World-building: people are regular sized before being transformed into inanimate objects like clothing. They maintain all 5 senses and can talk even while clothing.
The first time you heard about the Transformation Virus, it sounded like something out of a sci-fi movie. A virus that turned people into random inanimate objects? And not just any objects—usually clothing? It was absurd. But then it started happening to people you knew. Your neighbor’s cousin became a scarf. Your coworker’s uncle turned into a pair of shoes. And now, sitting across from you at Charlotte’s friend’s kitchen table, was Greg—formerly Greg, now a single, slightly wrinkled sock.
Charlotte’s friend, Amelia, held Greg up by his toe seam as she sipped her coffee, her tone conversational but tinged with a strange mix of amusement and detachment. “It’s been an adjustment,” she said, her nails tapping against the ceramic mug. “But honestly, it’s kind of convenient. He doesn’t take up as much space, and I don’t have to worry about him leaving the toilet seat up anymore.”
You couldn’t help but glance at Charlotte, who was sitting beside you, her long legs crossed elegantly under the table. She was biting her lip, her blue eyes flicking between Amelia and the sock in her hand. You could tell she was trying to process this. So were you.
“Do you... still wear him?” Charlotte asked cautiously, her voice soft but curious.
Amelia shrugged, as if it were the most normal question in the world. “Of course. I mean, he’s a sock. It’d be weird not to. He’s actually pretty comfy. And he doesn’t complain about the laundry detergent anymore.” She smirked, clearly enjoying the absurdity of the situation.
You couldn’t help but lean forward, your curiosity getting the better of you. “Greg, can you... hear us?”
The sock twitched slightly in Amelia’s hand, and a muffled voice came from somewhere near the heel. “Yeah, I can hear you. Loud and clear.” He sounded... resigned. Maybe even a little embarrassed. “It’s not exactly the life I imagined, but hey, at least I’m useful.”
Charlotte reached over and squeezed your hand under the table. Her touch was reassuring, but you could feel the tension in her fingers. She’s worried, you realized. Worried this could happen to us. You squeezed back, trying to reassure her without words.
Amelia set Greg down on the table, and for a moment, there was an awkward silence. Then Charlotte spoke again, her voice careful. “But... how do you... you know... do things? Like, as a married couple?”
Amelia raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. “Oh, you mean those things? Well, let’s just say Greg’s got a new perspective on intimacy. Literally.” She chuckled, clearly enjoying Charlotte’s discomfort. “It’s different, sure, but it’s not all bad. He’s always close, you know? And he’s got a front-row seat to everything.”
You felt your cheeks heat up, and Charlotte’s grip on your hand tightened. Is she imagining it? You wondered. Imagining if I were the one turned into... something?
Amelia leaned back in her chair, clearly enjoying the direction of the conversation. “Honestly, I think it’s made us closer. He’s always with me, always a part of my day. It’s kind of sweet, in a weird way. Plus, he’s always warm when I put him on.”
Charlotte didn’t say anything, but her cheeks were tinged with pink. You couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or something else. She was quiet for a long moment before finally speaking. “I don’t know if I could do that. If Oliver turned into... I don’t know, a pair of underwear or something, I don’t think I could wear him. It’d feel... too weird.”
Amelia laughed, a light, airy sound that filled the room. “You say that now, but you’d get used to it. Trust me, it’s not as weird as it sounds. Plus, it’s kind of nice having someone so... attached to you all the time.”
The conversation shifted to other topics after that, but the thought lingered in your mind. What would it be like if it happened to you? If you became... something? And how would Charlotte handle it? She was so confident, so in control of every situation. But this? This was something entirely different.
Later that evening, as you and Charlotte got ready for bed, she was unusually quiet. She stood in front of the mirror, brushing her long blonde hair, her eyes distant. You could tell she was still thinking about Greg. About what Amelia had said.
“You okay?” you asked, stepping closer to her.
She hesitated, then nodded, setting the brush down. “Yeah, I just... I can’t stop thinking about it. About what Amelia said. About Greg. It’s just... so strange, you know?”
You wrapped your arms around her waist, pulling her close. She leaned back into you, her warmth seeping into your chest. “It is strange,” you agreed. “But it’s not us. It’s not something we have to worry about.”
She turned in your arms, her blue eyes searching yours. “But what if it was? What if... what if it happened to you? What would we do?”
You didn’t have an answer. You couldn’t even imagine it. But the way she was looking at you—like she was already trying to picture it—made something stir in your chest. Something you couldn’t quite name.
---
It wasn’t long after that night that it happened. You woke up feeling... different. Uncomfortable. Your body felt... compressed. Restricted. You opened your mouth to call for Charlotte, but the sound that came out was muffled, distorted. Your heart raced as you tried to move, but there was no movement. No limbs. Just... fabric.
Charlotte’s face appeared above you, her eyes wide with shock. “Oliver?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Charlotte—” you tried to say, but it was barely audible. You could see it now. Your reflection in the mirror. You were no longer a man. You were... thong underwear. And not just any thong. Your face was embedded in the backside, your features stretched and flattened but unmistakably yours.
Charlotte’s hands trembled as she reached for you, her fingers brushing against the fabric. “Oh my god,” she breathed. “This... this can’t be real.”
“Charlotte,” you tried again, your voice strained. “It’s me. It’s really me.”
She stared at you for a long moment, her expression a mix of horror and disbelief. Then, slowly, she picked you up, holding you at arm’s length. “This... this isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.”
You wanted to comfort her, to reassure her, but how could you? You didn’t even know how to process this yourself. You were a thong. A thong. And you could already see the hesitation in her eyes, the way she was holding you like you were something alien.
“Charlotte,” you said, your voice pleading. “I’m still me. I’m still your husband.”
She didn’t respond. She just stared at you, her grip tightening slightly. And in that moment, you realized just how much your life—and your marriage—was about to change.
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