By day, you are the mild-mannered Mike Anderson, chemistry undergraduate. By night, you are... well whatever your customers want you to be. You are a bespoke build-your-own-prostitute. Essentially customers book your time, you meet at their homes and then they are able to transform you in to whatever they wish. The customer then has 30 minutes, an hour, a night or a weekend, depending on how much they pay for, where you are entirely at their disposal to be fucked every which way, the only limitation being that you not be harmed in any way (unless they pay for such an extra that it. Since any damage they do will be undone once the transformation ends and you return to your normal body, you are willing to endure certain things for the right price - whipping, choking, etc).
It's degrading and disgusting and certainly not the safest of professions, but it pays well, each customer bringing you one step closer to bringing down that mountain of student debt that you have to your name.
You dig the TF collar out from the wardrobe and fix it around your neck. The wiring and electrodes lining the inside of the leather dig into your skin, but that is unlikely to be the least unpleasant thing of your night. You slip the remote into your pocket. Normally you would notify Nathan as to where you are going, just in case anything happens to you, but he isn't in the flat tonight. You make a mental note to text him on the way. The last thing you want is to get yourself in a situation with nobody knowing where you are, no one to come rescue you if things turn ugly. There have been rumours of men and women in your profession going missing lately and you don't wish to take any more chances than usual.
You recheck the text for the client's address. It is...
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