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Description
A story that got a little dark the more I wrote.

-

Being just tights was really taking it out of Roger. It started innocently enough, intended to spice things up between he and his wife. He was willing to be turned into her tights and she would wear him to work, just like any other piece of clothing. The thought that he would be there, helpless, pressed so close to her gave them both a sexual thrill and they relished it.

He drank down the bottle of thick, black liquid, gagging slightly at the taste as he sat back on his bed, feeling his arms and legs beginning to go limp, his torso flopping backwards as his eyesight focused on the ceiling.
His whole body was reducing, thinning, becoming more and more flimsy, his feeble attempts at moving an arm resulting in barely any movement at all, like a firm gust of wind had picked at the edges of his nylon skin. His features were darkening and becoming more uniform until all that was left was a pair of navy, opaque tights.

As soon as his body finished changing he felt different, his lack of a human form felt so alien, he began to feel detatched from who he was but, since tights can't talk, he was in for the ride.

Susie, his wife, picked him up and pulled him slowly up her shapely legs, savouring how soft and smooth he felt, how he masked any blotches in her legs and left them looking so uniform and perfect. She smoothed the material that used to be her husband out, pinching and pulling him tight and adjusting his thicker waistband, ensuring the crotch of the material was pressed tight against her dampening pussy. Just the thought that she was wearing her husband was giving her such an erotic thrill, she could barely stop herself from teasing herself through his nylon fibres, wondering how he must feel.

He on the other hand felt as if he were on a rollercoaster, he felt so full and warm, his wife was giving him shape, like a pair of full, silky legs unable to do anything but be a passenger on this helpless ride. Every movement she made was completely out of his control and he felt every bit of it, he wasn't just feeling the smooth material rubbing against each other, he WAS the smooth material, his own form caressing past itself with every tantalising step!

Taking stock of his new situation, he thought back to how he was before he gave it all up, drinking the potion just for the sexual thrill, memories he found oddly difficult to grasp... He was... He was a man before... His wife, she always called him... Rog... Roter? Roghts? He tried, harder and harder, clenching his nylon seams as hard as he could, feeling her toes wiggling as he exerted himself to no use. Tights! That was it. She always called him tights. Her tights. Her blue, opaque, 80 denier tights. Of course she never used his FULL name, that would be a mouthful, but tights was his name and it did the job just fine.

More and more he thought about the life he had to go back to.. working in a… with a… wrapping… that was it! Wrapping himself around her legs around the office, watching her dangle her heels tantalisingly close to his nylon seam as he gently compresses her legs, her office mates in the cubicle next door dressed similarly. Keeping her company to lunch as she idly fiddles with her skirt hem, her nails teasing against his nylon form…

More and more something felt wrong but he couldn’t quite put his fingers… no… fibres on it. He thought back to how he would take care of himself, washing himself in the shower… no… washing machine, his formless shell tossed around by the washer, kept safe within the confines of the laundry bag he was secured in. Something couldn’t be wrong.. he’d only been washed recently, he was fresh and clean, ready to look his best!

And finally.. his thoughts turned to his wife, her hands running up and down his silken body, her voice talking to him, just like he was a person, her movements around an empty bottle of black liquid… The old Roger would have heard her talking about there being no way to reverse the changes, but tights didn’t understand. Tights was just clothing, only there to make his owner look beautiful. And as she continued to stroke him against her gray skirt, he knew he was doing a fantastic job.

Description
A story that got a little dark the more I wrote.

-

Being just tights was really taking it out of Roger. It started innocently enough, intended to spice things up between he and his wife. He was willing to be turned into her tights and she would wear him to work, just like any other piece of clothing. The thought that he would be there, helpless, pressed so close to her gave them both a sexual thrill and they relished it.

He drank down the bottle of thick, black liquid, gagging slightly at the taste as he sat back on his bed, feeling his arms and legs beginning to go limp, his torso flopping backwards as his eyesight focused on the ceiling.
His whole body was reducing, thinning, becoming more and more flimsy, his feeble attempts at moving an arm resulting in barely any movement at all, like a firm gust of wind had picked at the edges of his nylon skin. His features were darkening and becoming more uniform until all that was left was a pair of navy, opaque tights.

As soon as his body finished changing he felt different, his lack of a human form felt so alien, he began to feel detatched from who he was but, since tights can't talk, he was in for the ride.

Susie, his wife, picked him up and pulled him slowly up her shapely legs, savouring how soft and smooth he felt, how he masked any blotches in her legs and left them looking so uniform and perfect. She smoothed the material that used to be her husband out, pinching and pulling him tight and adjusting his thicker waistband, ensuring the crotch of the material was pressed tight against her dampening pussy. Just the thought that she was wearing her husband was giving her such an erotic thrill, she could barely stop herself from teasing herself through his nylon fibres, wondering how he must feel.

He on the other hand felt as if he were on a rollercoaster, he felt so full and warm, his wife was giving him shape, like a pair of full, silky legs unable to do anything but be a passenger on this helpless ride. Every movement she made was completely out of his control and he felt every bit of it, he wasn't just feeling the smooth material rubbing against each other, he WAS the smooth material, his own form caressing past itself with every tantalising step!

Taking stock of his new situation, he thought back to how he was before he gave it all up, drinking the potion just for the sexual thrill, memories he found oddly difficult to grasp... He was... He was a man before... His wife, she always called him... Rog... Roter? Roghts? He tried, harder and harder, clenching his nylon seams as hard as he could, feeling her toes wiggling as he exerted himself to no use. Tights! That was it. She always called him tights. Her tights. Her blue, opaque, 80 denier tights. Of course she never used his FULL name, that would be a mouthful, but tights was his name and it did the job just fine.

More and more he thought about the life he had to go back to.. working in a… with a… wrapping… that was it! Wrapping himself around her legs around the office, watching her dangle her heels tantalisingly close to his nylon seam as he gently compresses her legs, her office mates in the cubicle next door dressed similarly. Keeping her company to lunch as she idly fiddles with her skirt hem, her nails teasing against his nylon form…

More and more something felt wrong but he couldn’t quite put his fingers… no… fibres on it. He thought back to how he would take care of himself, washing himself in the shower… no… washing machine, his formless shell tossed around by the washer, kept safe within the confines of the laundry bag he was secured in. Something couldn’t be wrong.. he’d only been washed recently, he was fresh and clean, ready to look his best!

And finally.. his thoughts turned to his wife, her hands running up and down his silken body, her voice talking to him, just like he was a person, her movements around an empty bottle of black liquid… The old Roger would have heard her talking about there being no way to reverse the changes, but tights didn’t understand. Tights was just clothing, only there to make his owner look beautiful. And as she continued to stroke him against her gray skirt, he knew he was doing a fantastic job.