It only takes a few steps toward the door when my new assets and I tumble down into the cream-colored carpet.

”Owwww — fuck!” I cry, nursing the rug-burn on my forearms; a painful lesson that sprinting in a nightgown was a mistake.

The sound of a stifled but familiar cackle pours out from behind the door that I’m frantically crawling toward, gracelessly flailing at the little brass boob-shaped knob with a lock where the nipple would go.

“Everything okay in there?” they ask.

Don’t answer! Just reach for the door before she sees you!