Before I knew it, I felt a tight grip surround my packaging as I was neatly placed on a shelf as a price tag was taped against my package, I would wait for someone to come and pick me up...
The silence of the shelf was a stark contrast to the bustling mall outside. Here, within the narrow confines of my plastic tomb, surrounded by four identical pairs of boy shorts, I felt a peculiar blend of fear and a strange, almost shameful, curiosity. My new reality was a sensory deprivation chamber. I couldn’t see, not truly, only vague blurs of light and shadow through the fabric of the shorts I was pressed against. I couldn’t smell, couldn’t taste. My entire world had been reduced to touch – the rough texture of the fabric that was now my body, the slick, unyielding plastic sealing me in, and the constant, slight pressure from the two pairs of shorts sandwiching me. It was uncomfortably intimate, being so tightly pressed against 'myself', or rather, my inanimate duplicates.
Minutes bled into hours. Or maybe it was just minutes that felt like hours; time had become an abstract concept. I listened, or rather, felt the vibrations of the world around me. Footsteps thudded past, conversations drifted in and out, the distant murmur of mall music a constant hum. Each time a shadow fell across my package, each time a hand reached out to brush against a neighboring garment, my inert form would tense, if such a thing was possible for underwear. Is that Karla? I’d think, a flicker of desperate hope igniting in my cotton-blend core. Please, let it be Karla. She’ll know what to do. She’ll set me free.
The thought of Karla brought a pang that resonated deeper than anything I’d felt since my transformation. It wasn't just longing for freedom; it was longing for her. Her teasing, her mischievous grin, the way she effortlessly took charge. This whole situation was her idea, her impulsive leap into fulfilling my most secret fantasy. And now, stuck here, I realized how much I truly depended on her, not just for this bizarre escape, but for navigating the world, for pulling me out of my shell. The irony was bitter – she’d pushed me into a shell. A plastic one.
Days passed, or so my internal clock estimated. The store was a cycle of opening and closing. I felt the slight vibrations of the cleaner’s cart each night, the quiet hum of the air conditioning, the occasional jostle as an employee restocked shelves. My initial panic had settled into a dull ache of resignation, punctuated by surges of anxiety whenever a potential customer approached. Would I be bought? Would I just sit here forever, a forgotten piece of inventory?
Then, one afternoon, the familiar rhythm of the store shifted. A shadow fell over me, larger, more deliberate than the others. I felt a presence, a warmth radiating from above. A hand reached down, not a quick grab, but a slow, almost contemplative touch. It wasn't Karla's hand – it was too slender, the fingers longer, the nails neatly manicured, a faint, sweet scent of what I thought was rosewater accompanying it. My non-existent heart fluttered.
“Oh, these are cute,” a calm, alto voice murmured. “Just what I need.”
It wasn’t Karla. A wave of profound disappointment washed over me, a chilling realization that my fate was now out of her hands entirely. This was a stranger.
The hand picked up my package. I felt the slight suction as the plastic peeled away from the shelf. My world tilted. I was held up, turned over. I imagined my brand’s logo, the playful little ‘K’ (no relation to Karla, sadly), was being examined. The voice hummed contentedly. “Five pairs, great value.”
Then came the jolt of being placed in a shopping basket. The click-clack of cart wheels, the cacophony of the checkout line. I was scanned – a sharp beep that resonated through my fabric form – and then gently placed into a paper bag. The world became dark, enclosed once more, but this time with the crinkle of the bag providing a new soundtrack.
The journey home was mercifully short. I felt the gentle sway of motion, then a sudden halt. The rustle of the bag, a brief flash of light, and then I was out. I was no longer squished against the shelf, but still confined within my plastic prison, now lying flat on a soft, somewhat plush surface. A bedroom, perhaps? The air was warm, smelling faintly of lavender and something else, something distinctly feminine.
A hand reached for me again. This time, it was purposeful. My package was lifted, and I heard a tearing sound – the glorious, liberating rip of plastic. Air, or what passed for it as a pair of boy shorts, rushed in. It was a strange sensation, like taking a first breath after being held underwater for an eternity. The pressure on my sides vanished. I could feel my own fabric, soft and breathable, for the first time since my transformation.
I was free from the packaging, but not from my form. I was still a pair of neatly folded, dark blue boy shorts with a white logo waistband. I lay there, splayed out on what I now perceived to be a bedspread, waiting. What would she do? Would she try me on immediately? Would she just toss me into a drawer?
The stranger's hands picked me up again. They unfolded me carefully, smoothing out the creases. I felt the brush of her fingertips against my fabric, a strangely intimate sensation. My internal monologue, always so active, went completely blank for a moment, waiting for the inevitable.
She held me up, then lowered me slowly, gently. I felt myself being drawn upwards, the air around me shifting. A warmth enveloped me, and I felt the incredibly soft, smooth sensation of skin against my fabric. Oh. Oh. It was happening. I was being worn.
The sensation was… overwhelming. The gentle curves of a body, the faint warmth radiating off it, the subtle friction of movement. I was stretched, molded, a second skin. It wasn’t a tight squeeze, but a comforting embrace. Every breath she took, every small shift in her weight, I felt it. The fantasy novels always described an object's perspective as detached, observing. But this was intensely personal, undeniably intimate. My, well, her legs moved, and I moved with them, a silent, humble servant to her anatomy.
A wave of profound, almost mortifying, embarrassment washed over me. This was it. This was the transformation I’d read about, the 'use' I’d secretly yearned for. But it wasn't Karla, and that made all the difference. This was a stranger. A stranger whose body I was now intimately familiar with, simply by existing as a garment. The irony was excruciating. I, Alice, the girl who hid in library corners, was now a pair of underwear, worn by someone I didn’t know, fulfilling the most private function imaginable.
I missed Karla’s teasing. I missed her bossiness, her presence. I missed being a human girl, even a shy one. This wasn't the magical, empowering transformation of my novels. This was… subservience. And as I felt the gentle rhythm of her breathing, the subtle warmth of her skin, I could only wonder what further indignities, or perhaps, what other unforeseen experiences, awaited me as a mere pair of logo boy shorts. My future, once a boundless expanse of books and quiet contemplation, was now confined to the laundry cycle, the underwear drawer, and the intimate, unspoken life of a stranger.
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