around. But if you start getting too weird, I’m putting you in a drawer.”
“Deal,” you said quickly, grateful for the compromise.
For the rest of the morning, Charlotte carried you from room to room, your form draped over her shoulder or tucked into the crook of her arm. You tried to stay quiet, as promised, but you couldn’t help but notice the way her body moved under her loose t-shirt and leggings. The way her hips swayed, the way her ass—your new home, if things ever got that far—jiggled slightly with each step. It was impossible not to notice, especially when you were pressed so close to her.
At one point, she set you on the couch while she made lunch, and you found yourself staring at her as she moved around the kitchen. Her long blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun, and she hummed softly to herself as she worked, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air. You had always loved watching her, even before all of this. But now, it felt different. More… unsettling.
When she finished, she sat down on the couch next to you, balancing a plate of food on her lap. She glanced at you, a small smile playing on her lips. “You okay? You’ve been quiet.”
“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Just… taking it all in, I guess.”
She nodded, her expression softening. “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you. I mean, I’m freaking out, but you’re the one who’s actually… stuck like this.”
You sighed, the weight of her words sinking in. “It’s… a lot. I’m still trying to process it. But I’m just glad you’re still here. That you’re still willing to… deal with me like this.”
She reached over, her fingers brushing against your fabric. “Of course, I am. You’re my husband. I love you, no matter what.”
Her words warmed you, even in this strange, humiliating form. “I love you too, Charlotte.”
She smiled, though there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. “I just… I wish there was more I could do. I feel so helpless.”
“You’re doing enough,” you said quickly. “Just… being here. Carrying me around. It’s more than I could’ve asked for.”
She nodded, though you could tell she wasn’t entirely convinced. After a moment, she set her plate aside and leaned back on the couch, stretching her legs out in front of her. “This sucks,” she said bluntly. “I hate that this happened to you. To us.”
“Me too,” you admitted. “But we’ll figure it out. We always do.”
She sighed, turning her head to look at you. “I hope you’re right.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur of awkwardness and quiet conversations. Charlotte carried you around as promised, though you could tell she was still uneasy about the whole situation. You tried to stay quiet, to give her space, but it was hard not to feel like a burden. A thong. A literal burden.
By the time evening rolled around, you were both exhausted—psychologically, if not physically. Charlotte brought you upstairs, setting you on the bed as she changed into her pajamas. You looked away, though there wasn’t much to see in your current form. Still, it felt like the right thing to do.
When she climbed into bed, she hesitated, glancing at you. “Where do you want to sleep? I mean… I don’t want you to feel weird, but…”
“The pillow is fine,” you said quickly, not wanting to make things any more uncomfortable than they already were. “I’ll just… stay here.”
She nodded, placing you on the pillow beside her. “Okay. Goodnight, Oliver.”
“Goodnight, Charlotte.”
The room was dark, the only sound the soft rhythm of her breathing. You lay there, unable to sleep, your mind racing with thoughts of what the next day—and the days after—would bring. Would she eventually wear you? Could you handle that? The thought made your stomach churn, though you weren’t sure if that was even possible anymore.
Just as you were starting to drift off, she shifted slightly, her hand brushing against you. “Oliver?” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
She hesitated, her voice barely audible. “I’m scared.”
Your heart ached at the vulnerability in her tone. “I know,” you said softly. “Me too.”
She didn’t respond, but you could feel her hand lingering on your fabric, her fingers curling slightly. And in that moment, you realized that despite everything, you were still connected. Still together.
For now, that was enough.
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