Turn their clothes into fishnet stockings

SORCERER: So you know those full-body suits of knotted fishnets? The ones that are just a web of rectangular holes, no fabric in-between.

BARD: Oh, I got one of those at home from the flea-market.

SORCERER: I’m gonna twist my fingers in the air like I’m wringing a napkin, and the mystical forces at my whim will move to condense the fabric of your outfits into spun strands of black rope, forming a web. Shirts, pants, underwear, everything gets transformed except for your boots, basically. Oh, and the holes are very big. Oh, and the ropes are tight but kinda shoddy and fragile.

DM: The sorcerer’s spell surges outward in a ripple of shimmering distortion, and the air around you is thick with magic. Suddenly you both begin to feel a pull on your chests as the fabric of your outfits convulses and shrinks. Threads begin to squirm and slide apart, seams unweaving themselves and curling into thin, jet-black filaments, and laces snaking loose from their loops and coiling into new configurations. Your jackets, armour, corset, shirts, breeches and underwear buckle and draw inwards in various directions as if some invisible **** is spinning them on a loom, or like pools of dark liquid being slurped down a drain. With but a quiet rustle the transformation takes hold, and all your garments unravel into dark cords, which begin to rapidly knot themselves into broad, open meshes which hug the curves of your increasingly exposed bodies.

The rogue’s shirt collapses into ashen tatters which writhe into a central strand of rope, looping around her neck like a collar and running down her chest, in between the valley parting her tits, and down her stomach to nestle between her nethers, suddenly cinching tightly with an uncomfortably pleasurable yerk. The bard’s bodice twists into latticework, the growing gaps revealing more skin by the moment. The web of rope clinches tightly around her body to emphasize every curve, allowing the mounds of her breasts and the fullness of her buttocks to pour through the openings.

As you draw in your first surprised gasps, the mere rising of your chests already places intolerable strain on the fragile lattice. A rope strand across the shoulder gives way with a soft twang, another unravels across a thigh or hip. Each motion and instinctive attempt to cover up only worsens your plight, and you are frozen in embarrassed horror as you try to avoid turning nigh-on nudity into complete nudity. The only cord which is sturdy enough to resist disintegrating under the pressure is the chest-mounted one rubbing across the rogue’s crotch, seeming to settle in a slightly tighter embrace.

With a series of ringing >pling< >clink< >tink< impacts the various studs, iron loops and buckle-sections unaffected by the transformation tumble to the floor, along with a number of loud thuds from your various loosened weapons. Enough to draw the attention of anyone who wasn’t already staring slack-jawed in your direction. Around you, the tavern falls into stunned silence, then erupts into laughter and whistles as the last of your dignity frays away.