You obediently go to give your first private session

You knock on the door of the private parlor where you have been summoned. This is the fancy part of the place, which is not all microskirts and schoolgirls outfit, but much, much more than that. There appears to be a whole complex behind the scenes, including a rooms, a hammam (from which you hear several voices, both male and female, moaning loudly), and even a fancy restaurant where diners and their companions - either sitting at or, as you notice, kneeling under the tables - enjoy fancy meals while listening to classical music. The bar and dancing room, Twinkz, is just the front door to what appears to be a whole closed system apparently only dedicated to providing to the rich's kinks while taking their money. You imagine a Pleasureboy wiping cum from his face with a bill, smiling. A big bill.

Mrs Amma saw that you were adequately dressed for your sessio, which does not take place so far beyond the bar, in what could be seen as the outskirts of the place where real money goes for fun. After fitting you with a black, tight, and rigid corset, and making you put on an equally as black garter and thong ensemble, she slid one or two nanomods in your lips. You quickly identified the physical effects of the DNA-changing pills as your breast softly grew to a B cup while your hips became a bit more round and swaying, and your hair took on a bright red colour and grew all the way to your feet, before being quickly braided by a machine into a myriad of small braids which elegantly fall onto your hips, partly hiding your newly-grown chest. Your skin gained a few tones to become white and milky and freckled all over. Bodily modification is a classical trick, and you have seen cases where Pleasureboys were turned into different persons entirely, gaining, or losing weight, size, colour, hair, and in the most **** cases members, to satisfy a picky companion. The effects of the government-provided nanomods available to Pleasureboys are nonetheless always reduced to a few hours, preventing any durable transformation. After completing your new look with just enough rouge and powder to make you look as if you were constantly blushing, she pats you on the butt, telling you to be quick now. The entire transformation of your look and body took less time than an average trip to the bathroom.

The door opens to a small, cosy parlor, draped in red, and a smiling woman. She must be in her fourties, like the man sitting behind her on a broad couch, and looks straight at you with deep, big, green eyes. The way she is casually dressed up is less casual than your formal clothes, and the stare she puts on you, while amiable, gives you the impression that she has put you under an X-ray machine and is scutinising every square inch of your body. Thankfully, the pink on your cheeks prevent her from seeing the sudden blush which takes your face as she looks at you. For just a few seconds, your heart starts beating faster and stronger, and you feel a ball of anguish in your stomach, suddenly anxious that she might reject you. It could be her personality, or the nanomod could have changed your neurological network to make you dependent on her. You've heard of those pseudo-love mods, which induce a very strong chemical addiction to whoever is wearing a certain perfume, causing a need to please and be liked by them. This is not love, of course, which cannot be simulated, but the closest one could get to it, at least in its dependence-inducing form.

Her smile warms up a little. You have been judged worthy. With grace, she waves at you to come in. You realise that you have been holding your breath the whole time.