Not really

You wrestle with the living sweater, trying to peel its sleeves away from your head--but they aren't exactly articulated like they have arms in them. It's one thing to pry away limbs that have joints with a limited range of motion and a threshold of strength, but these sleeves are more or less coiled around the back half of your head, pulling you into the round forms in the front with every square inch of fabric available to them.

The thick strands of fabric mean that it's easy for you to breathe through the fabric you're being pressed into, but there seems to be no chance you're going to rip or tear it in a way that's going to **** them to stop.

"Come on, Adam, just slip away from it and get that spellbook!" Denise says. "There's more clothing coming from--mmph!" You can't see what's happening, but you imagine Denise muted by some kind of fabric gag, by the sound of things. Her sweater puffs up, inflating all around you as you feel the sleeves around your head and--well, the breasts against your face--grow, for lack of a better term. It seems to enjoy embracing you, and you feel the hovering garment rock you back and forth as the chest keeps swelling. The oversized invisible form stretches the fabric enough that you can see through it a little better, and when you look down through the invisible hem, you stop trying to pull the strong sleeves away. Instead, you try to lift the sides of the sweater up, as if you were going to 'undress' the invisible woman wearing it.

You manage to peel the back of the waist almost up to the ghostly shoulders, and now you can see Denise behind it. Your sight's a little bit fuzzy since you're looking at her through one layer of the sweater, but you can see exactly what she was talking about. Crew and tube socks of varying lengths, pantyhose and scarves are wrapped around her legs from her ankles to her thighs. Her arms seem to be held against her body by half-inflated hosiery, and a pair of her own long socks that you recognize are wrapped around the lower half of her head. Since she sounds muffled, you reason that another pair must be shoved into her mouth to form a gag--otherwise she'd be able to talk through the socks just like you can breathe through the sweater.

The room is abuzz with activity, and you can actually see Denise's mother's clothing marching into her room behind her as Denise's own clothes come into your limited peripheral vision.

It's quite a scene, and for a couple moments, you're not really fighting all that hard. Every breath you take is infused with the scent of Denise's clothes closet and various scents you associate with a girl's room: perfumes, lotions, hair product...floral and fruity, foreign to your associations with your own household and driving some impulse in you that you can't help but focus on.

The visuals of Denise and her mother's clothes aren't helping. Lovely glossy pantyhose, tight jeans and work slacks saunter into the room from behind Denise, followed by hovering bras, panties and blouses. Denise's own boots, skirts, stockings, and leggings wander into your line of sight from behind you.

All at the center of this of this madness is Denise. Her head is darting from side to side as she watches the procession of the clothes. The way she's bound up, tilted slightly backward, you don't really understand how she's keeping her balance. Her pleas are muffled, but you assume she still attempting to call out to you to do something.

Then you realize it: she's not standing at all. Her feet are still on the ground, but she's clearly pitched at an angle that makes you believe the clothing are holding her up. Denise can't be more than 120 pounds, but if this enchanted clothing can hold up the weight of a human, what chance do you have fighting her knitted sweater?

When you renew your efforts, you're able to slide yourself from between the sweater's clutches. You immediately go for the book on the ground, but a translucent nylon foot kicks it out of the way.

On your hands and knees now, you look up at a pair of shapely tan pantyhose. One of the ghostly feet plants itself on the ground while the other kicks against your shoulder, surprising you with enough **** to bowl you over. By the time you look up, the hose have already leapt over you, the silky feet standing on either side of your head. You start to sit up, but the rear of the pantyhose crouches right atop you, pressing your head right back against the carpeted floor.

The book is just out of your reach, and now you wrap your fingers around the ghostly bottom sitting on your face. The gusset of the pantyhose is resting right above your nose and mouth, and the enchanted pair of nylon legs bounce and shimmy their hips against you. You squeeze the ass in self-defense at first, but the shape of the hose and the texture of the nylon has you more excited than you'd like to admit. There's a pressure inside of the clothing, too, feeling as if there's a real body inside of it. The shapely butt has a give to it that makes it feel like it's emulating a flesh and blood booty.

These were Denise's mother's pantyhose – and while you didn't exactly make it a point to actively fantasize about Dianne, you couldn't think of many other fortysomething women you'd rather have perched over your face. The fact that she wasn't inside of these particular pantyhose didn't seem to hurt the animalistic calculations running straight down your spine and into your balls. The scent made those calculations even more dramatic. These didn't seem to just be pantyhose…they seemed to be worn pantyhose.

You only barely catch sight of a mint green blouse as it dives to the floor and scoops up the book with both of its sleeves. When you try to turn your head to follow the blouse's path, you're immediately distracted by something else at your waist.

A pair of black leather gloves deftly unbutton your pants. They have them unzipped in no time, and all you can do is stare through the translucent pantyhose at your face and watch yourself being undressed.

Denise's muffled cries suddenly become more insistent, and you tilt your head back to see that you're not the only one being undressed. The hem of Denise's black T-shirt rises into the air on its own, held back only by the socks and stockings wrapped around her body. Her distressed grey skinny jeans have already unbuttoned themselves, but because of the shape of her hips and how tightly she wears her clothing, they seem to be exerting a lot of effort trying to pull themselves off of her.

Even with all of the dumbfounding manifestations of the spell distracting you, you quickly work out that your clothes are the only set in the house that weren't brought to life — likely since it was you who uttered the spell. Even the clothes Denise has on are actively revolting against her, and as her burgundy cotton bikinis become exposed by her descending pants, you realize that this is the first time you've ever seen your friend in her underwear.

Living down the street from each other, you'd been friends since grade school, but any sexual tension you'd experienced was normally kept in check either by your unwillingness to sacrifice your friendship, or by your crushes on others, which you'd happily confided to each other without any sign of jealousy.

That balance was slowly being thrown out of whack by the stirring below your waistline. Both of you are fighting against the magical forces you unwittingly released, but that resistance doesn't stop your body from reacting to the situation present before you.

Dianne was a MILF. There was no denying that, though you kept your opinion to yourself on the subject for obvious reasons. Denise is pretty, without a doubt — and you love her sense of style and her sardonic but down-to-earth attitude — but seeing her stripped by otherworldly forces in front of your face can't help but set her in a different light.

Denise is hot.

"Ungh—" You stutter a syllable into the pantyhose, jarred out of your thoughts when the animated leather gloves pull down your briefs. Any subtlety you were able to demonstrate about being turned on by the current situation is tossed out the window with your exposed erect member for all the room to see.

And while Denise's eyes might be the only human organs capable of perceiving your rigid dick, the black leather gloves seems to know what to do as soon as they pull your underwear down. You make another noise as one of the smooth leather gloves grabs your shaft, sliding its creamy black fingers up and down over your skin.

After a few seconds you realize that Denise is suspiciously silent. When you're able to finally break your nylon-screened gaze away from the leather glove jerking you off, you see that Denise is staring wide-eyed at your engorged cock. It takes her a moment to notice you noticing her, but when your eyes finally meet, you can hear her cry out two more muffled syllables in response.

She's still gagged, but your staggered analysis is enough to know exactly what those two syllables were.

"Ad-am!"