Wear Your Wife To Work Day - Inanimate/Sexchange TF/TG

 “Having fun down there?” I whisper to my wife, craning my neck to peer down around my prodigious breasts.

“You know it! Wear Your Wife To Work Day is the best!” my wife-panties exclaim from beneath the desk.

   Lifting one heel, I cross my legs demurely, thick thigh gliding over the other. My wife gives a delighted squee, using the movement to snuggle closer against my womanhood. I wiggle my black satin panties against the chair, knowing the experience is akin to a full-body massage for her pantified form.

“Mmm that feels so good. Thanks, sweetie. Oh, and thanks for wearing a shorter skirt this time - it makes for a much better view. It’s nice to put faces to voices for a change!”

The skirt is more a belt, gracing only the top of my buttocks while leaving the rest of the pert peaches exposed. I tug at it awkwardly. My wife had chosen it, though it was wholly inadequate for the feminine proportions the autocloset had blessed me with this year.

“You’re welcome. Although I’m concerned it might be giving the wrong signal to the other men in the office.”

That’s the central flaw with Wear Your Wife To Work Day. While the married men are expected to wear their wives upon their feminised bodies, the ones spared the transformation are the horndog young men without partners. It creats something of a charged atmosphere out of what is intended as a light-hearted (albeit jovially humiliating) annual event.

“Yup! I caught your new hire checking out your ass over lunch break,” my pantie-wife giggles.

I squirm at the thought of being objectified. “I’d best have a word with him about inappropriate behavior in the workplace. Wear Your Wife To Work Day is a day of fun, not an excuse to leer at your feminized boss!”

I wobble onto my heels and mince across the office, cursing whoever programmed the autocloset for this year as my ass jiggles obscenely with each step. It gives my wife quite the ride as she clings on for deep life. I lean over Simon’s desk. “Can I have a word with you in my office?”

A scandalized gasp escapes my panties as I lead him back to the office and, sure enough, looking back I find the man’s gaze drinking in the sight of my finely feminized derriere. He isn’t even trying to hide it. The cheek! Clucking my tongue in displeasure, I bite my tongue in anticipation of the proper dressing down awaiting him, but there’s little I can do about the exaggerated sashay of my hips, nor the wiggling of my soft buttocks except to endure his stares until I have him in my office.

“Close the door behind you and have a seat.”

A rough hand grabs my neck, powerful muscles bending me down over my desk. His hand lifts my skirt to expose my plump, vulnerable cheeks jutting into the air, then seizes the delicate fabric hem of my wife, dragging her down my rippling thighs.

“I’d rather have you instead,” he rasps in my ear.

He wrenches her away. There is a snap of elastic, a ripping of lace. My yell is silenced as he stuffs my wife, now nothing more than a torn rag, into my mouth. My mumbles and moans filter through the gag as he unbuckles his pants and mounts my womanhood on his cock.

Lad's Outing - Clothing TF

 “Hm? Did I just hear a noise back there?”

“....”

“Oh, don’t play coy now. I’m not alone here, am I?”

“...”

“It must have been my imagination then. Hm. I can’t wait to get home tonight. Grinding my panties all over my boyfriend's thick, meaty cock. He does so love blowing his big hot sticky load all over my panties. He does so love rubbing it deep into the fabric. Of course, any poor boy who happen to be disguised as them would be cumlocked forever…”

“Wa-wait.”

“Ah hah! I knew it!”

“Way to go, man. You fucking blew it.”

“She said she’d cumlock me!”

“She was bluffing. Now she’s definitely going to cumlock us! Nice job, idiot!”

“Wait, wait, hold on, there are two of you? A little boy-bra too? I’m almost flattered. How long have you been my clothes? Let me guess, you made the switch in the gym, while I was showering, right? I knew somebody had gone through my things, but nothing was taken. On the contrary, I gained two naughty young men. Now entirely at my mercy.”

“And we would have gotten away with it too if it wasn’t for loudmouth!”

“Fuck you, you want to come down here and do my job? You think it's easy being wedged between her sweet ass cheeks for hours at a time? Do you have any idea how hard it is keeping quiet when you're stretched tight over her asshole. I’ve been nutting non-stop since the moment she wore me. Let’s see how long you stifle a groan when you're her camel-toe for half a day.”

“Oh, boo hoo. Try an hour in my shoes. Or her shoes anyway. Being crushed into non-existence with every step… awakening from total oblivion to the sweetest orgasm… the most perfect existence, wrapped around her foot... her heavenly toes... only to have your essence utterly snuffed out with the next fall of her foot. To truly be a thing... existing only at her discretion. It’s a miracle I didn’t start worshiping her as a sky goddess hours ago.”

“He’s right… Not easy… Swimming in her foot sweat... so long…An eternity... Soaking in her… My mind dissolving in her fluids… My humanity washing away... in her essence… Just a sock… Just her sock... Only herrr-ngghhh.”

“... my goddess…”

“This is why I'm the bra. So I can stay far away from you weird fucks.”

“I want to try being the bra next time.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time! She’s going to cumlock us!”

“Oh yeah…”

"*sigh* Well, gentlemen... it's been an honour."

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.

Personal Wearer - Clothing TF

 

Kimiko stopped to catch her breath, dabbing lightly at her perspiration. Pausing, she adjusted each article of clothing she wore, giving each one its own moment of her total, undivided attention.

As a personal wearer, her reputation depended on being attentive to her clients and their needs. She’d amassed quite a collection of clientele - people willing to pay to be used for an hour or two each week. Each had their reasons for being there - for some, it was the physical intimacy, others were using her to work through issues they had in their human lives, while others merely found a sense of accomplishment in being used as objects that they lacked in their daily lives. A good half were there for fetish reasons. But whatever their individual motivations, they were less important to her than identifying and satisfying their needs.

She wiped her hand off on her black sport’s bra, knowing how much David loved soaking in her sweat. The garment shivered against her breasts. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, hearing an ecstatic squeak as she crushed the sneakers, Sophie, hard against the asphalt with her heels. Placing the water bottle to her lips, she tipped it back, pretending not to notice the orgasmic groan from the inert plastic as the bottle’s fluids spurted down her throat.

Lastly, for what must have been the sixth time that run, she tugged at the pantified young man wedged painfully between her ass cheeks, extracting the overeager, elasticated gentleman with a finger. This was why she preferred older clients. They had a respect for boundaries - her most important boundary being her asshole, which she was convinced the young man was desperate to go spelunking in.

She’d have a word with him after the session. If he couldn’t behave himself, he'd need to find another wearer.

A meek voice made her jump. “Um, Kimiko? Not to be a bother but I think I’m changing back.”

Kimiko looked down. Sure enough, her leggings were rippling and shifting in the way that indicated they were starting the transition back to humanity.

“Mike! I’m so sorry. I must not have set the machine for the full hour,” she exclaimed.

“It’s fine, it’s fine It’s just... that you told me to take my clothes off before you transformed me…”

Michael was agoraphobic, practically a shut-in after lockdown, and had been using outings as a garment as a low-stress way to venture back out into the real world. The last thing he -or her business- needed was him reverting in a public place, butt naked.

“There’s a transformation point over there! Just hold together, okay?”

“I’ll try my best,” the leggings promised, straining to hold its form as she sprinted for the machine. To its credit, her satchel had noticed her panic and already opened wide, practically regurgitating her purse into her hand. “Thanks, Terry.”

Grabbing a loose handful of change, she quickly thumbed coins into the public transformation machine. The slow, clunky interface took an insufferably long time to work through, and her leggings were already turning an alarming shade of human when at last she confirmed her selection. The public transformation device hummed and whirred as it shifted the leggings back into nondescript legging form, and locked them in for another 3 hours.

“So sorry about that, Michael. I won’t charge you for this session.”

“It’s fine. It happens,” the leggings replied brightly. “Disaster averted, right?”

Kimiko huffed a sigh of relief. “Yep. Disaster averted.” With an appreciative pat to Terry, she flung him back over her shoulder and started the jog home.

In the coin reservoir in the belly of the transformation machine, three dollars looked at each other anxiously.

“She’s coming back for us, right?” asked one.