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Posts Tagged ‘Taboo’

android1918: I don’t think she is a model though she is…

Saturday, November 4th, 2017

I don’t think she is a model though she is beautiful. She is an average girl like me. When someone like her poses nude in public, it’s probably the first and last time. She is proving she isn’t afraid to break a social taboo. It takes a rush of adrenaline to do this. I remember getting a sense of extreme liberation while out naked – the first time I stepped out of my car completely nude. Anybody could have seen me and I simply didn’t care.

android1918:

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    Interracial Taboo

    Saturday, August 26th, 2017

    Charlotte is recently divorced for the second time. She is five-foot-six, with bright and sparkling blue eyes. In her younger years, she was a high fashion model whose face graced magazines all over the world. The beauty of her features, the shimmering tones in her soft blonde hair, and the well tended firmness of her slender body continue to testify to her illustrious career. In recalling the best sex she ever had, Charlotte goes back more than twenty years to a night in Paris.

    I was born to a wealthy New Orleans family with an old and respected name. Growing up during the forties and fifties, I developed some very strong prejudices. I believed that established families with old money and a heritage that was part of the South’s rich history were really the Lord’s chosen.

    My early education instilled in me the belief that God had created five castes of people. First, there were the privileged class, to which my family belonged. We had been wealthy since the days of slavery, and no one else was our equal. Then there were the nouveau riche with new money that we regarded as less than clean. Below them were the middle-class people. Almost at the bottom were the working-class people, whom we thought of as white trash. And then there were the blacks. It took me a very long time to grow up and stop thinking like a rich little Southern fool.

    Daddy didn’t think that a girl of my position should soil herself with a college education, so he sent me to a finishing school. Although it was an all-girls’ institution, it was closely associated with a prominent military academy located nearby. I had dozens of young men lining up to beg me for dates. Although I never formed any serious attachments, by the time I was twenty I had slept with several of them. It would be false modesty for me to deny that I was pretty.

    Daddy believed that I was pretty enough to be on the cover of a magazine. He always said that a highborn girl shouldn’t have a real occupation, but modeling was different. He arranged an interview with an advertising agency owned by one of his friends. They liked me and introduced me to a modeling agent who managed my career. I never got involved in the frenzied rush from one shoot to another like most models do, but I did work on carefully selected assignments.

    I was only twenty-two when my agent called to say that I was going to Paris to pose for the cover of a major fashion magazine. I was mildly excited. When he added that the photographer would be Maurice Jourdan, however, I was beside myself. I could have gone to Paris any time I wanted, but the opportunity of being photographed by Maurice Jourdari was unique.

    Among the photographic artists of the fashion world, Maurice Jourdan was held in the highest esteem. He was generally recognized as the best in the business. Combined with his rare talent, he had a well-known philosophy.

    Jourdan had gone on record as saying that every woman has her own special quality, which he called her “enigmatic essence.” A photographer, he said, must first. find it. Then he
    must study it. Then and only then could he hope to capture it on film. A Jourdan shoot took longer than most, because he insisted on spending time getting to know his model before he would consider taking her picture. Everyone agreed that it was worth the extra expense, however, just to have Maurice Jourdan’s name associated with the project.

    When I arrived at the Paris hotel, there was a sense of commotion in the air and a general feeling of eagerness. The lobby was filled with people waiting to meet the celebrity. My agent advised me to rest in my suite of rooms .until the fuss settled down.

    When the limo brought Jourdan to the hotel, I wouldn’t have been able to get near him anyway. There were paparazzi all over, cameras flashing everywhere. Writers from fashion magazines published all over the world were pushing through the crowds in hopes of getting an interview with this talented artist of the lens.

    I waited expectantly in my suite for the message that Mr. Jourdan was ready to meet with me in the hotel restaurant. When my agent escorted me into the room, Maurice stood up to greet me. I was shocked. The last thing in the world I expected to see was a black man. The photographer was tall and very slim, with black eyes and hair. His skin was the color of coal. I did my best to maintain my composure as he pulled a chair out for me.

    I was startled when he introduced himself. I never anticipated hearing a black man speak in anything but an uneducated, down-home manner. Jourdan’s exquisite French accent made him sound charming and refined. Nevertheless, I felt very uncomfortable, at first, having a conversation with him over a table in a restaurant.

    According to everything I was brought up to believe, all black men lived with the dream of some day taking a white woman to bed. Every time he looked at me, I was certain that he was undressing me in his mind. As our conversation progressed, however, I realized that this wasn’t so. He was studying me, looking for my enigmatic essence.

    When I spoke, he stared deep into my eyes. At one point, he even reached across the table and lightly touched my cheek with his fingertips. I think it was the first time I ever felt a black man’s hand on me. By now, I had recovered from my initial discomfort enough to realize that his interest was strictly professional. I forced myself to show my good breeding by not drawing back in horror.

    Although our exchange was professional, somewhere inside I realized that there was a streak of sensuality running through it. His voice was soft and seductive, suggestive of clandestine rendezvous in opulent surroundings. In part, his photographic genius came from his genuine love for women.

    Every flash of his eyes and every syllable that rolled off his tongue made this clear. Yet there was nothing crude or improper about his manner. He was frank in his appreciation of femininity and completely honest in saying that he found beauty in every woman.

    I tried hard to concentrate on the job we were there to do, but I couldn’t help daydreaming about sexual intimacies with him. Strange as it was, I found him sexually attractive. Although this was contrary to everything I had been brought up to believe, my upbringing was partially responsible for it.

    From the time I was old enough to know the difference between girls and boys, I was taught that it was taboo for white girls to have anything to do with black boys. I was trained to believe that the only thing any black male ever thought about was having sex with a white female. In a hundred different ways, I learned to think of black men as sexcrazed animals, with lust always on their minds.

    My training made it impossible for me to sit across a table from this black man without thinking about sex. My head was so awash in erotic imagery that I’m afraid I remember very little of what we talked about. I do recall that as we got up from the table, he said, “You are very beautiful, with a lovely essence. I look forward to working with you. We will start shooting tomorrow morning at nine sharp.”

    I spent the following day outdoors, posing in front of sights that· the world associates with Paris. Working with Maurice was incredible. He knew exactly what he wanted from a model and had a special way of getting it. Before I knew it, the day was over and we were riding together back to the hotel. As I got out of the limo, Maurice said, “I’ll let you know when the photos are ready.”

    That evening I was alone in my suite when the phone rang. It was Maurice saying that the pictures were ready and asking whether he could come and show them to me. A few minutes later he was at my door.

    We sat together on the sofa in the sitting room looking at the proofs. They were simply amazing. The face in the pictures was mine, but it managed to convey a personality that seemed foreign to me. The woman standing in front of the Eiffel Tower in a high-fashion gown was the personification of sexuality. Eroticism emanated from every pose. The angle of a shoulder, the tilt of the head, the droop of an eyelid all combined to project a sense of lust and a promise of its fulfillment.

    I was so excited by what I saw that almost half an hour passed before I remembered that I was alone in a hotel suite with a black man. By then it was too late. Maurice had conquered me with his vision of my essence. I couldn’t help but surrender to him when he stroked my hair for a moment and then embraced me. His lips were ·soft against mine. His.exploring fingers thrilled my hungry body.

    Although it violated everything I believed, I knew I wanted him. I wanted to feel him touching me and I wanted to touch him. I wanted to expose my body to the appreciation of his gaze, and I wanted to stare hungrily at his. I sensed his devotion to the erotic and I longed to yield to it. He was a master at lovemaking as he was a master of his art. Every grazing stroke of his fingertips brought me closer to submission.

    Through it all, I was acutely aware that he was black. I can’t say that it no longer mattered. On the contrary, it seemed to make the entire episode even more exciting. Our contact was forbidden, even though it was exquisite. I felt that I was discovering secrets that no other white woman on the face of the earth had ever discovered before.

    In a daze, I let him lead me to the bedroom, where we undressed and fondled each other boldly and freely. Although I had been with other men, no one ever touched me as softly or as sensuously as he did. I had never before reached the heights of pleasure to which he brought me. Every move, every kiss, every stroke was uniquely tailored to my special needs.

    When at last he mounted and entered me, I felt my whole body opening to him. As he filled me with the substance of his masculinity, I wrapped myself around him. I was his. For the moment, he was my master. I presented him with my mind and soul as well as my body. My senses submitted to his will, prepared to obey him absolutely. When his movements demanded my orgasm, I gave it to him. We made love until the sun outside our window began lighting the damp Parisian streets.

    In the morning over room-service coffee, I asked Maurice to tell me what he had found to be my enigmatic essence. He said it was my unceasing sexuality. He said that sex would always be part of everything I did, part of every gesture I made; that eroticism would accompany the movement of my hand when I stirred sugar into my tea and would drive my car when I stepped on the accelerator.

    In the years that followed, I came to fully appreciate how correct Maurice’s judgment had been. He saw something in me that I had never seen in myself. He taught me two important lessons that night.

    The first was the truth about my sensual nature. By showing it to me, he taught me to see the erotic aspect in every human contact. I· learned to banish shame from my existence and to dedicate myself to the fulfillment of my sexual destiny.

    The second lesson was that the real differences in men do not lie in their skin color. I have been married twice and have had many lovers. Maurice was the most perfect sex mate I have ever known. The reason wasn’t just physical. Although he was black, his body was like any other man’s. His penis wasn’t bigger or harder or thicker, as I always imagined a black man’s would be. His l~st wasn’t bestial or base, as I had been taught to expect.

    What made Maurice special was his passion for sex and his genuine love and respect for all women. This made the photos that he took of me the best I’ve ever seen. And it made our sex the best I ever had.

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      Faye Reagan from the Feb 2010 issue of Taboo. – Piss shot. …

      Friday, September 21st, 2012

      Faye Reagan from the Feb 2010 issue of Taboo. – Piss shot. 
      davenazdirty:

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