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(Note: this is a companion piece taking place in the same world as The Red Ones, describing one of the other roles a transformed female can take on in that society. You may want to read the original piece as well if you'd like to find out more about the red ones.)

Why, you ask, did I become a proprietor? Well, when I actually made the decision, the primary reason for me was also the most obvious one. After all, you don't need even my undergraduate degree in economics to figure out why people might want to take on such a career. It really does come down to the most basic laws of supply and demand: when it comes to proprietors (or escorts, if you'd rather not use the official government term), there's a not particularly big or quickly-growing supply, and no end to demand. Even if there wasn't a certain sort of stigma against exclusively using the Red Ones, even with both of our groups put together, you're still looking at a small fraction of an otherwise overwhelmingly male population. Even if you take out the percentage of males that are willing to devote themselves 100% to homosexuality (those that can somehow take away the instinctual drive towards responding to female heat, and deal with the fact that feline spines and the back end of the digestive tract, or for that matter the front end, are usually quite injurious when combined), you're still guaranteed just about as much lucrative business as you can handle. Of course, that's helped along by the fact that most males are so existentially attached to their penises that they'd rather die than consider becoming one of us (probably helped along by seeing the very visible fates of the red ones every day and equating that with all conversions, even though such an assumption couldn't be further from the truth). For the few who are willing to make the sacrifice and take on this line of work, though, there are considerable rewards to be had - monetary and otherwise - that at least recommended it to me above reliable but marginally interesting (and marginally paid) work in an office or factory.

While the initial decision certainly isn't the easiest to make, once it's been made, the actual process of applying to become a proprietor is remarkably easy, without a lot in the way of bureaucracy. Of course, there's a reason for that - to ensure that public order can be maintained, the government needs every able female it can create, so it does have something of a vested interest in making sure that the process is as smooth as possible for those who are willing to volunteer for it. The registration itself involves nothing more than a few minutes in front of a kiosk filling out some forms and affixing your retinal signature to a handful of legal releases - and, of course, scheduling the appointment for the conversion.

The procedure itself, at least for its duration, is just about as easy. For those willing to go into the business, and by doing so guarantee an additional sexual outlet for the population, the procedure is entirely subsidized by the government and free of charge to the prospective proprietor. I can't say all that much about how it feels to undergo the procedure itself, as feeling is something you're not generally doing for the duration - the whole thing involves two weeks or so in a vat of extremely exotic goop, a process that the public can view if they so desire (for the Red Ones being processed, at least). If you're going through it, though, the only things you really remember are lying on a normal hospital bed and watching someone press a transdermal injector against your fur, a phalanx of murky, strange dreams that are difficult to parse or recall, and then waking up again in a similar bed in your brand new form.

To say that that second awakening is disorienting would be a phenomenal understatement - while it's still technically your own flesh and fur, it really is like walking up in a completely different body. It's not only that your genitals are swapped out, and some secondary characteristics added. Instead, nearly every contour of your body is changed. Fat and muscle are redistributed, and all of a sudden, certain parts of you are stronger while others are weaker, and modified joints and angles mean that even the range of motion on each of your limbs is changed. That's why the entire procedure is a monthlong process, even though the bodily transformation itself takes a little less than two weeks - the remainder of the time is spent in physical (and other) therapy. Even though the new body is perfectly healthy, it's still necessary to acquaint your neural impulses with the changed physical dynamics and muscular responses. I'd almost equate some of it to the process of learning to walk on stilts - overall, you're still making a walking motion with your legs, but one that has to be learned rather than driven by longtime habit and instinct.

And, of course, it's not just the physical aspects that you have to adjust to - nearly everything, including some parts of your brain, are modified, which means that it's not just about learning to move your hips differently when you walk. Upon waking, you realize that even your senses are changed - you respond differently to certain sensations, you react wildly differently to some visual stimuli, even your internal regulation of temperature is different. You experience different levels of emotion in the same situations, and in some cases even your logical train of thought is subtly different, as your mind, or soul, adapts to the underlying physical architecture that interfaces with it. It's a lot to take in, overall, but each of the individual changes are usually subtle enough that the entire package isn't completely overwhelming. Of course, it does end up being too much for some of the changed to handle, and such people usually don't go on to become proprietors; instead, they choose other lines of work, trying as hard as they can to ignore their changed status, and only reluctantly and involuntarily giving in to the female behavior during government-mandated heat cycles. Interestingly enough, it is this subgroup that is most often victimized by mistaken or overeager males who push past rejections of their advances, and it is from such unfortunate encounters that a not insignificant amount of Red Ones eventually result (for clarity's sake, it should be mentioned that it is the perpetrators who are converted, not the victimized reluctant females).

Overall, when the process is said and done, you are essentially a female version of yourself - or, put another way, how you perchance might have looked if you'd been born female (as the process of genetic reconstruction effectively performs a general conversion to a biological female, for the soft tissues at least). Because of the genetic equivalency of the process, when it was introduced, there was naturally some concern that the converted females might try to pretend at natural-born status, even though their conversion means that they are not considered to have as much choice genetic material (as their genetics still result in mostly male offspring, whereas natural-born females usually produce a more equitable gender mix). To combat such a deception, and to ensure that natural-born females have priority access to the objectively best genetic material, certain techniques are used to differentiate between natural and converted females. While other conversions are not as dramatically branded as the red ones, each one has a selection of subtle genetic markers added to their DNA to ensure that testing can properly differentiate between natural and created females.

In addition, on the right forearm of all created females, there is a small stripe of fur that is tinted towards a bluish hue for all non-Red One conversions, and even more vividly for most proprietors, who opt for it to more readily advertise their status and more easily attract customers' attention (and, perhaps, entice them back to their workplace with the intent of creating another reliable regular). When I was converted, it was part of the basic proprietor package that was included by default as part of the procedure, and which most proprietors unquestioningly accept - along with the marking, it also includes the requisite heat regulator and conception blockers that further facilitate our profession. Beyond that, proprietors are generally identical in form to any natural born female, with the exception of one very small but important change. It is only natural-born females who have completely natural genitalia, complete with an exposed clitoral bulb, and related tissues situated just below their pubic mound. Instead, somewhat like the Red Ones, proprietors have those parts relocated inside, nestled below the surface of the vaginal wall. They are not, however, as deeply buried, as there is no desire, as there is to an extent with the Red Ones, to require their pleasure to be served up with an extra helping of pain, but neither are they accessible to fingers or most other forms of stimulation - as the government has every intention of making sure its investment actually serves to placate the male population, it is a mechanism which ensures that, monetary drives or no, any proprietor wishing to climax is only capable of safely doing so with direct male involvement.

Related to said return on investment, it is only during the conversion, and that brief recovery and adaptation period, that your existence is subsidized by the government - once that's completed, you're then quickly ushered back out into the world, to survive on your own. Because of the nature of our society, it's not like most people, other than the ultra-rich and their natural partners, grow up in anything resembling a normal family and the inherent resources that would entail - most of us grow up in government-run boarding schools, and then specialize via some sort of secondary education that's also boarded and subsidized. As I went right into the process after completing schooling, upon completing it I was effectively entering the working world and adult responsibility for the first time, albeit in a very different way than what I'd ever imagined growing up.

Of course, when you personally possess a commodity that's in such high demand, obtaining employment is not so much a chance as it is a guarantee. So, while working on the street is somewhere between discouraged and disallowed (as that's considered to be the purview of the red ones), there are any number of bustling, well-equipped, government-supported but usually privately-owned brothels that are always looking for new talent to progress their own lucrative expansions. That's not to say that such arrangements are exploitative - as the government is so heavily involved, they are required to provide (and assisted with providing) a range of basic services to their employees, including boarding for those who require it, in return taking a government subsidy and a service fee that's capped at a tiny percentage of each transaction. That being said, the proprietors are also regulated, and for the first five to ten years of service (depending on client volume), the price per client encounter is set at a not particularly impressive rate of compensation. It's once you get past that threshold, providing a reasonably-priced service to the masses in exchange for the subsidy of your transformation, that things really get interesting: that set price instead becomes a price floor, and those with the right skills and specialties can take on a smaller, more select clientele and still make an income that puts them firmly into the uppermost brackets.

At the beginning, though, with that limited price point, the initial assumption is that if you want to make a decent buck, it's all about quantity over quality - and that, of course, is where the heat regulator comes into play. Interestingly enough, with the advanced versions they implant in new proprietors, it's more than just an on/off switch - you can actually dial the hormonal intensity to several different levels, and there are even programs that will analyze your client list for the day, add in an estimate for potential walk-ins, and actively manage your levels to ensure maximum receptivity and comfort throughout the entire workday. In practice, though, just having the ability to induce your heat on command is a godsend - if you've got a good amount of time with back-to-back bookings, it really is the only way to do it comfortably, even if you do end up feeling just a little bit out of control on the higher settings. Then again, such a state is one that the majority of clients enjoy, and the added pheromones released do tend to make it a more memorable experience for them, upping the potential for highly-motivated returning customers.

Of course, it's not as simple as just flipping a switch and getting down to it - there is certainly a period of time at the beginning when you're getting used to the new state of affairs when things can seem to happen unexpectedly abruptly. While you do technically know what you're getting into, you are thrown into the deep end pretty quickly - once you're released, your name is put into the registration system, and flagged as available for employment. That means that for most new proprietors, they're connected with an establishment the same day they're registered, move in that day or the next... and within hours of walking in that door, they're usually on all fours on a bed, feeling some guy's fingers wrap around their waist or sink into their buttocks. At least, that's how it was for me, and of the many proprietors I've known over the years, it was a generally normal part of getting started. So in a way, I guess, it can be as simple as jumping right in, but doing so can be considerably more intense than you might expect, especially when your first real experience of being a woman, right out of the gate, is that intense and direct (although, to be fair, it's a far better transition than the type the Red Ones are forced to make).

As far as intensity goes, that first day is definitely up there. At that point, you basically know how your body works, but you haven't really put it through its paces, especially the parts that you're going to be rapidly and repeatedly putting into use. Oddly, the government-mandated rehab focuses a lot more on basic stuff, and never really touches much on sex, even for the proprietors - I guess they either figure you'll learn on the job, or with the heat regulator, get by just from doing what comes naturally. It meant, though, that when I first walked into the brothel that would be my first place of employment, about the only think I really knew how to do with my newfound genitalia was piss without making a mess, and it's quite a surprise going from that to yowling as someone's spines start tugging inside you barely an hour after accepting employment.

Because of the Red Ones, effectively unbeatable competition for the very low end, brothels tend to be respectable-looking affairs, ranging from the decently-apportioned on up. If you have no class or decorum at all, if all you want to do is mindlessly rut, you can usually just do that for free - find a Red One wandering around town somewhere, toss her against a wall or pin her to the sidewalk, and take her until you're satisfied. Considering the power and occasional unpredictability of the male sex drive, especially when exposed to fertile pheromones, all men make use of them at some point - before my transition, I admit to consorting with a few of them during times of sexual excess. After all, having an encounter with a Red One isn't exactly taboo, or particularly notable. Rather, it's seen as something more akin to masturbation - adequate, but only on the most basic level, and occasionally scoffed at as an outlet by the more educated classes (and, in our society, such encounters are actually far more common than masturbation - while Red Ones can shrug off an encounter with a man's penile spines, your hand tends to fare far worse without being enclosed in a cumbersome, specialized glove). It's a matter of distinction and pride, then, to have most of your encounters with a proprietor, the more high-level and in demand the better - and to take red ones only when absolutely necessary and with at least a minimum level of restraint and decorum. I'm certainly not one to complain that such a distinction is in place - I'm more than happy to leave the total creepers to the Red Ones, as said creepers seem to prefer them anyway, and take on clients with at least a minimum level of desirability. Of course, it's not just social mores that keep things that way - while we're perhaps not as loftily valued as natural-born females, proprietors are seen as essential to society, and are highly monitored and protected. Do something to a proprietor without her consent, or treat her in a way that's damaging or significantly rougher than the norm for feline sex, and the client doesn't just get roughed up by a bouncer or something - the police show up and haul him off, and a couple of weeks later, there's a brand new Red One on the streets. Because of that risk, being a proprietor is remarkably safe compared to similar jobs in other cultures - most men wouldn't dare treat a proprietor with anything less than a basic level of respect, and even the unrepentant psychos are generally smart enough to seek out Red Ones for the rougher things they're lusting for. Plus, they're generally not the types to be caught dead in a place that's clean, upscale, and brightly lit, like the one I walked into on my first day of employment.

The brothel (or appointment house, in bureaucratic parlance) I started at, Comfort and Company, was an average one, serving a mostly professional clientele in one of the bustling commercial districts in the city center. It occupied several floors of a narrow auxiliary tower sandwiched between two large office complexes, with built-in breezeways running the length and connecting the two seamlessly. There was no attempt to camouflage the brothel's presence in between - after all, such establishments are a normal, ingrained part of urban life, and the easy access meant that employees could enjoy an encounter on their breaks and be able to get quickly back to work afterwards.

All in all, the place had a crisp, professional appearance, like most of the ones you'd encounter - the exterior areas taking on the decor of a middle- to upscale hotel, with a polished wood check-in counter, well-buffed stone floor, leather-upholstered chairs and benches, and decorative columns inset along the walls. The rooms were similarly decorated, with plush, comfortable beds and an array of differently-shaped pillows, useful for propping oneself into a variety of receptive positions. When I'd first walked in, wide-eyed and naive with the business card of the place, sent by a recruiter, brought up on the screen of my digital ID, the setting had put me immediately at ease - as had the cheerful, tastefully-dressed receptionist who greeted me and helped me get started. You will find in all of these places, of course, that the receptionist, and and all of the other auxiliary employees, are male - not as immediately attractive to clients, perhaps, but the services of a proprietor shouldn't be wasted on non-sexual tasks.

Once the initial pleasantries are over, though, you quickly find that there's not a whole lot of time to adjust - demand is always high, and you are encouraged to start as soon as possible. In such a system, there are no pimps or madams, but you are swiftly nudged to slot yourself into the automated scheduling system, and then to hook the remote for your heat regulator into it as well to get things moving along quickly. While technically there are no rules about taking it fast or slow, and while you can carefully screen everyone beforehand for people who look attractive or interesting, the usual - and encouraged - approach for a newbie to get into the game (and to get quick cash and subsequently a place of your own beyond the small room you have sex in all day) is to crank yourself into a good state of heat and let clients go to town on you as frequently and multiply as possible.

The thing is, if you haven't grown up as a female and had such a thing come on naturally and gradually, the first time that regulator sends you into heat is a pretty wild experience. For starters, it's not called that for nothing - within a few minutes of switching on, once things get established, it's like a furnace starts roaring inside you. Just about your entire torso, from your breasts to your hips, feels somehow like it's burning, but in the best way possible. It doesn't hurt, it just... it feels like the nerves there just somehow come alive. Everything is intensified, especially touch, and just the scent of a man drives things wild somehow inside you in a way that a male just can't experience. You're suddenly somehow really aware of certain things inside you, aware that they're empty, aware of just how desperately they need to be filled. All of a sudden, you're panting like crazy, the whole room seems to somehow have been placed under a soft-focus filter, and that newfound part of you feels like it's leaking warmth, drenching your panties and anything else pressed up against it with a pungence calculated to drive even the calmest man wild. Once you get in that state, and the first client opens the door, it's all over - your instincts just take charge, and whatever scant clothing you're wearing is off moments after his own. At that level of service, there's no artifice, no foreplay - you just let out a deep, husky purr, jut out your hips and stick your ass in the air, and let it happen.

The first time is definitely the craziest. If it's a heat-based mating, it's almost always from behind, and you often barely get a glimpse at the guy before his hands or your own instincts flip you around. The next thing you feel is his hot breath on your neck, even that slightest of sensations sending a little thrill through you, and then a strong pair of hands grasping you and holding you in place. That's probably when you feel, as I did, that brief moment of panic, of being trapped and momentarily struggling with a body that no longer has the muscle mass to fight free of such an embrace, even though it's the whole point of both of you being there. Then those incisors dig in against the nape of your neck, not deep enough to really bite or draw blood, but to grab against the nerve complex that lies beneath, and all of a sudden the muscles in your torso feel like jelly and your back arches to match his contours, an extra gush of moisture flowing from your lips around the point of warmth brushing against them until it nestles up against your softest, most eager part. Then his hips buck hard against you, your whole body rocks forward, and there's suddenly this thing inside you, pressing your insides to wrap snugly around its heat and flood it with your own. And you kneel there, frozen, that one moment feeling like the most alien of your existence, as suddenly this new, unexplored part of you is filled with bright, intense stimulation. For a moment, you don't know how to even react, as your experience as a guy doesn't prepare you at all for this - you don't know if you're supposed to thrust your hips like you're used to, or push back somehow, or flex some part inside of you that you don't really even know how to use yet. So you just stay frozen, feeling as the guy's bite intensifies a little and he holds you even more tightly, and then none of that stuff you just thought about matters as he begins to pull out.

There's no two ways around it - when those spines pull back and start to rake against you, especially that first time with nothing beforehand to prepare you for it, it HURTS. Due to that part's internal resiliency, the spines don't really do any damage, don't even draw blood, but when it happens that first time, the pain is so great that you really feel like you're being ripped apart inside. You yowl at the top of your lungs, your body flexing in primal agony, and for a split second, all you want to do is whipsaw around and rake the guy with your claws until his face is a mass of blood. That bite, however, still has you in its thrall, and any movements you make feel like they're happening through tar - all you can really do is hunker down, take the pain, and tough through it.

Then it's out, for a brief moment, and you make a desperate gasp to catch your breath before it plunges back in again. As it does, though, and especially once it bottoms out in the stretchy part deep inside you, the feelings abruptly and dramatically reverse. The motion of the spines, it turns out, serves several purposes - in addition to providing the impulse that induces ovulation during a natural, unblocked heat, it also primes your internal tension and sensitivity to a fever pitch. That means that when the guy pushes back it, it's with an incredibly intense stroking sensation that immediately pushes any lingering pain away, and when the tip hits up against that most sensitive part, your body is immediately overwhelmed. Your hips shudder as this weird, crazy sense of blissful agony washes through you, pleasure cranked up so high that it flashes over through the pain of overwhelming sensation and back to pleasure again, and suddenly internal muscles you didn't even know you had are pulsing automatically to a strange, throbbing internal tempo that's just off the beat enough to feel phenomenally different from the ones you experience as a man - and while it lasts only for a few moments, it seems to go on for a weirdly indeterminate time as your mind becomes lost in a comfortable fog of pleasure. Suddenly, though, the cadence is disrupted by another series of pulses, as the guy unleashes a few rapid spurts that feel weirdly comforting as they splash warmly against something all the way inside you. Then, of course, the guy pulls out again, but instead of being pure pain it's another dose of that weird, blissful agony, leaving you trembling through a strange, abbreviated, echoing aftershock of what you now understand to be the sort of orgasm you will experience as a female.

When it's all said and done, you're usually lying there on the bed, your head spinning as you make an attempt to parse all the sensations flowing through you, trying to figure out what just happened, and how much time has passed. You look over at the automated system display on the wall, and to your surprise, less than a minute has elapsed. After all, that's what happens with those who have feline ancestry - the act of mating is brief, sharp, and quick, but certainly not without its passion. And as you watch, you hear the panel ding, and an amount of currency briefly flashes up on the display. According to the rules, the fundamental transaction of the encounter is complete, and the money has been transferred from the man's account into your own. And so, if you're like me, you just sit there for a moment, marveling at the successful completion of your very first mating as a proprietor.

And then, if you're like me, you have a moment of surprise when the man rolls back on top of your prone form, deftly pins you to the bed, and before you can even make a move in response the bite is back in place and he's reintroducing you to his spines. Before you can even really consider what's going on, the mind-shattering orgasm from before is suddenly forced through you as it feels like he slams home even deeper than before, stretching you taut and spasming around his tip. And then it's over, again, and the display dings once more, debiting another standard rate, and you quickly realize that the transaction charge isn't per guy, it's per mating. And all of a sudden, that unimpressive sum of money starts to seem like a whole lot more. After all, you just made in a couple of minutes what it probably took this guy an hour, maybe two, to earn.

The thing about males of my species is, while each mating isn't exactly a particularly involved affair - a guy's got marathon longevity if he can make it to to a fourth stroke before unloading - it is quickly made up for in frequency. If it's a guy's first mating of the day, they can go five, six, seven times before they've had enough. Later on, maybe it's two or three, but you quickly realize how fast those transactions add up. Take on several guys a day, at several transactions apiece, and you're quickly doing all right for yourself. Of course, those early matings, when you're depending on heat more than skill, aren't particularly glamorous - they're immediate, and physical, but not much more than that, and the guy's usually gone before you can even think to ask him his name. Near-anonymous and impersonal, but that's the default state of feline mating - the only way it would be any more authentic would be to have a bunch of us in a room with a circle of guys around us, watching and taking turns and pouncing on whoever tried to break free - but that sort of thing is reserved for the red ones, and part of the reason men pay for the proprietors is for the intimacy of one-on-one contact, brief though it might be.

As alien as the feeling of being mated is at first, oscillating as it does along the fine line between pleasure and pain, the pleasure is enough that you can quickly become accustomed to it - especially when a worried inspection after that first romp reveals that your mound isn't a torn-up mass of blood, just puffed up and a little red, with the only thing emanating from between your lips being a small trickle of milky, translucent cum mixed with your own copious, heat-inspired juices. Once that sort of sight doesn't faze you in the least, and you become fully confident in the ability of your body to handle what's being asked of it, providing that service, especially under the influence of heat and instinct, quickly becomes second nature. In fact, in an era when all sexually-transmitted diseases have been largely treated to the point of their eradication, the main safety precaution becomes remembering to stay properly hydrated between sessions - you lose a lot to the panting and exhalation needed to cool down amidst the throes of mating, and the copious lubrication that facilitates it all doesn't come from nowhere.

Once your shift is over, and the heat regulator turns back off, it's surprising how fast you begin to feel normal again - well, as normal as can be expected. Surprisingly, there's not much in the way of lingering effects, just a mild, satiated ache from the vigorous, repeated motions of mating, and a slight soreness resting between your hips that lessens even more once you get used to it. In fact, the most reliable side effect of the work is felt when walking around afterwards, as the residual products of all those repeated matings drip out of you over the next couple of hours. Some females wear pads designed to deal with such byproducts in a discreet manner, while others just let it fully permeate through their underwear, and then sell the pungent garments as a bonus side-business for those interested in that particular mode of stimulation.

The first few nights are usually spent atop the same bed you were working in, with an additional topsheet to pull over the bedclothes if you'd rather not sleep amidst the commingled smells of male musk and sex. Of course, some females choose to, basking in the remnants of their daily conquests, and a few especially eager ones, inspired by the newfound sensations, just leave the regulator on and take clients nonstop until sometime the next afternoon, when it reaches a safety threshold and forces them to take an extended break to recuperate. Either way, it's not really that healthy to stay in that sort of situation all the time - that might be the fate of the red ones, but after a couple of days I was more than ready to find my own place. The thing is, if you're a proprietor, it doesn't really take that many days before you've accumulated enough for a deposit...

Once you get into the swing of things, it really does become a remarkably easy job, even if it's not exactly intellectually stimulating. In fact, depending on your clientele, you can be as engaged or disengaged as you want - if all you're after is the more instinctual end of the market, those who just quickly want to get their rocks off and get back to it, it's entirely possible to turn the regulator all the way up, just let your body take over, and surf on a sea of weird, spiky bliss as your minimum payments rack up. I quickly tired of such things, though - I wanted to give something more in the way of personalized service, at least to the extent of seeing a face and knowing a name, maybe even exchanging a stray caress before getting down to business. Plus, I knew such things would be good training for what would come next - after all, it's when you get past that rank-and-file, minimum-payment phase that things truly get fun, and for that you need to know more than just how to assume a mounting position. If you hang around after a shift, though, exchanging advice and techniques with your fellow practitioners, you can pick things up quickly - and, assuming you're riding no more than the middle line on the regulator, perhaps even put them into play. Do it well, and all of a sudden, instead of a stream of anonymity, you start having regulars, and while they stay longer than others for the same amount of transactions, even at that phase there's nothing stopping them from slipping you a little extra remuneration - as long as it's in folding cash instead of on the universal credit system.

True to form, once I did my time in that mode, I started getting noticed, and not just by clients - as soon as my time in the statutory minimum-payment phase was complete, when I became a "free agent" as it were, my ID packet was suddenly flooded with offers from several mid-class and a few considerably higher-class places - when you don't just do the minimum, but make a habit of giving your clients that extra loving touch and refined bedside (or, rather in-bed) manner, word does tend to get around. Such offers were matched by the proprietor who was ostensibly in charge of the place I was already at, plus the promise of a reduced service fee, a suite commensurate with a marquee performer, and my choice of clients. I chose to stick around for a while longer, but if you know what you're doing, you'll soon find positions available featuring top-notch clients and locales - especially if you spend the first few years of that new status doing everything you can to hone your skills outside of the basic act.

That's the thing - the act itself is usually so quick, and so blindly, instinctually passionate, that once you get the right excitatory motions down, there's not a whole lot you can do to improve that core part of the transaction. It's everything around it, though, that differentiates a rock-star performer from an uninspired, somewhat superior alternative to a red one. Developing a striptease routine (or several), brushing up on complimentary conversation, choosing the right lingerie to perfectly complement your body, whatever its shape... heck, even go back and take some more courses once your rate is high enough that you only need to work a few hours a day to cover your expenses. My degree in economics made sure that the money I had coming in was well-managed, but it was the courses I took in basic psychology and counseling that had the most impact on my earnings potential. While the nature of our physiology means that it's not really necessary, or feasible, to fake orgasms, some training in acting can also help to provide that extra veneer of hospitality - when a man's in your arms, confessing his problems, you'd be amazed at what a tear or two can do if you're able to provide them on command. For the truly upscale clients, you can go even further - knowing how to sing, or play an instrument, lets you put on an entire show that you'll find is rivaled by few. Do that, and you can make it to the top - in fact, if you meet the right client, very rich but not quite rich enough to attract a natural woman, you might even be able to enter into an exclusive agreement that's about the closest thing to a real male-female relationship that can be had in our society.

I can't say that I've quite reached the very top - at least, not yet - but I've certainly done all right for myself, better than just about any outcome the male me could have achieved, even in a well-paying field like finance. That, and it's certainly been more pleasurable, and more varied and intriguing, than whatever I might have encountered in a paper-filled office. It's not for everyone, certainly, and every so often I end up feeling a little regret (usually during the very rare dreams of the time when I still had a penis, when I realize that there are certain feelings and experiences that I'll never be able to have again), but overall I think it's a more than noble occupation to have if you're willing to accept that initial sacrifice. If getting turned into a Red One is hell, and being a natural-born woman is something akin to heaven... well, maybe it's not quite to that lofty height, but it's certainly many, many steps above the purgatory of being a male professional.

So, if you're coming out of schooling and considering what you want to be, I'd tell you to give some serious thought to being a proprietor. While it might not seem like it at first blush, once you get beyond that initial trepidation, I can tell you that the rewards far outweigh the relatively negligible risks. And best of all, once you've become a proprietor, it's nearly impossible to make the sorts of missteps, the kind caused by the hormones and impulsivity of your original sex, that could lead to you becoming a Red One...