The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting soft, slanted beams across the room. You watched as Charlotte stirred in bed, her long blonde hair splayed across the pillow like a sunflower field. She stretched, her arms reaching above her head, and yawned softly. For a moment, she looked serene, almost unaware of the bizarre reality that had consumed your lives.
You lay there on the pillow beside her, your fabric still cool from the night. Maybe today will be the day, you thought. Maybe today she’ll finally acknowledge this—this thing I’ve become. But as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, her eyes didn’t even glance in your direction. She padded over to her dresser, her hips swaying hypnotically, and began rifling through her lingerie drawer.
Your heart sank. Is she really going to ignore me? Or has she forgotten that I'm here?
Charlotte pulled out a thong—a lace one, pink and delicate, but noticeably smaller than the one you’d become. You watched as she stepped into it, sliding it up her long, toned legs with practiced ease. But as she tugged it over her hips, it snagged on her curves. She frowned, pulling harder, the fabric stretching precariously thin against the expanse of her backside.
Panic surged through you. Please, Charlotte, stop. You’re going to rip it. But you couldn’t speak, couldn’t warn her. All you could do was watch, helpless, as she yanked the thong higher.
And then it happened.
A sharp, tearing sound split the air. The thong gave way, splitting cleanly down the middle with a noise that made your nonexistent stomach drop. Charlotte froze, her hands still clutching the ruined fabric. She glanced down at it, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “Oops,” she muttered, tossing the torn thong into the trash.
Oops.
You wanted to scream. That could’ve been you. That almost was you. The image of yourself—your face, your voice, your very identity—ripping apart like cheap fabric flooded your mind. You felt sick, though you had no stomach to churn. The sheer horror of it was overwhelming.
But Charlotte didn’t notice. She didn’t even look your way. Instead, she opened her drawer again, pulling out another thong—a black one this time. She inspected it briefly before stepping into it. This one fit better, though it still strained against her curves. She adjusted it, smoothing the fabric over her hips, and then turned to the mirror, admiring herself.
“Well, that’s better,” she said, her tone light and carefree.
You wanted to cry. How could she be so casual about this? Didn’t she realize what she’d just done—what she’d almost done to you? But as you lay there on the pillow, silent and forgotten, it became painfully clear: she didn’t see you as you anymore. You were just… fabric. An accessory. Something disposable.
Charlotte hummed softly as she moved around the room, gathering her clothes for the day. She slipped into a pair of tight jeans, her buttocks straining against the denim as she buttoned them up. The sight of it made you ache in ways you couldn’t fully comprehend. You wanted to feel her warmth, her touch, her love. But instead, you were just… there. An afterthought.
“Oliver,” she said suddenly, her voice breaking the silence.
Your heart leapt. “Yes?”
She turned to you, her expression soft but distant. “I’m going out for a while. Do you… want me to take you with me?”
The question caught you off guard. Did you? Part of you longed to be close to her, to feel the familiar comfort of her body against yours. But another part of you—the part that had just watched her destroy a thong without a second thought—was terrified. What if she forgot you were alive? What if she treated you like any other piece of clothing?
“I—I don’t know,” you stammered.
Charlotte tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly. “Well, I’ll leave you here then. I won’t be gone long.”
She walked over to the bed, her movements graceful and deliberate. For a moment, you thought she might pick you up, might hold you close. But instead, she simply straightened the pillows, tucking you neatly under the edge. The gesture was almost… maternal. As if she were tucking in a child, not her husband.
“I’ll be back soon,” she said, her voice gentle but distant. And with that, she turned and left the room, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor.
You lay there, immobilized by the weight of your thoughts. The silence of the room pressed in on you, suffocating and heavy. You wanted to scream, to cry, to do something. But you couldn’t. You were just… fabric.
The hours dragged on, each second stretching into an eternity. You tried to focus on the positive—on the fact that Charlotte hadn’t donated you, hadn’t given up on you completely. But the image of the torn thong kept replaying in your mind, a haunting reminder of your fragility.
When Charlotte finally returned, she was in high spirits, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. She dropped her bag by the door and kicked off her heels, moving to the bed with a lazy smile. “Oliver,” she said, her voice warm but still… detached.
“Yes?” you replied, your voice trembling slightly.
She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering to you—to the thong—before she sighed softly. “I… I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be back in a bit.”
And with that, she disappeared into the bathroom, leaving you alone with your thoughts once more. The sound of running water filled the silence, a steady, soothing rhythm that did little to calm your racing mind.
When Charlotte emerged from the bathroom, she was wrapped in a towel, her hair damp and her skin glowing. She moved to the dresser, pulling out a fresh pair of panties—a simple cotton pair this time—and slipped into them without a second thought. Again, she didn’t look at you. Again, she didn’t acknowledge you.
The ache in your chest intensified. Does she even care? The question whispered through your mind, relentless and cruel. Does she even remember who I am?
As she dressed and prepared for the evening, her movements were calm, unhurried. She didn’t seem to notice the tension in the room—or if she did, she didn’t care. She was living her life, moving forward, while you… you were stuck. Trapped in this bizarre, humiliating existence.
Finally, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Charlotte returned to the bed. She picked you up, her fingers brushing against the fabric—against you—and held you for a moment. “Oliver,” she said, her voice soft but distant, “I… I’m sorry. This is just… so weird.”
“I know,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I know.”
She hesitated, her grip tightening slightly. “I’ll… I’ll try to do better. Okay?”
“Okay,” you replied, though the word felt hollow.
Charlotte placed you gently on her pillow and climbed into bed, settling in beside you. As she drifted off to sleep, her breathing slow and even, you lay there, your mind swirling with questions, fears, and unspoken desires.
What would tomorrow bring? Would she finally see you as more than just fabric? Or would you remain nothing more than an accessory, a forgotten relic of a life that no longer existed?
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author
