Jessica notices you and Chloe demands a "test-drive"

The conversation regarding the depravity of the male sex began to lull, leaving a penitent, if slightly heavy, silence over the table. You were thankful for the reprieve, considering you were currently suffocating in the dark, warm, and incredibly wet prison of your girlfriend's crotch, your face plastered with the thick, gelatinous evidence of how much she preferred toxic masculinity over your safety.

Carrie sighed and leaned far across the table to grab the bottle of Pinot Grigio.

"Just a bit more," she hummed.

As she stretched forward, her posture shifted. Her lower back arched, and her denim skirt, which had been riding low on her hips, stayed put while her torso elongated. You felt a sudden, violent upward yank. Your arms were pulled high above her hip bones. Your tongue was flossed brutally tight against her pucker.

Suddenly, the darkness vanished. The waistband of the thong cleared the top of her skirt, pulling high in a visible "whale-tail," exposing the intricate lace and your fabric soul to the ambient lighting of the restaurant.

"Oh my god," a voice gasped. It was Jessica.

You felt a gaze. While most people would just see a flash of underwear and look away, Jessica was a hawk. She was the fashionista of the group, the one who spent her rent money on Vogue subscriptions and limited drops.

"Carrie, stop moving!" Jessica commanded, her voice pitching up in excitement. "Is that... is that Aubade? The Cosmic Romance collection?"

Carrie froze, the wine bottle half-lifted. A sly smile touched her lips as she realized she’d been spotted. She settled back into her chair but didn't pull her shirt down. Instead, she leaned back, intentionally pulling her skirt down a furious inch to give them a better view.

"Good eye, Jess," Carrie purred.

"I don't believe it!" Jessica squealed, leaning in closer to inspect your waistband. "The Sand Rose colorway! I tried to get that online last week and it was sold out literally everywhere. How on earth did you get your hands on it?"

"Max," Carrie beamed, patting her lap. "He surprised me with it. He said he remembered me looking at the catalog over my shoulder once. Even remembered the exact size and color I wanted."

"Get out," Chloe chimed in, her voice filled with disbelief. "Max bought you one hundred fifty dollar French panties? Without you asking?"

"He's such a sweetheart," Jessica cooed, admiring the embroidery that made up your existence. "Seriously, Carrie, that is quality. Look at that stitching. Most guys wouldn't know Victoria's Secret from La Senza, and yours is out here buying high-end Parisian lingerie. He really is one of the good ones."

The irony was acidic. They were praising the man for being thoughtful, unaware that that man was currently flattened against her vulva, drowning in the slime she produced over a story about a felon named Jax. You were the trophy of your own humiliation.

"Let me see the back," Jessica demanded. "The cut on the tanga is supposed to be revolutionary."

Since they were seated in a semi-private corner booth, shielded from the rest of the restaurant by a high partition, Carrie obliged. She lifted her left hip, hiking the denim skirt up just enough to expose her upper thigh and the side of her butt cheek.

You felt the air hit your damp fabric. You were on display. Jessica leaned in, her face inches from your hip strap.

"Ooooh," she breathed. "The mesh is so fine. And the way it sits? It’s practically invisible but so structured. Carrie, turn a little more."

Carrie shifted, giving them a view of your tongue disappearing between her cheeks.

"Aaaah," Jessica sighed with envy. "It frames your ass perfectly. That is stunning. Max has incredible taste."

"He really does," Carrie giggled, her hand brushing over your waistband, effectively petting you. "He loves how it looks on me. He said he wanted me to feel... close to him."

"Well, he's a keeper," Chloe grumbled, taking a long sip of her wine. The praise for you seemed to sour her mood. Jealousy flared in her eyes as she looked from the expensive lace hugging Carrie’s perfect, smooth skin to her own outfit. "Though I don't get the hype. It’s just a thong. It’s a scrap of fabric. Why is it worth that much?"

"It's the material, Chloe," Jessica corrected her. "It’s the feel. You can't compare H&M cotton to this."

"I bet it feels the exact same," Chloe challenged, her eyes narrowing on Carrie's hips. "In fact, I bet it rides up just as much as any other thong."

"Actually," Carrie said, "It's really comfortable. Like I'm wearing nothing at all."

"Bullshit," Chloe snapped, the wine emboldening her. "Prove it."

Carrie blinked. "What?"

"Let me test drive it," Chloe said, setting her glass down. "Hand it over. I want to see what this hundred fifty dollar miracle comfort feels like. I'll wear it for like ten minutes, and tell you if it’s actually worth the money or if you’re just paying for the brand name."

Carrie’s smile faltered. You felt her muscles tense around you.

"Chloe, I can't," Carrie laughed nervously. "I'm wearing it. Like, right now."

"So?" Chloe shrugged. "We switch clothes all the time. I'm literally wearing your crop top right now. And remember that dress I let you borrow last week? The silk one you spilled margarita on? I didn't complain."

"Yeah, but... this is underwear," Carrie stammered. "It's... unhygienic."

"Oh, please," Chloe scoffed, rolling her eyes. "You're the pinnacle of cleanliness, Carrie. You shower twice a day and wax religiously. Your 'used' is cleaner than most people's 'brand new.' Besides, we're best friends. Unless..." Chloe smirked, "Unless you're saying you have something to hide?"

Carrie was cornered. She looked at Jessica, hoping for backup, but Jessica looked intrigued.

"It is sold out," Jessica mused. "It might be the only chance for her to see the fit."

Carrie looked down at her lap. She remembered the deal. She had looked you in the eye and told you that if she turned you into a thong, she would treat you like a thong. A regular object. If she refused to lend you out, she would be admitting you were special, or worse.

"You owe me," Chloe pressed, standing up. "For the dress. Come on. Just a quick switch."

Carrie let out a defeated sigh. "Fine. But you have to be careful with it. It's delicate."

"I'll treat it better than I treat my own," Chloe promised, grabbing Carrie's hand. "Let's go."

You felt the lurch as Carrie stood up. Panic set in. You tried to scream, to thrash, to expand your fabric fibers, but you were inert matter. You were being marched to your doom.

They entered the restroom, the bright fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The air wafted of soap and faint perfume. Carrie locked the stall door behind them. It was a tight squeeze.

"Okay, make it quick," Carrie whispered, reaching under her skirt.

She hooked her thumbs into your waistband and shoved you down. The friction burned as you slid over her hips and down her thighs. The cool air of the bathroom hit the sodden, mucus-soaked patch of the gusset.

"Here," Carrie said, handing you over. "Don't stretch it."

Chloe didn't hesitate. She had already kicked off her own generic, black cotton briefs and snatched you from Carrie's hand.

"Let's see what the fuss is about," Chloe muttered.

She stepped into your leg holes.

As she pulled you up, the difference was immediate and horrifying.

Carrie was a yoga teacher; her body was firm, taut, and meticulously groomed. Chloe was... softer. Earthier. As your waistband cleared her knees and hit her thighs, you felt the fabric scream. Chloe was a bit larger than Carrie. Not fat, but thick. Her thighs were heavy and rubbed together. You were stretched to your limit, your arms feeling like they were being pulled out of their sockets as she **** you over her wide hips.

But the fit was the least of your worries.

As she shimmied you into place, your face made contact with her anatomy. Unlike Carrie, who was laser-shaved to smoothness, Chloe believed in being "natural."

You were shoved face-first into a dense, coarse thicket of pubic hair. It was like being pressed into a scouring pad. The hair was wiry and tangled, scratching against the delicate mesh of your existence (and your consciousness). It trapped the heat and the scent immediately.

And the scent...

Carrie smelled like arousal and expensive lotion. Chloe smelled like raw, unfiltered human. It was a heavy, musky odor, — stale sweat trapped, the smell of urine droplets caught in the bush, and a deep, biological pungency that assaulted your senses.

"Tight," Chloe grunted, snapping the waistband against her skin.

Then came the back.

"Now for the wedgie test," she said.

She reached behind her, grabbed your tongue and yanked it upwards with zero regard for the "delicate material."

If Carrie’s ass was a smooth ride, Chloe’s was a jungle. As your tongue was dragged into her cleft, you encountered more hair. Long, coarse hairs grew right up to the rim of her anus, matting together. You were flossed deep between her cheeks, the fabric grating against the stubble and the hair of her asshole.

It was a sensory nightmare. The friction generated heat, amplifying the musk. You were lodged against her somewhat foul anus, surrounded by a forest of hair that prickled and poked at you with every jostle she made.

"Okay," Chloe said, doing a little wiggle to settle you in. "I see what she means about the support. It really holds everything in."

She looked in the mirror, turning to admire her butt in your fabric form. She ran a hand over the front panel, pressing the mesh and the hair beneath it hard against your nose.

"Feels expensive," Chloe admitted. She kicked her own black cotton briefs toward Carrie. "Here, you can have mine until we switch back."

Carrie stared at the crumpled panties on the floor. She looked at Chloe and then back at the cheap, worn cotton.

"Ew, no," Carrie's nose wrinkled. "I'm not wearing your underwear, Chloe. God knows when you last washed those."

"I washed them this morning!" Chloe protested, laughing. "But fine, suit yourself, miss princess."

Chloe scooped up her briefs and stuck them unceremoniously into her handbag.

"Ready?" Chloe asked, giving the waistband one last sharp snap against her hips. "We'll later show Jessica how good this looks on a real woman."

She swung the stall door open. You were carried back out into the restaurant, clinging for dear life to the wrong woman, while Carrie followed behind, cool, breezy, and completely naked under her skirt.