Turn 24 of 44

Fit Carol's girdle, lingerie, and petticoats and watch her body reshape to be just like yours, Vivian’s and a stereotypical housewife’s. You the put the garter belts on and attach the stockings to them. She almost looks like a 50s housewives. You grab the green coat dress and black high heels. You tell her to put this beauty on. She does and looks in the mirror to see a stereotypical 50s housewife

"Arms up, honey," you say, and Carol lifts them like a marionette, obedient and serene. The girdle rolls up over her hips and cinches, and the change happens while you're still smoothing the seams — her waist narrows under your palms like dough being worked, hips blooming wide, her thin flat chest filling the bra cups, her soft middle drawing in and up. Her arms slim down under your fingers, dainty at the wrists, her feet shrinking in the briefs until the pale skin of her looks like powder and pearl. She gasps once, a small delighted sound, and grips the vanity edge.

"Oh my stars," she says in the honeyed voice. "I feel positively *rebuilt*."

You fit the garter belt next, satin snug around her new waist, and the stockings go on one at a time — you teach her to point her toe, to draw the seam up the back of her calf, to tug the nylons home against the little metal clips. Her legs go smooth and shapely beneath the whisper of nylon, and then the petticoats, three of them, rustling down over the architecture. She stands in the tri-fold mirror in foundations and stockings and looks three women in the eye, and every one of them is nearly there.

"Now for the beauty," you say, and fetch it from the transformed closet — a green coat dress, nipped at the waist, collar like a garden in bloom, and black high heels polished to a shine. "Put this on, sugar. You're going to adore yourself."

She steps into the dress like a gal stepping into her own front porch, and it fits as if it was measured for her at birth. The buttons run up neat as fence posts, the belt bows at her cinched waist, the heels make her hips find their sway without being told. She turns to the mirror and stops.

A 1950s housewife looks back at her — curls loosening gold, petticoats peeking, seams straight — and Carol's mouth curves into something that doesn't come off her face again.

"Well, I never," Carol breathes, touching her collar. "I look like a *housewife*."

"You look like one of us," you say, giggling, patting her shoulder, and the curl by her ear has gone fully golden, and there's so much left to do — hair, lips, nails, a whole afternoon of you.