And so I watched and waited, as she slowly began to evolve and change.
The first thing to change was her underwear, as she seemed to subscribe to the philosophy that less is more. The fleshtone bras and panties became a thing of the past, overtaken by an endless parade of those little striped shopping bags from Victoria's Secret, with an occasional foray to the local branch of Agent Provocateur. Colors became the order of the day. The briefs disappeared under a cascade of scarlet thongs and pretty colored boypants, sometimes sheer, sometimes lace. Bras were only half cups or less, her breasts pushed up and now more jiggly as she walked, less constrained by fabric, the random quarter cup almost leaving her nipples wide out in the open.
Her jeans became tighter and lower cut, the kind with the two inch zipper or shorter, the waistband riding low on her generous hips, little or no thought being given to whether her tops even came close to meeting her jeans, her panties randomly peeking out above the jeans, although she did try to keep pushing them down with her fingers while pulling up the waist in some strange attempt at modesty. Tops for the most part remained the same, although the tinier bras often left little to the imagination, her boobs moving as she walked. the occasional skirt was tighter, cupping her ass, and shorter, as is often the fashion.
She no longer wore the flowery summer scent that had been a trademark for years, now preferring the aggressive thrust of patchouli, the dark musky aroma strangely evocative of a different person entirely.
And so I bided my time, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.