You enter the room

You don't have a choice. Not really. It's all for show, you know it. At this stage you just want her to like you and to be happy. You strut awkwardly into the parlor as she shuts the door behind you. Your back is turned at her, but it does not take a genius to know that she is shamelessly ogling your butt back, enjoying every second of it. Your stomach tickles and your stress decreases just a bit. Enough for you to look at your surroundings with relative calm, while you hear her locking the door and getting busy with something next to it.

The parlor is very cosy and intimate, although you guess Mrs Amma has probably planted quite a few cameras in hidden places, for security's as well as her own enjoyment's sake. Most of the room is draped with deep red curtains, including the massive king-sized poster bed in a small alcove. Although there are no windows that you can see, the air is fresh and must be renewed through some kind of advanced system. The rest of the furniture consists in a small table, a bar where the lady is now fixing herself a drink, and several couches and cushions. The man, the Trumale, you have seen previously, who is also looking at you, although with much less intensity, is casually smoking a cigar in one of the couches. Much to your relief, you do not see any of the elaborate devices generally used to attach and manipulate people. A thick carpet covers all of the floor, much to your relief as you are still bare-footed. Walking on it, feeling its hair tickle your feet slightly, makes you feel both more relaxed, and more ****, as if you were slightly out of your place. This is a place where established, respectable, and older people like them come to enjoy their small pleasures, including you.

You also take a good look at them. He is tall and bearded, rather fat, he looks comfortable and soft, although his broad chest suggest much more bodily strength than you could imagine at first glance. He has a thick brown beard and curly hair, in the middle of which his two intelligent black eyes glance at you, the cigar casually planted in his plump lips. His suit is discreet, black and sharp. He gestures you to sit next to him. Not on the couch, of course. As you kneel on the carpet next to him the lady finally finishes fixing her drink and turns to you, sipping. She wears a dark green dress, very formal and elegant, showing almost no cleavage and stops right under her knee, leaving one arm bare. Although covering, the dress hugs perfectly her rather wide hips and her considerable breasts. They chose you to have smaller breasts than her, you note. She barely wears any makeup at all, and clearly has chosen to make no effort whatsoever to hide her wrinkles. Her blonde square cut and half-smile make her look restless, almost carnivorous, but also, you notice, devastatingly attractive. If she were a Pleasureboy, you think, she would be matronly, but for someone of her stature, she must probably feel slutty or, at least, provocative.

She comes to sit in front of you, exchanging a few words with the man, seemingly finishing a conversation she was in the middle of when you show up. You feel... well, you feel like furniture. Which is what they want. An eager piece of furniture expecting to be told what to do while they enjoy their evening. Waiting is hard to bear, but you have no say in this, the point is quickly made. Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, she looks at you and says, calmly: