1. Fashion'Slave


    Date: 7/28/2015, Categories: BDSM, Fetish, First Time, Author: klammer, Rating: , Source: xHamster

    time somebody (was it Sylvia?) stroked my legs and my behind and each time I came close to an orgasm. Well, what had brought me here and to this? What had caused me, a grown man of 25 years, rich by most standards, contrary to everything one should expect of me under normal circumstances, to be immovably stationed on a pedestal, dressed in exquisite feminine finery and looking like the epitome of femininity, and be a willing subject to the whims and caprices of a beautiful, but strong willed woman? Let me explain and tell you how everything happened from the very beginning. I, Rene de Brinville, was the only c***d of a couple, who had been extremely successful in the French fashion industry after the second world war. My parents were not actually creating fashion, but had an excellent ability to determine what would sell. They acted more or less behind the scenes, picking out young designers, backing them, building them up, and not only selling their creations but building a marketing empire around their names. When I was born, they had very successfully exploited every turn in fashion the fifties and early sixties and continued to do so. I grew up in my early years among fashion sketches, designers and fabrics. I was not overly touched by all of this, I had the normal interests of a boy: I'd rather go out and play soccer with the other k**s and generally make a mess of myself in the park, than sit at home. I abhorred little girls and I remember throwing a tantrum when my ...
    mother tried to persuade me to play an angel in a Christmas play. I definitely rejected the idea of being dressed up as an angel, which in my view was on par with wearing girls clothes -- a terrible idea. As both my parents were working, I was sent to a boarding school when my time came. There is nothing exceptional to report from this period, except maybe that if any mischief or prank was discovered, the headmaster would at first enquire where I had been at the time of the incident and more often than not his hunch was right that I was the culprit or, at least, an accomplice. My happy small world collapsed when my parents were both killed when their plane crashed on a flight from Milan to Paris. I was 13 years old and on the verge of puberty when it happened. Economically I had no problems. My parents had practically retired and sold their company to a multinational chemical company interested in it because of its potential to propagate new chemical fibers and fabrics, and just worked as advisors. All their money was invested in blue chip stocks which made me totally independent. By the Swiss definition that a rich man is one who can live comfortably on the interests earned on his interests, I would have been a rich man. But I was not a man yet. I was a school boy and the problems that I created at the school immediately grew immensely after the death of my parents. The headmaster found it necessary to inform my uncle, the b*****r of my father, who had been appointed as my ...
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