Agree.

"Y-yes...." You muttered, not even sure of what you were agreeing to. A pair of ballroom gloves held the book up to you and had it on a certain page.

One of the long opera gloves seeked out a spell, pointing a satin finger at the page and sliding along it. The leather gloves, on the other hand, grabbed the waistband of your briefs and pulled them down. You gasped as they began to give you a handjob.

The page had a spell that would allow the enchanted magical will to spread through more and more things, bringing anything to life as the magic willed it, provided they had enough raw material in the form of certain fluids, which could be either blood or cum.

You knew it wasn’t a good idea.

Whatever the risks, you couldn’t see them at the moment. Your mom’s enchanted clothes only seemed to want one thing at the moment. Between the cotton and satin panties playfully dancing and the soft leather of the glossy black gloves cradling and fondling your cock, these things didn’t seem malicious.

They clearly wanted cum. It stood to reason that if you gave them cum, they’d want to find better and better ways of getting it from you.

You grin. Foresight isn’t one of your strengths at the moment; you’re drunk on pleasure and deep in thought about the kinds of insane pleasures more living clothing could bring.

You say the spell carefully, the leather gloves pumping you in rhythm with your speech. Every word makes you feel better and better, and there’s an anxious fluttering in your hips as you finish the spell.

The same strange magical wind from before swirled in the room, and now all of your mom's clothes--those brought to life and any still inert--glowed for a few seconds. The leather palms stroked your dick harder, and the ballroom gloves floated to the dresser and put the spellbook away.

You looked over at your discarded jeans and t-shirt, where a blast of magic energy came out of the gloves and hit your clothes. Your clothes the rose up and then took shape. At first it was amorphous, as if air was simply filling the shape of the fabric container. After a few seconds, though, the clothing appeared to shrink in some places while expanding in others.

Before long, your former clothes held something like your mom’s curvy shape--only scaled up. Taller, and proportionately curvier. The bouncing tee came over and pressed its breasts into your face. Instead of deodorant or a day-old shirt scent, you could smell perfume on the clothing.

Your former clothes left the room, flouncing their new curves down the hall. The ballroom gloves held up a newly scrawled note:

WE REMOVED YOUR ESSENCE FROM THOSE AND REPLACED IT WITH OURS.

You had no idea what that meant, but the next line was somewhat more disconcerting:

WE FEED YOU NECTAR, YOU GIVE US FUEL.