Cotton, Clarity, and the Cut Test

The blade kissed his palm, gently at first, then deeper—until it broke the skin.

"OW!" Trevor yelped, jerking his hand back. The knife clattered to the floor, bouncing once against the desk leg before coming to rest, its silver edge gleaming with a faint red smear.

He clutched his palm with his other hand, thumb pressing over the wound, heart hammering.

What the hell?

He sat there, naked except for the snug cotton panties hugging his hips, and stared at his hand. A line of blood had welled up along the cut—thin, but definitely there. It stung, though not badly. His breath came fast and shallow as he leaned forward to examine it. The cut hadn't gone deep, but it had gone through. The panties hadn't protected him completely.

It wasn't like before. The thong had made him invincible. The panties, while they helped, left him ****.

Trevor pressed his lips together, confusion knitting his brow. He uncurled his fingers and looked again.

After a few moments, the bleeding stopped. The skin wasn't perfectly healed yet, but it was already knitting back together, faster than it should have. The cut was smoothing over, the redness fading. By the time a full minute passed, the injury was barely more than a pink line.

He swallowed hard.

So… some protection. But not full.

He leaned back in his chair, the cotton of the panties softly stretching with the movement. They were still warm from his skin, and the feeling of them—the strange friction, the snug pull at the leg holes—was getting harder to ignore.

This was something Trevor hadn't anticipated.

It wasn't just the power. It wasn't just the protection.

Wearing his mother's panties felt… good.

He ran a hand over his hip, fingertips skimming the soft waistband, then let it slide over to the front, touching his most sensitive spot through the soft material. After a moment, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, a shiver running down his spine. The panties hugged him just enough to make him feel cradled, wrapped, contained. The thin cotton between his legs offered the faintest pressure where he was most sensitive, enough to stir something more than just comfort.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

This was insane. Right?

They were just underwear. His mother's, no less. But when he'd pulled them up his legs, when the elastic had snapped lightly into place around his waist, it had felt like stepping into a second skin—one that hummed with strange potential.

His pulse quickened.

He was getting used to the idea far too quickly.

Shopping. That thought came out of nowhere, breaking his spell of sensation. He needed his own pairs. There was no way he could keep stealing from his mother. Sooner or later she'd notice—if she hadn't already. And besides, what if it's about freshness? About novelty? Maybe the thong had stopped working because he'd worn it too long.

Maybe the power ran out. Like a battery. Or an expiration date.

Barefoot, he stood and paced his room. His hand was fine now, just a faint sting left behind. But the implications weren't.

He'd worn those clothes—the thong, the camisole, the sandals—all of them the day before. And then he'd flown. Fought. Triumphed. But today, he'd only worn the thong again, and it had failed.

Why had the power faded?!

He turned to his dresser, pulled open the drawer, and stared at the hiding spot behind his notebooks. The thong sat there, crumpled and darkened from wear. Still delicate. Still beautiful. But maybe… spent.

Do I need to rotate clothes? he wondered. Change them out every day? Every hour? Is there a timer?

He glanced to the corner of the room where his backpack leaned against the wall. Then he marched over, pulled it open, and grabbed his old school notebook—a battered spiral-bound thing filled with lecture notes and failed midterm corrections.

He flipped to a blank page.

At the top, he wrote in all caps:

PANTY POWER STUDY – TREVOR TAPPER – PERSONAL RESEARCH

Underneath, he started a list:

• Type of garment
• Freshness (first-time worn vs reused)
• Sexiness scale (subjective?)
• Duration of effect
• Power type granted
• Strength of power
• Emotional/physical response

He paused and tapped the pen against his lip.

There was no way around it. If he was going to keep using these powers—and he wasn't exactly planning to stop—then he needed data. Real data. Controlled tests. The idea that he could lose his powers in the middle of a rescue, or plummet from the sky because he'd worn the same panties two days in a row, chilled him.

He needed certainty.

But he also needed more panties.

And not just any—sexy ones. As much as it unnerved him to admit it, the more revealing the clothing, the stronger the effect. He’d seen it himself yesterday. Skirt = agility. Camisole = flight. Thong = invulnerability.

So what would heels do?

Fishnets?

Makeup?

His cheeks flushed. The thought of standing in a women's lingerie section, picking things out, asking for sizes—it made his stomach flutter in a way he didn't want to think too hard about.

It felt dangerous.

And thrilling.

He looked down at himself. Still only wearing the brown panties, now clinging slightly from the heat of his body. He ran a hand across his thigh, slow, thoughtful. The fabric didn’t just cover him—it transformed him. Not fully. Not predictably. But enough to give him a taste. A hint of something just beneath the surface.

He needed more.

And this time, he wasn't borrowing. He was choosing.

Trevor scribbled one more line in his notebook, underlined it twice:

BUY OWN CLOTHES. ASAP.

Then he leaned back in his chair, eyes distant, mind spinning with possibilities.

It was obvious that he was becoming something new, that his life was changing very quickly.

What surprised him most was how much he was enjoying it—and not just the powers.