The Fabric Of Life - Gymwear

 

 There was a new clothing store on the highstreet, The Fabric of Life. Unusual for a clothing store, it didn’t sell clothing. It would be more accurate to say the clothing sold themselves.

Personal wearers were in vogue. With the breakthrough in TF tech, people -quite often men- paid handsomely to be turned into and worn -quite often by women- as items of clothing, and a whole industry had sprung up, with some enterprising influencers making wearing their fans a huge part of their income.

As is often the case with new markets, personal wearers was completely unregulated. There had been tragedies, far too many missing persons, if the term ‘person’ could still be applied to the misplaced or malicious discarded ex-humans that now drifted through thrift stores, car boots sales, and ebay, trapped forever within their fabric bodies to be bought and sold by unknowing owners until time and use wore them out.

The Fabric of Life store had established itself as a reputable middle-man. Celebrity clients submitted requests to stock their wardrobes, the store advertised, and then performed the transmutation and delivery of paying customers into objects. When the contract expired, they ensured the individual was returned to their previous life. Sure, people occasionally still fell through the cracks, but it was safer.

When Emily Ratajkowski put out a request, the store made a huge deal out of it, advertising on buses and billboards, and turning it into a midnight opening. It wasn’t just that Emily wanted people-panties. Oh no, her entire wardrobe, her whole life was to be stocked with lucky fans. Not only would they have the honor of adorning her body, they’d decorate her home, be her furniture, her perfume, toiletries, even her food and drink.

Fans of the actress camped out in advance to secure spots in the queue, which snaked down the highstreet, half a mile of excited chatter. You were there to try a short-term contract, enjoying the positive vibes as the impromptu fan community light-heartedly divided themselves into #TeamPanties and #TeamSneakers. You were stuck behind a 19-year old superfan named Eric, a ginger-haired gentleman wired on so much coffee and anticipation he hadn’t slept in three days or, seemingly, stopped jabbering away factoids about his ‘goddess’, Emily, for even a moment.

At long last the store doors opened and fans surged inside. Store technicians began processing contracts. The non-disclosure agreement was 30-pages long - after all, fans would have intimate knowledge of every aspect of her life.

“How long?”

“Just 48 hours,” you reply. “I was hoping I can be her-”

“That’s $600. We take cash or card. Due to the volume of fan response, the store cannot guarantee final form,” the store technician stated bluntly, not even meeting your gaze. She had a long shift ahead of her and yawns as she ticks through boxes. “Though you will legally be the possession of Emily Ratajkowski, the store does not guarantee that you will be used, worn, touched, looked at, or otherwise acknowledged by Miss Ratajkowski. During your stay, you are not entitled to move, except where your final form entitles or requires you to move to perform your function. Due to safety legislation, you will be able to speak, though you are not entitled to speak to Miss Ratajkowski, in her presence, or in the presence of the press or paparazi. Failure to maintain silence will result in yadda yadda blah blah.”

The speech rambled for forty minutes before you were allowed to sign. You were led through into the transformation booth. Everything went black.

—----------------------------------

What a bargain! Only $500 to have your entire being stretched tight across your idol’s thighs, ass and pussy. Your entire form signs with each movement she makes. Her body heat permeates every part of you, her scent the most intoxicating perfume as you subtly nuzzle against her womanhood. It is as though your senses are stretched out, your entire form acting as your eyes, nose, and tongue.

And it has only been an hour since she plucked you from the wardrobe, ascended you above all others to be hers and hers alone. Your anticipation grows to fever pitch when you catch sight of yourself in store windows - you’re gym clothes! Soon you’ll drink in the sweaty delights of her workout.

Emily tenses suddenly as a nasal voice speaks from nowhere. It’s Eric.

“Oh, wow, you lucky bastards, I can’t believe you got to be her actual gymwear! What am I? Can anyone see what I am? Oh my god, she’s actually touching me! This is the best day of my life!”

Emily rolls her eyes, plucking the mouthy sunglasses from her head. She grips the two lenses tightly in her fists, flexing the thin, brittle plastic. The sunglasses give a tormented scream of pain in their final moment before there comes a crinkle of splintering plastic as the sunglasses are snapped into a dozen pieces.

Emily holds the broken fragments out in her open hands for the rest of her stunned attire to see. “Anyone else have anything they want to say?” she asks, tossing the pieces in a garbage bin.