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But if I ask you who comes to mind when thinking of the top supermodels, which names would come to mind? One would think that diversity is widely celebrated in the modern world, however this statement does not hold true in the fashion world. It is a place where blondes have more fun and dominate the industry.
A long established standard of Aphrodite exists in the fashion industry. More often than not, white models often grace the front covers of the most esteemed fashion magazines and strut down the runways for distinguished designers.
Sure, there are more and more Asian faces appearing on the runway, is it this a true celebration of diversity or is it due to the economic power of the Chinese market? But beyond that, could we do with more racial representation? It has become increasingly obvious that there is an ongoing taboo that has yet to be broken. Being one of the few successful black models in the industry, Jourdan has talked about racism in the fashion industry, agreeing with a journalist that there were so few black models on the runway back in It takes g uts to be so honest, but the industry needs more real people like that.
They say facts do not lie. What is it actually telling us? So to whom are we supposed to point fingers towards?
Designers and fashion editors usually make the decisions to cast models, and several have been criticized for the sheer number of white models. Some people may say that this is because of the preponderance of white designers, but it goes deeper than that. With the rise of demand for luxury goods from the Asian market, the 4 prevalence of Asian models, too, has grown.
Not only does the fashion industry think that white is beautiful, they think that only people from certain racial groups are wealthy enough to afford the luxury.
Before the publication of Kinsey's reports, Maslow tested Kinsey's volunteers for bias. He concluded that Kinsey's sample was unrepresentative of the general population. Further, the conclusions drawn from data presented in the book are often stated by KPM [Kinsey, Pomeroy, and Martin] in much too bold and confident a manner. Taken cumulatively, these objections amount to saying that much of the writing in the book falls below the level of good scientific writing.
In , Gebhard with Alan B. Their conclusion, to Gebhard's surprise he claimed, was that none of Kinsey's original estimates were significantly affected by this bias: that is, the prison population and male prostitutes had the same statistical tendency as those who willingly participated in discussion of previously taboo sexual topics.
People took their reputations in their hands if they attempted to pursue it. It can be elaborate and demanding, or relaxed and informal.
The more seriously high-protocol folks are not unlike those who choose to live monastically.
Every movement or action or word spoken every day is devotion in motion. We compensate by keeping our serious protocol strict where it does us the most good: There, it serves to heighten sexual tension and romantic passion and helps keep me in my own sub-space. Protocol is not sacred, but its graceful and consistent execution shows just how seriously you each take the relationship.
I treat protocol like I would tea ceremony or ballet. Protocol means that I offer myself as a proud slave, eager to do his bidding and always striving to please. You and your partner get to make your own rules.
Happy playing! So why am I writing to you? Can you recommend any beginner-level medical play that would be fun for both of us?
They make them for asses as well as the more-familiar vaginal versions, allowing for all sorts of rude, intrusive and privacy-busting moments sure to bring out your inner Mad Doctor and her Poor Suffering Patient.
Before you start, collect all of your gear: When she replies properly, reward her with some vibration on her clit. J WorldMags. The madame knows who the real high-rollers are among her clientele, and only those with the fattest wallets and the most urgent needs rate a trip to the deepest cellar of her luxury establishment. Down there, accommodations are much less comfortable, just hard, cold, stone walls, steel cages and devices intended to restrain the suffering bodies of beautiful young women.
The cruel show is staged for maximum drama and powerful titillation. An electric motor growls to life overhead. Doors slide open in the ceiling and a spectacular blonde wearing only black-feathered wings strapped to her back and high heels on her feet is slowly lowered into the room.
Dangling by her wrists, her statuesque body is agonizingly stretched by her own weight so every sinew stands out against her luscious flesh. Arms still held high overhead, she can only squirm and grind when the machine is activated and the motorized probe begins churning her insides and thrumming her clit. As the attendants come forward to remove the theatrical wings and bind Sierra with a body harness of festive red rope, the guests learn the name of the game.
One of the cages is wheeled to center stage and Sierra is chained inside it. A powerful wand vibrator is strapped between her legs, its broad head pulled tightly to her shaven parts at just the right angle to focus the sensations it produces on her clit.
Rattling her chains against the bars of the cage, Sierra writhes in helpless heat, unable to silence her own lascivious moans and gasps as the relentless toy hums against her hard little button. Now, when the vibrator is mounted on a stand and pushed up against her from behind, she jiggles and shakes lewdly as soon as it comes to life.
One of the attendants switches the vibe to a higher setting. Sweat beads up on her creamy skin. She grits her teeth, wills herself to think about something else. But inevitably, the heat rises inside her. Then it happens again. Sierra slams her stiletto-heeled shoe down hard on the bare floor and jams her tail back against the O-machine. Clamping it tight between her thighs, she opens her mouth and lets out a piercing shriek, coming so hard it hurts.
Again applause erupts throughout the chamber, along with mocking laughter. Someone is going to take ruthless advantage of that fact later on and she dreads it.
Sierra will obey even the most degrading order or painful punishment in return for the privilege of liberating her ferocious libido, and anyone who knows that can make her jump through hoops and a whole lot more. Now everyone present knows that. What kinds of sadistic torments will they inflict on her, armed with that knowledge?
From past experience in this place, she knows to expect the worst. Her tits shake licentiously as the electrical jolts of yet another orgasm course through her contorted body.
This is the secret her owner has chosen to reveal to those most likely to exploit it. Left bent over to contemplate the puddle of her own sweat and juices on the floor while random sexual activity gathers momentum all around her, Sierra can hardly stand straight when her arms are finally lowered for the next phase of her ordeal. A lot of things can happen to a girl in a straight-backed steel chair. The ropes of her body harness pull tight on either side of her crotch when they sit her down, making her swollen lower lips puff out even more temptingly.
Instead of immediately binding her to the chair, her keepers instruct her to masturbate by hand this time. Any shred of shyness still clinging to her is knocked away brusquely by a few sharp strokes of the riding crop.
Better to obey than be compelled to comply. But it responds in the usual way. Vulnerable as she is to the devices they use on her, nothing works more effectively than her own touch.
And with everything down there so stirred up, finding all the good spots is no major accomplishment. Sierra tries playing coy, spreading herself open to show off her wet, pink fuckhole, sliding fingers in and out so they can all hear her squish.
She forces that slightly naughty smile again. Slow, circular massage rapidly escalates to frantic pinching, stroking and slapping until she rubs out yet another one, her voice growing hoarse from ecstatic yelps and screams. Now the crowd cheers her on in the rudest terms, telling her what to do with her fingers, making her pinch her little, pink nipple-buds hard as she goes over the top. It never gets tired or loses interest.
So well-tenderized now that everything hurts, whether it feels good or not, she fights the ropes and babbles out pleas for mercy. All it gets her is a ball-gag packed into her mouth and strapped tightly around the back of her neck. No longer capable of struggling, or even moving, she just lolls in her restraints, eyes half-closed in a trance, gurgling and drooling around the gag as her whole body twitches from the latest cascade of climactic contractions.
Satisfied that they have her just as they want her, the hard men who move her body around like a rag doll let her up from the chair only to replace ropes with straps and chains.