Damn it, you're getting through that door ()

You look behind you toward the kitchen: he's not here, and you can hear him cook while singing gently in the kitchen. It's too irritating: what is in this room, behind the red door? Why can't you go and see, while you can see the whole place? What are these photos? Are there others like you? You are already teased by your despairing virginity, the chemical cocktail that pumps through your veins in permanence, making you weak in front of every Trumale, plus the nanomachine reconfiguring your brain into a sexoholic, this is just one excitement too many. You take off your high heels to walk more silently, and make your way to the red door. As expected, it is unlocked. It is also incredibly heavy, and appears to be a thick steel door, like that of a safe.

It leads to the cave, and the inside is lit only by a dim fluorescence coming from downstairs. As much as you can see, there are tables and furnitures, and it is rather cold. You walk down the stairs, breathtaken, looking for a switch while trying to make out your surroundings: there seems to be boxes and... electrical things on a table... it is all very dark. You finally find the switch and turn on the light.

A bright white light fills up the space suddenly, coming from the neons that have been fixed on the ceiling. You are in what appears to be a studio, but on the back wall what appears as a wide cage or a small cell has been set, containing the kind of over-expensive machinerie that allows a room to be changed very quickly. Right now it looks like a simple bed and toilets and not much more, like a prison or a police cell. The rest of the room is filled with a large desk, a full and expensive camera set, a wide TV screen, a couch, and several chariots on which, on a very proper and neat order, the most impressive collection of binds, ropes, manacles, handcuffs, dildos, plugs of all sizes, but also various types of nanomods that are you don't quite know what, ****, intruments, and all other sorts of things. This all comes with thick walls, what seems to be a thick wardrobe, and filing cabinets which you can't resist opening, not noticing that the singing upstairs has stopped.

There are several files, all filled with dates and a lot of pictures. On one, a Pleasureboy in a tight corset, hands behind his back and tied with ropes, and a collar and leash around his neck, clearly on heavy mental nanomods, is kneeling in front of an unidentified man with impressive proportions, trying to give head and ****. On another one, you can even recognise one of your former classmates, on a photo that clearly has been taken not even a few days ago, lapdancing for a masked man and taking selfies with his phone, posing next to his still impressive member. A later photo shows him being sodomised, the photographer insisting on the way the rimmel flowing from his eyes, because of the tears. More impressive, each and everyone of these Pleasureboys, who all seem to be between 18 ans 20 - just like you - have been "documented" in their private lives, doing sports, studying, shopping, or working, for weeks before their "sessions". Of course, the last file is about you, and accompanied by details of machines and ideas to try on you, doodles, suggestions, corrections. All, you admit while realising what you have done, very creative.

"I really hoped you wouldn't come here." says a cold voice behind you, as the door slams close, and an electronic lock activates itself.