After a moment of thought, you know exactly what to do.
“Sasha, listen carefully,” you say excitedly. “You are older.”
“Whuh...o-older?” She asks with a droopy, puzzled look.
“Yes Sasha. A lot older.”
“A lot...older...?” She repeats, framing her words as a question at the last minute. You notice her beginning to wince in pain. Her face, subtlety, begins to reorient itself, with its makeup fading and wrinkles forming.
“You are forty years old,” you tell her, finally putting a number on it.
“Uh...I’m...I-I’m...” sputters, suddenly appearing exhausted. You knew that this suggestion would just about double her age, so her resistance isn’t too shocking. To your surprise, however, she didn’t keep up this fight for long, lowering her head as her lips trembled. Her body quivering, she let out a soft whisper:
“I’m forty years old.”
The change was immediate. Her whole body expanded, noticeably putting on some weight. Her previously soft-looking skin lost some smoothness. Her facial expressions lost any youthful fear and became calmly mature, looking the part of an aged woman who just exited her 30s.
“Very good, Sasha,” you say, commending her. “You’ve always been born 40 years ago.”
“I’ve...I’ve always been born 40 years ago...” she repeats, this time far louder and clearer. She raises her head as her face’s adjustments finalize. She now looks a lot different, with a more wrinkly complexion, thicker eyebrows, larger eyes, and duller lips. It is easy to tell the mental changes had a huge effect on her based on how settled and mature she appeared to be. You wonder what she’s been up to with an extra two decades of life. Does she even have a career, or a life for that matter? Who cares? As you think about that, you notice her clothes still have not changed. Perhaps you need to hammer things home with her.
“Sasha,” you begin in a stern voice. “You behave and think like a forty-year-old-woman.”
“I behave...behave like a forty year-old-woman...” she repeats submissively as more changes begin. Those once long blonde locks of hers were now cut to her shoulder. Her makeup returned, though this time more subtle, and much more concentrated around the eyes. Also, finally, her clothes change too: her jean shorts lengthen to full-length bell bottoms, and her purple top becomes a plain and comfortable shirt. Her footwear stays the same, oddly enough. She clearly wasn’t an established-looking woman or anything, but she clearly had come a long way style-wise from before. Sasha just looked completely dumbfounded, but not in a naive, immature way.
“Now Sasha,” you begin, a little displeased with how modest she is dressed. “You don’t dress too modestly.”
“I...d-don’t...wha....” she mutters, unable to follow your suggestion.”
“I said you don’t dress too modestly.”
“I don’t dress...too modestly...” she says, finally getting it. Her bell bottoms constrict around her legs, becoming skin tight jeans. Those white sneakers morph into high heels. Her purple shirt vanishes completely, revealing nothing but coral pink lingerie. The makeup around her eyes also becomes heavier and more refined, and her lips are now glossed. The one thing that doesn’t change is her short hair, much to your dismay.
“And your hair is long,” you add.
“But...” she protests. “My h-hair is...sho..shor-”
“You have long hair, Sasha.”
“Yes...long hair...” she repeats almost euphorically, her less voluminous hair extending to its previous length.
“You hate short hair,” you tell her, just for kicks.
“I...I hate short hair,” she says, almost relieved.
“You hate women with short hair, too.”
“I hate w-w-women...w-with...”
“You hate women with short hair. You hate them.”
“I hate women with short hair,” she proclaims with vigor, her face contorting with anger. You can’t help but laugh imagining her getting into a spat with a short-haired woman, since she now hates them.
Sizing up your newly aged Sasha, you decide your next order of business should be to make her body even more alluring.
“You have a curvy figure.”
“I’m...c-curvy?” She asks, puzzled. She has a point: as it stands, her body isn’t anything too special. It’s a typical forty-year-old’s body.
“You’re very curvy, Sasha.”
“Oh...v-very curvy...” she says in a daze. You notice her breasts starting to get a little bit bigger, her waist starting get a little slimmer, and her hips starting to get a little wider. Her chubby form is starting to shape out nicely, but you aren’t willing to wait.
“Yes, very curvy. Your breasts, for example, are very big.”
“My breasts...oh...they’re very big...” she moans, her breasts filling out even more. They were already large before, but now they are even bigger, and quite a bit softer and saggier, responding to even her body’s lightest movements. They’re beautiful, but just for fun you want change that up ever so slightly.
“Your tits are fake,” you tell her plainly.
“My tits...fake?” She asks, groping herself defensively as if you were about to take them from her.
“Yup, your tits are fake.”
“My tits...my tits are...fa...fa...” she stutters, her breasts becoming slightly rounder and larger.
“Your tits are fake. You got a boob job five years ago to make them rounder.”
“My tits are fake...” she confesses, her breasts quickly losing most of their sag and her nipples becoming very asymmetric. “I got a boob job...five years ago...”
You can’t help but smile. “You always had small breasts until you got them fixed like you wanted.”
“I...always had small breasts until I got them...f- fixed like I wanted...” she repeats without a thought. She’s looking at her artificial rack with so much comfort, as if they were a representation of her making herself more perfect, less modest. They were fixed indeed, but truth be told it’s hard for you to imagine Sasha with anything but large boobs, real or fake.
“Good girl. And your waist is slim.”
“My waist...my w-waist is slim...” she says, fat receding from her midsection to grant her a heavy but sexy hourglass form. Her hips, not the widest, now look pretty huge, but that was your next target.
“And your hips. You have...childbearing hips!”
“I have...oh...” she groans as her hips continue to reshape themselves, her jeans morphing along with them.
“Say it: you have childbearing hips.”
“I...have childbearing hips...childbearing hips...” she gasps excitedly. Her hips widen out further to become absolutely gigantic. Her ass balloons in size as well, causing her thighs and legs to thicken too. If it wasn’t for her chest, she’d totally be bottom-heavy. Nevertheless, she looks perfect. Satisfied, you lower the pendulum, releasing her from her trance.
“Huh? Where am I? Who are you?” She asks in a deeper, more sultry voice. “This isn’t my house! What did you do?”