City lights pulse outside the bookstore. Cocktail buzz in the back lounge. I’m Nathalie, 40, tiny frame, massive tits straining my U-neck top. Silver mane wild. Cashier queen by day. Men stare, dive into my cleavage. Flattering. Powerful. Tonight, my author god, Mr. X, signs books. Blue eyes, white streaks, beard. Heart races. Queue moves. My turn. Lean in. Tits spill out, three-quarters bare. His gaze locks. Hungry. I gush fandom. He smiles. Ego stroked. ‘Drink after?’ Yes. Boom. Mask cracks. Colleagues glare as I strut out, ass tight, chest high. Husband calls. Lie smooth: ‘Late with Mr. X.’ City streets throb. Bistro. Wine flows. His divorce tale. Cock hard under table. I own this. Hotel invite. Door shuts. Mutation complete. Pulsions unleashed.