188. Pant
Amy decides to try bluffing her way past Boswell. She’s never worn a garter belt before, so wearing it today should make her feel extra-fancy, possibly fancy enough to pull off the illusion. She slides down her jeans and panties and puts on the silky thong and lacy garter belt. Both fit snugly around Amy’s waist, to her delight. Even the thong is fairly comfortable, despite Amy’s general distaste for the cut. She pulls up her jeans, throws her head back, and prepares to try and convince Boswell that she is Lady Stephenson. She marches up the stairs.
“Hello, faithful Boswell. It is I, Lady Stephenson, returned from beyond the grave! Please, take me to Lord Stephenson at once!”
Boswell rolls his eyes. “I know that it’s you, Ms. Shaw. You’re wearing the same clothes you were before. Except…” Boswell’s eyes narrowed, “you seem to also be wearing some of Lady Stephenson’s undergarments.” He sighs. “I’m afraid you must be punished for this.”
Boswell waved his right hand and with a WOOSH! Amy’s clothes are whisked away, leaving her standing in nothing but Lady Stephenson’s garter belt and panties. Amy turns bright red and positions her hands to cover her breasts.
“Now, off with those undergarments!” Boswell points downward and the garter belt and thong drop to the floor. Amy quickly repositioned her right hand to cover her little tuft of pubic hair.
“Now, since you can’t seem to keep your hands off others’ underwear, perhaps you’d like to see what being worn as underwear feels like?”
Amy shakes her head no, but it's too late. Boswell waves his hands and Amy can feel a change. She feels herself shrinking and growing somehow… flatter. She tries to run, but her legs give out and soon she is lying on the floor, staring straight up, unable to move a muscle. A moment later Boswell looms over her like a giant. He stoops down and picks her up. She feels herself… flopping about as he walks. She's carried over to a mirror, then made to face it. There in the mirror stands Boswell, and in his hands are a pair of white cotton panties with little green dollar signs on them.
“I thought the motif appropriate, given your evident greed,” says Boswell. Boswell then walks downstairs and knocks on the door to the powder room.
“WHAT IS IT?!” shrieks the voice of a teenage girl.
“A present, young Mistress Stacy. A new pair of undershorts.”
The door flies open and a young woman in goth regalia looms.
“GOD, Boswell, how embarrassing!” The goth girl snatches Amy into her hands. “Ewww, and they’re so tacky.” The woman slams the door behind her.
Amy spends the remainder of her days buried in the bottom of Stacy Stephenson’s underwear drawer, pulled out only on those rare occasions when Stacy has no other underpants to wear. Usually while on her period. Those occasions are both a blessing and a curse; Amy gets a brief opportunity to see the world again, but that opportunity is marred by the witch’s brew of smells, tastes, and textures that come along with being worn. Eventually Stacy’s poor care leaves Amy ratty and worn-out, and she is tossed in the garbage. Amy is moved to a compost heap behind the mansion, a comparatively blissful retirement as Amy gradually forgets what it was like to be a person with the ability to walk and talk and command her own fate.
Amy is in no condition to continue her adventure.