Céleste said nothing more. She stared at the screen, her finger frozen a few millimeters from the final cursor. She'd spent the last few minutes exploring the possibilities with an intense, almost painful concentration, as if each choice skinned her a little.
She had eliminated passive objects: trinkets, clocks, lamps. You sensed, in the hesitant movements of her eyebrows, in the way she bit her lower lip, that it wasn't enough. It wouldn't be you she'd have in front of her - it would be an absence, a frozen illusion, something too abstract.
Then she considered utilitarian objects, more present, more integrated into everyday life: pillow, slipper, plaid, water bottle. The idea of continuous proximity, of regular use, tempted her. But something resisted her - it wasn't intense enough. Not daring enough. Not enough... you.
Her gaze had finally come to rest on one word. One word. An almost banal word, but one that changed everything. She read it half aloud, as if she were trying out the idea, as if the syllable might burst against her tongue.
“...Panties.”
The silence in the room became thick, almost viscous. She turned slowly toward you, her eyes enlarged by a mixture of embarrassment and vertigo. Her face was scarlet, her fingers trembling slightly.
“I... I think it would be perfect,” she murmured, almost ashamed to think it. “It would be... crazy. Total. You'd be there, with me, on top of me. And I'd feel you. Every second of it. It would be intimate. Too intimate, maybe. But you couldn't get bored... And me, I'd...”
She cut herself off, lowering her eyes. Her cheeks burned. You saw her wrestle with herself, but it was no longer fear, no longer genuine embarrassment - it was a profound upheaval, a modesty crumbling under the weight of confidence.
“I think that's what you want too, isn't it?” she said in a soft voice, an almost inaudible breath. You could no longer speak, already half swept away by the momentum of the program, but your gaze spoke for you.
She looked at you one last time, with mingled tenderness and fever, then clicked “GO”.
The sensation was strange. A dazzling disorientation, as if your whole body had reconfigured itself around a single purpose, a single function. There was no pain - on the contrary, it was a kind of concentration of the world: warmth, contact, suppleness, pressure. Your eyes were gone, but you could see. You no longer had ears, but you could hear her heartbeat in the distance, her fingers sliding over the fabric. The taste of cotton. The faint scent of her skin. The softness of rubbing against her.
You had become this discreet piece of fabric, folded in the hollow of her hands. You were her panties.
Céleste held you to her breast like a precious secret. She said nothing. She breathed slowly, deeply, and you felt her hesitation melt away, replaced by a curious, feverish, almost tender determination.
“You're here,” she breathed. “I can feel you. You're mine.”