Chapter 4: Silk and Envy
The thick scent of sandalwood incense hit Chloe like a physical shove as Priya yanked her through the beaded curtain of ‘Velvet Rabbit’. Vintage dresses hung like spectral rainbows under Edison bulbs, and a crackly Nina Simone record warbled from a dusty corner. Chloe immediately felt like a glitch in the system. Her new body – all sharp angles and receding softness stuffed into jeans she’d frantically safety-pinned this morning – seemed to suck the color out of the vibrant chaos. Priya, however, bloomed.
"Look at this place!" Priya breathed, her voice husky with delight. She practically vibrated, her posture unnaturally upright, shoulders pinned back against the weight and projection of her new breasts beneath a tight, baby pink crop top. It was obscene. Magnetic. People did look twice now. The salesgirl, all septum ring and intricate arm tattoos, glanced up, blinked at Priya’s chest, then quickly looked away, a faint flush creeping up her neck. Priya preened. "It’s perfect. Exactly where we need to be."
"We need groceries," Chloe muttered, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her oversized hoodie, the familiar UCLA logo feeling like a relic from a different life. Her own chest felt strangely flattened, concave almost, beneath the thick fabric. The platinum hair scraped her neck, coarse and foreign. The blue eyes she caught in a gilded full-length mirror looked perpetually startled. "And maybe a time machine."
"Don't be boring," Priya chided, already rifling through a rack of flimsy lace and satin. She pulled out a bralette: black mesh, spiderweb thin, with minuscule satin triangles designed to cover nipples that no longer existed on Priya in their original configuration. "This. This is essential infrastructure. Like… load-bearing lingerie." She held it up. It looked like it belonged on a doll. "What size do you think? Medium?" She shot Chloe a grin that didn’t reach her newly intense, app-fueled eyes. "Hard to gauge displacement without proper instruments."
Chloe felt a hot flush crawl up her neck. Envy, sharp and acidic, warred with a sickening sense of unreality. Priya embraced the change, the power, the attention, like slipping into a second skin. Chloe just felt skinned. "Just try it on," she said, her voice tight. She wandered towards a display of antique brooches, avoiding her reflection in the dark glass cabinet.
A few minutes later, the curtain to the tiny, velvet-draped changing room rattled. "Okay, verdict," Priya announced, not bothering to close it fully. She stepped out.
Chloe’s breath caught. The black mesh bralette strained. It wasn't just filled; it was under siege. The delicate straps bit into the smooth, unblemished skin of Priya’s shoulders. The satin triangles were laughably inadequate, covering maybe half the swollen, artificially firm mounds, the dark areolas perilously close to spilling over the top edge. The effect wasn’t sexy. It was architectural. Terrifying. Like watching suspension cables hold up a monument.
Priya turned, examining her profile in a large, ornate mirror framed by peeling gold paint. She cupped herself, pushing the flesh up even higher. A soft, satisfied sigh escaped her. "Oh yeah. That’s the look. Gravity is a suggestion, baby." She caught Chloe’s stunned expression in the mirror. "What? Too much?"
"Do you… does it hurt?" Chloe managed, her gaze fixed on the angry red lines the straps were already etching into Priya’s skin.
Priya shrugged, the movement causing the massive breasts to wobble minimally, their unnatural firmness resisting physics. "Aches a bit? Like… really intense push-up bra vibes. But permanent. Solid." She grinned, turning back to the mirror, running her hands down her sides, pausing to squeeze her own flesh. "Feels powerful."
The salesgirl reappeared, clutching a pile of other potential torture devices. Her eyes widened fractionally at Priya’s lingerie-clad form. "Uh, finding everything okay? Need a different size? We have some pieces with… more structural support?"
Priya waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, this is fine. It’s supposed to look like it might break, right? Tension is the point." She plucked another item from the salesgirl’s pile – a scrap of blood-red lace with criss-crossing straps. "This one. And maybe that sheer robe thing."
As Priya disappeared back into the changing room, the salesgirl lingered, her eyes flicking to Chloe, who was still hunched near the brooches. "Is your friend… okay?" she asked quietly, her voice laced with a professional concern that couldn't mask her unease. "She looks… intense."
Chloe just shook her head, mute. Intense didn’t cover it. Priya was a walking, talking monument to the app’s terrifying power and her own unchecked desire. Watching her revel in it, in this shrine to curated femininity, felt like staring into the sun – blinding, painful, impossible to look away from.
The curtain rustled again. Priya emerged in the red lace contraption. It was marginally more substantial, but only just. The criss-crossing straps over her chest looked like they were performing critical structural engineering. She draped the flimsy, black lace robe over her shoulders. It gaped open, framing the impossible silhouette.
"Now we're talking," Priya declared, striking a pose, one hand on a hip. The robe slipped, revealing more. She didn't adjust it. "What do you think, Chlo? Do I scream 'expensive mistress' or 'avant-garde art installation'?"
Chloe stared. The envy curdled into something darker, colder. It wasn't just the breasts. It was Priya’s ease. Her ownership of the impossible. Chloe’s own changes felt like a costume that didn’t fit, a desperate scramble for visibility that had left her feeling less seen, more alien. The thinness felt brittle, not powerful. The blonde hair was a beacon for stares she didn’t want. The blue eyes saw a stranger.
Priya caught her expression. "Oh, come on. Don't give me that constipated look. You did this! Own it! You wanted power? You wanted to be seen?" She gestured dramatically at herself. "This is seen. This stops traffic. This makes people remember you." She stepped closer, the scent of her peach body spray clashing with the sandalwood. "Use it, Chloe. Stop hiding in that fucking hoodie. Pick something. Anything. Make yourself something jaw-dropping." Her gaze swept over Chloe’s diminished frame, the baggy clothes, the unnatural hair. "You look… unfinished. Like a rough draft. Polish it."
The words hit like small stones. Unfinished. Rough draft. Chloe’s hand crept into her hoodie pocket, her fingers brushing the hard edge of her phone. The app was there. Just a few taps away. Jaw-dropping. What did that even look like? Not this fragile shell. Something stronger. More defined. Unignorable. Her gaze drifted past Priya’s impossible silhouette to a mannequin near the window. It wore a vintage lace slip dress, slim-cut, hugging curves she no longer possessed. It looked soft. Desirable. Like something Ben Carter might actually want to touch.
Priya followed her look. "That," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "That dress needs presence. Needs… architecture." She winked, a grotesque parody of encouragement. "Fix the scaffolding, Chlo. Then the dress will sing."
The salesgirl cleared her throat, holding up a delicate camisole. "Maybe… something like this for you?" she offered Chloe tentatively. "Less… structured?"
Chloe ignored her. Her fingers tightened around the phone. The app’s interface seemed to glow against her palm through the fabric. Scaffolding. Architecture. She didn't want Priya’s grotesque power. She wanted… completion. Wholeness. Something that fit this alien skin. Something that made the thinness make sense. Something that made the blue eyes and blonde hair look intentional, not like a mistake. Muscles, maybe. Definition. A body that wasn't just small, but carved.
Priya was watching her, a knowing gleam in her eyes. "Just a few tweaks," she murmured, close enough that Chloe could see the faint, unreal smoothness of Priya’s skin, untouched by the lingerie’s bite. "A little more… substance. You know you want to. Make it match the eyes." She tapped her own temple. "Think of Ben’s face."
The name was a jolt. Ben Carter. The dismissive glance. The laughter. The image coalesced: not Ben looking at her, but Ben touching her. Touching a version of herself that was strong, defined, desirable, feminine. The laptop called to her, ready to apply... refinements.