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A package you weren't expecting for your package that needs protecting.

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This story is based on null bunny drone art by a_guy_somewhere, and this quoted Reddit comment about it by infernum-is-here.

"Every time you go into your room more and more of it is changed into lovely latex… once it's fully converted it would start changing you, growing ever so noticeable before POP!- completely covered… good luck getting to work when latex is covering every inch of you~"

-Q-

"Your package is here."

You throw a "Thanks." over your shoulder, as you lock the apartment door. "Where is it?"

Your roommate doesn't look up. He just gestures in the direction of your bedroom. No, not even a gesture. A motion. A gesture would imply effort.

And thought.

And your blood pressure start to creep up. You close your eyes, count to ten. When you open your eyes, he's still there.

"Ron?"

"Mmm?"

"What did I tell you?"

"About what?"

"About my room."

His forehead gets all scrunchy. Then he sits up a little.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I-I don't see why it's such a big deal."

You nod, even though he's not looking at you. "You don't?"

He shakes his head.

You take a step towards him. Then another. "Where's my suit?"

He doesn't say anything.

You take another step. "Where's my suit, Ron?"

He winces. "I'll... I'll get you a new one."

"When?"

"When I get a job."

You nod again. "I see. When will that be?"

"Um..."

"How many jobs have you applied for today? "

You lean over the sofa. He'd see your face if he turned to the right. If he stopped staring at the screen as if his life depends on it.

He mumbles, "It's not that simple-"

"Oh? How many this week? This month?"

He says nothing.

You drop your voice, until you're almost whispering. "Don't you think that would be a better use of your time than going into my room?"

He says nothing.

But his jaw shifts a little, and you can almost hear his teeth grinding.

Well.

Point made.

You straighten up, exhale hard through your gritted teeth, and head for your bedroom.

Once you sl - once you close the door behind you, you kick the box out of your way and flop onto the bed.

And stare at the ceiling. The blank, white ceiling, in the sunset light.

...You really need to tell the landlord about the lock.

You really need to get up and change.

Kick off your shoes at least.

...In just a minute.

And just before your eyes drift closed, you remember the black stains on your roommate's fingers.

Your eyes snap open. You snap up.

The box is there, right there. It looks-it looks fine. Plain brown box, SLICK INTERNATIONAL LOGISTICS AND TRANSPORT on the side.

So why was there black on Ron's fingers?

When you pick up the box, with trembling hands, you're thinking about something impossible.

When you grab a dull pair of scissors from your desk, you're imagining yourself wearing a mask, seeing nothing, breathing latex, squeezing the vague shape where your cock used to be. All alone.

And when you open the box, you're thinking if anything is wrong, it's Ron's fault.

Unfortunately, you'll have to deny yourself the pleasure.

You frown.

And sigh.

And reach for your phone.

-Q-

You make it to the kitchen, and start opening cupboards. No, not that one. Or that. One. Maybe under the sink? Or in the cupboard next to the sto-

Ah.

You smile.

There it is.

You stand up with the foil baking pan, and glance at the couch. Looks like Ron's Etsy bakery was good for something after all.

When you get back to your room, you dump the package at it, and frown at the dark stain on the floor.

...Maybe baking soda will get it out.

Maybe it won't come out of your deposit.

"Slick International Customer Support. How may I help you?"

Yes! Finally!

You tab your earbud and explain your problem. Your name, order number, what you ordered, and what you actually got.

"Please hold one minute, sir." The lady on the other end taps some keys. "So you say you ordered a latex mask, and got...men's underwear? Which is somehow...secreting black liquid?"

You look at the box. Yes, that's right. You mean, it is your size, but that's not what you ordered.

"I understand, sir." A pause. "Sir, could you look up your order on the website?"

You pull it up on your phone, and-

Huh.

"Sir?"

It just...you think there's a glitch. It just says NULL_VALUE.

The lady sighs. "I was afraid of that, sir. It says the same thing on our end. We'll have to forward this ticket to our technical team and get back to you."

How long will that take?

"I'm afraid I can't say, sir."

Great. Perfect.

You finish up the call, and then glare at the package.

Eventually, you lay back on your bed, and glare at the ceiling. Just for a change of pace.

The sun's gone down.

-Q-

When you wake up the next morning, it's real early. The sun hasn't come up. And the package-

...has almost filled up the aluminium pan.

You can smell it. Makes something rise in your throat.//turns out to be drool later.

Okay.

You find another, bigger pan. Pour the first one down the si-into the garbage. Don't want another fatberg situation. Then you put the package back in the first pan, and put the first pan in the bigger pan.

Good. That should - that should hold it.

You open the box.

The underpants look just the same. What are they made of?

Hopefully, this stuff isn't toxic. Like asbestos.

Considering where you w-.

Where people wear it.

-/-

When you finish climbing the stairs, and you open the door to your apartment, your legs burn. Someone else has to have told the landlord about the elevator, right?

Ron's on the couch, watching a fitness video. He says nothing, you say nothing.

In your room, the bigger pan isn't full. But it is leaking. Leaking across your floor, to...your second favorite pair of sneakers.

Great.

Perfect.

You poke at it with a Q-Tip. The cotton comes off stained black.

You poke at the floor. The cotton comes off stained black.

...This is definitely coming out of your deposit.

The company's customer support line spits out a canned line. Apparently they are fully committed to customer satisfaction. Then it puts you on hold.

You roll your eyes.

While you wait, you find some black electric tape, slap it over the hole, put the shoes in the big pan, and put them both on the balcony.

The stain doesn't give up easy. It doesn't give up at all. By the time your aching arms force you to take a break, it's dark outside.

You close your eyes, just for a second.

And when you open them, the sun's coming up.

Also, most of the carpet's covered in black, inching up the walls.

You stare for a minute, and swallow. Hard.

...Might be time to camp out in living room.

As you move your laptop + work clothes, you hopes it's not going through the floor.

Should...should you call a lawyer? The landlord?

The EPA?

-Q-

You looks up info on your lunch break. All you find is pages about lithium batteries.

...You could call cops or hazmat.

You bite your lip.

...Then you would have to explain.

You finish your drink with your free hand, and lean over for a better shot at the-

At the-

...Why are your pants so tight?

And shiny. Your pants are shiny.

In fact, you can't tell where the pants stop and the shoes start.

...Oh no.

Were...were they like this when you put them on? Why didn't you notice?

You shrug off the weird tingle that runs down your spine, grab some scissors, head for a stall in the little boys' room, and yank up your shirt.

There's no gap between the black and your skin.

Your breathing quickens.

You try to cut it, but it doesn't break. In fact, there are no seams at all.

...Maybe you should've checked your work shoes before you put them on.

You tell the boss you're feeling sick - it's not really a lie - and rush for the bus stop. Are people staring at you?

There's a men's store nearby. You could use them to cover up.

Unfortunately, you don't remember that until five seconds after the bus pulls out.

You make your way to the back of the bus, shove yourself into the corner, and glare out the window at the store.

Wait. Would your pants...infect the bus? The bus seat?

You try to hover above it. Like it's a public toilet. Someone comes along, takes one look at you, and sits on the opposite side of the bus. In the row ahead.

She keeps glancing at you, as your arms, your abs, start to burn. Not your legs, though. Everything covered by the black is fine.

The bus passes an apartment balcony.

Your eyes go wide, and you reach for your ph-

Right. It was in your hip pocket.

You reach up, and double-tap your earbud.

Be-beep.

You whisper, "Dial Ron."

Be-beep.

Ron doesn't answer.

Something in your gut twists.

-Q-

When you get home, you rush up the stairs, to your room. You don't even notice how tired your legs aren't. How they don't burn.

You're only focused on one thing, one single solitary thought.

And when you burst in the door, you find-

No roommate. Ron's gone. Good. Maybe he's at a job interview.

The balcony has no pan, no box, nothing but a stain. A stain spreading through the yucca plant's pot. Are the leaves...darker...?

No time for that!

You rush to your room. Yank open the door. And stare.

There's-

You're not sure if it's a person or object. Until it wriggles. Until it moans.

And it sounds like ron.

He's completely

nullified

encased, in the black. Sexless, and therefore sexy. Only thing noticeable is the glowing lock pattern on ron's

nullge

bulge.

You lick your lips.

If you squint, if you look real hard, you can tell the feet used to be your favorite sneakers.

And what about the rest of the room? The-the walls are covered in black. Almost up to the ceiling.

You need to run. You need to get help. You need to-

You take a deep breath. Then another, and another, until your heart stops pounding in your ears.

This can't be it.

...The door.

You shuffle over. Every step gets harder and harder. Like in Home Alone, with the tar and the steps. Sucks at your feet. Tries to drag you down. Like a rat in a glue trap.

You're tired.

It would be easy.

So easy.

You grit your teeth, and take the next step.

And the next.

And the ne-

Your foot hits the door. Unlike your feet, it doesn't stick. It just slams shut.

You reach out, find the spot where the light switch is supposed to be, and push it up. The light comes on. The door is covered in black, same as everything else.

You find the knob, twist, and pull.

It-

It doesn't move.

You try again, harder.

Nothing.

Heat spikes into your throat, up your back, and you rattle the door in the frame.

Theoretically.

It doesn't rattle. Because of the black.

You say something short, explosive, and not fit for polite company, and turn away from the door.

After you manage not to fall over, you look around. What do you have? The bed? The alarm clock? ron?

...Would probably be the most useful thing he's done this week.

You look up.

You look down.

You raise a foot.

And bring it down as hard as you can.

And it doesn't go thud.

You blink down.

You try again, with the other foot.

Still muted. Still way too quiet.

Because of course this crap soundproofs too. Of course.

Just for variety's sake, you bend over and slam your fist into the ground, as hard as you can, with your entire weight.

...It's even quieter than your feet.

There's a moment when you think you won't be able to get your hand free, but you manage. Somehow.

Okay. Now what? Just sit there? Hope someone figures out something before you starve to death? Before you end up like-

Your gaze flickers to ron.

You nudge him with your toe.

he moans again.

Not exactly good company.

Be-beep!

The phone picks up the call, all on its own. You try to reach up, to hit your earbuds, but your fingers keep sliding off. Like-

You look at your hands.

At the black sliding down your fingers.

"Sir," says the woman from Slick International, "I'm going to need you to calm down."

"Mmmph!"

Her voice is a whisper, almost. "Please relax, sir. Our telemetry readouts indicate you're enjoying this. Is that correct?"

But you're not!

Silence on the line. And then, in a slightly snippy tone, she says, "I can understand your desire to avoid embarrassment, but if things had progressed to this stage, you really should have called your landlord. Or the police. Anyone, really."

You-

Be-beep.

Earbud's glitching.

...Why didn't you call? Was it just embarrassment. Did you want a big payday? Or-

Or was is the same reason you didn't notice your pants until it was too la-

The woman clears her throat. "I'm not even sure why don't care that your roommate is...gone. You...yes, our files show you hated him."

No! He was just really irritating! You didn't want him to be-

"As appealing as it may be, I need to ask you not to think about it."

Be-beep.

About wha-

"About picking up those underpants. Sliding them up your legs. Where they belong. Forever."

Be-beep.

Your mouth is full, all of a sudden. You swallow. What is she-

Your shirt cinches tight across your chest, and, all of a sudden, you can't breathe.

Which is less of a problem than you'd expect.

Because you really don't need to anymore.

When you look down, your chest, your legs, they're all covered in smooth black. On your arms, it's already hit the elbow. You don't even know where your shirt went.

But it doesn't cover everywhere.

There's a blank space.

Be-beep.

You stare at the empty space, where your underwear is.

And you look at the package. Which is still pristine. Except for the leak. ron must've bought it back inside, it got on your favorite shoes, and then he tried them on.

You look at ron.

For a long time.

And, eventually, your shoulders fall.

Afterward, you're not really sure how much of it is you, and how much is the black, and how much is the voice, not-whispering in your ear.

Be-beep.

You do manage to walk - stumble, really - over to the box. And somehow, you don't trip over ron.

As you shove your underpants down your legs, the black wraps around your neck, your face. You can barely see the box over your fat muzzle.

As you pull the underpants up your legs, you catch a glimpse of...yourself.

Probably for the last time.

Be-beep.

Your head feels funny. Balance is off. There's something on it-

Ears.

Your earbuds are now ears. Long and perky.

Like a rabbit.

Like the fantasy.

Be-beep.

you don't want this.

Sure, it was fun in a fantasy, but not real life.

You're not enjoying yourself.

You're not.

"If you lie down, sir," she not-whispers. "We can take care of the rest."

Be-beep.

You lie down.

What's the point in fighting anymore?

your hand drifts down. You don't even have to look. You just...know what's down there. you can see the blue, glowing LOCK icon, in your mind's eye.

Eventually, you and ron might gets up, and leaves. To convert the rest of the apartment. And the rest of the apartments.

And their occupants.

Not necessarily in that order.

Or maybe you'll just lie there, until someone comes to get you.

How do you know that?

Be-beep.

The lady in your ears, in your head, whispers, "We hope this meets your requirements."

The last thing you see with your human eyes, over your big, round muzzle, is the black consuming the ceiling.

"Slick International is fully committed to customer satisfaction."

Be-beep.

And the light flickers off.

ENDFILE

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"NULL_VALUE"

2024 Eulalie "Nequ" Quentin

Creative Commons By-SA-NC

Fanart and fan stories welcome.

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AN: Of course, this story doesn't quite hit the same if a) you're a woman, or b) you wear boxers.

Well, if you're most women.

In case you're wondering, Ron and You/Your lose capitalization, because both of you are losing your identities and agency. I did something similar in tiny..//

Other similar stories:

Bad Dog, No Biscuit (public male wolf public feminization/femboization(?))

Lipthick: Lines (public bimbo TFTG)

The Omlette (female latex hTFTG, eggs)

Also, when I said "one of my sketched stories has no dominant character." on my last story, I didn't mean this story.