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Part 1
Delia cursed sharply when she hit her toe on the bottom of Leslie’s dresser, then shut the hell up since she didn’t want to get caught. She had to find proof that Leslie had a copy of the forbidden spell book and that was how she was acing all the exams. There was no way she could be a beginning spellcaster and be doing that well.
But the endeavor had been a bust. She had only made it through a few drawers looking for the book -- and finding nothing yet -- when she banged her toe on the dresser. The drawer for Leslie’s underwear and tights was still open and rattling, so she held it still.
“Shit,” she whispered this time, listening for any indication that anyone else in the sorority house had heard her. Unfortunately, they had. She heard Becky and Lydia's voices coming up the stairs.
“I can not get caught up here,” she said. “Or I’ll never find where Leslie is hiding that book.” So she quickly cast a basic automatic protective and disguise spell to keep her from being discovered and keep her safe while disguised. No sooner had her words escaped her mouth than she fluttered half into the open drawer as a pair of black pantyhose. One leg hung over the front of the drawer and the other over the left side, and her core rested on top of a pile of tossed-in undergarments that filled the messy drawer.
No sooner had she rested in the drawer than Becky and Lydia entered the room.
Phew, she thought. Just in time. Not a second to spare.
“I guess I just imagined it,” Becky said, glancing around Leslie’s private room. “But I could have sworn I heard a noise in here.”
“Check the closet just in case, I guess,” Lydia said.
Becky went to the closet and opened it. “Nothing here but more piles of clothes. I swear that girl never puts anything away.”
Lydia leaned down and peeked under the bed. “Nothing here either. Must have been the house settling or a bird flying against a window or something like that.”
Becky walked back to the dress and stood over Delia’s flimsy new temporary body. The protection and disguise spell was one of the few she knew well enough to cast on the spur of the moment, and it was probably the most helpful she knew. Not only would it transform her into something that would keep her from getter caught, but it would also protect her while she was in the form and event prevent her from changing back if doing so would harm her.
Becky picked her up from the edge of the drawer. “Leslie really should clean up better.” As she spoke, she rolled Delia into a wad of nylon and placed her in the drawer. Then she closed the drawer and Delia’s world went dark. She listened (thankfully the spell allowed her to maintain her sense even in a body without eyes, ears, a nose or a mouth.
Leslie's bed squeaked and Delia guess that the girls sat down. They talked for a few seconds about the messy state of the room before getting up again, then left.
When the room grew quiet, Delia waited for the transformation spell to end and to be returned to her regular self now that the coast was clear.
And she kept waiting longer than expected.
What the hell is taking so long, she wondered. I should have changed back by now.
As she continued to wait, she cycled through the spell and its conditions again.
There's no danger of being discovered now, so that's fine, she thought. And nothing in here would hurt me, so that can't be—
Shit!
I'm in the drawer, she remembered, and suddenly realized the full implication of that thought. I'm in the goddamn drawer. The spell is protecting me from transforming back because I'm in the damn drawer. I could get hurt because the real me would never fit in the drawer, so the spell won't change me back yet.
She fumed silently, since there was nothing else she could do in her current state, and she waited. It felt like hours as she lay in the dark, surrounded by her rival's underwear and pantyhose. Other pantyhose, she thought. After all, until she could get out of the drawer and be left alone long enough to change back safely, that's all she was really, just another pair of Leslie's hose.
And so she kept waiting in the darkness and softness inside the drawer.
After several hours, voices returned to the room, but she remained in the drawer, able only to listen as Leslie returned, chatted with someone whose voice she didn't recognize, then turned on some music.
Eventually the drawer opened again, and her rival stood over her with her hair wrapped in a towel, wearing just a bra and panties.
“Hmmm,” Leslie all but sighed. “What to wear, what to wear.”
She rifled through the drawer, moving Delia around and covering her with other pairs of hose, then finally moved them again and reached in to grab the helpless pair of black nylons.
“Chad likes me in black,” Leslie said in a sort of sing-song. “And for some reason, he's got a pantyhose fetish that I just don't get, but what the hell, it'll be worth it if it keeps him interested.”
She tossed Delia's limp form on the bed, then pushed the drawer shut. Then she sat beside the pantyhose and picked them up again. She gripped the waistband with both hands and began to gather Delia up in a bunch until her left leg was little more than a cup for the girl's toes. Then she pushed her feet inside her and carefully pulled the shiny black material all the way up to the top of her thigh, smoothing any bunches or gathers until Delia encased her leg smoothly and beautifully.
With her entire body an outlet for her senses, the lavender frangrance of her rival's shower gel was her whole world for a moment until she should get past the initial overwhelming scent that entered her new body from toe to top.
Leslie nodded, satisfied, then cupped Delia's right leg to the toe and did the same until she was fully inside the poor girl with both legs. Again the lavender scent absorbed her—or more accurately, she absorbed it—and she had to adjust to the sensation of being so spongelike when it came to smells.
Leslie stood up and pulled the panty part over her hips and snugged it at her waist.
Delia took in the full frangrance of her rival's pelvis, both freshly washed pubic hair and the more musky odor that even the panties couldn't keep trapped inside her vagina.
If she could have shuddered, she would have. She hated Leslie, and now, thanks to her own stupid spell, she was one with that bitch's bodily odors. It was if her face was smashed into her captor's pussy.
But it wasn't her face. She knew that. She had no face. Or she had nothing but face. All scents, all tastes, all sounds, all sights came from her every fiber. She was a sort of formerly human sponge, absorbing it all and helpless to prevent any sensual assault on her defenseless body of whispy, thin fabric.
Leslie wore her out of the room and into the hallway, then into the bathroom, where she worked on her make-up and hair. Becky and Lydia must have heard her because they stopped at the open door to talk about upcoming assignments. Lydia brought up the afternoon and told Leslie all about how they thought they heard someone but couldn't find any indication that anyone had been there. Leslie shrugged it off and said something about the sorrority house being old and how all old houses made noises all the time and it was nothing to worry about.
Leslie took a black leather skirt from the closet and then sat on the end of the bed.
“So, Les, as you excited about your big date with Chad?” Becky asked.
“Of course. He is the richest kid at school.”
“Is it true?” Lydia asked. “The rumors, I mean. About his, well, you know.”
Leslie laughed. “He's average, but he uses it well.”
She stood up and stepped into the top of the skirt, then slid it easily of Delia's smooth, almost frictionless body. Then she posistioned the skirt so the zipper was on the side, zipped it up, and smoothed it against Delia's ass—well, the part of her that covered Leslie's ass anyway. The tightness of the skirt constrained her even more against her rival's thighs and ass and hips and pussy.
With her new vision, Delia had a view like never before. She could see the room thanks to the way the skirt left her legs free, but she also saw—somehow at the same time—the darkened epxerience from inside Leslie's skirt. She could see the contours of the girl's panties and the inside seams of the skirt. It all fused together in a picture that she could never have understood as a human girl.
Leslie went to the closet and got a dark green, spaghetti-strap top and pulled it on.
“Damn,” Becky said.
“Chad will love it,” said Lydia.
“He'd better.”
Leslie then leaned over and grabbed a pair of black, high-heeled ankle boots from the floor of the closet and carried them with her to the bed, then sat down again. Without another word, she pushed Delia's foot—well, foot part—inside and zipped the boot. Instantly, the scent memory of every time Leslie had worn the boots became part of Delia's form, every time Leslie had danced or walked and sweated into the leather interiors and made them truly her own.
And now she was doing the same with Delia.
I'm becoming as much her own as these boots, as any other piece of underwear she owns. I'm being filled up with her scents and her shape. I will smell like her. I will fill the shape she gives me. My whole world right now is her legs and her ass and her crotch. Anything I was before this afternoon might as well not exist for me.
Delia was pressed and zipped into the other boot, and she felt the pressure of sliding against the insoles when Leslie stood up. The pressure on her from inside the boot was different than when Leslie had walked around just in the hose—in her—almost barefoot. The sensations were softer, cooler, all carpet and hardwood floors, But inside the boots, the sensations were more confining, wet and warm and tight against her new skin. She was pressed upon both by the skin she encased and the boots that encased her.
Not that there was a damn thing she could do about it.
All she could do was wait until Leslie left her lying around, forgotten, alone, able to return to her human form.
Part 2
But, Delia discovered, she would have to wait longer than she had hoped.
Leslie and Chad had gone to dinner, and throughout the meal, she felt his warm touch against Leslie's thigh. It disappeared only when dinner arrived. All this, of course, was deciphered by sound and smell since Delia spent the dinner hidden beneath a tablecloth and table, cutting off her view of the world, no matter how new and enhanced it might be.
After dinner, the two went to a movie, and about fifteen minutes in, they started to make out. Delia felt herself pushed roughly against Leslie's upper thighs and then her crotch, then rubbed into her “owner's” panties and crotch helplessly.
All the while, she could smell the rising excitement on the other side of the thin, black panties and seperated her from direct contact.
It wasn't long though before she felt Chad's hand slip beneath her elastic waist and work its way down to inside Leslie's panties. Her owner repositioned herself on the seat, shifting the way Delia fit on her ass and causing her to wrinkle slightly—an odd sensation to say the least. But it was the least of her concerns.
Leslie's arousal was becoming all-encompassing, and she fought to concentrate her senses on what she could hear from the movie, what she could see in the dark theater. But the scent of sexual excitement was too much for her, and all other senses disappeared. She was taken over with the lusty musk emanating from the other side the horny girl's panties.
She became part of it, it mixing with her as Chad fingered Leslie to her first climax, then her second. Finally he stopped, and he pulled his hand out of both Leslie and Delia. But instead of leaving them both alone, he lay his orgasm-drenched fingers on top her her thigh and wiped his fingers off on Delia's nylon body.
But no, the girl was so tired, she removed only her boots and skirt and top and bra, then slipped on an oversized t-shirt and went to sleep on top of the covers.
So Delia spent the night absorbing the overpowers essense of Leslie's sweat and sex.
Because Leslie slept through the first two alarms and woke up late, Delia didn't even get the reprieve of being removed for her rival's shower. Instead, the girl simply slipped on a pair of denim shorts and a sweatshirt with the school logo and a pair of tennis shoes without socks and ran off the class... late.
So much for Delia's escape plan. Instead of lying around in Leslie's room to casually return to her old body when the coast was clear, she remained trapped on the girl's legs and ass, reeking—or so it felt to her—of sex and perspiration. Especially inside the shoes. Being inside the boots had been one thing, but the scent inside the tennis shoes was something far more powerful.
Defenseless against the odor, Delia smelled—and even tasted—it all.
When lunch arrived, she had hoped she might finally be set free, but instead, Leslie only went to the Defensive Arts hallway to pee. She pulled down Delia's body, giving her the first take of freedom since the previous night, leaving the poor girl in a wadded bunch around her ankles while the trickling sound of urine emptied from her bladder into the bowl. Then she wiped and pulled Delia up again and smoothed her into place.
Delia then had a new scent added to her. A new taste.
After that, instead of going back to the house to change and shower, Leslie went to the cafeteria and found Chad.
“Pantyhose? For class?” he asked.
She laughed. “Just for you, buddy.”
“Since when?”
“Since I woke up late and didn't have time to change.”
“Well,” Chad said, cupping Leslie's ass and pressing Delia tighly against her. “I like it. You should wake late everyday.”
They kissed and found a table and then talked a lot of bullshit—it seemed to Delia anyway—until lunch was almost over.
“Say, have you seen Delia today?” Leslie asked, and the pantyhose that had once been human found her attention fully alert.
“No. Why?”
“Yesterday, she threatened to find the spellbook I took. But I haven't seen her in any of the classes we have together.”
Suddenly Delia found the silver lining in her new nylon world. As long as Leslie didn't know she was there, she just might reveal the location of the book. And then, once everything was safe, Delia could transform and prove that her rival was a cheater.
“Maybe she's sick.”
“Maybe she's looking for it.”
“Maybe.”
“Doesn't matter,” Leslie said. “She'll never find it.”
Delia was all ears.
“Don't tell me,” said Chad. “I don't want any part of your little competition.”
“Like I'd tell you.” Leslie crossed her legs, shattering Delia's concentration for a moment thanks to the new feelings of pressure on her knees and thighs. “And it's not just a little competition. That bitch has beat me out every year in the Witch's Finals since 3rd grade, and there is no way I'm losing to her this year.”
“Whatever,” Chad said, and Delia felt the weight and warmth of his hand on her thigh.
The kissed again.
He squeezed her against Leslie's thigh.
Delia's mind refocused, trying to push Chad's attention from her thoughts.
But the conversation was over. They were soon up and back on their way to classes.
Once they arrived at the club, the night went by in a blast of noise and lights, along with the heavy odors of pot, sex, sweat, and spilled liquor. The sensations were so strong that Delia lost track of place and time and became a bundle of bits of the world in which she found herself.
There was no way of focus, and time whirled by. There was no way of keeping up with the constantly changing images her new body was taking in, and her idea of location became as much sound and smell and taste as vision.
Mindy and Leslie danced for hours, stopping only to drink frequently.
The cacophony of sensations didn't end until Delia found that the temperature had dropped drastically. Suddenly she realized the girls were outside the club, but she really had no idea for how long or where they were. As her focus slowly returned, she could make out the sidewalk and the sounds of city traffic.
“Fuck, what a night,” Mindy said, or at least is was the first bit of conversation her readjusting mind could comprehend as words.
“Yeah,” Leslie replied.
It was only after she remember that the spell would protect her that she relaxed.
“Oh shit,” Mindy said, helping Leslie to her feet. “You okay?”
“Sure. But I guess that's it for these tights.”
Leslie pulled at Delia's stretchy form, looking for runs, but found none.
“Weird,” she said. “I guess I got really lucky.”
“God damn, I guess so,” said Mindy. “Wherever you got those, they sure made 'em strong.”
“Guess so. Makes me wish I knew where I ordered them.”
So it went, Delia counting her blessings for the protection spell that kept her from getting ripped, which ironically, had also protected Leslie from getting a scrape too since nothing could get through her protection.
The girls headed back to the campus, and after saying goodbye and parting ways, Leslie said down on one of the stone benches in the courtyard, and inspected her pantyhose again. She pulled and tugged on the thighs, the knees, the calves, and she even took off her shoes and pulled at the toes and twisted the nylon until Delia was stretched and wrapped as thin as a piece of twine.
But she remained safely unripped.
“I wonder,” Leslie said, but didn't continue.
Instead, she stood up and returned to her room in the sorrority house and closed and locked her door. She finally took off her clothes, at least to her bra and panties and hose, and dropped the shorts and t-shirt into a pile of dirty clothes near the bed.
Only then did you look her finger into the waistband and start to remove Delia from her hips and ass, then kept going until she had only the feet remaining, and she stood up and used her feet to pull the rest of Delia's body off of her.
She dropped Delia into the same pile, then finished stripping and tossed the dirty bra and panties on top of her.
But instead of heading to the shower, she put on a long bathrobe, and stared at the piles of dirty clothes on the floor.
“I guess Becky and Lydia are right. I really should clean up and do some laundry.”
Delia waited in the dark at the bottom of the pile and when she could see again, she was quickly stuffed into a delicates bag.
She quickly realized that all the undergarments she was bunched with were darks with the exception of a single pink bra. Another pair of black tights, but thick like winter tights, not sheer like she was. Several pairs of black of dark panties, a black bras, and a blue and black swimsuit.
Leslie tossed the mesh bag on the bed, then gathered up a load of regular darks in a hamper, then added the delicates bag to the hamper as well.
She took it all down the hallway to the laundry room and dumped the whole load in the washing machine, added power, and turned it own, then let the top slam closed with a thud, and within seconds Delia was beginning to soak as the water rose inside the drum.
She dreaded what was coming.
She dreaded it not just because of the new sensations it would use to overpower her, but because every second she was in the washer kept her further from her goal of transforming back into the real Delia.
She didn't get to wonder long though, and the agitator lurched to action and she was swished to and fro with her bag-mates, soaked and drenched in the soapy water, and she smelled and tasted and felt it all. The massive motors of the machine pushed and pulled her, but she remained safe in her bag with the other intimates—not to mention the spell's protection. But the one thing the spell never protected her from was the sensations and how they played havoc with her mind. Having lost all other humanity, she was almost pure mind now, aside from the nylon body she inhabited, and her senses conspired against that mind all the time.
Push. Pull. Slosh. Soak. Push. Twist. Flip over. Do it all again. Then again. Ad naseum.
The washer was a sort of exquisite torture, nothing like the warmth of Chad's hand or the musky scents of Leslie's body—something she found she was actually missing now that she was no longer being worn.
The longer it dragged on, the more she became lost in the pattern, much like she had at the club. It made sense. After all, her body was different now. Her senses were different, somehow more receptive. Her ability to experience the grand human life was gone, but in its place were a new ability to experience every single sensual detail of the most mundane of moments. It defined her now.
When the washer finally stopped, she waited in the mish-mash of wet clothes until Leslie returned and opened the top. She made no effort to smile or acknowledge Delia—why would she—and merely scooped up the mass of dark fabric and moved it to the dryer. Then she added two dryer sheets and slammed that door closed, and in a few seconds felt her world grow increasingly warm as she as her fellow delicates tumbled into the mix of clothes for the next hour.
The heat was never painful thanks to the spell, but it was powerful.
As she tumbled, she started to realize the changes in the odors around her. The new fragrance invading her was something crisp and fresh, something both artificial and pleasant.
When the dryer stopped, Leslie returned again, dressed in a pajama top and the bathrobe, now open. She gathered the load of laundry—Delia resigned herself to that being her current state in life—into the hamper and and carried it back to her room.
She dumped the hamper on the bed and then turned on some music.
She then sat beside the pile and started to fold the clothes. When she was done with everything but the bag of delicates, she left it on the bed and put away all the other clothes, first the hanging items, then the t-shirts in the draw, shorts in their drawer, and so on.
It took a few minutes, but she finally returned to the bed and unzipped the bag and dumped the intimates onto the bed.
She folded the bra and panties first, then the swimsuit. Leaving her with the thick winter tights, Leslie put the rest of the underwear away in the dresser. When she sat down again, she wadded both Delia and the winter tights into a ball together and carried to a sink in the half-bath her room contained.
“Still don't know my mom insists on washing these things twice, but whatever,” she said as she dropped the ball of tights and pantyhose into the sink and turned on the cold water. She added a squirt of liquid detergent to the water and when it was half full, she turned the water off. She pressed and squeezed both pairs together in the soap and water, then wrang them out with several severe twists. Then it began all over. More pressing. More pulling. More squeezing, and finally more twisting and wringing out the excess water.
Delia found herself spent from the exertion.
Thankfully, that part was over, and her owner draped her over a towel rod that already had a pair of nude hose hanging from it. She put Delia on the right and the winter tights on the left of the other pair.
“That ought to do it,” she said, then took off her robe and folded it and carried back inside the bedroom with her. When she turned off the light, the bedroom and half-bath were lost in pitch black and, hanging like just another pair of freshly washed pantyhose, Delia's mind found peace in the darkness, and she lost all conscious thought, the closest thing to sleep that her new body would allow.
At some point during the night she wondered when she might transform. Only, she also remembered that the spell would keep her from being discovered, and right now, the sound of a fellow student crashing to the ground from a towel rack in the middle of the night would defintely get her discovered.
So she put the thought of escape from her mind, and tried to relax again.
Hours later, when the sunlight was brightening the half-bath through the mostly closed blinds, she heard Leslie stirring. She banged the alarm twice again, then finally got up and walked into the small bathroom to brush her team and check her face and hair in the mirror.
“I feel like a dress today,” she said, snatching Delia's dry, limp form from the towel rack. “Bet Chad will enjoy the surprise.”
Leslie took Delia into the bedroom, then placed her on the bed along with a pair of pink panties and the pink bra she had shared the wash and dry with. Then she gathered them all up and carried them to the full bath down the hall.
Delia waited, hung limply over another towel rack along with the undergarments, as Leslie finished her shower. When she was done, the girl dried off, then stepped into her panties, fastened her bra and shifted the girls into place, then grabbed Delia from the rod.
Well, Delia thought. If I don't get to change back today, at least I might still learn where she'd hidden that damn book.
“You know,” Leslie muttered to herself, “I don't like to risk damaging my tights by wearing all day, but after what these went through last night, I guess I can risk it.”
She walked back to the bedroom, and went to the closet to grab a dark grey sweater dress and a pair of black flats. She pulled the dress over her head, then pulled her hair into a long ponytail. Finally she stepped into the flats.
Then, she changed her mind and took off the flats. She went to her dresser and grabbed a pair of black thigh socks. She pulled those up over Delia's legs, wrapping her nylon body in warmth and thickness. When she pulled the dress down to an inch of so below the top of the socks, it also cut out the any view Delia might have except for looking down at the ground from the inside of Leslie's skirt.
She tossed the flats back in the closet and then chose a pair of flat boots instead.
“You know, I really do think Chad will love this outfit,” she said as she smoothed the dark fabric over her stomach and hips. “Don't you, Delia?”
Delia's world suddenly came into a sharp focus. Everything was gone except the the question Leslie had just asked.
“I mean I could be wrong, but I'm not stupid, and all the clues point point to you hiding as this wonderful, totally unbreakable pair of silky black pantyhose.” She sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs. “I'm sure it was an accident, of course, knowing you.”
She bounced her leg playfully.
“Not that it matters. I'm pretty sure I know what spell you used, and if I'm right, I know all about how that one works, and how to make sure it keeps protecting you and keeping you 'hidden' from me.”
She stood up again and started walking to the door.
“Now, what do you say we go have a little fun together, just a girl and her living tights?”
The sunlight outside during the walk to class was almost painfully bright, but it didn't even once register on the list of important things on Delia's mind.
There was only one item on that list, and that item was the bitch presently wearing her, the bitch seemingly determined to keep doing just that.
Part 3
After dropping her bombshell on Delia, Leslie said nothing else to her directly for two days, and only then mentioned before bed that since she hadn't seen “Delia” around campus anywhere, that only confirmed her suspicion that the poor girl was in fact now nothing but a pair of pantyhose, and that Leslie was the lucky girl who “owned” her.
And after that single comment, Leslie rolled her into a ball and shoved her into the lingerie drawer for the night.
Next morning, as she had since her discovery of Delia's predicament, Leslie couldn't resist wearing the girl again. It would be time to wash her again soon, Delia was certain, particularly with the amount of wear she was getting. That was not an experience she was looking forward to.
Then she stepped into a black and white skirt, zipped it, then spun it around on her waist to face front. After ther she pulled a thin, black sweater over her head and stepped into a pair of black heels from her closet.
“Perfect,” she said, obviously feeling like chatting with her defeated rival this morning. “We look absolutely perfect, wouldn't you agree?”
Leslie gave a twirl in the mirror.
“Well, of course you can't answer, and I don't expect you too. Nor will I ever let you know where I'm hiding that spell book. Can't have you going to the Dean and getting me in trouble, can I?”
By this point, Delia was willing to let it go, to forget she had ever wanted to find out of Leslie's cheating or rat her out about it. She just wanted to be herself again.
Rather than leaving the room for class, though, she opened up the top drawer and grabbed a huge leather book from it and laid it on the bed.
“This is what you were looking for, I believe. While you were safely in the drawer last night, I went and got it. I figured I might find a way to help you deal with your situation a little better.”
She opened the book and thumbed through to a page she had marked with a leather bookmark.
“Here we are,” she said.
In spite of her position beside the book, Delia didn't have a good angle to make out the words or the title of the spell.
“Don't worry, D.,” Leslie said. “This want hurt you at all. It's just a naturalization spell.”
She moved the book a few inches away and crossed her legs, then uncrossed them and crossed them the other way.
“I wonder what that feels like for you,” she said.
It's fucking weird, Delia thought, but I'm getting used to it, so we need to hurry up and get me back to normal. The last thing I need to do is get used being your fucking pantyhose.
Of course, she could never say that the young woman currently wearing her.
“Anyway, as I said, it's a naturalization spell. It's helps reset inanimate objects after they've been magicked. Let's say you turn a piece of wood into a wand, and you need to stop being a wand. Presto! This kind of spell will return the stick to just a plain piece of wood. Now, since that stick wasn't really alive before, it just goes back to being a regular old stick. But I have to admit I'm curious how it might effect you.”
Delia's spirit shook with terror. What the hell was Leslie planning to do to her? She couldn't. She wouldn't dare.
“And then there's the pesky protection aura from your original spell. Not to mention your original form was human, but your current form is that of an inanimate object—my pantyhose. Which version of you will the naturalization spell affect—the real girl or the pantyhose? I am super curious to find out.”
Leslie pulled the book closer again.
“So I've been researching the relationship between protection spells and new spells that compound onto them. Unless I miss my guess, your specific situation will create an interesting paradox between the two. I'm pretty sure there's no way, sadly, I can use it to erase your humanity and leave you as just another lifeless piece of cloth, as much fun as that would be. And there's a chance your protection aura will just prevent anything from the new spell from activating, in which case nothing changes, and I keep taking advantage of that protection to keep you from transforming back. But that middle ground between those two unlikely seems to offers a lot of possibilities for magical interaction of the two spells.”
Delia wanted to cry out, to beg for her life, but there was nothing she could do to stop Leslie from trying her magickal experiement, no matter how it would affect her.
“Anyway, based on my research, the most likely outcome is that the protection aura will keep your personality and memories intact, and you will completely remain you, but the naturalization spell will try to help you become just another pair of tights. So, while you should remain as fully Delia as you can in that form, because of your new form, you'll also try to become truly a pair of pantyhose.”
Leslie laughed.
“And since those can't both be true, I can only guess that you'll most like remember your identity as a former human girl, but struggle against becoming just another piece of my underwear. You'll probably start to look forward to being worn, and learn to accept your only real purpose for being made is to be my pantyhose. I'm sure it will be a fun struggle for you to experience... well, if that's how it turns out. Like I said, it could all be for nothing, and sadly, since you can tell me how it turns out, there's really no way I'll know, is there?”
And with that, Leslie touched Delia on her thighs and started the incantation. As she spoke, the girl's hands glowed gold and then the same gold light washed over all of Delia's nylon body.
After a few moments, Leslie stopped chanting, and the glow faded.
Nothing felt different. With any luck, Delia, thought, the naturalization spell had failed.
Leslie returned the book to the top drawer and then grabbed her purse and together she and Delia headed to the door.
“Well,” she said, “for what it's worth, that's that. Let's see what happens, shall we?”
For the rest of that day, nothing happened outside of Delia's frustration at still being stuck as a pair or her worst enemy's pantyhose and her anger that Leslie had figure it out and was using it against her. Worse still, was the fact that now that Leslie knew it was her, there was no way she was going accidently disclose the location of the book.
Not that it would matter.
Even if Delia did find out where it was being hid, it wasn't like there was a damn thing she could do or even say about it now.
That night, Leslie changed into a fancy black dress and black pumps and called Chad to take her somewhere fancy for dinner and she's make it up to him.
During dinner, she had slipped of one of her shoes and had gently rubbed Chad's crotch the entire time with her foot. Even through his slacks, Delia could feel the throbbing motion of his cock against her flimsy nylon skin. The bulge pushed the coarse suede against her and massaged her as much as she was massaging him.
“It's time,” she said.
“After what you were doing under the table all during dinner, it's been time... and then some.”
“It's been a while,” she said.
“It has, but what's gotten into you tonight?”
“I just missed you.”
“Riiight...”
“Well, I really missed you.”
“You should really miss me more often.”
While they flirted, Delia could feel his erection against her. Leslie had decided to go without panties and give her captured pantyhose girl an extra thrill. Delia knew she couldn't tell him what was really on her mind, but it sure as hell wasn't just that she missed him. Or eve really missed him. She wanted to tease her living pantyhose. She wanted to punish Delia for everything the two had ever been on opposite sides about. She wanted Delia to feel every bit being just a thing, and owned thing even, a powerless piece of cloth that had no say in anything and if she had her way probably never would.
They stopped talking and Leslie started to grind her pussy against his erection through his pants. He grunted and moaned, and after a bit, she unzipped his slacks and fished out the rock hard, adequately sized johnson and continued to grind against it with her pantyhose.
“You like me in pantyhose still, right?”
“Oh yeah,” he groaned.
“Then I suppose you won't mind if I take care your needs like this tonight.”
“I'd rather—”
She ground into him even harder and Delia felt his cock twitch.
“You'd rather what?”
“Nothing,” he all but whispered. “Just keep going.”
“Good boy,” she said.
Delia could tell it wouldn't be long. She could feel every bit of increasing tension in his cock. Her ability to use her sense of touch was that much stronger because of her new body.
There was a quick spasm throughout Chad's cock and Delia readied herself.
He pumped cum all over her crotch sticking and the tops of her thighs. And still he kept pumping. Still Leslie kept grinding.
And Delia kept soaking him into herself like an insatiable sponge.
She tasted every drop. She was not just herself anymore, but she was her, and she was all the perfume and floral cleanser Leslie had used, and now she was also all of Chad's jizz that she had absorbed.
When she came to finally, she realized that Chad was rubbing her. Well, he was rubbing Leslie's feet, but he was touching her alone. Not one part of Chad's skin was making contact with Leslie. She was the barrier between them.
Not that Leslie cared or even acknowledged that fact. She just mumbled and made ooh and aah sounds while her feet were massaged.
Chad had changed into a t-shirt and clean shorts and Leslie had her feet propped in his lap. He kept rubbing her feet and both Delia and Leslie were enjoying the attention.
So much so that Delia almost disappeared again in the feeling of his touch.
But she focused. If this was the one enjoyable experience of her time as Leslie's pantyhose, she was determined to actually enjoy it coherently and intentionally. She could not, would not, let that bitch steal this from her. If she was a pair of pantyhose damnit, then this was her moment to own for herself, even if she had to share it with the magickal bitch who was determined to keep owning her.
“That feels wonderful,” Leslie said.
“What you did felt wonderful too,” said Chad.
“I bet.”
Chad nodded.
“Want more?” she asked.
Chad looked at her quizzically, cocking his head to the side slightly.
“Lie down,” she said. “Take off your shorts.”
He did and he was soon in just his boxer briefs.
Leslie put one foot against his returning bulge and then the other foot.
“Looks like you happy to see me again.”
“Oh yeah.”
“You really do like my pantyhose, don't you?” she asked. “Maybe I should just wear these things all the time.”
“Sounds good to me,” Chad said.
Delia felt her body rubbed first one foot and then the other against his growing erection. Then she was used to hold the tip as best she was able through Chad's briefs. She moved in tandem then together until he was fully hard again and then Leslie focused on using her toes to make Delia massage the head of Chad's hard-on.
Eventually Chad grew quiet and judging by the gentle twitching within his briefs, Delia knew he was about to shoot another load of his jizz.
But, Leslie stopped, placed one foot on the floor and the other on the sofa and sat up. Delia was surprised to find herself frustrated by the act of being stopped. She couldn't have her life but she could have this. She could make Chad love her, even if he never realized she was alive. He would still love her, at least in a way. She could be part of his fetish and make him happy.
Leslie pulled down his underwear until he manhood sprung free from the cotton shorts.
Then she lay down again and returned her feet to the tense, warm cock.
It was only a few seconds more when Delia felt his gooey, slick cum coat her thin nylon. She lustfully and helplessly and willfully soaked up as much as she could take in. He grunted and pressed his erection against her one last time and then he fell back to the couch, spent.
She stayed atop the softening cock, still kneading him gently while he breathed heavily and exhaustedly on the couch.
“Oh my god,” he said.
“Oh my god is right,” Leslie said.
Soaked and sticky, Delia was gone again. She would definitely need to be washed again, but for now she only wanted to relax and fall asleep in that part of her that was equal parts herself and Chad.
Part 4
Delia had been missing a week, and other than a few people asking Leslie if she had talked to her, there was little interest it seemed. Delia had never been very popular, and outside of her rivalry with Leslie, she wasn't known for much else.
She could only assume that somewhere on campus, someone was concerned over her disappearance. Then again, at a school for magic, students were always getting themselves into sort situation or another and might disappear for days simply because a spell went wrong. They always managed to turn back up and any damage from a miscast spell could be fixed by one of the Deans.
After her night of passion with Chad, Delia had been washed thoroughly, and in hot water this time since Leslie knew the original spell would protect her. Nor was she put into the intimates bag. She would be just fine in the washer, even on a cycle for heavy wash. And even though the magick protected her, the experience wasn't pleasant. Without the safety of the mesh bag, she was pulled and stretched and twisted around the drum in ways that made her remember what it was like to actually feel pain.
While she hung drying on the towel rack in the half-bath, Leslie had chosen to wear a pair of nude pantyhose with a fall print dress and cowboy boots. Before she left, she tied both of Delia's feet in a knot together so that she couldn't transform without breaking her legs.
The following morning, as Delia was beginning her second week as one of Leslie's intimates, she found that she felt excited as her owner opened the drawer and reached in for her. She shook the feeling from her thoughts, but then felt it again when Leslie bunched her up and shoved her foot inside.
And, truth be told, she found herself enjoying more and more the way her owner's bath gel made her smell.
That morning, after putting Delia on, rather than also putting on a skirt or shorts or a dress, Leslie chose a pair of jeans from the closet and a Ramone's t-shirt.
“We can't always dress up, can't we?” she asked as she checked the look in the mirror.
Then she shoved a pair of thick, black athletic socks over Delia's feet and crammed those feet into a pair of lace-up boots.
“Nice change of pace,” Leslie said.
Luckily the rips in the knees and thighs of the jeans gave Delia a small window on her world, and she knew that the tease of black pantyhose through those windows would be enough to make Chad happy.
The days had become a blur or being worn, being slept in, being washed, being tied up in a knot to keep her from transforming. About the only thing not happening to her was that she wasn't being ignored.
Being part of Chad's footjobs had become an expectation on date nights, and he didn't seem to might not actually having sex with Leslie if he at least got attention from Delia. She had even begun to keep her focus during his ejaculations and remain coherent and aware of who she was and her role in his sexual stimulation.
At the end of the second week, after another washing and hanging out to dry, instead of being worn, she found herself rolled up into a ball, tucked into a gallon-sized press-and-seal baggie with two pair of nude hose and the winter tights, then sealed and dropped into a dark blue rubber bin about the side of a shoe box along with four other baggies of tights and hose, and then enclosed inside and tucked away in the darkness under the bed.
What the hell was going on? Why was Leslie hiding her? Hadn't she done all she was supposed to? Hadn't she been worn and been used to make Chad happy? Hadn't she stopped worrying about finding the stolen spell book? Hadn't she begun to just accept that until Leslie felt otherwise she was just an article of clothing that belonged to her former rival?
Her mind raced. But still remained locked away in the box.
The plastic bag alone would keep her from transforming. No air for a living girl. But the rubber box would further seal her fate. It had a click-locking top. She had seen it before being placed inside. But then if that hadn't been enough, being shoved under the bed was the final nail in her plight. No room to transform without injuring herself on the underside of the frame or without making a loud noise that would ensure she was found out.
But that wasn't her worst fear. It wasn't that she couldn't change back. Not now. Not at that particular moment.
It was that she had been made useless.
Like it or not, she was a pair of pantyhose, and pantyhose had a purpose. But here, locked away in storage, in the darkness, that purpose had been taken away from her. Her sight was gone. Her hearing was gone. She could only smell the dryer sheet scent of herself and the other hose in the baggie with her. That was it. No other taste. No other fragrances or odors. No experiences. Just dark and nothing and uselessness.
There was no way to tell the passage of time, no way to tell what was going on outside her box.
Gradually, she came to accept that she was where her owner wanted her. When she was needed again, her owner would get her and use her again, wear her again.
She spent her time reciting the names of her friends and then doing the same with her owner's friends and the friends of her owner's boyfriend. Even then, though, she found her thoughts filtering off and away, looking forward to when the box would open and she would be needed again.
She was Delia, but it really no longer mattered that she was Delia. Delia was gone, as far as the campus was concerned. What mattered is that she was not being used by the woman who owned her. She had long forgotten the feeling of being filled up and stretched out and made to taste and smell the wonderful aromas of that woman's legs. She had forgotten the taste of the man's cum as it soaked into her body. She had forgotten what it felt like to be wanted, to be needed.
So she waited. And she kept waiting.
After an eternity of loneliness, she stopped waiting. She just rested.
She let her mind stop wanting. She shouldn't want anything. It wasn't her right.
She accepted the darkness of her box and the darkness of her mind.
She let the idea and memories of Delia slip into the background.
She let nothing slip into the foreground.
She had no will.
She was property.
She was owned.
She was pantyhose.
Property had no will.
Pantyhose had no will.
And she let herself go away into the darkness.
She barely even existed.
When at last the box was opened, she didn't even notice. She slowly grew to realize she was out and her owner was talking to her.
“—did you enjoy your little sensory deprivation experiment?” her owner was asking.
But she could barely make out the meaning of the words. She was far too busy enjoying the warmth of her owner's skin as her hands unraveled the ball she had been in for so long.
“It's been a whole month. I was planning to keep you in until after Christmas, but I figured I just couldn't let a good opportunity to wear you with my Halloween costume go by.”
She felt her body laid out and smooth onto the top of the bed.
“But first things first, let's get you used to being worn again.”
When her owner bunched her to the toe and slid her on, the memory of being worn flooded back to her. This was her purpose. This was her reason for existing.
“I have a job interview today, and well, honestly, you're the best pair of black pantyhose I have. And you're the only pair I can trust not to get a ladder or stretch out of shape.”
As she spoke, her owner slipped her over her other leg, smoothing her nylon skin over her owner's pale, warm, fragrant, freshly shaved legs.
“I wish I had ten more pairs just like you actually.”
Her owner stood up and pulled the panty part into place.
“I wonder what you thought about all that time. I wonder if you missed me at all, or if you were just fuming at what I had done to you.”
“Oh, I didn't tell you what job. It's a receptionist position at a printing firm in town. I'm supposed to dress up so I figure you'll get to go with me to work all the time if I get the job. I just hope I've struck the right balance between sexy and professional.”
Her owner pushed one foot then the others into a pair of black patent pumps.
“Won't that be fun, huh?”
She grabbed her purse and a light gray coat and walked over the flip off the light.
“I'll tell you what. You help me get this job, and I'll let you celebrate by giving Chad another foot job tonight.”
Delia refocused at the mention of her owner's boyfriend's name. If her primary use was for her owner, then her other uses when it came to entertaining her boyfriend must be equally important. And if they mattered to her owner, then they mattered to her.
In the car on the way downtown, her owner chatted the whole way, filling in all kinds of details of the time she had spent inside the box.
“The Dean did a locator spell and found that you were still somewhere on campus, but she couldn't identify where, no doubt because of the naturalization spell throwing off her looking for a hidden or trapped human, not a pair of pantyhose that is trying to deny its humanity.
“So, anyway, they know you're safe on campus, and they've still got alert spells up all over campus if you trigger them. But because they're not concerned about your well-being anymore, they're not actively looking anymore. For the time being, you've become one of the cautionary tales for students getting in mischief.
“I'm sure, by the time a few new classes arrive and I've moved on, you'll eventually get relegated to a campus urban legend and most people won't believe your ever really existed at all—or even care really.”
Her owner adjust the air to make it cooler in the front seat.
“So, how 'bout that? You're going to be famous on campus eventually. Everybody will thing you're imaginary, but still you'll be famous. The only question for me is if I'm going to keep you forever and ever or swap you out with one of the other girls, or maybe secretly pass you down to an incoming student and let you stay here on campus for another few years.
The car stopped suddenly.
“Sorry. Red light all the sudden.”
Then her owner laughed.
“Why am I apologizing to you? What do you care?” she waited for the light to turn green then took off again. “Oh, and while you were resting under my bed, I did a bit more research into the compounding of our two spells. I even checked in on the dark web to see if anyone had any real experience with it. Turns out, several people have.
“Anyway, they said, best case for you, you retain your memories and identity as Delia, but your gradually lose your will to continue to be Delia. You'll never reach the state where you are just a pair of pantyhose without identity and without thoughts, but you'll focus those thoughts and that identity more and more on being a pair of pantyhose.
“I thought that irony was so awesome.
“You'll be a real girl who wants to forget about being a real girl and just wants to be the best, most natural pair of pantyhose you can be. Isn't that just hilarious?”
Delia listened, but she was far too wrapped up in the sensations of being filled by her owner again. She was far too intent on taking on her owner's scents, on tasting her owner's skin. She was useful again. She had purpose.
“They even taught me a new spell to help you make that transition more easily.”
Delia let the hum of her owner's words wash over her. Ultimately they didn't matter. She wasn't on her owner's legs for good conversation. She was there to make them look nice and to help her be beautiful.
“It's called a suppression spell, and I've got it synced up with a pendant I bound it too.”
She reached inside her purse and retreived a gold chain with an emerald stone held in a gold setting.
“When I put this own, it uses my body as a conduit to activate the suppression spell. Then the magick travels through my skin to find you on me, and it suppresses some of your senses. The regular spell takes away all the senses and leaves you with only memories but now way to interact with the world. I wanted you to be able to interact a little, so I tweaked the spell so that you'd only lose your vision and your hearing. You'll still have your sense of touch and smell and taste, but those will be the only way you can try to figure out what I'm doing and where I am.”
She placed the pendant in the empty passenger seat.
Delia heard the words but she didn't really care. See. Not see. Hear. Not hear. All she needed was her owner. And whatever her owner wanted to do with her was fine.
Just please use her.
Don't hide her away again in the darkness.
Unless that is what she wanted, of course.
“What do you say?” her owner asked as she braked at another traffic light. “Give it a shot?”
She reached across the seat and grabbed the pendant, then slipped it over her neck. Instantly, Delia felt a wave of magickal energy wash through her. Her ability to see vanished, leaving her world black. No, not even black, it was the absense of any sort of visual input. Black was a color. She could still process black from her memories. This was something different. This was... nothing. And emptiness where there had once been sight.
Her hearing vanished as well. Her world was suddenly silent.
There was only the warmth of being filled by her owner's legs and hips and ass, the cool leather of the car seat, and breeze from the air conditioner, and the taste of her owner's fragrant legs, and the lingering scent of the shave gel permeating her stretchy body.
Those were her only sensations, her only truths for a long while. Then, suddenly, the felt the car stop and the vibrations of the engine stopped as well. Then the cool air around her disappeared and grew muggy and moist and warm. Her owners legs started to glisten with the barest beginning of perspiration and she drank it all up into herself as quickly as she formed. There was the constant pressure of being bounced against the insoles of her owner's pumps, the padded insides squeezing her as she was buried deep into the pointed toes of the high-heeled dress shoes.
Then, as suddenly as it started, there was stillness again.
Her owner was sitting, it seemed, bouncing one leg on the other.
The air was cool again. The vibrations of something pulsed against her sensitive nylon skin.
Music? Was she actually able to feel music in an office?
Before she could focus on her new ability, her owner rose and walked somewhere else, as she was again pressed into the sharp toes of the shoes. Then her owner sat again and crossed her legs.
She waited for a long time before her owner rose and left the office, judging by the pounding of the steps and the change in temperature. She found herself outside again, taking in the perspiration from her owner's legs, then once again in the car.
Heavy vibrations pulsed against her legs again, and she figured her owner had cranked the radio up loud. Hopefully that was a good sign. Hopefully that meant she was happy about getting the job.
But if she did or didn't, nothing would change for Delia, she knew. Whether she was worn to school or to work or to a date, the experience was the same. The purpose was the same.
The afternoon brought a slew of new sensations as she learned to use her three remaining senses to take in the world around her. Without sight or sound, it was a new environment. All guesswork, no knowing, not that she should know. She was mere property, no longer even a true part of her owner's world.
She remained that way until she felt her body being peeled away from her owner's legs. She was soaked again, both at feet and crotch after her owner had used her for masturbate her boyfriend.
Only when she was totally removed from her owner's body did she see that she was once again in her owner's room. The boyfriend tossed her onto the floor and returned to the bed and cuddled beside her owner.
“That always feels so good, but man do those things get messy.”
“You think that's messy,” her owner asked.
“Yeah, I do.”
Her owner got out of bed and picked her up off the floor, and the touch, her sight and sound vanished again.
“Wait till you see how gross they get after this.”
Then she wrapped Delia's sticky, wet body in a wad around the boyfriend's softening manhood. She rubbed Delia up and down his shaft, and as she did, the cock responded by stiffening. When at last he twitched in such a way Delia knew he was about to cum, her owner jerked up the shaft and bunched her all over the head of his cock.
He exploded into the ball of nylon that was Delia and her owner wiped her over his sticky tip, cleaning him as he emptied his balls into the silky, cramped, sticky, crumbled rag Delia had become. When he finally sputtered his last spurt, Delia was used to wipe clean the boyfriend's balls, shaft, and tip.
“Whoa...” he said.
“I know, right?” she said.
She reached out playfully as it to rub Delia in his face, then laughed and tossed her into the floor. The cum-soaked wad she had become was still stuck together in a sort of ball and she rolled from where she landed and stopped when she hit the wall beside the dresser.
Somehow, she had stayed aware during it all. As her owner and her owners boyfriend slept through the night, Delia lay in a hardening ball of cum and sweat and nylon on the floor, feeling proud of herself, knowing she had done a good job for her owner.
Part 5
There was the group coven costume with Becky, Lydia, and Mindy for the contest of the dance club downtown. Even though they didn't win, the night had been filled with new sensations for Delia. Her owner had once again worn the pendant, so her experience had been suppressed to just her ability to touch, smell, and taste.
Truth be told, Delia was starting to welcome those times more and more. It was only those times when she was most truly the pair of pantyhose she knew she needed to be, she new she could never truly be. There was still too much Delia left in her.
But she could simply just enjoy the times without the sight and sound of human interaction and just feel useful and beautiful and part of her owner's world.
She was ignored.
She was not important.
But she was doing her job right if she was making her owner's ass and legs so sexy that people just couldn't resist touching her.
She would have smiled if she could have.
That morning, when she was able to see and hear again, she realized that her owner had slept in her and hadn't removed the pendant during the night. She only took the charm (and her pantyhose) off to go shower, and then dressed in her costume for the campus party down at their big brothers' fraternity house.
Delia loved how sexy they both looked in the Playboy bunny costume and blonde wig. Delia felt proud of the way her fibers caught the light and gave her owner's legs a shiny glow under even the inside light. She even twinged with pride at the way her toes were crushed into the sharp point of the high-heeled pumps her owner had crammed her into.
That afternoon and well into the night, she spent her time cut off from the world of human men and women and understood the passage of time and place only by the ways the temperature changed, the environment infiltrated her body, and the flavor of cigarettes and alcohol in the air.
She measured the kind of people her owner was hanging out with by the various ways she was touched. Earlier in the day, the touches had been slight, being brushed again, maybe a short-lived pressure on a knee or top of a thigh, the kind of ways friends might touch each other. As the day went on she obviously had found the boyfriend. She was groped and squeezed hard, lifted and rubbed against what must have been his jeans, juding by the rough material that drew against her and pulled her between her owner's legs and the boyfriend's force. They were obviously making out.
A while later, there was a walk outside. She had learned to read the cool air as evidence of outside, though she never could form any clear idea of where outside she might be. After the cool air, she entered another building, still cold, but without the breeze she had felt in the openness outside. More walking, and then she in a warmer room that smelled of boy.
Delia recognized the scent immediately as that of the boyfriend. She had been there before, had been filled with the room's odor before, and until it had been washed out of her, she had felt it was a part of her very being—at least for a few days.
But rather than more groping and grinding, and terrible, terrific friction between owner and boyfriend, there was only the soft cotten covers of the sofa against the back of her thighs.
And there she remained for what felt like forever, taking in her owner's taste and scent and enjoying the act of being stretched to full by her owner's legs, hips, and ass, only occasionally feeling the warmth of the boyfriend's hand.
Eventually there was a flurry of motion, and she was again outside, moving at a much brisker pace than before. The steps pounded with heaviness.
There was a sudden rush of air, like she was being fanned or a door slamming. Her toes were freed from the pumps, then she felt the bunny costume slid down her legs there was only herself and her owner's legs. Then she noticed the tug at her waistband as she too was being peeled off her owner's skin, pushed down her legs and finally pulled off her toes.
Her owner must still be holding her, because she was still blind and deaf. She felt her body bunched and pressed against a shape she hadn't been before. Wiped over it. Smushed into it.
There was salty wetness soaking into her body.
Tears?
What had happened between her owner and the boyfriend?
She was briefly dropped on the bed, and her human senses all returned.
“Fuck him!” her owner yelled. “Fuck him.”
Then she returned to just being an item of clothing when her owner grabbed her again and wiped away her tears. There was another rush of air and then Delia felt crushed between her owners hands, her owner's face, and the top of the bedspread.
After a while, there was nothing, and she waiting for hours as the pressure never went away, even though the crying stopped.
She didn't know how many alarms her owner had slept through, but when she did finally notice that she was moving again, she was quickly filled up and stretched out again, so it must have been late enough for her owner to skip a shower that morning.
All the more of her owner's scent to overpower her and make her truly owned.
Her feet and lower legs were pushed into a rough sort of shoe, coarse and grabby against her tender nylon skin. The material had a leather odor, like boots left in a closet for several months. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she had been partially hidden away in a pair of Western boots—unlike the smooth lining of her owners fancy, dressy boots.
Whispy, soft, almost fluffy material brushed against the front and back of her thighs, and she was free to feel the air that might blow under her owner's loose dress or skirt this time, instead of being constrained by the usual tight skirt, shorts, or pants. Not a typical look for her owner, but it would bring all kinds of new experiences to Delia.
She spent the day mostly taking in the cool Fall air, losing herself in the strong leather smell inside the boots, and catching the ocassional whisp of the dress against her as her owner walked from class to class.
After classes, she felt the smooth leather against her and she assumed her owner must be on the way to work again. A quick walk and then the pressure of the mess receptionist chair confirmed her guess. Her owner spent most of the shift just crossing and uncrossing and recrossing her legs—at least from Delia's perspective. Sometimes she'd bounce her leg playfully and gently stroke the side of her thigh, but Delia wasn't sure if that was for her entertainment of just because her owner had an itch that needed attention.
When the shift was done, the woman who might never be more than just a pair of pantyhose returned to the outside air and then to the leather car seat and then after a short drive.
Short, because the trip ended with a jolt that pushed Delia's frail body against something hard and unforgiving. If the spell hadn't made her indestructible, she was sure she would have torn –or worse, ripped wide open! After the pounding and shaking, her world grew still again.
She waited.
Her patience was award with the odor of iron. Then the thick wetness of something soaking into and through her, dripping off her into... the air? The seat? No, she could no longer feel the leather cushions against her. Just her owner's legs.
And her owner's...
Blood.
Her owner had crashed the car.
What was left of her mind raced. Was her owner okay? What she even alive? And if she was, would anyone find her in time to make sure she stayed that way.
Only after those thoughts did she remember how the death of her owner might affect her. She didn't exist anymore, not as Delia anyway. If her owner was hurt, what would happen to her? Didn't hospital's throw away bloody cloths as contaminants and dangerous bodily fluids? Would that be her fate? After all, they didn't know she was unbreakable, that she was protected even from all the juices and liquids her owner could excrete.
In the end, the EMTs must have just loaded her owner into the ambulance without caring about her owner's outfit. Delia's only awareness of the entire encounter was a rapid flash of movement and pressure and her owner's body being lifted, then a long period of lying still and feeling only cotton beneath and on top of her, and then another hustle and bustle of movement and being raced along what she guessed was a hospital hallway on a gurney.
She was only able to see for a moment, when she was finally taken off her owner, before being shoved into a dark plastic bag along with the dress, panties, bra, and boots, then it was tied shut and dropped heavily into what she guessed must be an emergency room closet.
There, wadded at the bottom of the bag beneath the other clothes and shut away in the darkness of the closet, she realized that her sight and sound, while functioning, might as well be gone again for all the good it did her. All the voices sounded like mumbling. Only the loud, high-pitched beeping of machines cut through enough for her to clearly understand it.
Part 6
When Delia once again felt movement, she was the bag being lifted out of the closet, but say nothing. She did, however, recognize Becky's voice. Apparently the girls were done with their visit and were leaving her ower to rest.
“When you can leave, we left you some of your things in the top of the closet,” the girl said.
“Thanks,” her owner had said, barely strong enough for Delia to hear her through the bag and bundle of cloth.
“And we'll take care of these gross things from the wreck.”
“Thanks.”
“We'll wash what we can, but I can already tell you that dress got ragged out, so we'll just toss that. We'll check everything out though.”
“I appreciate it,” said her owner.
“God, these are fucking gross,” Becky said as she lifted Delia out of the bag back in the sorrority house. “Yee-uuuuch.”
She dropped the blood-crusted pantyhose onto the floor on top of the rest of the clothes. She picked up the boots.
“I can polish the blood off these,” she mumbled.
She grabbed the dress next and immediately started a new pile with it.
“Trash,” she said and made a face at the torn garment.
The bra was next. She cocked her head to the side and then back again.
“That'll wash. It hardly got any blood on it.”
Then the panties. They were stained just like Delia.”
Becky tossed them on top of the bar.
“We'll see. If they still have stains after washing, then those are trash too.”
Finally, Delia found herself in Becky's grip.
“Oooh, these are really, really bad. Super icky.”
She dug through the dried wad and found the waistband and let the filthy legs dangle free.
“Holy shit,” Becky said. “There's not a single tear. This shit should be full of runs and rips.”
She stood up and shook Delia's flimsy body and then carried her over to the window to let the light shine through her and reveal any small or subtle damage.
“Wow. Not a goddamn thing wrong with them.” Becky turned her around, still holding her up to the sunlight. “Except for smelling like shit and being caked in dried blood.”
She tossed Delia into the pile with the bra and panties.
“Well, let's see how clean you get. Sadly, I'm gonna have to use a pretty high-test cleaner, so I guess if you can survive that, I might be able to save you too.”
Delia was gathered up with the other bloody underwear and taken down the hallway to th laundry room. Then Becky dropped her inside the washer and added a strong smelling, coarse, gritty powder, that smelled like the inside of an emergency room—very antiseptic and almost like amonia.
Nothing like the floral liquid her owner typically used to wash her.
Becky let the lid slam and then turned on the machine.
With such a small load, and such a dirty load, the pressure was almost unbearable. Delia was pulled and jerked and twisted and all but ripped apart by the motion, and she hated the new smell the powerful detergent was giving her.
She was supposed to smell like her owner.
With new soap all soaked into her, she smelled generic, almost like a new pair of nylons fresh out of the pack.
She felt like she suddenly didn't belong to anyone at all.
Her owner was in the hospital for god knows how long. And she was temporarily in the care of her owner's friend.
She was left overnight, and in the morning Becky check on her and her 'roommates' without really smelling of looking to see how clean they were. Instead she added another cup of the heavy-duty powder and turned the machine on again.
Delia spent the next indeterminable period of time at the mercy of the torturous press of the machine's drum and motor.
When it finally stopped, she realized she was pinned at the bottom of the drum, wrapped up between the cups of the bra and through one open leg of the panties.
And there she waited until after classes were done and Becky returned to retrieve her from the washing machine. This time, she actually examined the clothes, starting with the panties, after extricating Delia from them.
She shook her head. “Too bad. Those stains will never come out of that pink.” Then she tossed them into the large trash can beside the door.
“And now for you,” she said, returning to the top of the dryer, where she had put the clothes, and lifting the bra. “Just like I thought. I figured you'd come through with flying colors.”
She folded the bra and returned it to the top of the dryer neatly.
“Let's take a look at you,” she said, holding up Delia by the waistband and letting her sway freely. “Looks like all the dried blood broke up and got clean.”
She opened the waistband and put her hand inside Delia's right leg, all the way up to the toes.
“Wet still, but not crusty.”
She took out the arm, and then checked the other leg.
“Wow,” she said. “You're like new.”
Becky stretched her across her hand, gazing through the sheer material Delia had become.
“I'll be damned.”
She put the hand up to her nose and sniffed.
“Clean. Fresh.”
She rubbed her face with Delia's body.
“Smooth and silky, just like new. I can't fucking believe it.”
The pulled Delia off her hand, gently rolled her into a loose fold and lay her on top of the bra. Then she lifted them both from the top of the dryer and carried them into the hallway.
“Time to hang you up,” she said.
She carried them not to Delia's owner's room but past her door and around the corner to another room. She pushed the door open and inside Delia saw two twin beds and a room that was as immaculate at her owner's was messy. Both beds were made. Nothing was on the floor except the furniture and two backpacks for school books and supplies. The room even smelled like a lilac spray.
Then Delia waited again as Becky hummed along to the radio as she got ready for work. She put on a pair of tan slacks and a pullover shirt with the Thompson-Smithwick Paints on the chest. When she left, she closed the door behind her.
Her roommate, Lydia arrived in a few hours. Thanks for her vision now that she was free of any contact (through her owner) of the suppressing pendant, she could watch the clock on the nightstand between the two beds. She watched as Lydia peeled out of her sweats and track shoes, and then went to get a shower.
She returned wrapped in a towel and then replaced that with an oversized t-shirt and pulled down her covers and climbed into bed.
Through it all, Delia waited, gradually drying out in the lilac-scented air.
Both girls got up at the first ringing of the alarm.
“Did you call Leslie yesterday?” Becky asked Lydia as they sat facing each other.
Lydia shook her head.
“Call her today. She's still hurting from the wreck, and she's bummed she can't come back to school yet.”
“Back to school? Right.”
“Well, back to the house anyway.”
They laughed.
“Anyway,” Becky said, “I'm gonna grab my shower.”
“Cool. I'll get mine after you.”
And Becky left. While she was gone, Lydia dug through her closet and choice a yellow blouse and a pair of black courderoy shorts. She put the outfit on top of the dowel rack, partially covering Delia's now dry form as she hung limply in the corner.
When Becky returned, Lydia grabbed panties and a bra and headed off the to the shower.
Becky put on a pair of jeans and a blue sweater, then some socks and her All-Stars and left for class.
When Lydia returned, she dried her hair, then slipped her arms into the blouse and left it unbuttoned in the front for the time being. She then grabbed the shorts and stared at them. She glanced at Delia then at the shorts again and smiled.
“Perfect,” she said. “And Becky doesn't care if I borrow her nylons as long as I wash them afterwards.”
She stretched Delia more than she had been stretched on her owner's legs. And the new girl's smell was different too. Less floral and more citrus. They obviously used different bath gels.
“Nice,” Lydia said. “And they look awesome.”
She smoothed the material over her feet, then calves, then knees, thighs, and finally pelvis, then snapped the waistband into place gently.
“I'll have to find out when Becky got these. They're awesome.”
She buttoned her blouse, then stepped into the courderoy shorts and tucked in the bottom flaps of the shirt. Next came a pair of black ankle socks and then a pair of flat, brown leather, lace-up boots. She gave the outfit a spin in the mirror, and grinned.
“Damn, girl,” she said, twirling a second time. “You look good.”
Truth be told, Delia thought, she did. As a pair of glossy, black pantyhose, Delia had to admit that she really did make Lydia look fantastic—particularly from the waist down.
The new girl grabbed an oversized purse and opened it. Then she pulled out a piece of jewelry—the suppression pendant!
“I don't suppose Leslie will mind me borrowing this while she recovers. “It does look great with my skin color.”
She dropped the pendant over her head and neck Delia's world was reduced to that of little more than regular pair of pantyhose for the first time in several days. At first, the sudden change frightened her, but she relaxed her mind and tried to remember how welcoming the simple pleasure of just existing, just being what she had become, hust how enabling and fulfilling that actually had been.
Whatever happened until her owner returned, whatever happened while she was temporarily the property of the new girl, that was a whole new world for her. The new girl had no idea she was alive, nor did she care. While her owner knew she was special, the new girl did not.
And that would make all the difference in the days to come, Delia was sure of that.
Not that it would matter.
As long as she fulfilled her purpose.
The new girl wore her all day and long into the night. After a few hours she had become one with the new girl's scents and tastes. They had become a part of her just like her owner's scents and tastes had. It was surprising how quickly and easily her body was made to feel at home on the new girl's legs and ass and hips, how readily she accepted the thicker legs, the wider hips, and the more bubbled ass the new girl possessed. It amazed Delia how quickly she felt at home on the new girl and how she had already started to forget the sensations of her previous owner, becoming enraptured by the new sensations of being worn my the new girl.
Eventually, and there was no way of telling the number of hours, she felt the girl sit down on the softness of what she could only assume was a sofa or large chair. The soft warmth of a hand rested on her, then gently rubbed her calves. Delia had no idea who the new girl was dating, only that whomever it was, he was giving her wonderul attention.
The girl repositioned and the hands gripped her left foot. It massaged her toes, then the balls of her feet, then the instep, and Delia discovered the combination of both tenderness and pressure to be one of the most wonderful feelings she had experienced during her time in her new form.
There was no sight. No sound.
Just the constant attention to the new girl's feet—and by extension, her own.
Eventually, the massage ended and the hand left her, but it was replaced by a constant, heavier, all-over pressure that didn't move.
Her new girl must have fallen asleep from the busy day and the luxuriating foot rub. And her boyfriend must have fallen asleep on top of her.
In the morning, her sight and hearing returned when she was removed and laid across the boy's bed. The new girl and her boyfriend—some boy Delia didn't recognize from her memories prior to her transformation—both stripped naked and walked to the bathroom together. The sounds of the shower kept her distracted from wondering what the new day might hold for her.
She wondered how long they would be, and somewhere in her memory was the thought that she might transform back into the girl she used to be if they took long enough. The steam from the shower wafted into the room and she felt it continue through her to the bedspread, Other than the warm mist sifting through her nylon skin, nothing else happened.
After a while, the new girl and the boy emerged from the bathroom, both naked, still kissing. The girl slipped on a pair of zig-zag patterned panties and a plain white bra, both from yesterday's clothing.
“I'm stealing one of your shirts,” she said to the boy.
“Go ahead, probably looks better on you anyway,” he said.
“You know it does.”
She laughed. He leaned in to kiss her again.
Afterward, she opened his closet and grabbed a white dress shirt, slipped it on, then buttoned it halfway.
Then she took Delia from the bed and bunched her from waist to toe and then pulled the tights over her foot, ankles, calves, knees, and then thighs. She did the same with the other leg, then wiggled the waistband, panty, and gusset into place.
In spite of the voice deep in her thoughts, Delia felt complete again, needed, useful, beautiful.
“Here,” said the boy. “You left this two nights ago, so I washed it for you.” He held a black miniskirt that fluffed out like something a cheerleader might wear, but long enough to reach midthigh.
“Aw...” she cooed, then walked over and kissed him again.
She took the skirt from him and sat on the edge of the bed. She stepped into it and pulled it up, sliding it over Delia's smooth fibers and then standing up to get it in place on her hips and waist and then zip up the side.
Then she buttoned up the rest of the boy's shirt and tucked it partially into the skirt.
“Do you mind washing these too?” she asked, tilting her head toward the yellow shirt and courderoy shorts from the night before.
He nodded, and she kissed him again. Then, no socks this time, she stepped into the lace-up boots and pulled the strings tight against Delia's feet.
“Well, I'll see you after class,” she said, heading toward his door.
She stopped and walked back to the bathroom. It still smelled of soap and the lingering evidence of steam was still trapped on the mirror and windows. The new girl grabbed the pendant from the counter.
“Almost forgot this. I promised Leslie I'd hang onto it for her,” the girl lied.
She slipped it on, and Delia felt her world shift again, from awareness to mere existence.
Part 7
Delia awoke, or what passed for it in her state of letting her mind relax, and found herself in a pile with other hose and tights. She had been washed and hung dry the night before and then before bed, the new girl had put her in a pile in the floor with what must have been every other pair of tights she owned.
Regardless, she had returned to awareness with her “sisters” listening to the new girl and the roommate as they separated the hose colors and types.
“Isn't colors enough?” the new girl asked.
“Used to be,” the roommate said. “But I also like to sort them by sheen, you know, every day versus dressy, and by season, you know winter tights separate from the thin ones.”
“You're weird,” said the new girl. “Oh, by the way, one of those black pairs is yours. I borrowed them yesterday from the rack. You don't mind, do you?”
The roommate shook her head. “I didn't have any on the rack. That must have been the pair from Leslie's accident.”
“Oh shit,” the new girl said. “No way. Wouldn't they be ripped up from the wreck?”
“That's what I thought too. But no, they were in perfect condition after I got all the blood washed out.”
“Weird.” the new girl said, then dropped her hands into her lap. “Oh shit. Do you think Leslie put some kind of spell on them to make them rip-proof? Would she even know how to do that?”
“I don't know. Maybe. She did snag a copy of the book of forbidden spells.”
“I can't imagine a spell to protect pantyhose being forbidden exactly.”
“Like I said, I don't know.” The roommate grabbed a pair of basic nude hose from the pile and carefully folded them into a square about 3 inches on each side. Then she pushed them into a small plastic lunch bag, and set the bag off to the side after zipping it closed.
“I can't believe you put each pair in a bag. Like I said, weird.”
“It keeps them clean and smooth.” She started to fold another nude pair, this one with a shiny finish. “And shiny. Well, shinier. I don't know why, but trust me. I've done this for years, and I swear by it.”
“Fine. I said I'd help.”
“Oh,” the roommate said and scrunched up her mouth in thought. “Do you remember which pair that was you took from the rod?”
Considering there were at least five other pairs of black tights in the pile with Delia, it wasn't surprising the new girl answered “No.”
“Okay,” she added though. “They weren't thick tights, so it's not these two,” she said as she pulled two pairs of winter tights out of the pile. She folded one, then the other, and then put them both away in separate bags.
“That just leaves these four,” the roommate said. “And if I remember correctly, they were shiny, so it wouldn't be this pair.” As she spoke, she pair of dull black hose that bordered on dark gray and folded them and put them into a baggie.
“So,” said the new girl. “Just these three left. And honestly, I have no idea. It could be any of them. Does it really matter anyway? Can't we just give any of them back to Leslie?”
“Well, sure,” the roommate said. “But I'd prefer to give her back her own clothes, you know. Anyway, I can help narrow it down a little bit more.”
She pulled each of the three remaining pairs from the pile and checked the toes of all of them.
“A-ha,” she said after inspecting the third pair. “This one is mine. It has a stain on the toe from when I stepped out of my shoe and got wet grass stains on it a few months ago after one of the games.”
“Well,” the new girl said. “That just leaves these last two.”
They lifted both from the floor and then laid them across the top of the bed. They stood a few feet away, studying both Delia and her “sister” from several angles. They picked each pair up and stretched them slightly. In the end, they sighed and shook their heads.
“Hell,” said the new girl, “I just can't tell a difference.”
The roommate sniffed each pair, starting with Delia. Then she returned them both to the bed. “Me neither. There's not even enough residual blood smell left to help differentiate them.”
“One, you're weird. And two, how the hell do you know what blood smells like.”
“I'm the one who washed them, that's why.”
“Oh,” said the new girl. “Yeah.”
“Well, shit,” said the roommate. She pointed at the pair that had never been a living girl. “Eeny,” she started, then pointed at the Delia as she continued. “Meeny, Miny, Moe.” The finger went back and forth. “Catch a tiger by the toe. If you hollers, let him go.” The finger rested on Delia.
It was decided. She was going to return to her owner after all.
“My mother told me to pick the very best one and you are not...” the roommate continued. The finger pointed at Delia's competition. “...it.”
On “it” the finger had settled on Delia.
“God, you're weird,” said the new girl as she started to fold a pair of yellow tights and slip them into a baggie.
Delia was quickly folded and put on the floor with the other baggies of stockings.
When the pile was gone and all the nylons were packed away in plastic bags, the new girl excused herself and left the roommate to sort them all into the drawer by color and style. As Delia herself went into the drawer, she could see the colorful, organized look of the drawer, and she felt a tinge of pride as how easily she would be found and how beautiful her shiny body could make any girl compared to the dull nudes and the powdery gray and thick, patterned winter tights who would be her neighbors in the dresser.
Several other pair were squeezed in around her, and soon she felt her bag squished as flat as possible as the drawer filled with tights and hose. Just how many pair did the roommate have, Delia wondered. And if she owned that many, then how often could Delia actually look forward to being worn and used and beautiful? Or would that mean she would mostly remain trapped in the dresser and pretty much forgotten since she was categorized as “shiny” and for “dressy” ocassions?
And when her owner returned from the hospital eventually, would she even be able to realize the mix-up? Would she know that the pantyhose in her drawer wasn't Delia at all, just an imitation? Would the lucky pair of hose that was going to her owner's room even worth the attention—good and bad—it would get, as long as her owner thought it was her.
When the drawer was finally filled and shut, Delia spent a long time in the dark. Her ability to hear was gone too thanks to the plastic baggie cutting out some of the sound and being crammed into the drawer and packed in with so many others like her silencing the rest of any noise she might have otherwise heard. There was little more than the constant pressure of her own skin and the plastic bag pushing against her.
No scents or tastes other than the light detergent she had been washed in.
She was alone.
Utterly alone in a drawer filled with the roommate's other nylons.
All of them alone.
All of them isolated from each other.
All of them isolated from the girl who might one day choose to wear them.
After an indeterminable time, light returned to her world as the drawer was opened, and the girl's fingers scrolled through the bags, touched hers, then flittered past and retrieved a pair of bring yellow tights. Then the drawer was closed again.
For another long time.
During the wait, she tried to wrap her mind around the idea that she had a new owner, that not only was her life as Delia a thing of the past, but also her life as something that belongs to her previous owner. She was a thing, or at least that's what she longed more and more to be, and things changed owners.
So she had.
The notion of new owner and old owner meant nothing really. Not to the thing owned. She had no say. She had no will other than to be worn.
Time had ceased to mean anything when she was in the drawer. While being worn seemed to end far too soon, being alone in the dark seemed to never end.
In the all-encompassing scent of detergent that was her world, she tried to remember the way her owner's legs tasted when they filled her up. But even that was fading, lost in the sterile and isolating plastic bag.
When at last she was chosen from the drawer, she welcomed the light and the rush of stale bedroom air that entered her open bag.
“Can you believe it's been six months?” her owner said to the telephone on the bed.
“I know, right?” came the female voice through the speaker. “I can't wait to celebrate with you tonight.”
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