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Description
As a young Frenchman of high social standing, it feels as though you can't have any preferences outside of a certain mold. Your food needs to be of this quality and have these ingredients, you need to know the works of these authors by heart, you need to get yourself a demure woman who'd make for a cooperative wife and a doting mother.

Everything needs to be high class, top shelf, only the best of the best, and one hundred percent French. That last one has some wiggle room, but not much.

Perhaps it's my upbringing that's so shaped my taste in women. Maybe it's fetishization, maybe it's rebellion.

But the point is that I simply love a particular kind of girl, and she's nothing like what my parents, grandparents, and high french society holds up as the ideal woman.

What do I want in a girl? A slave girl?

Crass in behavior and word. Of low class or working class birth. A football fanatic. A lover of vapid television, cheap beer, loud music, and street clothes.

And above all, proudly British to the point of pig-headedness.

Chav girls.

I've already hypnotized a few who serve me at my home near Marseille. You'd think that getting such a woman to fall into a trance and ready for indoctrination would be hard, but no. Nothing can be further from the truth. I don't want emotionless dolls though. I want them to obey me without question, but I want them to keep their exuberance, their rough language.

That reminds me.

"Oh Trish!" My companion emerges with her new swimsuit, twirling and grinning.

"You called, hot stuff?" she asks, squeezing her breasts. "How's about getting a dekko at these?"

"Oh, I wish to do more than that."

"Cor! A swim and a shag then, master?"

"You've read my mind, Trish."

"Sweet!"

Description
As a young Frenchman of high social standing, it feels as though you can't have any preferences outside of a certain mold. Your food needs to be of this quality and have these ingredients, you need to know the works of these authors by heart, you need to get yourself a demure woman who'd make for a cooperative wife and a doting mother.

Everything needs to be high class, top shelf, only the best of the best, and one hundred percent French. That last one has some wiggle room, but not much.

Perhaps it's my upbringing that's so shaped my taste in women. Maybe it's fetishization, maybe it's rebellion.

But the point is that I simply love a particular kind of girl, and she's nothing like what my parents, grandparents, and high french society holds up as the ideal woman.

What do I want in a girl? A slave girl?

Crass in behavior and word. Of low class or working class birth. A football fanatic. A lover of vapid television, cheap beer, loud music, and street clothes.

And above all, proudly British to the point of pig-headedness.

Chav girls.

I've already hypnotized a few who serve me at my home near Marseille. You'd think that getting such a woman to fall into a trance and ready for indoctrination would be hard, but no. Nothing can be further from the truth. I don't want emotionless dolls though. I want them to obey me without question, but I want them to keep their exuberance, their rough language.

That reminds me.

"Oh Trish!" My companion emerges with her new swimsuit, twirling and grinning.

"You called, hot stuff?" she asks, squeezing her breasts. "How's about getting a dekko at these?"

"Oh, I wish to do more than that."

"Cor! A swim and a shag then, master?"

"You've read my mind, Trish."

"Sweet!"