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Chapter 8 by Vestiphile Vestiphile

Will Adam save them in the nick of time? Will Dianne embrace the moment? Will Denise need therapy?

Dianne tries to grasp the situation

Dianne was trying to catch her breath enough to call out to Denise. She was in the living room now—never having taken a step out of the kitchen. Before her was a sea of impossibility—a sight she couldn’t explain except to return to Denise’s explanation in her head over and over again.

A magic book.

And magic didn’t exist, of course. Which meant there had to be some OTHER explanation to watching...the pantsuit she’d worn at the last fundraiser, a dress she’d bought for her niece's wedding, a couple pairs of her skinny jeans...all dancing in the living room with some of Denise’s own clothes. No technology she could think of would do anything like this. So...it had to be magic.

A magic book.

It was a loop she played out for minutes as she let her body be guided by the clothes—softened to them in, quite honestly, her fear that they might do something terrible with her.

But that was only at first. The animal priming of having her reality shattered was slowly being replaced a child-like sense of wonder. An alien will animating the things closest to her skin all day was bound to set her off—especially when it could swing her into the air like she was a feather.

But here she was, floating...FLOATING—in a room full of dancing clothes. And they were...really feeling themselves.

“D-Denise?”

Denise was still in the chair—held there by her pants. The chair, however, was happily bobbing back up the stairs as she heard her mother call for her from the living room.

Everything she had to say to the enchantments was muffled by her own socks. She felt a distinct sense of vertigo when she separated from the chair in the stairwell and rose up to the space’s highest point—the vaulted area hanging high above the base of the stairs. Denise’s clothes pinned her to the wall above the first floor entrance, and a parade of sleep clothes, pajamas, nightgowns, and lingerie drifted from the second story entrance—the procession sort of ‘walking on air’ as they drifted over to Denise’s position and surrounded her.

“Denise?” Dianne kicked her legs a little, finding that her pants would give to her motions—but they kept her held in the air all the same. When Dianne called for Denise a second time, they even brought her back to the kitchen doorway to show her that Denise was no longer there.

Joining these work clothes and semi-formal occasionwear, though—was Dianne’s lingerie. And some of Denise’s? “Denise, where’d you go!? Are you just going to let me fly around alone down here?” Dianne grabbed the waistband of her jeans, trying to reason ANY of this out.

Fine. A magic book. For what, exactly? Haunted dance parties? Dianne looked around the room, trying to piece things together. When she went back to the wedding dress, looking at its super-short sleeves, almost shoulder cuffs, seeming to shimmy like mad and shuffle around randomly. And the pantsuit. Was that an...electric slide?

Dianne’s sheer nightgown confirmed it. She blushed as she watched it, pulling the same silly moves she did in it a few weeks ago when she was at her on-again-off-again.

So...they were all dancing like she’d danced in them. Well, knowing that, she tried not to pay so much attention to what Denise’s clothes were doing. At her age, there wasn’t much Dianne could actually say about it. But even if she knew where these clothes were getting their dance moves from, there was still plenty to worry about.

“Like how I get you to let me down...” Dianne continued her thought aloud. The jeans seemed to shift, and Dianne gasped as they let the tips of her toes graze the ground before sailing back up again. They carried her in a gentle arc toward the kitchen and let her toes graze there again. Now Dianne squeaked a little, feeling the squeeze of her jeans all around her thighs and her midsection each time they propelled her into the air again. “Or...not quite down...is okay.” She laughed. “Denise, you were right! I just had to be cool. But now—how do we fix this?”

She snickered at the thought of being so pragmatic about it. Clothes getting out of hand. Denise was going to have a lot of explaining to do—especially about why her underthings were out in the living room slithering around each other like...well, like she would have been if she were on the prowl—and had she ACTUALLY been wearing them at all.

“Denise, where did you disappear to?”

Just around the corner from the kitchen, but all the way at the top of the tall stairwell, Denise’s panties played against her clit as she moaned into her gag—begging for more. Her hands were square against the high wall, braced near the ceiling as her jeans rocked her back and forth. The denim was gripping her ass, fondling and squeezing her thighs—extracting more and more cooperation from her body with every second.

And now Dianne was close enough to hear. She tried to bob herself toward the rear exit of the kitchen, in the hall that lead to the stairwell. When she did, she heard the sound even clearer.

“Hey—Denise?”

The ankle sock over Denise’s mouth took off from its position. Before Denise even had a chance to spit the other out, it pulled itself from between her lips and dropped to the floor, where both of them passed right by Dianne.

She looked skyward at a blushing Denise, who was staring back down at her.

“Mom...”

Explain THIS, Denise.

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