Smash cut: Joana is heading home

The hum of the road was a low, steady purr beneath the tires as Joana cruised through the dusky streets. The sun had dipped below the skyline, casting the world in soft indigo hues, streetlights blinking on one by one like fireflies in formation. Her window was down just enough for the breeze to kiss her cheek, cool against her still-warm skin.

She tapped the steering wheel lightly, her smile subtle but constant. The sensation of her new form hadn’t dulled. Her decision to revert back to her previous age but keep her enhanced H-cup chest was the best call, her tits still shifting sensually with each breath, a gentle reminder of her most recent calibration. Not just decorative—expressive. Intentional. Every change she made today had passed its trial.

And then some.

Her mind flicked back to the boutique, to the soft lighting, the velvet bench, the lingering brush of fingertips on lace. To the way the associate—Chloe, she finally learned—had looked at her like a puzzle she was dying to solve. Curious, hesitant, and eventually—very convincingly—swept up in the moment.

Joana had played her part like a concert pianist—one touch at a time, one glance, one whispered compliment. Nothing overt. Nothing ****. Just a pull, subtle and magnetic.

It hadn’t needed to go too far. That wasn’t the point. It was the validation. The thrill of confirmation.

The RAC had held up. The age calibration slipped into place with elegance. No awkward phase, no uncanny edge. Her reflection had glowed with youthful energy but preserved the seasoned charisma of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. Twenty-two-year-old skin—forty-one-year-old confidence.

Even now, back in her original age range, the memory shimmered like a secret tucked under her skin. Her physical body had resumed its chronological setting, but her enhancements—most notably the fullness in her bust—remained. She glanced down for a moment, adjusting her seatbelt. Still comfortably snug. Still hers.

She breathed deep and laughed softly to herself. What a field test.

Turning down her street, Joana let the car idle at a stop sign a moment longer than necessary, watching the last light drain from the sky. She didn’t know yet what the RAC’s full limits were, but today proved that the system bent to her will with grace.

She pulled into her parking spot, headlights flashing briefly. In her new outfit, she sauntered her way up the stairs to the lift in the lobby of her apartment building. Crashing through her front door, she sprawled out on her leather couch.

“Time for data review,” she muttered.

For a while, she just lay there, letting the tension unwind from her limbs, letting her body settle into the luxurious shape she’d curated so carefully. Her bra—still the green one—felt like it belonged now. Not just as fabric, but as confirmation. Something she’d claimed.

Her mind, though, wasn’t ready to rest.