Clothes Make the Man

They were getting tailored. That was a relief, at least.

Victoire had been dismayed when she had received her uniform. She found it was fitted only loosely and, in fact, was not even in women’s sizes. Even with tailoring, though, it was a whole new frontier in conservative dressing for her. Her new uniform was easily the most covered up she had ever been.

Most of the uniform seemed only to emphasis that she was heading into men’s territory and seemed designed to make her look the part. The shoes had the shortest heel she had worn since primary school. The gloves made getting a manicure pointless. And the mask… she would need a haircut.

She had hope that the tailoring would give the suit a more feminine shape.

They were called into the classroom the tailor had been set up in by twos. While they waited, the did as the same as they had the night before and tried to make small talk without giving away names or identifying information. Eventually, she and the one other woman in the group were called in.

“Up here on the stools, dovies,” the tailor, a short, wispy-haired woman with a mouth full of pins, instructed. Victoire and the other recruit did as told and the woman set to work on the other recruit first. Folding, tucking, and pinning. First the jacket, then the vest, then the shirt. They would make more uniforms based on the alterations they did on the one.

The other recruit was not very comfortable in a state of undress and was getting tenser as more and more layers where taken off and set aside. Like Victoire, however, she did not complain. The last thing either of them wanted was to look like they didn’t appreciate the chance they were being given. Even if it meant having to be undressed in front of others or (in Victoire’s opinion) worse, dressed like a man.

The pinning being done on the pants brought the line of them closer in on the leg and and the jacket had shown some definition on the hips and breasts, so there was that at least.

“All right now,” the tailor said, sticking one last pin in a pant cuff. “All done, deary.” The other recruit, who was down to her pin-filled pants and a depressingly plain white bra by this point, was quick to step down from her stool and retrieve her prison uniform dress. The tailor turned to start work on Victoire’s uniform. The other woman, only after she was safely back in her dress, pulled her pants off and placed them with the rest of her uniform.

Victoire could not decide which of the two she would prefer to wear at that point. Neither were appealing options.

She watched in the mirror as the tailor worked. In a lot of ways, it was very much like when she had been fitted for her Bunny suit for the first time. The fit of the uniform was important in both cases: here, it was explained that everything needed to be closely fit so you wouldn’t accidentally brush against someone while cloaked. Bumping into people in a crowded Showroom was similarly undesirable, but the close fit of the Bunny suit had little to do with that.

Unlike her fitting for the Bunny suit, though, while there was definition being put into her hips, they were not in any way enhanced. She would be working solely with what she had. Which was a lot if she did say so herself, but the suit was not helping at all.

There was no use whining about it, though. She would just have to make do.
At least it wasn’t her job to be pretty anymore.

The other recruit was watching her now. Victoire was fine with that. After eight years of the Bunny dressing room, not to mention communal showering and just regular French attitudes about nudity, she had no qualms about standing around in her underwear. At least the other woman had something interesting to look at.

Perhaps it wasn’t that bad then. She might not be comfortable in the uniform, but at least she was in her own skin.