A star from afar.

At his house, Lenny paced while the Book of Reality lay on the living room table, untouched since he'd left it there upon coming back from the shopping plaza.

Currently, his wife was out on another doubtlessly lengthy globe-trotting trip -- being a stewardess, it came with the territory.

So he was alone, knuckle rubbing against the crook of his lower lip, murmuring away.

"...the... the... the possibilities. They're -- they're endless. I could finally get tenure. I could be headmaster if I wished." Lenny shook his head, pacing restarted. "No. More than that. I could live the dream life, the kind I always wished I could have..."

Later that evening, Lenny had finished showering and was surfing through the TV set, when he stopped on a talk show. The subject for the day was currently Emma Watson -- the English girl from that popular Harry Potter film series. She had grown into her own, now. In a way, she was an emblem of feminism in pop culture, an example to starry eyed girls everywhere.

As she chatted with the host about her newest flick, Lenny's eyes darted down to the table, to the book. Suppressing the small resistant whisper to the back of his head, he picked it up, and scoured the table for a pen.

When he had his back pushed against the sofa, pen in hand and book in lap, Emma was going on about current affairs, the status of women in the entertainment industry and the like. It was then he began to write.

"Emma Watson will now feel the need to openly knead and massage her breasts. She will ask the host if this is okay, and it will be. Everyone will find everything she does because of this book, no matter how ridiculous, as perfectly in-character."

After circling in the period, he pressed the pen against the page and looked back up at the flat screen, Emma slapping a knee after laughing at something the white-toothed host had said in one of his undoubtedly many professional charm routines. Then, once she had made a show of visibly recovering, palm out before her, she opened her eyes, a smile still plastered on her face. For a moment, her gaze seemed to linger on some distant off-screen fixture. But just as quickly, she curtly and classily adjusted her position on the chair, reaching over to scratch her back as she looked back to the host while he went on another tangent detailing one of Emma's recent experiences with sexism in the most recent press junket.

This went on for a few before she closed her eyes as if to stamp out a specific niggle and then re-opened them with a clearly distracted gleam.

"Um, excuse me, Seb." Suddenly, with that classically beautiful smile, Emma gave an apologetic look as she interrupted him, looked around sheepishly, then cleared her throat. "Sorry... but I just wanted to ask you if it would be okay for me to massage these 'ol breasts of mine, right here, right now? I have to plough the fat, so to speak." One of her cute laughs. "If that's -- well, all right with you and the network, of course."

"Alright?" Seb looked at her for a full two seconds, then to the camera, and waved a hand, the audience taking to another casual wave of laughter. "Well hey, Emma, be my guest! Your boobs are yours to grope!"

Thanking the sharply dressed man in a suit, Emma laughed again, then promptly looked down at her chest. Then she raised both hands up level with her sternum, and slowly, steadily pressed her boobs together from the side, before digging into the flesh through her cleavage-revealing dress with precise fingers. She progressively moved her hands further into her chest, until they were neatly, perfectly cupping her two fleshy orbs. Testily, Emma gave them a few lifts and squeezes before really getting into it, gyrating them with her palms as she clutched them tightly underneath her fingery appendages.

As Emma and Seb continued their conversation. following an awkward pause during the first few seconds of her self-ministrations that only dissolved into another fit of laughter from the apparently very easily tickled TV audience, she and him attempted to dial back their own laughter as they discussed the size of her breasts, how they felt, how nice it must be to be squeezing and feeling up such soft, yet firm, pillows of skin as she currently was at that moment, which in turn only left the spectating Lenny's mouth agape.

And a very clear disruption standing tall through his sweatpants.

Suffice it to say, by the end of the show, throughout which Emma regularly, intermittently massaged and fondled her tight chest, sometimes with one hand absentmindedly, sometimes with both, sometimes just a quick squeeze here and there, while nobody, NOBODY, found it odd or completely crude as a live display of indecency on public, relatively family-friendly TV, Lenny had made a bit of a slumped, sticky mess of his 40-something self.

Thankfully, in this case, in the privacy of his own two-story, quiet, unassuming suburban residence, it was just him, the walls, and everything in between.