tf virus ch. 12/13
Giantess/Transformation Short Stories
chapter 14
by
copier
· original author:
lifesaver
Charlotte bit her lip, her eyes scanning the mall. “Well, there’s that new…” she began, but then her stomach gurgled loudly again.
“Charlotte—” you started, but it was too late.
“Oh no, Oliver, I think I have to… again.”
Charlotte’s body tensed, and you could feel the pressure building once more. “I’m really sorry about this,” she whispered, her voice filled with regret. Before you could respond, another soft, muffled sound escaped, accompanied by a surge of warmth pressing harder against you. The smell was even worse this time—thicker, more pungent, and overwhelmingly cloying. It lingered in the air, a suffocating reminder of your helplessness.
Charlotte groaned, her cheeks flushing crimson. “Ugh, I’m so sorry, Oliver,” she said, her voice strained. “I didn’t think fried chicken would do this to me.”
You didn’t respond, your mind reeling from the discomfort and humiliation. The sensation was unbearable, the heat and odor clinging to you in a way that felt inescapable.
Charlotte glanced around the mall nervously, clearly mortified. “I think maybe I should go to the bathroom,” she muttered, her voice barely audible. “This is... not good.”
You couldn’t argue. The idea of her sitting down, or worse—moving too much—terrified you. “Yeah,” you managed to say, your voice muffled and resigned. “That’s probably a good idea.”
Charlotte nodded, her steps quickening as she made her way toward the restroom. The pressure against you increased with her hurried movements, and you could feel her body trembling slightly, whether from embarrassment or discomfort, you weren’t sure.
When she finally reached the restroom, Charlotte darted into a stall, her breathing uneven. “I’ll make this quick, I promise,” she said, her tone apologetic. “I just... need to let this out.”
Charlotte’s fingers tugged at the waistband of her leggings, and you felt yourself slipping down her thighs, the cool air hitting what little surface of you wasn’t drenched in her warmth. The sensation was jarring, the sudden draft a stark contrast to the stifling heat you’d grown accustomed to. You found yourself in a pile around her ankles on the cold bathroom floor alongside her leggings.
“I’m so sorry, Oliver,” she whispered, her voice tight with embarrassment. “This is... I just need a moment.”
She turned and lowered herself onto the toilet, the sound of her weight settling audible even from where you lay. You prepared yourself for the worst, and at the very least, you were thankful that you were not in the way.
The first noise was soft, almost hesitant—a low, muffled hiss that echoed in the tiled space. Charlotte let out a shaky exhale, her tone apologetic. “God, I’m really sorry. I mean, I know we will have to get used to this eventually, but it doesn't make it any easier.”
You couldn’t respond, not that there was much to say. The second sound came harder, sharper, a wetter kind of release that made you cringe despite your lack of physical form. The smell hit you immediately this time, thick and acrid, stinging what little sensation you had left. It clung to the air, oppressive and unrelenting.
“Oliver?” Her voice was small, tentative. “Are you... are you okay down there?”
You wanted to tell her no, that this was humiliating beyond words, that you didn’t know if you could handle being privy to something so personal. Instead, you managed a weak, mumbled response. “It’s fine, Charlotte. Just... get through it.”
She groaned softly, shifting slightly on the seat. “I swear, I’ll eat better next time. No more fried chicken, ever again.”
Another rush of sound filled the stall, this one louder, more forceful, accompanied by a gurgle that made her wince audibly. “Oh my God,” she muttered, her voice strained. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
The tension was palpable, each successive sound and smell amplifying your discomfort. You lay there on the counter, motionless yet hyper-aware of every detail—the faint echo of the restroom door opening somewhere else, the rustle of toilet paper as she prepared to clean up, the occasional shiver that ran through her frame.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she stood, flushed, and stepped back over to you, her face flushed red with shame. “I’m so, so sorry,” she repeated, lifting you gingerly from the counter. “I didn’t think it would be this bad.”
As her hands gripped you, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of relief that at least the worst was over. But as she pulled you back up her hips, sliding you snugly into place once more, the lingering odor still clung to you, a cruel reminder of your new reality.
“Let’s just go home,” you she murmured finally.
You didn’t argue. The thought of going home, of escaping the chaos of the mall, was too tempting to resist. But as Charlotte stood up and began to make her way out of the restroom, you couldn’t shake the creeping dread of what the rest of this strange existence might bring.
-----
The car ride home was quiet, the weight of the day pressing down on both of you in different ways. Charlotte drove with one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally reaching down to adjust you, her expression a mix of guilt and amusement. You, meanwhile, were still reeling from the smell and humiliation of the food court, your fabric body damp with sweat and clinging uncomfortably to her skin.
When you finally pulled into the driveway, Charlotte let out a long sigh, her shoulders visibly relaxing. “Home sweet home,” she muttered, turning off the engine and stepping out of the car. She stretched, her back arching and her hands reaching toward the sky, and you couldn’t help but feel the strain on your seams as her movements pulled at you.
Inside the house, Charlotte kicked off her shoes and made her way to the bedroom, her steps slow and tired. She set her purse down on the dresser and turned to face the mirror, her hands resting on her hips as she surveyed herself—and, by extension, you.
“Well,” she said, her tone light but a little apologetic, “you’ve certainly seen better days, haven’t you?”
You didn’t respond immediately, still adjusting to the sudden quiet after the chaos of the mall. When you finally spoke, your voice was hesitant, almost sheepish. “I, uh… I guess I’m not exactly in peak condition right now.”
Charlotte laughed softly, her hands moving to hook her thumbs under your waistband. “Yeah, you could say that. You’re all crumpled and…” She paused, her nose wrinkling slightly. “Well, let’s just say you’ve had a long day.”
You felt a flush of embarrassment, though it wasn’t like you could blush in your current form. “It’s not exactly a picnic for me either, you know,” you muttered, your voice muffled by the fabric of your own being.
Charlotte’s expression softened, and she leaned down slightly, her hands gently tugging at you. “I know, Oliver. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” She sighed, her fingers brushing over you in a way that was almost tender. “Let’s just get you cleaned up, okay?”
You hesitated, your thoughts racing. Cleaned up? The idea of being washed, of being free from the sweat and grime that had accumulated over the day, was almost too tempting to resist. “You’re… going to clean me?” you asked, your voice tinged with hope.
Charlotte nodded, though there was a flicker of something uncertain in her eyes. “Yeah, of course. You’re a mess, and it’s my fault. I’ll take care of you.” She paused, her gaze dropping to the pile of laundry on the floor—a pile that included several other thongs and pairs of underwear. “I was just going to throw you in the washing machine with the rest of this stuff.”
“Charlotte—” you started, but it was too late.
“Oh no, Oliver, I think I have to… again.”
Charlotte’s body tensed, and you could feel the pressure building once more. “I’m really sorry about this,” she whispered, her voice filled with regret. Before you could respond, another soft, muffled sound escaped, accompanied by a surge of warmth pressing harder against you. The smell was even worse this time—thicker, more pungent, and overwhelmingly cloying. It lingered in the air, a suffocating reminder of your helplessness.
Charlotte groaned, her cheeks flushing crimson. “Ugh, I’m so sorry, Oliver,” she said, her voice strained. “I didn’t think fried chicken would do this to me.”
You didn’t respond, your mind reeling from the discomfort and humiliation. The sensation was unbearable, the heat and odor clinging to you in a way that felt inescapable.
Charlotte glanced around the mall nervously, clearly mortified. “I think maybe I should go to the bathroom,” she muttered, her voice barely audible. “This is... not good.”
You couldn’t argue. The idea of her sitting down, or worse—moving too much—terrified you. “Yeah,” you managed to say, your voice muffled and resigned. “That’s probably a good idea.”
Charlotte nodded, her steps quickening as she made her way toward the restroom. The pressure against you increased with her hurried movements, and you could feel her body trembling slightly, whether from embarrassment or discomfort, you weren’t sure.
When she finally reached the restroom, Charlotte darted into a stall, her breathing uneven. “I’ll make this quick, I promise,” she said, her tone apologetic. “I just... need to let this out.”
Charlotte’s fingers tugged at the waistband of her leggings, and you felt yourself slipping down her thighs, the cool air hitting what little surface of you wasn’t drenched in her warmth. The sensation was jarring, the sudden draft a stark contrast to the stifling heat you’d grown accustomed to. You found yourself in a pile around her ankles on the cold bathroom floor alongside her leggings.
“I’m so sorry, Oliver,” she whispered, her voice tight with embarrassment. “This is... I just need a moment.”
She turned and lowered herself onto the toilet, the sound of her weight settling audible even from where you lay. You prepared yourself for the worst, and at the very least, you were thankful that you were not in the way.
The first noise was soft, almost hesitant—a low, muffled hiss that echoed in the tiled space. Charlotte let out a shaky exhale, her tone apologetic. “God, I’m really sorry. I mean, I know we will have to get used to this eventually, but it doesn't make it any easier.”
You couldn’t respond, not that there was much to say. The second sound came harder, sharper, a wetter kind of release that made you cringe despite your lack of physical form. The smell hit you immediately this time, thick and acrid, stinging what little sensation you had left. It clung to the air, oppressive and unrelenting.
“Oliver?” Her voice was small, tentative. “Are you... are you okay down there?”
You wanted to tell her no, that this was humiliating beyond words, that you didn’t know if you could handle being privy to something so personal. Instead, you managed a weak, mumbled response. “It’s fine, Charlotte. Just... get through it.”
She groaned softly, shifting slightly on the seat. “I swear, I’ll eat better next time. No more fried chicken, ever again.”
Another rush of sound filled the stall, this one louder, more forceful, accompanied by a gurgle that made her wince audibly. “Oh my God,” she muttered, her voice strained. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
The tension was palpable, each successive sound and smell amplifying your discomfort. You lay there on the counter, motionless yet hyper-aware of every detail—the faint echo of the restroom door opening somewhere else, the rustle of toilet paper as she prepared to clean up, the occasional shiver that ran through her frame.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she stood, flushed, and stepped back over to you, her face flushed red with shame. “I’m so, so sorry,” she repeated, lifting you gingerly from the counter. “I didn’t think it would be this bad.”
As her hands gripped you, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of relief that at least the worst was over. But as she pulled you back up her hips, sliding you snugly into place once more, the lingering odor still clung to you, a cruel reminder of your new reality.
“Let’s just go home,” you she murmured finally.
You didn’t argue. The thought of going home, of escaping the chaos of the mall, was too tempting to resist. But as Charlotte stood up and began to make her way out of the restroom, you couldn’t shake the creeping dread of what the rest of this strange existence might bring.
-----
The car ride home was quiet, the weight of the day pressing down on both of you in different ways. Charlotte drove with one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally reaching down to adjust you, her expression a mix of guilt and amusement. You, meanwhile, were still reeling from the smell and humiliation of the food court, your fabric body damp with sweat and clinging uncomfortably to her skin.
When you finally pulled into the driveway, Charlotte let out a long sigh, her shoulders visibly relaxing. “Home sweet home,” she muttered, turning off the engine and stepping out of the car. She stretched, her back arching and her hands reaching toward the sky, and you couldn’t help but feel the strain on your seams as her movements pulled at you.
Inside the house, Charlotte kicked off her shoes and made her way to the bedroom, her steps slow and tired. She set her purse down on the dresser and turned to face the mirror, her hands resting on her hips as she surveyed herself—and, by extension, you.
“Well,” she said, her tone light but a little apologetic, “you’ve certainly seen better days, haven’t you?”
You didn’t respond immediately, still adjusting to the sudden quiet after the chaos of the mall. When you finally spoke, your voice was hesitant, almost sheepish. “I, uh… I guess I’m not exactly in peak condition right now.”
Charlotte laughed softly, her hands moving to hook her thumbs under your waistband. “Yeah, you could say that. You’re all crumpled and…” She paused, her nose wrinkling slightly. “Well, let’s just say you’ve had a long day.”
You felt a flush of embarrassment, though it wasn’t like you could blush in your current form. “It’s not exactly a picnic for me either, you know,” you muttered, your voice muffled by the fabric of your own being.
Charlotte’s expression softened, and she leaned down slightly, her hands gently tugging at you. “I know, Oliver. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” She sighed, her fingers brushing over you in a way that was almost tender. “Let’s just get you cleaned up, okay?”
You hesitated, your thoughts racing. Cleaned up? The idea of being washed, of being free from the sweat and grime that had accumulated over the day, was almost too tempting to resist. “You’re… going to clean me?” you asked, your voice tinged with hope.
Charlotte nodded, though there was a flicker of something uncertain in her eyes. “Yeah, of course. You’re a mess, and it’s my fault. I’ll take care of you.” She paused, her gaze dropping to the pile of laundry on the floor—a pile that included several other thongs and pairs of underwear. “I was just going to throw you in the washing machine with the rest of this stuff.”
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March 28, 2025
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