Turn 8 of 17

Mia unexpectedly yanks the bixers up, but as she does it changes becoming a tight little thong that sit ms flysh against your crotch that you never noticed changing. As she setles it high on your hips the next round of changes begin, this time robbing your hips and as of any belief they may be fully natural

You brace for the pull downward — for the last of Dylan to be dragged off and gone. Instead she yanks the boxers up, hard, and the fabric moves with her, cinching, shrinking, gathering between your cheeks and up over your hipbones before your brain can even catch the moment it changed. By the time the waistband settles high on your hips, it isn't boxers at all. It's a tight little pastel thong, thin straps sitting flush against your skin, and it fits you perfectly, as if it was made for this exact body, because apparently it always was. You never saw it happen. Your hand darts down and snaps the strap against your hip, hoping, and it just stings, real and there.

"Don't fuss," Mia says mildly, adjusting the waistband with two fingers like she's dressing a doll. "It suits you better."

And then the next round starts, and you feel it in your hips first — a deep, pulling warmth, the wide bones of your pelvis holding perfectly still while everything over them changes its story. The curve of your rear lifts higher, rounder, taut and gravity-proof, and the shape stops looking like something years of squats built and starts looking like something money bought. The same spreads forward along your hip line, your waist-to-hip ratio sharpening into a figure that no natural body quite achieves, smooth and symmetrical and just slightly, deliberately too perfect.

You know the look instantly. That's the cruelest part. You've stood in enough kitchen doorways and bar queues to recognize work, and now your own body wears it — the unmistakable quiet pride of a girl who paid for that shape and got exactly what she asked for.

"You used to be able to tell, didn't you," Mia says, watching your face in the mirror. "You'd look them up and down and know. Fake nails, fake tan, fake body. You'd say it like it settled something." Her hands settle on your hips, turning you a little toward the light, appraising.

"So tell me, Dylan. Look in the mirror. Tell me what you see."

You open your mouth, and in the glass the plush lips part, the huge eyes blink, and nothing comes out — because every word you have left would describe the person you're looking at, and she's gorgeous.