Assimilation Of The Nylonians
My name is Adrian Santoro. I am the governor of Arizona and after two blistering months of presidential primaries, I was in a dead heat with Senator Rachel Nelson of Iowa. She and I had separated as undisputed frontrunners. A week out from the political colossus that was Super Tuesday, Senator Nelson proposed a joint televised town hall in Texas, a state as crucial as it was hotly contested, I readily agreed, seeing it as a chance to finally land a decisive blow, to cut through the… strangeness that clung to Nelson’s campaign.
That strangeness, I mused, revolved around two things: Nelson’s unapologetic lean into her femininity, and nylon.
I’d initially dismissed her campaign slogan."Nylon will replace War, hate and pain with peace, love and pleasure!" – as an esoteric, perhaps pandering, attempt to connect with a specific demographic. Off-the-rails, I thought, isolating to men. Yet, the numbers told a different story. Both men and women, in increasing droves, resonated with it. More disturbingly still, masses of her supporters, particularly women, showed up to rallies openly wearing pantyhose. I had seen glimpses on cable news clips, but living in Arizona, a state where nylon was more novelty than necessity, it hadn't fully registered.
Tonight, in a warm Texas studio packed to the rafters, it registered. The moment I stepped onto the stage, a palpable energy washed over me, a soft, almost imperceptible thrum that seemed to emanate from the audience. Nelson was already there, looking poised and serene in a tailored sapphire suit, her signature ivory hose peeking just above the hem of her skirt. The studio was a sea of legs draped in various shades and tones of hose. A silent, shimmering testament to Nelson's peculiar power. Usually steadfast and unflappable, I felt a sudden, uncharacteristic wave of disorientation.
As the town hall progressed, the crowd’s engagement was unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. When Nelson spoke, her voice a calm, melodic cadence, the hosed women in the audience would shift almost in unison, their heads subtly tilting, their hands moving with a synchronized grace that defied individual thought. And the men around them seemed to follow their lead, a quiet deference in their stance.
It wasn't just agreement; it was a physical manifestation of unity, a fluid, almost choreographed response that felt less like an audience and more like a single organism. My questions, crafted to expose the impracticality of Nelson's "nylon utopia," seemed to bounce off this collective consciousness, met with an unsettlingly blank, yet unified, rejection. I found myself stuttering, losing train of thought, my arguments feeling hollow in the face of such strange, unwavering devotion. The "sixth sense" I’d heard whispered in campaign circles suddenly felt terrifyingly real.
I left the stage feeling deflated, my confidence chipped away not by debate, but by an unsettling, almost supernatural, phenomenon.
Back in my dressing room, the stale air felt heavy, oppressive. I was still trying to process the town hall, the way the light had caught the sheen of a thousand hosed legs, the way Nelson’s gaze had seemed to encompass everyone, yet fixate on no one. There was a knock. A crisp, authoritative voice announced, "Governor Santoro, my name is Vickie James, from Senator Nelson's campaign. She asked me to deliver something.”
Still reeling, I allowed her in. Vickie James, I knew the name, Nelson’s chief strategist, a formidable force despite having no political presence prior to this campaign. Tonight, she was a striking figure in a sharp red skirted suit with black trim, black heels, and fiery red locks pulled into a severe, high ponytail. And of course, the black hose, stark against the red, shimmered in the fluorescent light. She moved with that same economical, fluid grace I’d observed in the audience, her eyes a bright, unblinking intelligence.
She handed me a thick, cream-colored envelope. "A personal message from the Senator," she stated, her voice devoid of inflection.
I tore it open. Inside, elegant script read:
Governor Santoro,
You have run an admirable campaign, showcasing a spirit and dedication few posses. However, it is time for me to focus on the larger prize. If you choose to bow out of the primaries now, I will name you as my running mate for the general election.
Sincerely, Rachel Nelson
I looked up, a dozen questions warring in my mind. "Does this offer have a time limit?" I asked with voice rougher than I intended.
Vickie’s lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "She'll allow you to see how Super Tuesday plays out, Governor. But she would like an answer by the end of the week, before Georgia."
I nodded curtly. “Understood.” Vickie gave another brief, almost militaristic nod and swept out, leaving behind a faint scent of something metallic and floral.
I was left to ponder the offer, a strange mix of insult and opportunity. Running mate? I was a frontrunner, not a consolation prize. Yet, the way the night had unfolded… the unsettling collective consciousness… what was Nelson truly building? And what was this "larger prize"?
The following days were a blur of nervous waiting, campaign calls, and a lingering sense of unease. On top of that, my wife, Lidia, informed me of trouble back home with Ariel, our rebellious teen daughter. “I can’t come home just yet,” I told her during a call between strategy meetings, “I’ll make a call to the headmaster in the morning?”
“I understand you are under a lot of pressure,” Lidia replied, a underlying point to her otherwise calm tone, “but you always say in your speeches that family is the cornerstone of our country.”
“You’re right,” I conceded with a heavy sigh, “I’ve done all I can on the trail for now. I can watch the super Tuesday results from home.”
Back at home, Ariel’s school crisis solved for the time being, Lidia and I invited my campaign manager, Clint, and a few other members of my team over to the house to watch the results. Lidia was a fine hostess, offering baked goods she’d prepared earlier to our guests while I did my part with large orders from Dominos.
The results began to trickle in, at first a slow drip, then a deluge, and finally, a tidal wave that washed away my remaining hopes. Seventy percent of the delegates went to Nelson. Thirty for me.
I stared at the numbers on the screen, a cold knot forming in my stomach. Seventy percent. It wasn't just a win; it was a coronation. A complete and utter domination. My phone buzzed with calls from other politicians and advisors who had not made the trip to my home. Their voices a mournful chorus urging me to concede. “Continuing,” a fellow governor stated, “will hurt the party in the general. Nelson’s approach is odd to be sure, but understand it or not, we need to capitalize on the momentum and ride it to the white house.”
“I’m sorry you lost daddy,” my newly reinstated daughter said over a call to me from boarding school. “You would have been a great president.”
“She knows I haven’t technically lost yet, right?” I asked Lidia after the last of our guests filed out.
“Lidia’s red lips curled into a smile as brushed her dark auburn locks away from her eyes. “With her grades, I’m not so sure she knows anything beyond what the TV tells her.”
I looked over to the TV, on mute, but the banners at the bottom said it all. “Santoro must concede.”
The TV blinked off and I felt the warm embrace of Lidia’s arms wrap around me from behind. “I’ll make you fee better,” she whispered in my ear as her left hand slid down my chest, un buckled my belt and reached down. Lidia’s warm hand grasped around my pulsing cock, I shifted, to face her, both of us stumbling out of our clothes and onto the couch. “You didn’t beat her my love, but you can take me.” Lidia’s words reverberated through my mind as I drove my shaft deep into her wet and wanting pussy. “Deeper, harder,” she demanded, “let it all out!”
“Yes...Yes...” is all I could muster between deep, heavy breaths and hard thrusts that jostled Lidia into the arm of the couch. In turn, she wrapped her legs around my back and pulled me deeper, her inviting sex pulsing and spasming tight on my shaft. She was close, I could feel it, so was I. With a few hard, final the we let out simultaneous release, our cries and moans filling the room. During that climactic moment with my wife, I saw with my mind’s eye a flash of Nelson, her long, silky ivory legs sitting across from me at the town hall, crossing, uncrossing. The image spurred a secondary release. Then, Lidia and I both passed out.
I woke hours later. Lidia was still there but had sifting away during sleep. I slowly moved off the couch and covered here with a blanket before heading to the kitchen. After downing some OJ, I slipped into some sorts and t-shirt, then went to my.
There, on the desk lay Nelson's offer. Something that had felt like a calculated slight just days ago, now loomed with a terrifying new significance. To be her running mate, to join her on this strange, victorious path… it was power, yes. A pathway to the White House that had just slammed shut on my own terms. But it was also an embrace of the inexplicable, a surrender to the unnatural unity that had pervaded the Texas town hall, to the insidious influence of the nylon.
I looked down at my own hands, then at the empty, quiet room. I had until the end of the week. Before Georgia. What did she mean by "the larger prize"? And what would I become if I accepted? The weight of the decision sat heavy and cold, a chilling premonition of a world reshaped, not by war or peace, but by something far more subtle, far more... synthetic. The question wasn't just about my political future anymore; it was about my soul, and the soul of the nation he I’d sworn to serve.
The taste of Super Tuesday was still copper on my tongue—a humiliating defeat, a swift, brutal closing of the door on everything I’d worked for. Nelson didn’t just win; she annihilated me, leaving nothing but a vast, insurmountable delegate chasm.
I sat in my office, staring at the phone, the silence of concession heavy in the air. Pragmatism, the cold calculating engine of my political career, eventually won out over pride. She had offered me a lifeline before the vote—a running mate slot. I swallowed my dignity and called her.
“Adrian,” Rachel Nelson’s voice chirped, smooth as polished glass. “A sensible decision. We’ll need your expertise for the general. Welcome aboard.”
Two days later, I was absorbed into the Nelson machine—a campaign that felt less like a political movement and more like an exclusive, unnervingly cheerful cult. The atmosphere was the first thing that struck me. It wasn’t just the slogan—Nylon will replace War, hate and pain with peace, love and pleasure!—that sounded as if it had been extracted from a discarded 1970s counter-culture manual. It was the clothes. Every woman in Nelson’s inner circle, every young volunteer, every campaign staffer, wore hose. Not just for formal events, but casually, daily. Rachel herself was the model, always in fine, flawless ivory hose beneath her tailored, suits. It gave the headquarters a strange, synthetic sheen, a constant whispering sound of material against material.
“It’s the brand, Mr. Santoro,” Vickie James, Nelson’s cheif stratagist explained.
“Please, call me Adrian,” I replied, admiring the stunning young woman leaning in my doorway of my new sterile office. It was hard to look away from the fiery red hair and eyes that constantly seemed to be analyzing data I didn't possess. She was my handler, tasked with breaking me into the peculiarities of the campaign. She was always dressed in similar fashion to the night she extended Nelson’s offer after the town hall. Red skirts and dresses with black trim and shimmering, hypnotic black hose.
“We’re selling perfection, ease, comfort,” Vickie continued, her voice low and efficient. “A seamless transition. The hose symbolizes the seamlessness. It’s visual continuity. You just need to adjust your messaging to fit the aesthetic.”
For the first few weeks, I tried. I learned to talk about "Nylon Policy" without wincing and even managed to deliver a town hall speech where I used the word "pleasure" seven times. It felt like playing a role in a bizarre, high-budget perfume commercial, but it was working. Nelson’s numbers, driven by an almost fanatical base of cult like followers. Men were not immune to this phenomenon either. While harder to see under slacks and jeans, I caught many glimpses of men dawning the silky fabric as well.
Vickie was exceptional. She anticipated every misstep a traditional politician like myself might make. But as the national convention inched closer, something began to fray around her edges. Her intense focus scattered. She started canceling briefings or showing up late, her usual surgical precision replaced by nervous energy. Sometimes, I’d catch her staring blankly at a wall, her hands gripping her desk so tightly her knuckles were white. The smooth, seamless Vickie was developing cracks.
One humid afternoon, deep into the final meting before the convention, I found her in the campaign kitchen, shaking slightly as she tried to pour coffee.
“Vickie? You alright?” I asked.
She slammed the coffee down, splashing hot liquid onto the tiled floor. She didn't flinch. She just stared at me, her eyes wide and panicked. “You have to listen to me, Adrian,” she whispered, pulling me roughly toward the pantry. The scent of fear was sharp in the small space. “It’s not policy. It’s not a brand. It’s… consumption.”
I frowned. “Consumption? Of what?”
“Of us.” She leaned close, her breath smelling faintly metallic. “They came in the energy. They use the fibers, the—the texture. It’s how they spread. Rachel… she’s what they call a prime convert. The leader, Cammie, known as The Prime Host, is still in Shadyville, running the show from there.”
“What does that make you,” I inquired, my eyebrow raised.
“I am a convert, much like most women and men are or will be. I was converted in Shadyville during the initial arrival when they invaded and took the town. But...since...I’ve been, feeling my old self, my true self slowly regain control of my body. If I can break free, so can everyone else. But, I need help!”
I physically backed away, bumping against a stack of canned sodas. This was it. The stress had finally broken her. She was talking about energy aliens using pantyhose to create a converts and hosts
“Vickie, I think you need medical attention,” I said, trying to employ the calm, steady tone I used on irate constituents. “The pressure has been immense, but we are one week from the convention. You need to pull yourself together.”
“Don’t you see the way people look at you?” she pleaded, tears welling up in her manicured eyes. “They are waiting for you, Adrian. You and your family are next. You have to leave. Now. Before the convention. Before they take you.”
I looked at the woman who had guided me for weeks—a brilliant political mind now completely unhinged. This was a scandal waiting to happen. A distraction I couldn’t afford. My career was finally back on track, heading to the Vice Presidency. “I’m sorry, Vickie,” I said, my voice cold. Stepping out of the pantry, I walked directly to Rachel Nelson’s private office.
Nelson listened, her expression unreadable, her hands folded neatly over her ivory-hosed knees.
“She’s become unstable. Ranting about aliens and—and ‘fibers,’” I reported. “She’s a liability, Rachel. I suggest we distance ourselves immediately.”
Nelson simply nodded, the slightest, serene smile touching her lips. “Such a shame. She was very effective. You did the right thing, Adrian. Protecting the campaign is paramount.”
By the time I returned to the floor, Vickie James was gone. She had slipped out, presumably fleeing the campaign she had dedicated herself to. Traitor or crazy person, it didn't matter. The problem was solved. I felt a surge of loyalty to Rachel for her calm handling of the crisis.
The night before the convention was a blur of final speech edits and hotel champagne. My wife, Lidia, had flown in late. We were in our luxurious suite, overlooking the lights of the host city. I was exhausted, satisfied, and ready for the final ascent. Lidia had gone out briefly to find a drug store—something about needing a specific brand of headache powder. When she returned, she seemed subtly altered. Her movements were quieter, smoother. Her eyes, usually so expressive, held a deep, unblinking focus.
I was pouring myself a final scotch when I noticed her legs.
“Lidia,” I said, frowning. “Are those… hose?”
Since we resided in Arizona and she was originally from Brazil, she never wore them. Even after joining the Nelson campaign, she stuck with perfectly shaved, smoothed and lotion enhanced bare legs, or pant suits for events. But tonight, beneath her simple black shift, she wore coffee-toned pantyhose—a deep, shimmering brown that caught the light with an unnerving perfection.
“I Just thought it best to have a united front for our big night,” she purred. “It’s one things for me to clash with the other women at small fundraisers and scattered rallies, but for the national convention? Nelson’s coronation as the nominee and you her VP, we need to start playing and looking like a singular force.
“I guess,” I conceded as Lidia crossed the room with a slinky grace I hadn't seen in years. She came right up to me, pressing her body against mine, sliding her hands around my neck. The hosiery-clad calves brushed against my trouser leg.
“You look tense, Adrian,” she murmured, her voice husky. "Running mate stress?"
“A bit,” I admitted, setting the glass down. The feel of her against me was different—so smooth, almost frictionless. And those legs, encased in the seamless coffee tone hose, seemed to radiate a faint, pleasant warmth.
She led me toward the bedroom, her hands already working on the buttons of my shirt. I was tired, vulnerable, sinking willingly into the promise of release. We reached the bed, and she shifted, hovering over me. Her eyes locked onto mine, and the unnervingly perfect serenity I had seen on Rachel Nelson’s face was now reflected in Lidia’s.
“We are so proud of you, Adrian,” she whispered, and just as the words left her mouth, the bedroom door opened. Rachel Nelson stood there, flanked by two equally serene female security aides, all three clad in their flawless hose. Rachel’s ivory material seemed to have faint, glowing pink lines appear on it, much like a electric circuit. The lines grew in intensity with each passing moment. It was then that I noticed the same lines appear on Lidia and the other women’s hose as well.
I tried to sit up, confusion giving way to alarm. “Rachel? What the hell is this?” Lidia leaned down, her lips brushing my ear. “Peace, love, and pleasure, Adrian. It’s what you promised.”
Before I could react, Nelson stepped forward. The air in the room suddenly grew thicker, charged with an invisible energy that hummed against my skin. The synthetic sheen of the nylon surrounding me intensified, becoming almost hypnotic.
Lidia stepped aside and Rachel took her place. Her hands moved down my chest, and then, with careful calculated precision, sle pulled down my slacks and boxers, revealing my throbbing, engorged manhood. I let out a moan as Rachel, her ivory hose still emblazoned with pink glowing lines, lowered herself on to my shaft. My wife watched on with a unsettling, approving smile as she and the other women pleased one another.
The sensation of Rachel’s hosed infused sex was like nothing I’d ever felt before, a pleasure so intense that to try to describe it would do it an injustice.
“Oh god!” Is all I could muster between lustful cries of pleasure as Rachel rocked back and forth, my pulsating cock driving deeper and deeper into her depths.
“You want this,” she cried out, “ say you want this Adrian!”
“Yes! Yes!” I screamed as Rachel’s juices spread across my lower half like molten liquid, taking the form of pantyhose, then shifting, changing until it fit my form, even my hard cock, perfectly. Then, the liquid like texture settled and faded into ivory hose identical to Rachel’s.
“You may still have your wife,” Rachel said as she rose off of me, “but you belong to me now.”
The weight of human worry lifted. The world, viewed through the lens of nylon, was perfect. I was complete, a host, a part of a larger cause that superseded anything I had ever done before.
I looked at Rachel Nelson, and my heart swelled with immense, unquestioning devotion. She wasn't an alien tool; she was the architect of salvation.
“Ready, Adrian?” she asked, her smile genuine now, no longer strained by the need for human simulation.
“More than ready,” I replied, the new voice in my mind echoing the perfect serenity in hers. With that we all dressed and headed out for the convention where the future of our world would be shaped and molded by nylon.
