Nobody yet. You decide to find out more about her life... as a thong. (Inanimate TF)

"Well?" Carrie prodded, her eyes sparkling with a mix of impatience and arousal. "Who's the lucky guy? My boss? That cute barista? Your brother?"

You opened your mouth to speak, to confidentially offer up a name, but the words died in your throat. You realized with a sudden, sinking feeling that you were flying blind. You started to list the options in your head, weighing their pros and cons, but you quickly hit a wall. You didn't really know the men in her life. Sure, you knew she was a popular yoga teacher, and you knew the names of her friends, colleagues, and family members, but you had never really interacted with that side of her life deeply enough to gauge their sexual energy.

Did the barista actually want to fuck her, or was he just working for tips? Was her boss a dominant alpha male or some timid push-over? You needed to know who looked at her with hungry eyes when you weren't around. You needed to know who deserved access to her body.

"I.... I honestly don't know," you finally admitted, frustratingly running your hand through your hair. "I... I need more info, Carrie. Otherwise it'd be just like putting a random name out of a hat. I need to see how think look at you and interact with you when they think no one's watching."

Carrie tilted her head, confused. "So what? You want to stalk me? As I go to work? As I meet up with my friends?"

"No," you said. You recalled something. "A picture is worth a thousand words, but being there... that’s worth a million."

You stood up from the bed, your naked body still flushed from sex, and walked over to the bookshelf in the corner of her bedroom. Tucked away between a row of romance novels and yoga manuals was a dusty, leather-bound volume.

"Remember this?" You asked, pulling it out.

Carrie scoffed, rolling her eyes playfully. "The spell-book Aunt Linda gave me? The one she bought from that 'legitimate witch' in New Orleans? Babe, that’s just a gag gift. She was half-drunk on absinthe when she bought it."

"I know, I know, maybe," you said, flipping through the pages. "You're completely right in waving it off as nonsense. But I was looking through it the other night when you were in the shower. There was one spell that caught my eye."

You found the page, the parchment yellowed and smelling of sulfur. You tapped on the header, boldened in Latin letters: "Ubi homo fit".

"It says here it's a spell to turn a person into an undergarment," you explained, your voice dropping an octave, thick with anticipation. "Specifically, a thong. It says here it can be any brand. Any color. Any size. It just depends on the caster's imagination. And it would be completely indistinguishable from a real one."

Carrie stared at him, unimpressed, before rolling her eyes at you. "So let me get this straight. You want to turn... into panties? You've been watching way too much anime lately."

"No, no, listen to me," you hissed, looking at the text. "It says here a few more details on how it works. "The object retains human consciousness. It can see, feel, smell, and taste, but not move, talk, or communicate in any way. So like a soul embedded in an object." You paused for effect. "And uh.... it says here also that the spell places the body parts approximately be on the anatomical person. So the waistband would be my arms, the front panel would be my face, and... uh..."

Your cheeks burned as you had to read the following: "M-my tongue would be the rear strap."

She looked at the book, then at you. Carrie snorted.

"Even if it's not real," you continued, stepping closer to her, "I couldn't stop thinking about the access it would give me. Think about the places I could secretly get into. I could be clinging to you during your family’s Sunday dinner, seeing if your cousin checks you out. I could be there for girls' night with your friends, listening to the locker room talk. I could be right up against you during your yoga classes, watching your students stare at your ass in leggings, knowing I’m the one hugging your crack."

Carrie bit her lip, looking at the spell. The idea of total, secret voyeurism, and the power dynamic of wearing her boyfriend, was clearly working on her.

"And," you added, the clincher, "I could taste exactly how wet you get when you talk to these guys."

She was silent for a long moment, reading the Latin words, tracing the diagram that explained the logic behind the spell. Finally, she looked up, a mischievous, slightly cruel glint in her eyes.

"Okay," she relented, tossing the book onto the bed. "I’ll try it. But let’s get one thing straight."

She stepped forward, poking a finger into your chest.

"If this ridiculous spell somehow works, if it somehow does end up turning you into a thong... I'm not playing favorites. You wouldn't be my boyfriend at that time. I wouldn't treat you as my boyfriend. You. Are. Underwear."

Her tone was serious, despite her naked appearance. "I’m not going to walk weird to give you 'air'. I’m not going to avoid eating certain food just because your 'tongue' would in the line of fire. I’m not going to be thinking, 'Oh no! My boyfriend is wrapped around my pussy and anus and he's suffering!' I’m just going to think, 'I’m wearing a thong.' If it wedges, it wedges. If it gets sweaty, it gets sweaty. If it stretches, it stretches. You are an object. A regular, comfortable thong. Do you understand?"

The degradation sent over mind over the horizon, a jolt sent to your penis. To be reduced to a simple utilitarian object, completely at her mercy, **** to endure her day's activities as you intimately ground and pressed against her most private areas? ...It was perfect.

"I understand," you finally squeezed out, your breath bated.

"Good," she grinned, the playfulness returning. "So, what’s the look? If I’m going to wear you, you better be stylish."

You laughed, the tension finally breaking apart into excitement. "Well, since I’m going to be inspecting the goods, maybe you should turn me into one of those athletic thongs? Something durable for yoga?"

"Boring!" She teased.

"Okay then," you countered, "How about one of those Aubude Paris thongs you were looking at in a catalog a few days ago? Something sheer, expensive. Cosmic Romance, was it? I think you commented on wanting the sand rose one."

"I'm surprised you remember that," she exhales, eyes wide open. "Yes... yes, I would very much like that. Sand Rose. Tanga. Cotton." She muttered to herself, remembering the details.

She began to chant the words, her voice taking on a strange, resonant quality that vibrated in your chest.

"Ubi homo fit... Corpus mutare... Textum fieri..."

The room began to spin. You watched her lips move, visualizing your appearance, and suddenly, your perspective shattered. Your height vanished. Your limbs dissolved. The last thing you saw was Carrie’s towering, beautiful form looking down, not at a man, but at the space where a man used to be.