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It’s dark in here, and the smell is overwhelming. I lie at the bottom of the laundry hamper, soaked through with sweat and probably something worse. Every time she adds more dirty clothes on top of me, the weight presses down, burying me deeper into this stinking hell. The scent of her musk clings to every fiber of my new form, her panties. I was a person; now I’m just another piece of soiled lingerie waiting for wash day to get a moment of relief from this suffocating filth. I feel more get added every now and again. No idea what it is, maybe the workout leggings she wore all day. Maybe those lacy panties she wore yesterday, the ones stained with her sweet little mess. I can almost taste it in the air now; salty, musky, so thick you could chew it. It’s disgusting, but every time I breathe it in, my fabric tenses up a little tighter… reminds me why I’m stuck here serving as her personal underwear. If I could go back, I'd beg to be her slave, on my knees, cleaning her floors, tasting the sweat from her skin after a long day. Anything would be better than this helpless form, trapped and useless in a basket of filth. At least as her slave I could feel her step on me, hear her voice, worship her properly. Here, I’m just another piece of stained cloth forgotten in the dark, aching for even a scrap of her attention while I slowly suffocate in the proof of how little she thinks of me.