Yeah, I kid you not. 23! 23! 23! And okay, fine, I have a corset underneath it. Doesn’t matter that it hurts like shit and don’t care if it makes me masochistic. I want to keep seeing my waist. What’s important is the number 23. TWENTY-THREE. 23!!! That’s MJ’s number, you know. 23! I’m ordering another corset tomorrow. #goodomen #selfie #imsexyandiknowit George was so fucked. Why in the world did Chalysians – Victorians – everyone in the 19th century – need this many types of underwear? It was as if she had weight plates around her ankles. It was hard to walk. “Please, please hurry,” George begged as she shifted on her feet restlessly. She checked her watch – a slim, gold-plated Rolex knockoff since people here didn’t do G-shock or even Baby-G. They might be colorful and terribly functional, but they did not exactly go well with silk gowns and gentlemen coats. “Done,” Desire crowed under her breath in satisfaction as she unhooked the last of the closures on the back of George’s dress.
