tf virus ch. 7
Giantess/Transformation Short Stories
chapter 8
by
copier
· original author:
lifesaver
Charlotte’s drawer was beginning to look emptier by the day. You watched from your perch—well, your folded position—as she reached in each morning, her hand brushing past you to pluck out one of your coworkers, as she had disparagingly started to call them. There was the lacy black one, the red satin, the cheeky leopard print. Each one was worn, admired, and then tossed into the laundry hamper by the end of the day, while you remained untouched, your fabric still crisp and waiting.
You couldn’t help but feel a pang of something—was it jealousy? Resentment? It wasn’t like you wanted her to wear you, but the longer you stayed in that drawer, the more you felt like an afterthought. A forgotten relic of a life that no longer existed.
“Charlotte,” you muttered one morning, your voice muffled by the fabric of your new form. She was rummaging through the drawer, her brow furrowed in concentration. “You’re running out of options.”
She paused, her fingers brushing against you for the briefest of moments before pulling back. “I know, Oliver,” she said, her voice tinged with frustration. “I know we've joked about it, I just… I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”
You wanted to scream, to shake her, to remind her that you were the one who had been turned into a thong, but you bit your tongue. You were the one who would have the be plunged between her ass cheeks to be worn like an article of clothing rather than a man. And she was the one who wasn't ready for this? You hated the idea, but what was the alternative? Sit in a drawer for the rest of your life? At the very least you could still be with your wife in some capacity. You steeled yourself and spoke as calmly as you could. “It’s okay, Charlotte. You can wear me.”
She hesitated, her hand hovering over the drawer. “Are you sure? I mean… it’s just so weird.”
“Weirder than being the thong?” you shot back, unable to keep the edge out of your voice.
She laughed, a soft, melodic sound that reminded you of why you adored her in the first place. “Okay, fair point.” She sighed, her fingers finally closing around you. “Alright, Oliver. Let’s do this.”
The moment she pulled you out of the drawer, you felt a strange mix of emotions—relief, anxiety, and a touch of humiliation. She unfolded you carefully, her eyes scanning your form. Your fabric was smooth, the face on the inside of the backside staring up at her with an expression that was somewhere between resigned and pleading.
“You’re… actually kind of cute,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Thanks,” you replied dryly, though you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of warmth at her words.
She stood there, the robe slipping from her shoulders like water cascading down her tall, statuesque frame. Your fabric—yes, your fabric—stiffened slightly at the sight of her. Charlotte was always breathtaking, but now, with her full height exposed, the disparity between you felt almost cruel. Six feet of unapologetic goddess towering over the tiny scrap of fabric that was you. Her hips swayed as she bent slightly, her fingers pinching the waistband of your new form.
“Here we go,” she murmured, almost to herself, her voice a mix of amusement and apprehension. You were stretched taut as she stepped into you, one foot sliding through the leg hole, then the other. The cold air of the room vanished as proximity to her skin swallowed you. She tugged you upward—slow, deliberate—and you felt your fabric ripple against her smooth thighs, the resistance as your form adjusted to the curve of her hips. You could feel it now—all of it. The heat of her body, the tight pull of fabric as she settled you into place. Your face, embedded in the backside of the thong, pressed against the firm swell of her ass. The weight of her body shifted, and the intimate, suffocating warmth of her pressed harder into you.
Humiliation prickled through you—this was you now. A piece of clothing, stretched taut beneath the perfect curve of her backside, forced to feel every movement, every shift of her body. Her hands smoothed over her hips, adjusting the waistband, and you felt the fabric dig into her skin.
“How... how does it feel?” she asked, her voice tentative, but there was a flicker of something else—curiosity, maybe. Your voice came out muffled, distorted by the press of her flesh against where your face was embedded.
“Strange. Really strange.” You hesitated. “Tight. Hot.” You couldn’t bring yourself to say more. The intimacy of it was overwhelming. You were fully at her mercy now, a small, powerless thing beneath her towering beauty. She chuckled softly, her hands drifting down to settle on her hips.
“You’re snug. Like you were made for me.” Her tone was light, teasing, but the words sent a jolt through you. Made for her. The thought was equal parts humiliating and oddly... enticing. She took a step forward, and you felt every muscle in her thighs tense and release, the movement rolling through your fabric like waves.
“Oliver,” she said, her voice softening. “This is... it’s not forever, you know. I know they don't have a cure for the transformation virus right now, but that doesn't mean it will never come.” You wanted to believe her. But right now, with her towering over you, her body dominating every inch of your existence, it was hard to think about your future. And despite the sting of humiliation, there was a strange, undeniable thrill in knowing you were now inseparable from her in the most intimate way possible.
“You know,” she said, her tone light but teasing, “I think if I just...”
Before you could respond, she wiggled her hips slightly, the fabric of your form shifting tighter against her skin. Then, with a deliberate motion, she hooked her thumbs under the edges of your waistband and tugged you deeper between her cheeks.
The sensation hit you like a tidal wave. Suddenly, every inch of you was pressed flush against her—the soft curve of her buttocks cradling the backside of your fabric, the heat emanating from her more intense than before. You felt as if you were being pulled into her warmth, the pressure deliciously overwhelming.
“Charlotte!” you exclaimed, your voice muffled by the intimate grip of her body. “What are you—”
She let out a small laugh, her hands resting on her hips as she adjusted your position. “Better?” she asked, though the playful glint in her eyes told you she already knew the answer.
“It’s...” you started, struggling to find the right words. “It’s...”
“Snug?” she supplied, giving her hips a slight sway. The movement sent a jolt through you, the friction almost too much to bear.
“Yeah,” you managed to choke out. “I guess that's the word I would choose.”
She chuckled softly, turning to admire herself in the mirror. “Perfect,” she said, clearly pleased with the result. “You look good on me, Oliver.”
If you could blush, you would have. Instead, you simply stayed quiet, your fabric molding to her curves as she moved. Every step, every shift of her weight brought a new awareness, until it felt like you couldn’t think about anything else. Toeing the line between humiliation and strange arousal.
Charlotte turned and walked away, your bond deepening both literally and metaphorically. It didn’t matter that neither of you had control over this situation, or even wanted to be in these positions—right here, it no longer mattered at all. For now, Charlotte needed you, and you belonged to her.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of strange sensations. You could feel every movement she made—the way her hips swayed as she walked, the way her muscles flexed as she bent down to pick something up. It was both exhilarating and overwhelming, like being a part of her in a way you never had before.
But the real test came when she sat down. The pressure of her weight pressing against you was intense, the fabric stretching to accommodate her. You could feel every contour of her body, the heat of her skin radiating through you. The pressure of your wife's gargantuan cheeks multiplied exponentially as her ass spread out onto the chair beneath her. The weight, heat, and subtle dampness emanating from her pores were all practically imperceptible to your goddess of a partner, but they were overwhelming to your new thong form.
As the day wore on, she started to relax, her movements becoming more natural. She even started teasing you, wiggling her hips just to hear you complain. “Charlotte!” you groaned as she laughed, the sound echoing through the room.
“Oh, come on, Oliver,” she said, her voice light and playful. “I'm not always going to move in predictable ways! You’ll have to get used to this.”
“Pretty sure I’ll never get used to this,” you muttered, though you couldn’t help but smile at her teasing.
You couldn’t help but feel a pang of something—was it jealousy? Resentment? It wasn’t like you wanted her to wear you, but the longer you stayed in that drawer, the more you felt like an afterthought. A forgotten relic of a life that no longer existed.
“Charlotte,” you muttered one morning, your voice muffled by the fabric of your new form. She was rummaging through the drawer, her brow furrowed in concentration. “You’re running out of options.”
She paused, her fingers brushing against you for the briefest of moments before pulling back. “I know, Oliver,” she said, her voice tinged with frustration. “I know we've joked about it, I just… I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”
You wanted to scream, to shake her, to remind her that you were the one who had been turned into a thong, but you bit your tongue. You were the one who would have the be plunged between her ass cheeks to be worn like an article of clothing rather than a man. And she was the one who wasn't ready for this? You hated the idea, but what was the alternative? Sit in a drawer for the rest of your life? At the very least you could still be with your wife in some capacity. You steeled yourself and spoke as calmly as you could. “It’s okay, Charlotte. You can wear me.”
She hesitated, her hand hovering over the drawer. “Are you sure? I mean… it’s just so weird.”
“Weirder than being the thong?” you shot back, unable to keep the edge out of your voice.
She laughed, a soft, melodic sound that reminded you of why you adored her in the first place. “Okay, fair point.” She sighed, her fingers finally closing around you. “Alright, Oliver. Let’s do this.”
The moment she pulled you out of the drawer, you felt a strange mix of emotions—relief, anxiety, and a touch of humiliation. She unfolded you carefully, her eyes scanning your form. Your fabric was smooth, the face on the inside of the backside staring up at her with an expression that was somewhere between resigned and pleading.
“You’re… actually kind of cute,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Thanks,” you replied dryly, though you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of warmth at her words.
She stood there, the robe slipping from her shoulders like water cascading down her tall, statuesque frame. Your fabric—yes, your fabric—stiffened slightly at the sight of her. Charlotte was always breathtaking, but now, with her full height exposed, the disparity between you felt almost cruel. Six feet of unapologetic goddess towering over the tiny scrap of fabric that was you. Her hips swayed as she bent slightly, her fingers pinching the waistband of your new form.
“Here we go,” she murmured, almost to herself, her voice a mix of amusement and apprehension. You were stretched taut as she stepped into you, one foot sliding through the leg hole, then the other. The cold air of the room vanished as proximity to her skin swallowed you. She tugged you upward—slow, deliberate—and you felt your fabric ripple against her smooth thighs, the resistance as your form adjusted to the curve of her hips. You could feel it now—all of it. The heat of her body, the tight pull of fabric as she settled you into place. Your face, embedded in the backside of the thong, pressed against the firm swell of her ass. The weight of her body shifted, and the intimate, suffocating warmth of her pressed harder into you.
Humiliation prickled through you—this was you now. A piece of clothing, stretched taut beneath the perfect curve of her backside, forced to feel every movement, every shift of her body. Her hands smoothed over her hips, adjusting the waistband, and you felt the fabric dig into her skin.
“How... how does it feel?” she asked, her voice tentative, but there was a flicker of something else—curiosity, maybe. Your voice came out muffled, distorted by the press of her flesh against where your face was embedded.
“Strange. Really strange.” You hesitated. “Tight. Hot.” You couldn’t bring yourself to say more. The intimacy of it was overwhelming. You were fully at her mercy now, a small, powerless thing beneath her towering beauty. She chuckled softly, her hands drifting down to settle on her hips.
“You’re snug. Like you were made for me.” Her tone was light, teasing, but the words sent a jolt through you. Made for her. The thought was equal parts humiliating and oddly... enticing. She took a step forward, and you felt every muscle in her thighs tense and release, the movement rolling through your fabric like waves.
“Oliver,” she said, her voice softening. “This is... it’s not forever, you know. I know they don't have a cure for the transformation virus right now, but that doesn't mean it will never come.” You wanted to believe her. But right now, with her towering over you, her body dominating every inch of your existence, it was hard to think about your future. And despite the sting of humiliation, there was a strange, undeniable thrill in knowing you were now inseparable from her in the most intimate way possible.
“You know,” she said, her tone light but teasing, “I think if I just...”
Before you could respond, she wiggled her hips slightly, the fabric of your form shifting tighter against her skin. Then, with a deliberate motion, she hooked her thumbs under the edges of your waistband and tugged you deeper between her cheeks.
The sensation hit you like a tidal wave. Suddenly, every inch of you was pressed flush against her—the soft curve of her buttocks cradling the backside of your fabric, the heat emanating from her more intense than before. You felt as if you were being pulled into her warmth, the pressure deliciously overwhelming.
“Charlotte!” you exclaimed, your voice muffled by the intimate grip of her body. “What are you—”
She let out a small laugh, her hands resting on her hips as she adjusted your position. “Better?” she asked, though the playful glint in her eyes told you she already knew the answer.
“It’s...” you started, struggling to find the right words. “It’s...”
“Snug?” she supplied, giving her hips a slight sway. The movement sent a jolt through you, the friction almost too much to bear.
“Yeah,” you managed to choke out. “I guess that's the word I would choose.”
She chuckled softly, turning to admire herself in the mirror. “Perfect,” she said, clearly pleased with the result. “You look good on me, Oliver.”
If you could blush, you would have. Instead, you simply stayed quiet, your fabric molding to her curves as she moved. Every step, every shift of her weight brought a new awareness, until it felt like you couldn’t think about anything else. Toeing the line between humiliation and strange arousal.
Charlotte turned and walked away, your bond deepening both literally and metaphorically. It didn’t matter that neither of you had control over this situation, or even wanted to be in these positions—right here, it no longer mattered at all. For now, Charlotte needed you, and you belonged to her.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of strange sensations. You could feel every movement she made—the way her hips swayed as she walked, the way her muscles flexed as she bent down to pick something up. It was both exhilarating and overwhelming, like being a part of her in a way you never had before.
But the real test came when she sat down. The pressure of her weight pressing against you was intense, the fabric stretching to accommodate her. You could feel every contour of her body, the heat of her skin radiating through you. The pressure of your wife's gargantuan cheeks multiplied exponentially as her ass spread out onto the chair beneath her. The weight, heat, and subtle dampness emanating from her pores were all practically imperceptible to your goddess of a partner, but they were overwhelming to your new thong form.
As the day wore on, she started to relax, her movements becoming more natural. She even started teasing you, wiggling her hips just to hear you complain. “Charlotte!” you groaned as she laughed, the sound echoing through the room.
“Oh, come on, Oliver,” she said, her voice light and playful. “I'm not always going to move in predictable ways! You’ll have to get used to this.”
“Pretty sure I’ll never get used to this,” you muttered, though you couldn’t help but smile at her teasing.
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March 28, 2025
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