A Couple Pairs of Jeans

"Sir, are you in the dressing room?" A voice says on the other side of the door. You recognize it as the staffer you walked past in the front. You pray that she didn't see your pantyhose covered feet under the door as she approached.

"Uh, yeah — yeah, I'm in here.” You quickly make up something. "It was unlocked, so I figured I wouldn't bother you."

"Hey, no worries – would you mind telling me how many items you have in there so I can drop the tag on your door?" You try to count the pile of items, but between their slight motions and the fact that you're being distracted by the pantyhose, you guess instead.

"I guess about twenty?" You say.

"Well, our typical limit is ten — but if you've already started… Maybe you can just promise me that you not going to steal anything in there?” She laughs a little bit after saying it, and just as you're about to answer, your T-shirt begins inflating all around you. You try to focus on the conversation, especially being that the clerk is being nice to you.

“I totally promise," you say, "and if there's things I don't want when I'm done..."

“Just hang them on the rack out h– what the hell?" You shirt begins lifting off of you, and you look up at the top of the doorframe — thankful that the only gap is on the low side of the door. For a moment you thought that she could see your t-shirt lifting into the air without you.

“Everything okay?" You ask her. As soon as you T-shirt finds its way off of you, it begins heading to the lower gap in the door. You panic, grabbing onto the fabric at the collar and taking a hold of one of the sleeves. You want to chide the thing, but that would be a dead giveaway.

“Sorry, I thought I just saw something. I'll leave you alone if you're all set there."

"Uh—uh huh!” You try to say, as enthusiastically as possible. “Thank you!” You're barely holding back the shirt now, and the fabric continues trying to slip out of your hands by inflating itself tighter. You think you hear her walk away, but you hold onto the shirt for as long as you can to make sure you've given her enough time to walk away from the changing rooms. While you're still hanging onto the shirt, a couple pairs of jeans snap right out of their hangers when they suddenly inflate in place. You glance to see that one of the pairs are a size 14 long, and instead of landing on the ground, the jeans straddle your face, blocking your view of the T-shirt. You don't get a good look at the second pair of jeans, but you're sure they're one of the larger pairs.

"Okay, okay," you mumble, relenting with the T-shirt. You let it go, and in no time, the size 14's leap back, landing on the ground. Sort of. They're slightly hovering to accommodate where you'd expect ankles and feet to be. "Whoa," you say, looking at the larger pair of jeans. They're downright imposing, and you lean over their hollow waist, grabbing the rear of the fabric and turning it so that you can see the tag. Just long enough for you to make out the number twenty, though. The plus-size pants hip check you, running you into the side of the dressing room. You can't help but notice that your enchanted pantyhose don't go through any effort to catch you. "Hey, sorry," you hiss, "I just wanted to see how big you were."

Without hesitating, the size 20s rise up in front of you, turn around, and slam the fullest part of the denim rear against your face. Before running your mouth again in protest, you realize that the things were giving you exactly what you said you wanted – at least in a literal sense. You reach up to grab the thighs, and as the seat of the denim seems to get tighter, you can feel your fingers pinched between the waist band and the thighs. The curvy jeans are actually bending over now, and the compression of the waistband against the thighs is easily holding your hands in place.

You still don't protest, accepting this phantom face-sitting for the moment — that is, until you hover into the air again. The big girl jeans hook their calves under your arms, and your pantyhose are happy to assist them in lifting you off of the ground. Instinctively, you try to kick your legs, but the hose hold you still enough to meet their purpose. In this case, that's apparently to allow the size 14's onto your legs.

Just as you're wondering what comes next in this little adventure, you hear the clerk outside again.

"Oh my God, that's – oh my God!" You see the light shift under the door, and a loud knock comes a second later. “Hey, were…weren't you wearing a red graphic tee and a pair of dark navy jeans?"

“Um...uh huh,” You say, not really seeing the point in denying it. “Is something wrong?”

“Well, yeah!" She says. "Can you, like, open the door or something? I want to be sure I'm not crazy.”

“I don't, uh...” The jeans have already fit themselves onto you, buttoning up and zipping themselves before you can respond. "Hey, where's my shirt?" You ask, trying to play coy, but full-well knowing the answer to your question.

“I think it's out here!" The woman insists. "That's what I need you to see!" Before you can say anything, the high waist of the pantyhose peels itself back just enough to hide under the size 14 jeans, and though the jeans almost fit you, they inflate themselves in all the right places to give you an embarrassingly feminine profile. Thankfully, your consistently-bothered package is hidden pretty well by the bulging hips.

The size 20 jeans drop to the floor of the dressing room, and the door pops open. You instinctively put one of your hands behind it to make it look like you're the one that opened it.

The woman quickly looks you up and down, taking a second take on your lower half — then at the women's-sized jeans on the ground — before pulling you out by the wrist and pointing through the aisles.

“I know this isn't exactly appropriate, but… please just tell me you can see what I'm seeing?" You swallow hard, and now you realize that your cart is no longer outside the dressing room. It's pushing itself around the store, and your shirt seems to be walking in front of it.

“Muh — my shirt?"

“Yeah! Floating around my store on its own! And look, your jeans are out there following that cart around!" She looks back at you again, and she can't help but look down at your lower half again before continuing. “You — you can see that, right?" You wonder if your attempts at a poker face are a complete failure, and you try to maintain the charade by acting surprised.

“That's where my clothes went?" You ask. "What the heck are they doing?"

"I mean, they're your clothes!” She said, looking down at your lower half again. “I was hoping you'd be able to tell me what the hell they're doing!" Your gaze follows the cart as items on other racks pull themselves off and drop inside of it.

"It, um — it looks like they're shopping…” You say, knowing how completely stupid it sounds. This time, the clerk gives you a suspicious look, making a point to look down at your lower half again.

“Are you serious? That's all you have to say? Your clothes are wandering around with nobody in them!" She can't stop looking at your lower half, and she looks back to the dressing room again. “Those, um...they fit you really well for—” she stops herself. “Sorry. Not really my place to say.” She snaps back out of it, looking back at your haunted clothes. “But, um, could you like...help with that situation, or something?” You swallow hard, looking down at the possessed clothes that have been **** onto you. There seems to be some giveaway in that, and she presses you again. "Like, do you know why or how that's happening?” You can feel her stare, and when you look back up at her, she breaks a little smile. “I mean, you're seeing it — but you don't seem to be nearly as freaked out as I am. Is this, like, some sort of really elaborate prank?" You sigh, stuffing your hands in the front pockets of the jeans you're wearing.

“If it's a prank, it's being played on both of us,” you say, "maybe I can get them to stop messing around." The cat's out of the bag in some sense now, so you do you best to seem imposing to your enchanted outfit. "Okay, the jig's up," You shout. "Come on back here."

They don't. The cart's still being filled with things, and you panic a little when you realize it's over in the scant 'intimates' rack, which is mostly sleepclothes, gowns and bras. A whole pile of things rise off and get loaded into the cart, and it sails over to the shelves of used shoes and boots.

Oh boy.

"Is...is it a rigging?" She asks. "I mean, they're hovering, aren't they? That's not possible, is it?" Before you can respond, your legs begin moving--and your stocking feet are shuffled to make you walk toward the where the cart is. You know you're over your head here, and you have no idea what these things will do.

“Honestly, I have no idea what's going on," you tell her. Which is actually the truth...you have no idea what these enchantments are going to do when you try to confront them with this woman in tow.