After making your selection you’re led down a bright hallway into a white paneled room.
“Right here, please.” A woman in a lab coat motions to a steel slab surrounded by dishes, almost like a radar, pointing toward the bed. “You’ll need to strip, first,” she says as you approach it.
You remove your clothes, toss them to the floor, and approach the slab. “Here?”
She nods, and you lie down.
“Stay still, and calm.” The woman stands over you, adjusting the dishes so that they point at you. She pulls a screen up and begins tapping at it. The dishes begin to glow and the bed grows warm, tingling beneath you, like hundreds of tiny filaments brushing your naked back.
“Are we ready?” A man enters the room, flipping through some papers on a clipboard.
“Everything appears to be set. There.” She taps the screen once before pushing it aside as the dishes start to hum.
“Very well. Are you ready? Please sign here.” The man hands you the clipboard. You sign it without reading and hand it back. He nods. “You may proceed.”
“Stay very still.” The woman flips a switch and the hum grows, rumbling to the rhythm of the vibrations tickling your back. It feels like a massage bed. You can see the woman and the man over you, adjusting the machinery, consulting together. Their voices are distant, beyond the rushing waves of the pulsing machinery. Your body feels wooden, as though you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.
As the woman slides something on one of the machines your ears pop. You can hardly hear anything, the rumble is more of a muted sensation now. Your body feels compressed, as though you’ve plummeted deep into the ocean. Pressure builds under your feet, on your head, and either side. Your thighs clench, your knees and ankles press together. You clench your fists at your side and your chin tucks to your chest. You can feel your abs tighten, as though your are curling into a ball, but instead of rolling forward you recede on the slab. You are shrinking.
The man stares at you and nods. The woman moves to another machine and flips a series of levers before hitting a switch.
Your skin feels sticky. As though your arms have stuck to your side, your legs together, and now your head to your shoulders. Then, you feel as though you’re falling back into the bed. But the steel is at your back, as you realize you’re flattening out. Your skin grows softer, and lighter. Your head stretches as your neck pulls back into your body. Soon, your eyes can’t help but close as your head sinks further toward your flattened chest. As your arms pull against your body, your legs together, you can feel the stiffness of your bones fade. You feel like a feather, now.
“Stop, there.” You hear the man say sharply, but his voice is in a dream.
“It’s too late, now...” the woman says, fading.
Your arms are gone now, and your legs have tucked up into your torso. The remnants of your head fade into your chest, and your body opens on either side. You can feel gaps where your arms were, as though forming an “o” on either side of your waist. The elastic around your legholes. Where your head was, you can feel a wider opening. Your waistband. Your chest and back, unbelievably soft, brushes together. It is the front and back of your new, cloth body.
You lie in the middle of the bed. Tiny, unable to see. Unable to move. Your new natural state of existence.
“That is not the way it was supposed to go,” the man says. You can sense him, and the woman, over you, despite your lack of eyes. They peer down at you.
“I don’t know what happened, he’s far smaller than anticipated,” the woman says. “He ended up as a child’s underwear.”
“That is the least of his concern. Its, concern, I should say.” The man frowns at the machine’s settings.
“What do you mean?”
“The resolution on the atomizer was too fine. The transformation was perfect. Its a pair of children’s paintes. Unfortunately, we don’t have the means to restore anything that precise.”
“What?” The woman went to the screen and punched in some keys. “That hasn’t happened in years.”
You listen, and try to move, to speak, to react, but your new body is not capable of that. You are white fabric, with pink floral patterns, with a cute bow fixed to the front of your waistband.
“What do you we do?” The woman turns away from the screen.
“There’s nothing more we can do.” The man looks down at you. “What we have here is a pair of underwear. We may as well send it off as such.” He moves to the back of the room and returns with a plastic package. “Here.” He hands the package to the woman before leaving the room.
The woman sighs as she opens the package. She studies the 3 pairs of panties within, selects one, and removes it. Then, she reaches for you.
Her fingers grasp you, lifting you effortlessly. Your body flops against her hand. With her fingers, she grasps your sides, and folds you over before tucking you into the package. You can feel your tiny, soft body brush up against the other pairs of underwear. You fit in perfectly with them.
“Well.” The woman closes the package. Her voice is muffled now. “At least you ended up cute. You compliment this set nicely, too.”
You shift around in the package, feeling the other panties shuffle with you as she carries you out of the room.
“A pair of panties, now,” she mutters. “We’ll ship you off, then, to the store. Where panties go. I’m sure some girl will find you a nice home in her drawer.”
You can’t speak or move. All you can do is ride in the package and await what is to come. Is this it, then? Off to a clothing store, to wait on a rack with other packaged panties? To await your new life as a little girl’s underwear?