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She was naked except for a curious costume of finely mazed leather straps. She had been tied down with short chains. They ran from her ankles and wrists to dull shining iron bolts in the marble.She did not move. Nor did she make a sound.The black hooded creature turned around. Now Brigitte saw that its full, pale breasts swayed free. The crotch of the suit was open as well. It displayed a smoothly shaven cunt and pubic mound. The nipples were clamped with a delicate chain dangling in between. There was a tiny drop of blood. It seeped from between the silver jaws of a clamp.Brigitte stood panting. Her breasts heaved as much as the woman's. The pressure of her blood started to sink slowly. The buzzing left her ears. Then the woman grabbed her hair again. She pulled her towards the cage. She pushed her naked body against it and handcuffed her wrists to the bars. They were about two feet above and to either side of her head.Brigitte now stood tightly against the cold iron. She felt it. Maybe she'd been working on holiday? No, it was clean, so, a foreign girl coming in to work in England? So my duty as a citizen was to report it immediately. Like hell, I began to suffer flashbacks. Flashbacks that haunted me still, every now and again I'd wake up sweating from a recurring dream. A dream that had never happened but was at least based on fact. The fact being that from the age of six or seven I'd been fascinated with my sisters clothes, not just the touch and the look but how they felt to wear. Being a mere two years younger than her and having a sister who was a devoted follower of fashion it had been a young transvestites dream. Not that I knew I was a transvestite of course, not then, I discovered that word when I was fourteen, from a problem page in one of my sisters ever so grown up magazines. The same magazines that had taught me about make up and hair styles and through them and my constant raids on Samantha's wardrobes I became extremely convincing. I was never.
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