Artwork by Leroy Campbell. The Harlem & Brooklyn Renaissance of the 1980s African Cultural Resurgence
22.22
705 notes
·
View notes
273 notes
·
View notes
“The experiences of transmen of color further show the hierarchical relationality between embodiments of maleness. Transmen of color can experience a loss of freedom as men. Jack, a Latino, and Trey, a black man, both realized they physically passed as men when women started clutching their purses tightly when they walked by. Trey notes, "On one hand, I was like, 'Oh, I am passing!' and then I was like, 'Oh, but you think I am dangerous.'" Keith, a black man, says, "It is interesting now to see it from both sides. I know why the black man is angry! I do. He doesn't start off that way.... It is just so weird to get that vibe from people. I just manifest... their fears, everything they fear. I am every black man who has been accused of something." He encountered frequent racist treatment, such as being pulled over by white police officers for driving in the "wrong" (that is, wealthy and white) neighborhoods and being followed in stores—all common experiences for black men in the United States (Bolton and Feagin 2004).
Trey faced a similar experience in Texas. Walking a friend's dog in a predominantly white, affluent neighborhood at night, he was stopped by neighborhood patrols and police officers three times in a span of twenty minutes. Shocked at this treatment, he asked his older brother how he dealt with it. His brother was surprised that Trey didn't realize "how it was" and told him that soon he would become accustomed to such treatment. Socialized as black girls, Trey and Keith did not have the same embodied strategies as cisgender black men for navigating this treatment. While schools and families socialize black boys into accepting and adjusting to stereotypes of black, masculine criminality (Ferguson 2000; Oliver 2003), black girls' socialization often focuses on regulating their sexuality and maintaining their self-respect (Kaplan 1997; Orenstein 1994). Becoming a black man means finding interactional strategies that address the expectations of black male criminality.”
— Just One Of The Guys? Transgender Men and the Persistence of Gender Inequality by Kristen Schilt, pages 59
3K notes
·
View notes
The Realities of Leading a Soft Girl Lifestyle.
(no luxury materials, riches, or social status needed)
The concept of leading a "soft life" has gained immense popularity on social media. From the emergence of the "soft life" to the adoption of "soft girl era," individuals are striving to embrace and protray this lifestyle.
The merging of the "Soft Life" and "Black Women in Luxury" trends promotes an indulgent and opulent way of living. However, the problem arises when the boundaries between these two trends become blurred, as the Soft Life has become inundated with extravagant and unattainable daily routines and lifestyles, especially during times of economic decline and the widespread influence of social media.
A Life of Ease 🌹
The term "soft life" originated from Nigerian influencers, and it means rejecting the idea of constantly working hard and instead choosing to live without struggle and stress. This concept has gained popularity among individuals who believe in prioritizing self-care, relaxation, and enjoying the pleasures of life. Embracing the soft life means acknowledging that life is not solely about hustling and grinding, but also about finding balance and taking time to recharge.
In a society that often glorifies busyness and equates success with non-stop productivity, the soft life offers a refreshing perspective. It encourages individuals to slow down and appreciate the little joys in life, such as spending quality time with loved ones, indulging in hobbies, or simply taking a leisurely walk in nature. It emphasizes the importance of self-care practices, such as getting enough sleep, engaging in regular exercise, and nourishing oneself with healthy, delicious meals.
Living the soft life does not mean completely shirking responsibilities or neglecting one's ambitions. It is about finding a healthy equilibrium between work and leisure, and recognizing that constant stress and burnout are not sustainable in the long run. By prioritizing self-care and setting boundaries, individuals can maintain their well-being and find fulfillment in both their personal and professional lives.
The Marketing Scheme 📈
Due to the widespread fascination with living a comfortable and luxurious lifestyle, as well as the growing trend of promoting businesses highlighting affluent Black women, companies have cleverly targeted their audience and capitalized on this interest.
Their approach has transformed the concept of a relaxed and efficient lifestyle into a profitable strategy, enticing consumers to indulge in products endorsed by their beloved social media influencers or ones that are beyond the reach of the average individual's income.
📌 What We Want You To Focus On:
Strive for a balanced and stress-free lifestyle that fits your budget! We want to make it clear that you don't have to give up on things like a $300 facial or $100 yoga pants. We encourage everyone to pursue the life they want. What we're saying is, don't feel pressured or inferior if you choose to do an at-home manicure, light your favorite Target candles, and enjoy a glass of wine in your bathtub at home. The true essence of a fulfilling life is finding a balance between increasing your savings and reducing stress throughout the day. It doesn't require a specific price tag on the items used to do so.
Yes, Two Things Can Be True At Once.
Indeed, the well-known concept of "black women in luxury" is a way of leading a comfortable life, but the context of this aesthetic is solely dependent on financial means.
However, Living a stress-free life is primarily determined by an individual's behaviors and mindset rather than their financial status.
Life Tip: Having the right mindset leads to a luxurious lifestyle, but a luxurious lifestyle without a well-balanced mindset can lead to destruction.
•
•
•
Follow us on INSTAGRAM | FACEBOOK 🫶🏽
227 notes
·
View notes
Sugar
Grad student!Nathan Bateman x older!fem!reader
Author’s note: I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS CONCEPT TBH BUT DON’T WANT TO GIVE SPOILERS SO WARNINGS ARE NON-EXHAUSTIVE. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK I GUESS? (As ever, minors DNI, thank you!) And I blame Oscar at MEFCC in the black polo and @nowritingonthewall’s hc of young!Nathan sneaking into tech conferences for this one. (I’m imagining him as getting towards his mid twenties here.)
Word count: just a short one!
Warnings: power / wealth imbalance, and slight warning for dub-con due to this. Sexual touching (slightly public). Infidelity. Alcohol consumption (reader). As mentioned above, warnings are non-exhaustive this time to avoid spoilers. If you do need further info, however, you are welcome to DM or send an ask.
“Not touching the oysters?” Nathan asks in as suave a tone as he can muster. The only oyster he’s personally sampled, so far, is the oyster sauce at his favourite downtown take-out.
Your plate of extravagant buffet food is discarded next to you, however, as you pore over a stack of documents at the hotel bar, a martini in a tall, flared glass languishing in your free hand.
You whip your head towards Nathan and look him up and down; as though deciding whether he’s worth the time of day, or whether you should immediately summon security to remove him from your field of vision. You seem to find him relatively inoffensive, at least, and grant him permission to remain in your orbit; for now. You hum contemplatively. “Decided I’ve had my fill of vile sensations for today,” you announce in a cool, assured tone. “I had to fuck my husband this morning. Twice.”
Nathan emits a low whistle. As much as he tries to take it in his stride - to act like he’s accustomed to affluent, worldly, cut-throat women like you - he isn’t. Honestly, he’s barely accustomed to anyone at all lately, since he’s immersed himself entirely in getting his start-up off the ground.
You’re older. Older than him, at least. Older than any woman he’s been with so far, he can’t help but think. That, along with your candidness, is refreshing. You’re not all giggly and earnest and chaotic like the young women he’s met around campus - which sounds far less exhausting to him, if he’s honest.
He looks you up and down in return. And, yeah. Shit. He definitely wants to fuck you.
“He doesn’t get you off?” Nathan asks, crude and casual, as though he has any business asking. However, he’s found that a complete disregard for social norms can -oddly- sometimes pan out in his favour. Sometimes. Besides, on this occasion he has to risk it, or social norms would dictate that he shouldn’t approach you at all. At least not before he’s in possession of an invitation-only credit card, or, has made a hard-to-come by appointment via your PA at the very least.
You take a sip of your drink and eye him over the brim. He likes that move. Your eyes are full of deliciously dark amusement as you appraise him. He thinks you may even like what you see. Might even find him refreshing too. “Well. It’s not love - or anything else so impractical. It’s strictly a business arrangement,” you explain, as though you have been waiting for an opportunity to vent and no-one has actually bothered to ask you. “He pays for my lifestyle and I put out. And occassionally have to, you know, run his fucking company, attend boring conferences to schmooze his investors, and generally mask his total ineptitude.” You gesture around you vaguely. From the tiredness in your tone, it makes sense that you’re hiding out in this deserted hotel bar, Nathan thinks.
He knows fine well who your husband is too. A guy many, many years your senior. Obscenely rich fucker too. CEO and founder of a huge ass telecoms company, recently diversified into various markets across the tech world. The company is running an agressive acquisition policy, buying out start-ups and hoping to find something that sticks. The “next big thing”. It hasn’t succeeded yet. Projections look mediocre at best.
Nathan, who very much considers his innovation the “next big thing” - the only game in town - had tried to corner your husband at the end of his rather lacklustre panel. After all, he’d done his research. Had identified the highest value targets he could network with in attempts to drum up some investment. He is trying to bolster his sorely under-funded start-up… which, if he is honest, has barely even “started” at all. He knows the tech. The code. He’s a certified genius, for God’s sake. He was just a fool for thinking that that alone would be enough. Frustratingly for him, it’s the schmoozing and understanding of the cold realities of the business world he struggles with. He seems to rub people up the wrong way, for some reason. Probably because they’re all assholes. Or, maybe, because they view him as too young or too rough around the edges to know what he’s talking about. Or, most likely, because they’re uninspired bastards incapable of comprehending his world-changing vision. Maybe all of the above.
So much then, for the supposed merits of the free market and the idea that the best ideas will prosper. His idea is the best, and he’s floundering simply because his daddy can’t buy him his way in. Instead of a reliance on the strength of the product, networks and power and money and nepotism appear to be king in this world. And, Nathan possesses none of these advantages. Even with the buzz around him at his faculty, and his full ride scholarship at 17 for being a fucking genius.
Anyway, after a failed attempt to schmooze your asshole husband, Nathan had quickly put together that the guy didn’t have a goddamn clue. That you were the brains (and beauty, by the way) behind the operation, and he was likely little more than the funds.
Also, the guy definitely didn’t seem like he’d be a pleasant fuck, by any stretch.
He grimaces somewhat at the thought.
“That’s what they say isn’t it?” You take a breezy sip of your drink. “Fake it until you make it? They’re talking about orgasms, sweetheart, and my last performance paid for these shoes.” You kick out your appealing leg, your shins bare and smooth beneath your pencil skirt, and you briefly show off your shiny, black, red-soled heels.
They’re nice. Sexy, on you.
Nathan briefly wonders why you’re being so forthcoming with him, a complete stranger; but you don’t strike him as someone who gives a shit in the slightest what other people think. You also strike him as someone who can make people think whatever you want them to think. One day, he hopes to have as much power over a room as you do - and that’s for starters.
He slips into the bar stool beside you then, uninvited, and you scoff. “Are you even old enough to drink, baby face?”
He bristles at that, thick brows pinching and nods slowly, peeking at you from over the brim of his glasses, his own eyes now dancing with a subtle, dark amusement.
You’ve already turned away though. It frustrates him that he can’t entirely hold your attention.
“Nathan Bateman. Student, MIT.” You gesture to his name tag with a perfectly manicured finger, and without looking back up from your stack of documents.
Now, Nathan glumly reassesses his earlier conclusion. You are being forthcoming because it really doesn’t matter what he, specifically, thinks. Because you’ve already estimated that he’s the guy in the room with least influence. For now, at least. You’ll see. “Better to check. Especially before you start hitting on me.”
He swallows. “Is that what you think’s happening?” Shit. Do you want that to happen?
“Isn’t it?”
He’d make some dig about you flattering yourself. But he knows fine well it’s the most likely reason any hot-blooded guy would be sidling up to you. You’re hot and unobtainable; which makes you even hotter.
Nathan watches as you idly spin your wedding band around and around. He’s surprised you can even lift your arm with that rock attached. When he notices it, he wants to fuck you even more than he did before, but he definitely can’t afford you.
“Actually. I wanted to pick your brains on something. You seem the kinda person who knows a good idea when she sees one.” Unlike the other idiots at this conference who’ve refused to give him the time of day. Maybe he should reconsider his pitch.
You scoff, still not looking up at him. “Honey,” you deliver in a silken, condescending tone, which he is surprised to learn makes him half-hard in his pants. “I charge for that too, and I get the feeling I’m a little beyond your budget.”
“Call it corporate social responsibility then. Supporting the students.”
“Sweetheart. I pay someone else to do that sort of thing for me.”
“Okay.” He takes it in his stride. Wants to show he isn’t fazed by you, even if he is. “Then I guess I am hitting on you. Unless that’s gonna cost me.”
You finally turn back towards him. Look him up and down again as if to remind yourself exactly what you’re dealing with. You study his cheap suit and his mop of curls and his freshly grown-out beard, and he is surprised how exhilarating he finds it to be under your scope.
Your lips curl with subtle amusement, your gaze growing downright wolfish as you survey him.
Fucking unreal.
You look like could eat him up and spit him out. Or… you could swallow, he fantasises briefly, gaze dipping down to your plush mouth.
You do like what you’re seeing, don’t you? Are intrigued by him. Finally. He encounters someone with some good sense.
“What’s it like?” he delivers with a smirk, feeling a resurgence of his familiar confidence as he successfully holds your attention.
You eyeball his fit again. “What? Tailoring?”
He bristles at your dig, but again, aims to present an unbothered exterior. “No. I mean.” His palm waves through the air. “Being a sugar baby.”
You tut at him. “Why, are you interested in a position?”
He arcs a single, thick brow. “I could be.”
“I don’t think my husband’s recruiting. Unless you want a 60-hour a week unpaid internship with zero healthcare and no dental.”
“No. I mean that…” His tie feels awfully constrictive around his neck all of a sudden. This is a bold move but… you have to speculate to accumulate, right? “…I could be yours.”
You clearly weren’t expecting that. And, as much as you try to pass-off that you’re used to jumped-up, cocky little shits like him offering to be your sugar baby, he can plainly see it throws you for a moment. Still, you compose yourself beautifully in no time at all. “I already have one man who saps my time and comes in two minutes flat. What would make you any different, honey?”
Nathan offers you a lopsided smile, opting not to contain the dark, lust-blown gaze smouldering behind his lenses. What does he have to offer, exactly, in this scenario? He purses his lips while he thinks, and then he lands on it: “I’m… hot.”
You look him up and down again, conceding - with a tilt of your head - that his argument is at least halfway compelling. “Hmm. Do you imagine, though, that I struggle for offers from hot, younger men?”
“Not in the slightest. You’re gorgeous.” And rich. “But I think you can do better.”
“Better like you? What makes you so special?” You’re having fun with this. He can tell from the glow in your eyes and the curve of your appealing mouth.
He offers you his best smoulder. It isn’t hard - there’s an easy chemistry between the two of you, he thinks. “There are things I don’t give away for free either.”
“Well,” you ask, leaning in close to him and cupping his chin firmly in your hand as you dip your painted lips towards the shell of his ear. “If I was to take you up on your very generous offer… What pretty things would you want me to buy you with the money, baby boy?”
Fuck. You smell good.
You smell edible, and his suit pants definitely fit far less well than they did when he donned them this morning. In fact, they’re getting increasingly tight around his crotch as his arousal swells for you.
With a tight swallow dipping down his neck and a rare nervous sweat dampening his shirt, he twists to gather some documents out of his backpack. You scrape your nails down his beard as he turns out of reach, and fuck, you’re doing it for him.
Then, gathering his cool, entering the domain he is expert in and is sure of, he flips to the page on costings in his business plan, sliding it across the bar to you.
He gives you a moment to study the text. The list of the equipment, personnel, marketing budgets and so on he needs to realise his rather extensive ambitions. Then, he leans in to you in return as you pore over his plan. He dips his mouth until his beard is tickling the shell of your ear.
“This would be a good start… Mommy.”
As you look back at him with a dark, lust-laden stare, looking as hungry as he feels, he wonders if he might leave this conference with some start-up funds after all.
If this comes off, then… fuck. He hopes you are as ferocious in the bedroom as it strikes him you are in other areas.
Your head is angled towards him, your lips parted in mild surprise. Your gaze briefly dips to the tenting arousal between his legs, and he doesn’t even attempt to hide it.
He has no idea where this will lead; but that’s the fun, isn’t it? Nathan is rather fond of experiments.
A hard swallow dips down your neck and you cross your legs, pressing your thighs together as you take in the substantial swell of him.
You gather a smile, and your composure. “Your business plan looks impressive, Nathan.” His name sounds good in your mouth. He wonders how his cock might feel in there too.
You hand the documents back to him, and you quickly gather up your things, slinging your stack of documents under one arm. With the other, you reach out your hand, offering it to him to shake. He obliges. “I’m certain we could come to some sort of… arrangement.” You free a business card from the holder in your tote and slip it gracefully into his top pocket.
He’s a little disappointed it isn’t your hotel room key, if he’s honest. He’d love to work on his current… problem… right away. “When would you like to… discuss things further?” he asks, as you dangle the promise in front of him.
“You’ll have to make an appointment with my PA,” you dismiss with a smirk. However, you seem keen to guarantee that he does. You’ll be fun to play with, Nathan thinks. “Will you do that for me, Nathan?”
He thinks about it. Decides it’s a no-brainer. “Yes.”
To his surprise, you then reach your hand down towards his crotch, pausing before you touch him and allowing him opportunity to protest. He doesn’t. And so, you settle your palm over the aching bulge between his legs. The warmth of you bleeds through the fabric, and Nathan struggles not to react to the pressure you apply, managing to limit himself to a ragged intake of breath. His eyes flutter shut, lashes fanning against his cheek. When he opens them again, he half expects his glasses to have steamed up.
“Yes, what?” you purr, giving him an abrupt squeeze.
“Y-yes, Mommy,” he stutters, almost choking on his words, and with that, you look very satisfied indeed.
He wagers, from the expression on your face, that you’ll definitely be motivated to seal the deal.
You sweep out and Nathan watches your ass sway in that tight pencil skirt as you go.
Fucking unreal.
96 notes
·
View notes
"I’M SICK TO DEATH OF HEARING OF HOW everything fucking hurts trans people’s feelings & how I’m obliged to erase myself & my reality, constantly police my speech & have it policed for me, & walk on eggshells to center their narcissistic fragility.
I’m sick to death hearing that trans people are the most oppressed people in the entire world. Affluent, western white men in their 30s, 40s, 50s wearing dresses are not fucking oppressed AT ALL, let alone more than poor black & brown girls in the developing world.
I’m sick to death hearing that TW being told they can’t get their dicks out in places where women & girls are vulnerable is denying them rights & the worst possible hardship any human has ever faced. If that’s the worst you ever face you are privileged, not oppressed.
I’m sick to death of women being asked to prove that vast numbers of us are in peril of brutal rape & death for our objections to sharing private spaces with males to be considered valid, & anything short of that being seen as an acceptable price to validate.
I’m sick to death of hearing that TWAW even if they take no hormones, have no surgery, see no doctors, get no diagnosis, experience no dysphoria, & keep their beards, but when we ask questions suddenly all the TW will kill themselves from triggered dysphoria.
I’m sick to death hearing that women talking about surviving male violence are “weaponizing their trauma” against trans people when the entire trans movement is founded on the weaponized trauma of their (supposed) dysphoria & emotional blackmail.
I’m sick to death of hearing “no one’s saying sex isn’t real” & “sex & gender are different” while being told there’s no such thing as a biological female, women have dicks, males have periods & get cervical cancer, a clitoris is just a small penis.
I’m sick to death of hearing how hard it is to be trans when every politician, mainstream media outlet, corporation, charity, & celebrity is in the thrall of trans ideology while women who say humans can’t change sex are vilified, doxxed, fired, & otherwise cancelled.
I’m sick to death of hearing that endometriosis, menstruation, miscarriage, abortion, street harassment, sexual objectification, & unpaid domestic labor are examples of “cis privilege.”
I’m sick to death of being told that women & girls who dare to set boundaries are hateful bigots; that men are entitled to decide whether our boundaries are justified & whether they will be granted; & that straight dysphoric men are entitled to sex from lesbians.
I’m sick to death of white people with BLM in their bios saying women who say humans can’t change sex are the same as nazis and white supremacists while also saying that black women are indistinguishable from dysphoric men.
I’m sick to death of being told that “humans can’t change sex” is the epitome of violent hatred but “choke on my fat ladycock, t*rf cunt,” “kill t*rfs,” “t*rfs get raped with my barbed wire-wrapped baseball bat” are considered justifiable, if not downright righteous.
I’m sick to death of hearing that injured male pride is a catastrophic violation of human rights that must be avoided at all costs, up to and including the sacrifice of female bodies—but female rights & trauma are at best irrelevant. Sick. To. Fucking. Death."
@feminist_rachel on twitter
72 notes
·
View notes
Fic: Grudgingly Yours (Part 3)
Fic: Grudgingly Yours (Part 3)
Summary: You are a general surgeon, working in a hospital that’s slowly sucking the life out of you when one day you’re given the offer of a lifetime.
A.K.A - An arranged marriage fic :)
Pairing: Billy Russo x You
Rating: R
Masterlist (contains links to my other stories and this one)
Part 3
You removed your glasses and started massaging the knot in your temple that seemed to have lodged inside your head permanently. Exhaling a heavy sigh, you laid your head down on the table. It wouldn’t be easy, you always knew that, but a part of you hadn’t realized how much work would be needed to actually build a clinic in the neighbourhood you grew up in. And this assessment was only the first step! After you completed this, that’s when the real work would begin.
Your phone vibrated and you reached out to grab it. It was the alarm you set to start getting ready for the dinner tonight. Fuck. Alistair was hosting a dinner for you and Billy, but you knew it was an excuse to check up on the two of you. You were already dreading it, imagining how stifling it would be. The last time you had met his family was at the wedding, and they had all looked at you like you were something to be afraid of. To them, you were the other – not rich, not white, not thin, and definitely not someone who was a part of the elite and affluent community they were a part of. And you would never be any of those things, so there was no point in trying to adjust your personality to fit in. Which was why you decided to go with a red jumpsuit to this dinner.
An hour later you were applying finishes touches to your makeup when you heard Billy’s voice in the kitchen. He was talking to Anita, the woman who came to clean the apartment every day. You went to the door, eavesdropping on their conversation.
“Gwen’s not gonna be around anymore, Anita,” he explained.
His voice was gentle, lacking the heavy condescension that was usually directed at you.
“Good, I don’t like her.” The elder lady retorted. “She was very rude!”
He chuckled.
“And it’s not right, you still bringing your girlfriends here when you’re married now. What about your wife?”
“Who gives a fuck?”
Ah, there it was. The biting edge in his tone whenever you were mentioned. You headed out of your bedroom and towards the kitchen.
“She’s a nice lady!” Anita chastised.
“She’s a goddamn bitch.”
“Talking about me again, sweetie?” You sauntered into the kitchen, wearing an amused smile.
Anita immediately looked embarrassed at being caught but not Billy. Dressed in a perfectly tailored light grey suit, the colour making his pitch black eyes appear even more prominent, he stared back at you with a smug expression. “Speak of the devil and she doth appear.”
“Hush now, Billy,” Anita admonished him.
“First a bitch, now the devil. What’s next?”
“I’ve got some real sweet ones lined up. Just you wait.” He quirked up his eyebrow, eyes regarding your outfit carefully. “It’s black and white dress code.”
You shrugged. “It’s dinner with your family, not the fucking President.”
Billy shook his head. “So hellbent on being a total fucking embarrassment.”
“Billy, stop!” Anita turned to you, her cheeks a deep shade of crimson. “I’m so sorry-”
“It’s fine, Anita. Not your fault. This is just how he likes to sweet-talk me.”
He snickered. “In your fucking dreams.”
“You look beautiful, Y/N,” Anita said, giving you a warm smile. “Red really suits you.”
“Thank you.” While you walked over to the fridge to grab water, you sensed Billy watching you. When you turned around, his gaze shifted from you right away. If he didn’t make his dislike of you so obvious, you would have wondered if he was checking you out. Maybe he was one of those assholes that put down thick women but had a secret fetish for them. Not that you found the notion remotely flattering, it was insulting really.
“The old man doesn’t like being disobeyed,” Billy finally spoke.
You sneered. “You worried about me?”
“I don’t want your stupidity to blow back on me.”
“Don’t worry, I can handle assholes.” Your head dipped to the side, you gave him a beaming smile. “I married you, didn’t I?”
A gasp escaped Anita, she appeared to be scandalized by your words. Seeing the shock on the older woman’s face, you started laughing. As did Billy, much to your surprise. Your eyes scanned over his face, taking in his smile. Damn. He really was fucking gorgeous.
Such a shame that kind of hotness was wasted on a jerk like him.
Suddenly his gaze met yours, the smile on his face fading. He stared at you, stoic and intense, like he was trying to suck the life out of you through the sheer force of his eyes. You turned away, refusing to indulge in this kind of powerplay with him. “Anita, I’m having some people come over on Friday. Think we can stock up on some drinks?”
“Yes, of course,” Anita said, smiling. “I can prepare some menus if you like, give you a few options. I’ll hire some waitstaff-”
“God, no. Don’t bother. It’s nothing important.”
“But what about food? What will your guests eat?” Anita asked.
“I’ll order in some stuff.”
“Are you sure?”
The concern on Anita’s face made you chuckle. “Yeah. We’ll be fine.”
Your phone buzzed, and you glanced down at the text message notification.
“In town soon. Wanna meet?”
“See you later, Anita.”
You walked out of the kitchen, already texting back. “How long you around?”
Calvin was a friend you met in college, someone who you hooked up with occasionally. While the two of you always had fun, it was never serious and that’s how you both preferred it.
“Think you own this place?” Billy’s voice captured your attention away from the phone. He sauntered past you, his strut confident, hands tucked into his pockets, before he took a seat on the couch. Arrogance rolled off him in waves, he exuded rich privilege from head to toe as his onyx eyes regarded you with scorn.
“I live here,” you replied, eyebrow cocked.
“For now.”
You smirked. “Aw, you pissed I didn’t ask for your permission?”
“I don’t want your golddigging friends infesting this place.”
His cockiness made you laugh, and you felt that oh-so-familiar need to taunt him further. You sashayed forward, your sexiest walk on full display because you knew how much it would irritate him. Already you saw his jaw clench, noted how his eyes burned with contempt as you took a seat on the arm of the couch he was on. Leaning over him, you gave him your sexiest smirk. “You sure that’s all it is?” You lowered your head, so close you felt his breath hum against your skin. “Maybe what you’re really worried about is flexing for my friends. Maybe you know they’re not gonna be impressed by you.”
Billy’s pitch-black eyes remained glued to yours, inhaling you in. “A lion doesn’t concern himself with the opinion of sheep.”
You reached out to grip his jaw, the action taking him by surprise if the arced eyebrow was any indication. God, he had a beautiful jawline, his facial hair perfectly trimmed, his skin smooth. “Is that what you think you are, Billy? A lion?” You tightened your grip. “Because all I see is a fucking snake when I look at you.”
It happened quickly, so quickly that you barely had time to register what he was doing when he clutched the back of your head. He fisted your hair so tightly that it almost hurt, pulling you close against him. You were crushed against his chest, whatever advantage you had now gone.
“Don’t. Ever. Touch me again.”
His voice was quiet, which made his words even more dangerous. He didn’t need to scream or yell to get his point across. Seeing his reaction, you instantly regretted your actions. Maybe he was someone who was triggered by physical contact, it was common enough in people and you had dealt with it a few times when caring for patients. You released your grip on him, but he didn’t follow suit, still holding you securely in place.
In your experience, people who didn’t like being touched were also careful to respect others’ boundaries. That didn’t seem to be the case with Billy, recalling the night of your wedding when he’d threatened you. “You put your hands on my throat and choked me,” you reminded him.
“But you liked that, golddigger. You were begging for it.”
God, his fucking cockiness was infuriating! You shoved him hard, forcing him to loosen his hold immediately and you jumped back to distance yourself. There you were trying to be nice, and he just completely stomped all over your compassionate gesture. “Asshole!”
He grinned, crossing his legs and looking so smug and pleased with himself you wanted to throw something at him.
Everything – everything – about him annoyed the fuck out of you. “Fuck off and die, Billy!”
He laughed, eyes shining with wicked delight.
“And stay out of my way on Friday! I don’t want my guests dealing with you!” you huffed before stomping out of the room.
The nerve of him! You were so pissed you could barely even think straight, but you needed to conserve your energy for tonight. Taking a deep breath, you returned to your room to finish getting ready.
***
The atmosphere was strained, the tension in the room palpable. Alistair sat at the head of the table, commanding everyone’s attention, while the rest of the family appeared downright miserable. One by one he’d gone around the table, picking apart each person under the guise of doling out helpful advice with everyone dreading the spotlight when it fell upon them. Alistair was very practiced with his criticism; he didn’t resort to yelling or screaming. Instead his words were laced with poison and deliberately targeted one’s most vulnerable spots. A part of you felt sorry for them, which was funny considering how rich they were and that you grew up in the ghetto. But at least you were brought up in a loving home, unlike these people.
You surveyed the room, taking in Billy’s family. Along with Alistair, his parents were present and some of Billy’s cousins. As an outsider, you had a chance to observe the family dynamic and it didn’t surprise you that the camaraderie they put on display was just a show. As you eavesdropped on their conversation, you could hear them talking shit and selling each other out. Underneath the polite exterior, they were all snakes – just like Alistair. The only exception, surprisingly, was Billy.
He kept to himself for most of the night, simply examining the family from the sidelines. Just like you. Occasionally your gaze would land on him and you found him staring back at you intently each time, but you weren’t in a mood to fuck with him. You were still annoyed from earlier, and it didn’t help that the family was obviously gossiping about you.
Both Billy and you had chosen to ignore the dress code, which probably seemed like it was intentionally planned but definitely wasn’t. His light grey suit stood out in the sea of black and white, just like your red jumpsuit, but his outfit didn’t elicit as many looks as yours did. But, whatever. You had purposely chosen this outfit. If you were going to be the subject of gossip anyway, you might as well give them something to talk about.
It was Alistair’s voice that brought you out of your reverie. Your stomach clenched with nervous anxiety as Alistair’s attention slowly approached your side of the table. Half of the family looked obliterated, the other half drunk. Billy was seated next to you, and a part of you wondered what was going through his head. Was he used to this? Did he even realize how fucked up his whole family was?
“It’s unfortunate you didn’t choose to meet Howard for lunch yesterday, Billy.”
You cast a quick glance at Billy. Unlike the rest of his family, he didn’t seem bothered or nervous by Alistair’s cutting tone.
“Is it?” Billy replied, taking a sip of his wine.
“He’s a very busy man and he agreed to meet you as a favour to me.”
“Maybe you should check before you make plans for me,” Billy responded.
Oh, Alistair didn’t like that.
“Do you know how humiliating it was for me to ask someone like Howard for his assistance? He’s a gnat, he’s nothing. Yet I had to reach out to him so he could guide you-”
“And how many times have I said I’m not interested in joining politics, Grandfather? I have no fucking interest in it, I don’t give a shit about it.”
Alistair slammed his hand down on the table. A silent hush fell over the room. “You will do as I say! I will not let you be another loser in this family. I will not accept that! You’re destined to be more than just some foot soldier. This family’s full of idiots, everyone has been a goddamn disappointment! But not you, you’re better than that. You’re my legacy and I will not let your stupidity and stubbornness get in the way of making something of yourself. You will not waste-”
“Are you fucking serious?” You asked, interrupting the old man’s tirade. “A foot soldier? He’s a marine! He’s gone out on three tours and risked his life over and over again to keep this country safe. He’s probably saved countless lives and done more for people than anyone around this table. What have you done? What have you accomplished other than being borne into a rich family?” Fired up, your blood was boiling with rage. “And you’re criticizing him for wasting his life? Why? Because he doesn’t want to be a slimy politician? Your fucking puppet?”
“How dare you speak to me like that?” Alistair roared.
“How dare you? You think I’m just gonna sit here and listen while you yell at my husband?” You scanned the people around the table, noticing their stunned gazes, the fear and shock in their eyes as they glared at you. “Maybe everyone here is scared shitless of you because you hold the purse strings but that doesn’t give you the right to dictate others’ lives. Billy’s an adult. He’s made his own choices, good choices. Just because you don’t agree with them doesn’t make them bad decisions.” You glanced down, shaking your head with irritation. It was then you noticed Billy’s hand covering your right thigh under the table, slowly caressing your skin as if he was trying to soothe your nerves. During your outburst you hadn’t noticed when his hand slid over but now it was all you could feel, the heat of his touch searing through the fabric of your clothes.
Alistair’s face was flushed red with anger. “The only reason you’re a part of this family, why you’re at this table, is because I allowed you to be here.”
What the hell were you doing? You had better things to do than take part in Russo family problems. This was not your circus, not your monkeys. If they wanted to eat each other alive, so be it. “And that’s my cue to leave. I’ve had enough of you guys for today.”
Easing Billy’s hand from your thigh, you stood up. Your glass was half-full and you didn’t see the point in wasting the excellent wine. You chugged it in one gulp, clinked your glass in an imaginary cheer to the room before placing it back on the table, and then walked out.
As soon as you exited the space, you felt your stomach uncoil. All that nervous anxiety left your body in one big whoosh, you took a deep breath. Holy shit. You were never more grateful for your own family as you were at that moment.
***
Half an hour later you entered your high-rise building, greeting the doorman as you made your way to the elevator. When the doors opened you slid in and scanned the key card that gave you access to the penthouse. The elevator doors were closing when all of a sudden someone waved their hand halfway in, forcing the doors to open again. You looked up to see Billy walking in, dark eyes holding you hostage. You averted his gaze, pressing the close button again.
As soon as the elevator started moving, he marched towards you. You watched him confusedly as he closed the distance, forcing you to retreat until you were backed into a corner, his body encroaching every inch of your personal space.
You swallowed audibly, returning his hostile stare.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.” His voice was raspy, somehow soft and yet menacing. “I can stand up for myself.”
You sneered. “You think I did it for you?” You jut your chin out defiantly. “I don’t like bullies and your grandfather is a fucking bully. It had nothing to do with you. I would’ve stood up for anyone, it just happened to be you.”
The molten darkness of his gaze trailed down to your lips, as if following every micro change in your expression. Like he was trying to consume you, understand you. “Except you didn’t stand up for the rest of my family. Only me.”
He had a point, but you weren’t going to admit that. “Step back, Billy.”
Billy didn’t withdraw, he continued to hold firm. Your eyes lingered from his face, taking in his firm jaw, the graceful length of his neck, noting how the top button of his collared shirt was undone. A soft breath escaped your lips when his hands slid up the sides of your legs, your waist, trailing up languidly.
You pressed your hand against his chest, intending to push him off.
When his hand covered your own in a surprising gesture, his skin felt hot against your touch. You didn’t understand what he was doing, why he wouldn’t move. Maybe it was a ploy to get you to break but there was something else in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. A kind of vulnerability that left you breathless. Not something you wanted to deal with. “I said move back.”
“This isn’t gonna happen, sweetheart,” he murmured.
Not golddigger. Sweetheart. It was meant to be sarcastic, you were sure of it, but instead the word was pure seduction on his lips, intoxicating. And oddly tender.
“You’re not going to claw your way inside my head. I won’t let you.” It was a warning, a threat, temptation wrapped in danger.
“That’s the last thing I want,” you said, surprised at how resolute you sounded and not at all the quivering mess you felt inside.
He didn’t say anything in response. There was no sarcasm, no scorn, no signs of anger or derision even. Just stark seriousness.
“Stay the fuck away from me.”
He turned around and walked out, leaving you perplexed. You hadn’t realized the elevator reached your floor, all of your senses overwhelmed by Billy’s close proximity. The subtle notes of his cologne still lingered in the air and you took a few seconds to calm your nerves. Not until you heard the door slam to your penthouse did you exit the elevator and head inside.
A/N - Hope you guys are enjoying the fic! Would love to hear your thoughts if you have the time. Comments are loved and cherished :)
199 notes
·
View notes
A lot of people in your inbox are doing the thing from that Tumblr post about how way too many people only think of feminism discussions in terms of the Most Oppressed Man and Least Oppressed Woman. Y'all really need to stop comparing marginalized men to white cis straight female CEOs, and instead compare them to women who are similarly marginalized.
I think the gender pay gap in many countries - an objective reality with tons of statistics to back it up - is a good way to illustrate this. Yeah, if you're a man in a low level at a company, the women ranked above you probably make more than you. But what about the women at the same level as you? That's what the pay gap is referencing: that women tend to make less than men (of the same race and other factors - there's also a racial pay gap, and black women make even less than white women but also less than black men) for doing the same work, at the same level, etc.
(And sometimes the disparity isn't even between people on the "same level": Claire Foy played Queen Elizabeth II on The Crown, a show ABOUT Queen Elizabeth II, and she made less than Matt Smith did playing Prince Philip until she found out and drew attention to it and the studio was forced to pay her what they owed her.)
The argument of comparing more privileged women and less privileged men, though, is one that anti-feminists like Men's Rights Activists use to deny the gender pay gap. They'll argue that because some individual women in higher-powered jobs make more than they do, that the pay gap doesn't exist, even though those women are likely making less than men in similarly high-powered jobs.
We need ways to talk about these systematic realities because we can't really address the problem if you don't know what causes the problem. But I also hope people realize that this particular thought distortion can be applied to pretty much any type of marginalization.
And, in fact, outside of Tumblr, it DOES get used that way. I've seen people do this with race: suggest that the existence of multimillionaire black athletes and actors alongside the existence of, say, homeless white people, means that white privilege/racism isn't real. Or use the existence of affluent gay people or gay politicians like Pete Buttigieg, or the fact that a lot of white cis gay people can buy into racism or transphobia, to suggest that homophobia doesn't exist. Just about every disabled person I know has a story about someone suggesting their disability "can't be all that bad" because of other advantages they had in life. Yeah, having an advanced degree and supportive family, friends and spouse means my ADHD doesn't affect me as badly as if I didn't have those things - but if I didn't have ADHD I'd still have fewer struggles. That's the comparison point.
When you're designing an experiment you can't alter every variable at once. You have to stick to just one variable at a time.
--
56 notes
·
View notes
Can you explain this, if society was created to cater to men. Then why in America Black men had to fight tooth and nail for civil rights on paper about 60 years ago?
Feminism feel very classist to me, am I crazy?
First, I'm going to explain society.
Society was never created to cater to men, it was created to help survive the harsh world we came to exist in, then again, that isn't even true due to the fact that society wasn't created, it's a natural evolution of our social dynamics.
Groups of hunter gatherers banded together in the same way Chimps and other apes do, we are a social species who have never existed outside of our societies, even at our most primitive.
We went from wandering nomadic peoples to sedentary villages, towns and cities because we developed agriculture and animal husbandry, now, to protect our tribe from others we would use those in society most today would find abhorrent, the violent and strong men of society.
As we progressed these men came into positions of power because of the protection they could offer, more powerful protectors could allow societies to grow larger and more affluent, while those who couldn't were generally wiped out or were relegated to other roles in society.
The need for strong men is readily apparent, as the old saying goes, hard times created strong men, these strong men create good times.
Strong does not just mean physically strong, these men make easy times because they take responsibility and will make it a point to not only improve their own lives, but that of others. Thus, creating good times in the process
It is those in society, who take the good times as granted and have chosen to abandon responsibility, duty and so on, that create hard times.
The men of the past knew that society was not needed to protect them, but what they cared for, such as women and children, why is this the case?
It is innate for men to lead and be the protectors. It is our most basic biological instinct, this is why men are protective of their loved ones.
And can even be territorial, explaining why we are competitive towards other guys who might threaten our position in our jobs, society and relationships.
Society was built for the betterment of what men love and cherish, to protect what we find precious, the advent of law is a expression of this.
Sorry if I'm rambling.
Now onto your questions.
The reason why black men had to fight tooth and nail 60+ years ago for equal rights was because of Democrats, you see in 1870 the 15th amendment was ratified, which ensured that all men regardless of race could vote.
The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.
Southern Democrat states opposed this and prevented blacks from voting by instituting literacy tests and grandfather laws, then well, Jim Crow, in Northern states blacks could vote since 1870.
It wasn't until 1964 that the 24th amendment was passed and they could vote in Southern and other, now Democrat states.
Feminists, or should I say Suffragists, opposed black women getting the vote alongside them, so due to Democrat racism both black men and women were denied the vote in Democrat areas, especially since these same Suffragists, such as a one Susan B. Anthony and her friends, used black women to work their vinyards.
Feminism is exceedingly classist, and has a history of racism and sexism, along with terrorism, but we won't get into that.
Now to end this with some quotes from the mother of women's suffrage;
“I will cut off this right arm of mine before I will ever work or demand the ballot for the Negro and not the woman,” - Susan B. Anthony
“What words can express her (the white woman’s) humiliation when, at the close of this long conflict, the government which she had served so faithfully held her unworthy of a voice in its councils, while it recognized as the political superiors of all the noble women of the nation the negro men just emerged from slavery, and not only totally illiterate, but also densely ignorant of every public question.” - Susan B. Anthony
“The old anti-slavery school says women must stand back and wait until the negroes shall be recognized. But we say, if you will not give the whole loaf of suffrage to the entire people, give it to the most intelligent first. If intelligence, justice, and morality are to have precedence in the government, let the question of the woman be brought up first and that of the negro last.” - Susan B. Anthony
You're not crazy, Democrats have just never changed.
54 notes
·
View notes
🎻💃🏾❤️
‘…the mesmerizing talent of Njioma Chinyere Grevious, a rising star in the world of classical music.’
Njioma recently took home the Robert F. Smith First Prize and the Audience Choice award at the 2023 Sphinx Competition for her stunning violin performance.’ She plays Samuel Coleridge-Taylor's Concerto for Violin in G Minor, op. 80, Movement I: Allegro Maestoso with the Sphinx Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Maestro Kalena Bovell.
~
Njioma is also a graduate of The Juilliard School and a winner of its John Erskine Prize for scholastic and artistic achievement. She has appeared as a soloist with the Chicago Philharmonic and the Western Michigan Symphony and is a founding member of the award-winning Abe Quartet
132 notes
·
View notes
The Cam Girl: Nero Padilla x Reader
Tagging: @oureternalbond @lexondeck @baybaybear1 @littleone65 @redpoodlern @mortal--soul @valiantwinneralmondrebel-blog @buddinglinguist @withmyteeth @yourwinchesterbros @kishie8 @librarian1002 @a-winter-tale @genius2050 @megan-munson
Nero knows you as the Cam Girl, the one that’s been sending Cara Cara’s web traffic through the roof. He doesn’t know what you get up to during your sessions, he’s never seen your work. He likes the feel of a real woman as opposed to porn, even if it’s fleeting there’s an intimacy during sex, a connection between two people. You can’t get that through a screen.
You’re one of the girls that don’t come over to Diosa when it’s offered up as a side-line to Cara Cara. Most of the other women do, but you, you stick with the cam. That intrigues him, he wonders what it is about cam work you prefer to the more lucrative stuff. When he asks around, he discovers you don’t get involved with the actual porn side of things, there’s no videos of you being fucked or fucking anyone else, there’s just that live stream going out 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. He thinks the exclusivity of that may be the key to your success, if anyone wants to see you undress, they have to pay a premium.
When you step into Diosa he almost doesn’t recognise you because whenever he’s seen you in Cara Cara, it’s been in a silk robe, with a full face of makeup. Cosmetics that he knows you don’t need because you’re stunning without it. Your entire look is completely understated, you’re wearing jeans with a black t shirt and a cobalt blue blazer that hugs you in all the right places. There’s a few sprinkles of silver jewel, studs in your ear, a couple of stacker rings but nothing overt. It’s a refreshing change from what he usually sees from the women who work and play here.
“Business or pleasure.” He asks when you walk in, his lips gracing both of your cheeks. You smile at him, and he swears to God he feels his heart stutter as you say.
“Why can’t it be both?”
It’s on the couch in his office that you describe the situation. You want to switch things up a little, attract more affluent clients, ones that are willing to spend a little more for specialised content. To do that you need a higher class of premises, all of the streaming still goes through Cara Cara’s servers, so they get the traffic, you just need a room. You think a change of routine would be good for your current subscribers and good for you.
It's that phrase his brain sticks on ‘change of routine’. It sounds odd coming from your mouth; he’s heard it before a thousand times, and it all leads back to one thing.
“Do I need to worry about you?” He asks you quietly as you sip from a cup of the finest brewed Havana beans that you’ve ever tasted. You shake your head before setting the mug back down upon the table.
“It won’t effect your business.” You reassure him with a firm tone. “And I come with my own equipment.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” He says, before gesturing between the two of you. “This thing it only works if there’s trust and I know there’s something that you’re not telling me.”
It’s subtle, the tightening of your jaw but Nero sees it. He’s a savant at body language, picking up the smallest cues, he knows when someone’s hiding shit.
“One of my ‘fans’…” You use your fingers for the bunny ears. “… has been leaving gifts for me at Cara Cara.”
His eyebrows furrow into a frown as he puzzles over this information. It’s an intrusion, he knows the lines blur sometimes when it comes to selling sex. They’ve had it a few times with regulars here at Diosa, a guy that gets a little too attached or falls headlong into the girlfriend experience. It doesn’t take much to get them to back off.
“When you say gifts…” he ventures.
You stare down into the depths of your coffee cup and he sees your cheeks colour just a little.
“It started with roses being delivered to the studio and then it got more intimate.” You tell him, your thumb tapping against the ceramic. “He jerked off onto a pair of panties and left them in my car.”
In your fucking car…
Nero can’t comprehend that. He blows a breath out though his mouth and settles back into his seat. To do something like that, to find out where you were, which car was yours, to break in and leave ‘a gift’ like that, it shows a level of dedication that’s steers into obsession.
“How do you know it’s the same guy?” He asks you, placing both his hands on the back of his head as he considers this situation.
“He leaves a note.” You inform him before rolling your eyes. “Always signs off with ‘Casanova’.”
“How fucking original.” Nero remarks. “And you have no idea who he is?”
“I booted anyone I thought it was out of the chat, he shouldn’t have had access to me.” You tell him, running your hands through your hair, he reads it for what it is, a sign of agitation. Despite the fact you don’t say it, he thinks this shit must be scaring the hell out of you. “The thing is I’m careful. I don’t discuss the details of my personal life; I never name places I’ve been or anything like that. It’s not like I get recognised either. It’s not even a factor for the police, due to the nature of my profession hence why I’m here. Cara Cara have oked the move if you’re happy with the arrangement.”
“Alright.” He says, his fingertips stroking over his beard. “I’ll give you a tour of the place and if there’s a room that you think suits your needs then you can have it but there are conditions...”
“Name them.” You say leaning towards him.
“You have someone walk you to your car every night, it doesn’t matter if it’s me, one of the other girls, or a Son. Someone makes sure you get in that car safely.” He states before continuing. “And if anything happens, and I mean anything, you bring it to me. I need you to promise me on that.”
A small smile graces your features, and he wonders if you know that somehow you light up a room.
“Anybody would think you’re worried about me.” You tease him. The left side of his mouth hitches up into a smile, before his hand comes to rest on yours. It’s comforting, his thumb soothes over the hollow of your wrist and you feel the tension beginning to ebb out of your shoulders the longer you linger in his presence.
“Protecting an asset.” He says with an lilt of humour. “And you still didn’t make that promise.”
“Ok.” You say clasping his hand tightly. “I promise.”
Love Nero? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.
Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee
78 notes
·
View notes
TW: Discussion of sexual assault, rape, racism, xenophobia, and antisemitism
I'm really relieved that everyone realizes that the scene of Dracula assaulting Mina today is supposed to be horrifying and a metaphorical rape, and that no, it's NOT Dracula liberating Mina from Victorian repression and teaching her to embrace her sexuality like a modern woman while Jonathan oppresses her, or Mina consensually being into rough vampire sex. However, it's also important to remember how while much of the horror of the scene is rooted in the sexual assault overtones, a lot of the horror to white Christian Victorian audiences - and honestly, undoubtedly even today bc bigotry never ended - is sexual assault and rape in the context of racism, antisemitism, and xenophobia.
Once again, we have Dracula - the dark foreigner described as being like a savage beast, demonic, with an 'aquiline nose' (previously 'hooked' and 'beaky'), repulsed by Christianity - breaking into the bedroom of a good, honest white Christian Englishwoman as she lies with her good, honest white Christian husband, assaulting her in her marital bed as she sleeps, and in addition to the rape metaphor, literally drinking her blood, and even worse, forcing her to drink HIS blood.
The image of horror absolutely would have been rooted in British racist, antisemitic, and xenophobic fears of how the British Empire was in danger of being invaded by savage foreigners from the East, especially Jewish people drinking Christian blood who can easily hide in British society (Dracula learning to be English, while funny to us, is that antisemitic trope, and would be scary to contemporaries; this is also something antisemites still believe), and these invaders would not only bring degeneracy (this is why it's important to be aware that Dracula's homoeroticism towards Jonathan is a homophobic gay predator trope linked to antisemitism) to the British Empire, but steal, rape, and corrupt the good Christian Englishwomen of the British Empire, or at least the middle- and upper-class white women who would have been the 'angel of the house' types.
And sadly, this is not even an outdated idea! Think about how this idea persists even today, especially in more conservative circles, and particularly in discussions on policing and immigration, or how in the West, the popular image of a rapist and their victim is a stranger (usually either a Black or Middle-Eastern man, depending on where in the West) sexually assaulting an affluent white woman in the streets or during a home invasion, and this is why you should fear every foreign and non-white man bc they're all rapists waiting to defile the ideal of Western womanhood, when the reality is that most sexual assault and rape is done by someone the survivor knows, and being less privileged in terms of race, financial status, being LGBT+, etc. makes you even more vulnerable to assault, and likely to be forgotten or erased when it happens.
264 notes
·
View notes
‘The Gilded Age’ Season 2 Behind the Scenes: How Fashion Defines Each Character (PHOTOS)
by Kelli Boyle
Julian Fellowes, the creator of Downton Abbey (2011-2016) [mod note: on PBS in the US], set that upstairs-downstairs series at a palatial British estate on the eve of World War I. He moved his newest costume drama Stateside to the streets of New York City. Set in the late 1800s, The Gilded Age, which has its second-season premiere on Sunday, October 29 on HBO (streaming on Max), pits the new money of railroad barons against the old money of New York society. The powerful fight for control of the city and use their wealth to measure social success. And dressing for success was its own full-time occupation.
When researching women’s fashion in 1800s New York, the show’s costume designer Kasia Walicka-Maimone saw one thing clearly: “Their life was a catwalk. There was this enormous excitement” when the ladies trekked the bustling, dusty streets of Manhattan. Her job was to recreate that excitement for contemporary viewers of The Gilded Age.
Fashion as a Sign of Status
Who’s doing all this promenading? Marian Brook (Louisa Jacobson) arrived in NYC with no money and was taken in by her aunts Ada (Cynthia Nixon) and Agnes (Christine Baranski), both living off an inheritance. Then the newly affluent Russells—headed by railroad baron George (Morgan Spector) and wife Bertha (Carrie Coon), who is determined to break into polite society—moved in across the street.
Ada Brook (Cynthia Nixon) and Agnes van Rhijn (Christine Baranski) head to church on Easter morning in ‘The Gilded Age’ Season 2 premiere. Niece Marian Brook (Louisa Jacobson) follows close behind (Credit: Barbara Nitke/HBO)
The frill thrills continue in Season 2, especially in a pivotal garden party scene (pictured below) that TV Insider observed being filmed in September 2022 at New York’s lavish Old Westbury Gardens estate. (Westbury House was previously home to an heir of the Phipps family, real-life Gilded Age figures whose patriarch made his fortune alongside Andrew Carnegie at his steel company.) On set was Fellowes, whose smart black suit and tie were the only dark hues around.
Gladys Russell (Taissa Farmiga), George Russell (Morgan Spector), and Bertha Russell (Carrie Coon) step out for Easter mass in ‘The Gilded Age’ Season 2 premiere (Credit: Barbara Nitke/HBO)
Historically Accurate Costumes
It’s a testament to the wardrobe department that the stunning colors of the sprawling grounds nearly pale in comparison to the vibrancy of the women’s period garb. Despite the sepia-toned images in history books, Walicka-Maimone says, those bright tints are decidedly historically accurate. She has a library of more than 35,000 reference images to prove it.
“It’s shocking to our modern eye to see the explosion of color from that period,” she said. Production designer Bob Shaw (who won an Emmy for his work on Gilded Age) was present to share his creative process, which, just as Walicka-Maimone described of her own work, is “deeply steeped in history.”
Nicole Brydon Bloom joins the cast for Season 2, pictured here at the garden party with Blake Ritson’s Oscar van Rhijn (Credit: Barbara Nitke/HBO)
He does note that, when deciding between “what is correct and what feels correct,” the latter always wins. Creative liberties are taken to “build [character] histories into the costumes,” Walicka-Maimone added.
A Garden Party to Remember
Take Brit newcomers Dashiell Montgomery (David Furr) and his daughter, Frances (Matilda Lawler), for example. Nephew by marriage to Baranski’s Agnes, Dashiell requires more “toned-down” attire suitable for social outings, which contrasts with Season 1’s primarily business and formal menswear.
Aurora Fane (Kelli O’Hara) and husband Charles Fane (Ward Horton) attend the garden party in ‘The Gilded Age’ Season 2 (Credit: Barbara Nitke/HBO)
Dashiell must escort Frances through society in his late wife’s absence. One consideration for Walicka-Maimone: “This is a girl who doesn’t have a mother, so there’s probably extra care from all the other family members in [dressing her],” she said.
Meanwhile, Marian, who Jacobson said is “shining this season and sees herself in [younger] Frances,” will be more open to a strategic marriage. Marian’s “not necessarily cynical” after being jilted by Tom Raikes (Thomas Cocquerel) in last season’s finale, the actress continued, but the heartbreak gives her a “spice and edge.”
Don’t count out the possibility of a romance with Larry Russell (Harry Richardson), son of the railroad titan, which was teased last year. Jacobson shared: “They will definitely continue to deepen their friendship.” Old money and new money unite!
24 notes
·
View notes
Chapter 18: Unrequited
During the Clone Wars, the Bad Batch is tasked with a variety of missions across the galaxy. An unexpected addition to their team throws a wrench in the mix, particularly for Tech, who finds a particular connection with this disillusioned Padawan-turned-mechanic named Vel throughout the events in this action-adventure romance. COVER ART BY @zaana!!
Master List of Chapters
Author's Note: this was my first fanfic ever, y'all! :D I can see all kinds of flaws and things I'd improve, but it's still a fun read, in my humble opinion! ;) I did have to edit a bit though -- the number of contractions in Tech's dialogue in the first edition had me shuddering! ;) And it's amazing to flesh it out a bit more now that I've seen all of TBB S2; this was written in the middle of it!
ALSO — a fantastic reader, @ghostperson69, suggested two songs that fit the vibe of this chapter: “Hole in the Earth” by Deftones and “Cloud Nine” by Evanescence. 😍
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
"Now," Terrik said, returning to Vel, "Perhaps you could use some fresh air?"
Her mind was racing, and she realized she hadn't actually thought through how to go about charming him once he actually did notice her. Thank the Maker, however, her prolonged silence worked in her favor, as Terrik took it as aloofness.
"I actually own the place," he said, in a thinly-veiled attempt to impress her. "There's a private garden balcony right outside where you can get a little break from all the riffraff that's been nipping at your heels all night." So he had noticed. She inclined her head a tiny bit, as if assessing him for a moment, before allowing a small smile.
"Lead the way," she said. He immediately offered her an arm, beckoning to a service droid as they strolled out of the dance hall and down a side hallway. Two large doors opened onto an elegantly curved patio that was filled with lush greenery. Trellises covered with creeping vines and purple flowers provided a living roof over the space, where exotic plants of all kinds reached toward the sky from their pots.
Vel inhaled deeply, calming herself with the rich array of floral scents. Terrik watched her chest rise with the breath, quickly averting his eyes when she looked back to him. A shiny black and gold service droid rolled out after them, carrying a spotless tray with an ornate glass bottle and two intricately carved glasses.
"Merenzane gold," Terrik said grandly as he poured a generous serving into each glass. He returned the bottle to the tray, took the two glasses, and offered one to Vel. She accepted it smoothly, alarm bells going off in her head, and watched as he waved the droid away. "Have you ever had it before?" he inquired casually.
"Of course," she said, swirling it in her glass but nearly spilling it out a side. She wasn't fooled by his question -- he was trying to determine if she came from money or was just trying to appear affluent. "But it's always a welcome sight. Although," she laughed lightly, "It often gets me into trouble."
"Well," he chuckled, "We'll have to make sure to keep an eye on you then, won't we?" He grinned at her, and she could tell it was the move that had melted an army of women before her. She needed to play it just right, leading him on just enough, and she gave a brief smile as she returned to her drink, taking a carefully small sip. She felt clumsy and tingly, and it took a disproportionate effort to keep her composure.
"There's plenty where that came from," Terrik continued, gesturing to her glass with his own and making a show of taking an exuberant swig. "No need to parse it out."
"I like to enjoy it," Vel said, cringing inwardly at the words that came to mind next, "You know, it's so smooth on the tongue. You miss out on that if you don't play with it a little bit first."
Terrik raised an eyebrow, although he was no stranger to this kind of talk. She was difficult to discern, however, and a refreshing change from the obvious, fawning sort he had become so accustomed to. He was never one to pass up an opportunity to connect with other well-to-do citizens, especially if the connection involved both money and pleasure.
She moved to the balcony railing and leaned on it gently, walking slowly to avoid stumbling and also to make her hips sway slightly more than usual. "So, what is it you do around here then?" she asked, putting a slight hint of boredom into her words as she waited for him to join her.
***
Tech lowered the macrobinoculars, laying on his stomach under the balcony railing, and turned to the team behind him. "They are engaged in conversation two floors below us," he reported, "But I am concerned about Vel's amount of inebriation. The attempt to blend in has resulted in more consumption than I believe she is accustomed to."
"This will be fun to watch then," Crosshair said silkily, leaning against the doorframe as he scanned the rest of the outside of the building.
"She'll be fine," Hunter said, "We just need to get into that lab."
"Why don't we just start trying doors?" Wrecker asked, sprawled on a lounge chair. "This is taking forever."
"We absolutely must avoid anything that could raise any suspicion," Tech responded, scooting back to peer over the edge at Vel and Jouren below them.
***
"A chemist! Really?" Terrik exclaimed, showing some genuine interest at Vel's made-up story. "And what did your father do in that field?"
"He worked for a refinery," Vel replied, finishing her glass of amber-colored trouble. "I used to love going to work with him and seeing all his potions. Especially the ones that would explode," she laughed, trying to balance the allure with just the right amount of brainlessness. It was becoming easier with each passing moment.
"Ah, a little evil scientist yourself, eh?" he teased, leaning closer to her now. "And what sort of nefarious plans did you concoct over the years?"
"Oh, you know, the usual," she answered lightly, tilting her head and demurely rubbing the back of her neck. He made no attempt to hide his gaze. "But I'm afraid I'd have to kill you if I told you my evil master plans." She had a quick internal argument over the ridiculousness of the whole situation, wishing she were still on the dance floor with Tech.
"Well... we can't have that," Terrik crooned, placing a hand on her lower back. She stiffened for a moment before forcing herself to relax, tipping her chin up at him with an unfazed confidence. From the balcony above, Tech felt his stomach lurch, and his grip tightened on the macrobinoculars as he pondered the implications of his physical reaction.
"No?" she asked, forcing herself to lean into him gently, taking hold of his lapel with her fingers, "Well then what should we do for fun around here?"
"I have a few ideas," he mused, reveling in the feeling of having her on his hook. "But I have a feeling you won't be impressed by the usuals." He traced a finger along her jawline, coming to rest on her chin, "Why don't you come with me?"
He turned, beckoning toward the door, and walked beside her, leaving his hand on the small of her back, slightly lower than before. Tech watched them disappear inside the building, then rolled onto his back, springing to his feet at once.
"I do not like this, Hunter," he said emphatically. "There are simply too many extraneous variables to trust that this particular strategy is a secure endeavor."
"You just don't like someone getting their hands on your girlfriend," Crosshair needled.
"She is not my girlfriend," Tech countered, "But that Pantoran is exhibiting a dangerous level of manipulative behavior, and I find his intentions difficult to discern and equally unwise to trust."
"He's probably taking her to the lab right now," Hunter said. "As soon as she activates the marker, you can do your job and the rest of us can go get her if needed. It'll be fine. Just stick to the plan."
Tech resigned, feeling displeased and unsettled by the anxious protectiveness rising within. He pulled out his datapad, confirming the program was ready to go, and hung it on his belt at the ready.
Tag List: @merkitty49 @vimse @arctrooper69 @dystopicjumpsuit @starrylothcat @ghostperson69 @dreamie411 @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @523rdrebel @clonemedickix @sinfulsalutations @ughhhhfoff @coraex @amorfista @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @followthepurrgil @littlefeatherr @sunshinesdaydream @thew0nderer2342 @dangraccoon @iceskategirl18 @skellymom
(If you're on my regular tag list, let me know if you want to be tagged in this; I didn't want to spam ya!)
Click here to join or leave the tag list. <3
30 notes
·
View notes
Stepmother Knows Best, Pt. 1
DISCLAIMER: This story contains diaper usage, humiliation, crossdressing, vibrator play, domination, and other ABDL themes. I hope you enjoy!
Commissioned By: Anon
-------------------------------------------------------------
*Clink!*
“Mmmmmm…that’s delicious!” said Rachel as she let the subtly sweet flavor linger on her tongue. Raising the teacup to her lips again, she took in the heavenly aroma before taking her second sip, “If I’m not mistaken, I believe I taste black tea vanilla and…coconut.”
Nodding her head with a pleased expression, Deloris was thrilled by how far Rachel had come in her tea education. “Spot on, Rachel! Today’s tea is Orchid Vanilla Tea, which is a black tea infused with coconut and vanilla,” she said, lifting her teacup to Rachel as the two toasted Rachel’s acquired prowess.
If you had asked Rachel to tell you the specifics of whatever fancy tea she’d been served only six months ago, her answer would’ve been a blank stare and a passive shrug. That all changed when the 40-year-old former dress shop owner fell in love with and married a wealthy film executive. Tossing away the grind of owning a small business for the lifetime of luxury that came with marrying a billionaire, she’d found herself as a tiny fish surrounded by the viciously endless pond that was “the upper class.”
Thankfully, Rachel was lucky enough to have been carefully guided in the ways of affluent behavior by Deloris, who was a legacy member of the Hollywood elite. Descended from a long line of filmmakers, she’d made her name as the lead make-up and hair stylist on numerous major motion pictures, bagging multiple Oscars over her illustrious career. Known as one of the friendliest people to work within the industry, it’s no surprise that she and Rachel immediately hit it off when Rachel moved into the mansion next door with her new husband, the two women bonding over their love of femininity. Having no siblings of her own, it didn’t take long for Rachel to fill that void in her life, becoming the younger sister she never had.
“More tea?” said Deloris in a mockingly regal voice, offering the fine-china teapot forward to Rachel.
Holding up her glass to the teapot’s spout, Rachel graciously accepted a second serving. “Why thank you,” she said, mirroring the refined accent that Deloris was using, causing the two women to giggle in unison.
“Ugh! Do you two have to do this every day?!”
Rachel’s joyous laughter came to an abrupt halt as the prickly stem of her rosy new life reared his ugly head. “Like seriously, don’t you have anything better to do than gawk over this same girly shit? Get a life,” said Ryan, Rachel’s “loving” new stepson.
Raised as a member of the wealthy elite from birth, Ryan had entitled and cocky as one would expect a spoiled brat who’s only gotten everything he’s ever wanted might behave. Unlike Deloris, he was far from receptive to Rachel’s arrival, viewing her as no more than just another gold-digging floozy looking for a meal ticket. Beyond the judgment he held for Rachel’s financial status, he also had a deep disdain for how overtly feminine she was with him having grown up idolizing his father’s inherent masculinity.
Sinking in her chair, the last thing Rachel wanted to do was make waves with her father’s temperamental son. “I’m sorry. We’ll be done by two, I promise,” she said, forcing a smile.
“Good. I’ve got Sara coming over then and I don’t want you two turning the whole house into a lame fest,” said Ryan, walking away feeling good after having the final word. As much as he hated the way his stepmother oozed femininity, it only made her weak in his eyes. With how much of a pushover she was, he often fantasized about her being so desperate to please him that she’d offer to suck his cock on a daily basis. While the thought was tantalizing, he lacked the cojones to ever demand something like that, only able to dream about a scenario like that.
“What a sniveling twat,” said Deloris, appalled by Ryan’s nasty behavior, “You really shouldn’t show your neck and apologize like that. He’ll never take you seriously if he thinks you’re too meek to fight back.”
Placing her head in her hands, Rachel was so frustrated by the constant mockery she received from Ryan that she felt like she could cry at any second. “I just don’t know what to do anymore. Do you think I want to let him “alpha male” his way into getting everything he wants? I’ve tried everything and it’s never enough. How could the kind and caring man that I married raise such a cruel son? It’s like he has blinders when it comes to Ryan,” she said, blowing her nose into the silk hanky at her side.
“It doesn’t surprise me that Daddy’s pride and joy never got the discipline he’s had coming to him for a while now. If he was my kid, I would’ve dropped his pants and spanked him right here and now. I don’t care how old he is,” said Deloris, angrily sipping her freshly poured tea before recoiling from the steamy cup, “Mhmm, too hot.”
Sighing, Rachel let her undignified sideshow as she placed her elbows on the table and leaned her chin against the backs of her knuckles. “I’m so jealous of you. You have three lovely little daughters while I got stuck with a man’s man for a son,” she said, scrunching her face into a pout as she allowed her mind to wander, “What I wouldn’t give for Ryan to have been born a girl.”
Lightbulb!
Sitting upright, Deloris's brain was suddenly set ablaze by Rachel’s passing comment. While she’d never acted on it or even told anyone about it, Deloris had always harbored a deep, seemingly-unattainable fantasy: to take a quote-unquote “alpha male” and turn him into a prissy little girl for her own amusement. She’d stay up late fingering herself to fictional stories of men being put in their place as they fell into permanent feminization, dreaming about the prospect of putting her hair and make-up skills to good use and transforming them into a quivering sissy. With the deeply-held belief that everything happens in life for a reason, she truly believed that was the chance she’d been waiting for her whole life. “Hypothetically, if we could make Ryan into a girl…would you want to?
Stopping mid-gulp, Rachel paused as Deloris’s fateful words began to take root in her mind. For a brief moment, she pictured Ryan dressed up in one of the frilly gowns she used to labor over, the thought causing her to snicker. “Hypothetically…” she said as she and Deloris stared into each other's eyes knowingly.
“Yes…hypothetically…” said Deloris, nodding to Rachel with an ear-to-ear grin growing on her face as she raised her teacup to her lips, “Ah, still too hot.”
-------------------------------------------------------------
“What the actual fuck?! That was a fucking headshot, you cheap fucking game!” shouted Ryan, slamming her fist on the desk in a flash of aggression. His leg began to bounce impatiently as he waited for the respawn timer to tick down.
*KNOCK KNOCK!*
Inching Ryan’s bedroom door open, Rachel gingerly poked her head in. “Um, hey, Ryan, you got a minute?” she said, powering through the anxiety that was telling her to turn and run.
“Shhhjhhjhsh!” shouted Ryan as he focused back in on his game. For the next two minutes, he played out the rest of the match without saying another word to Rachel, culminating in a glorious comeback victory by the end. Slamming his fists on the counter in victory this time, he jumped up from he said and screamed, “WOOOOO! GET FUCKING REKT, KID! DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT SHIT?!” He looked back at Rachel and gestured to his accomplishment, too amped to hate on his stepmother for once.
“That was…quite something,” said Rachel, having no clue what on Earth just happened in his game despite watching over his shoulder for two whole minutes, “Listen, I wanted to apologize for earlier. Deloris and I have agreed to move our tea time to her house from now on so we won’t disturb you. Oh! And I’ve got some cookies cooling on the stove downstairs to make it up to you. Wanna join me for some?” In the back of her mind, she prayed that she hadn’t rambled through her rehearsed dialogue too quickly so as not to tip him off that something was up.
Mercifully for Rachel, Ryan thought nothing ill of her offering, instead letting a smug expression sink into his face as he believed this was finally trying to kiss his ass like she should’ve been doing this whole time. Exiting the cue for his next match, he got up from his desk and stretched his arms, taking his time before responding, “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Hopefully, you’re a better baker than you are a decorator.” He smiled wickedly, watching for any sign of reaction from Rachel over his dig at the updates she had made to his father’s house.
However, Rachel remained stone-faced, biting down hard on the inside of her bottom lip to keep from flinching. She could taste the small amount of metallic blood leaking onto her tongue and washing away the delightful flavor of her tea. As annoying as the pinch of pain was, it was all worth it to keep from letting Ryan get to her again. “Excellent. They should be finished cooling so let’s head on down,” she said, leading Ryan out of his room and down the hall toward the stairs. As she reached the staircase, though, she stopped and lowered her posture before turning to look at Ryan with pleading eyes, “Actually, before we head down, would you mind doing a small favor for me? There’s this box that the movers placed on a really high shelf in my closet that I’m neither tall enough nor strong enough to get. I would be super grateful if you’d help me out.”
Cringing at the thought of entering his stepmother’s ultra-fem walk-in closet, Ryan backed away, breathing in sharply through his gritted teeth. “Err…I dunno,” he said, raising both hands as if he could physically push away the idea, “If it’s all the same, I rather not-”
“Ah, darn, I figured you wouldn’t want to. Your father wouldn’t step foot in there either. If you ask me, it’s one of the few moments he’s ever appeared unmanly to me. I’ve never understood why men make such a big deal about a bunch of fabric. Don’t worry about it, though. Just forget I said anything and let’s go have some cookies,” she said, waiting for the inevitable as she turned to head downstairs.
Before Rachel could even take her first step, Ryan grabbed her by the arm. “Well, hold on now. It’s really no big deal to me. I uh…just didn’t want your cookies to get cold. If it’s only one box, it shouldn't be a problem,” he said, taking advantage of an opportunity to outdo his dad while simultaneously impressing his stepmother with his masculinity, “Lead the way!”
Traveling through the master bedroom, Rachel and Ryan entered a room that could only be described as the peak of feminine luxury. How a space this massive could ever be considered a closet was pure nonsense. It looked more like a high-end clothing boutique than someone’s personal wardrobe. There were rows upon rows of every type of female clothing imaginable, with an entire wall dedicated to shoe storage. Despite all the glitter fabrics and shiny shoes glimmering under the studio-grade lights, it was the solid gold vanity that stood out the most; its grand design and elaborate detail work being something to truly marvel at.
“Ugh! It looks like a spoiled princess threw up in here! There’s no way you could ever wear all of this useless crap!” stated Ryan, disgusted by the feminine opulence and the flowery scent that permeated the closet.
Brushing Ryan’s rude comment aside, Rachel simply shrugged. “It may seem silly to a strong man like you but there’s something so comforting about being engulfed by femininity,” said Rachel as she pointed to a massive department store box stashed high up on a shelf stationed above a rack of fur coats, “It’s that box right over there.”
Cracking his knuckles, Ryan readied himself to step up to the plate. “I’ll get that down, no problem,” he said confidently, hopping up on his tip toes as he reached up to grab the large, white, and pink box.
However, right as Ryan was about to pull the box down, Deloris stepped out from behind the rack of coats, surprising him with the self-defense spray that she kept in her purse at all times. The spray worked quickly, its sensory-depriving inhibitors causing Ryan to crumble onto the fluffy carpet. His vision became fuzzy and his hearing began to dampen as his stepmother and her tea buddy stood over him.
“Seriously, best $40 I’ve ever spent. Get yourself some. It works so much better than pepper spray,” said Deloris, tucking the self-defense spray back into her purse.
Kneeling next to Ryan’s limp body as his eyes slowly started to shutter, Rachel pinched his cheek and offered him a warm smile. “See you when you wake up, pumpkin,” she said, her words being the last thing Ryan heard as he passed out.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Ryan’s lip twitched, feeling a series of something light like a feather brushing against his cheeks. He contorted his face, trying to scratch the itch that just kept moving around on his face like a bug. Oh Goddess, please don’t let it be a bug. He went to wipe away whatever was ticking his face but found that he was unable to move his arms. In fact, after a brief moment of struggling, he discovered that he couldn’t move any part of his body. Even though his eyes were closed, he could tell he was sitting upright, making the lack of mobility even odder. Though, the oddest thing of all was the feeling of tight, smooth fabric hugging his torso from his chest all the way down to his hips. He didn’t know what was going on but something in his gut told him he was in danger.
“Oh, I think he’s finally.”
“Hehe, now the real fun begins.”
Instantly, Ryan recognized the voices of her stepmother and her tea party friend. All at once, a rush of memories filled back into his brain, recalling that he’d accompanied his stepmother to her walking-in closet before everything went dark. Sniffing the air, he could still smell the floral scent that wafted through the air, so he had to still be in the closet. That’s when it hit him. That crazy tea lady had sprung out of the collection of animal skins and blasted him in the face with something that made him pass out. It was no longer just his gut telling him that danger was present.
Opening his eyes, Ryan was greeted by the piercing studio lighting that made up Rachel’s closet. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a strange girl he had never met before sitting across from him wearing nothing but lingerie. From the nose down, she had perfect, ruby-red lips that shined against the flattering lights, with a plethora of foundation and contour caked on to soften her chin and jawline while accentuating her cheekbones and petite facial features. Meanwhile, her eyes were still having work done, with the peachy eyeshadow being left half-done. “I’m sorry, do I…” he muttered, raising an eyebrow in confusion as the girl across from him moved her mouth at the time he did. As he did so, the girl raised her eyebrow as well, mimicking him once again. After a few more seconds of staring, it finally clicked, “W-What the FuCK IS GOING ON?!”
Looking down at his body, Ryan began frantically pulling against his restraints as he gazed upon the same lingerie that he had seen in his reflection. Pathetically, he snuck another glance at himself, slightly amazed but also horrified by how much like a girl Deloris had managed to make him look. “Untie me right fucking now! You think my dad will stand for this?! Your ass is going back out on the street where he found your money-grubbing ass,” he said, thrusting his height upward and causing the chair to bounce in place.
“Oh, you think so?” said Deloris, crossing in front of Ryan and stepping over his legs to straddle them. She made sure to tease him a little, wiggling her butt on his pointed lap as she settled into place on his thighs, “Because what do you think he’s more likely to believe? That your new mother and I overpowered you and forced you to dress up like this, or that his sissy son snuck into Mommy’s closet for some private dress-up time? If you ask me, one of these seems far more plausible than the other.”
Left in stunned silence at how bold Deloris was acting, Ryan’s eyes darted to Rachel’s reflection, hoping that his stepmother would reign in her far more domineering friend. Sadly, she did nothing more than flash him the same sadistic smile that Deloris was sporting. Realizing he’d never be able to intimidate them into letting him go, he lowered his head and began sniffling, “P-Please let me go. I promise I w-won’t say anything,” he said, hoping to appeal to a woman’s kind heart.
Sadly, there was no kindness to be found. “Oh, don’t worry, we fully intend on letting you go…so long as you play nice with us girls, that is,” said Rachel, showcasing a much more confident attitude now that she didn’t have to bend over backward to please her misogynistic stepson as she let her arms drape over Ryan’s shoulders. She slowly ran her finger softly along his chin, relishing in the sheer feeling of his freshly-shaven face, “If you sit still and let us finish our makeover, we promise to get you back into your old clothes before your old man gets home from work. However, if you keep being lippy with me and your Aunt Deloris, then we’ll have no choice but to leave you like this for your father. Do we have an understanding?”
As much as Ryan wanted to tell Rachel and Deloris to go fuck themselves, he knew there was little choice so long as he didn’t want to tarnish the manly image his father had of him. Shakily nodding his head, he stuttered out a small, “yes,” sealing his feminized fate.
Given the green light from Ryan, Deloris resumed her work as she added a heavy dusting of eye shadow. Not that she needed a green light, per se. It was more of a courtesy than anything. “See, it’s not so bad, right? Plus, it really brings out the blue in your eyes. All the boys are going to be hypnotized by your beauty,” she said purely for her own satisfaction.
Groaning from behind his pouty expression, Ryan had less than zero interest when it came to attracting guys. As much as he hated to admit it though, Deloris was right. Each time he caught sight of himself in the mirror, a tiny flutter filled his heart, one not too dissimilar from the feeling he got when looking into Sara’s dreamy eyes.
As Deloris put the cap back on the peach eye shadow, Ryan hoped that this would mean an end to his make-up session. Sadly, the eye shadow was only the beginning. Next, came eyeliner and mascara, both of which put quite a strain on his eyes as he struggled to keep his eyes from watering. Not that it would have mattered since Rachel was quick to comment, “Tears of joy over finally seeing the real you? Go ahead and let it out all you want to. Your make-up is waterproof for a reason.”
Following the eye torture that came from the pitch-black products, Ryan was introduced to perhaps the most unique form of agony that he’d ever been subjected to. “Now, hold very still. I don’t want to prick you,” said Deloris as she brought a pair of tweezers close to Ryan’s eyebrows. He wanted to protest but it only took a single time of him flinching and being stabbed by the sharp point of the tweezers to keep him still. Every hair that was pulled from the pair of fuzzy wigglers over his eyes was akin to going through Chinese water torture. By the time his first eyebrow was finished, he didn’t even care how feminine he looked. He just wanted Deloris to finish as fast as possible.
Plucking the last tiny hair from the far side of his left eye, Deloris stepped back to get a full look at his face, a malicious smirk growing on her face. “Goddess, I am good. I don’t even think his father would recognize him now,” she said, prompting Rachel to join her in admiring the rebirth of her new stepdaughter.
“Heck, I don’t even recognize him and I watched you do it!” shouted Rachel as both girls fell into a fit of giggles.
As the ladies laughed, Ryan could only grimace at his reflection, not wanting to see what had become of him but also unable to look away. As Deloris moved back in and began spritzing a setting spray on his face, he could actively feel the grip he had on his masculinity slipping. To make matters worse, the silky fabric and constant humiliation in combination with seeing his new form completed caused an unfortunate chain reaction in his loins. Feeling the tingling sensations creeping throughout his shaft, he bit down on his tongue hard, hoping to quell his heightened arousal.
Tragically, Ryan’s efforts were all for naught as Rachel got sight of the tiny point sticking out of his satin and lace panties. She quickly rushed over to Deloris, who was halfway through her finishing touches on Ryan’s make-up, and whispered into her ear.
The two girls began laughing once again, causing Ryan’s heart rate to elevate and, in turn, his hard-on to pulse slightly faster. “What devious scheme were these two planning now?” he thought, far from excited to find out the answer.
Stepping out of Ryan’s direct line of sight, Rachel reached into her pocket and pulled out a small remote. From the second she and Deloris had gotten Ryan fitted into lingerie, she’d been chomping at the bit to reveal the big surprise to her stepson. And now that he was properly stiffened, it was the perfect opportunity to further shove him down the path of permanent sissification.
While Ryan assumed he was just wearing regular-degular lingerie, the truth was far more sinister thanks to the Valentine’s Day present that his father had bought for Rachel only a handful of months prior. Wrapped delicately around Ryan’s waist and prodding pecker was a pair of remote-controlled vibrating panties with five glorious settings to bring any good girl to her knees. With her thumb on the remote, she made sure to watch every inch of Ryan’s body for a reaction as she clicked the vibrator on.
*bzzzzzzzzzzzz*
An instant shiver was sent up Ryan’s spine before spreading across his body in a series of chills. His eyes went wide and his lip started to quiver as the low rumble of his vibrating panties worked to egg on his cock’s growing need for attention. And the attention he did get as Rachel stormed back up to him and cupped her hand tightly around his dick and balls, increasing the sensations felt from the panty’s internal vibrator. “Your dad was so nice to buy me these but they're not really my style,” she said, wiggling her fingers on the underside of Ryan’s testicles as her palm brushed against the head of his penis, “Do you think your father ever would allow me to put these on him? Of course, not. But you don’t need to worry about that anymore since you’ll never be the man he is.”
It was all too much. The ceaseless vibrations of the panties. The aggressive tightness of his restraints. The sheer sensuality of his silky lingerie. The cruel taunting from Rachel. The overwhelming feeling of femininity ensnared his heart and soul. All of this added up to send his pleasure receptors well past the point of no return. Rachel had only been gripping Ryan’s privates for thirty seconds, but that was all it took for his cock to start spurting out semen. He uttered a squealing moan as his body convulsed, raptured by the most shameful and glorious orgasm of his life.
Pulling her hand away, Rachel grabbed a make-up wipe and cleaned off the droplets of spunk that clung to her fingers. “I don’t think there’s any way you could argue now. You are officially as sissy as sissy can be,” she said, tossing the used wipe aside and returning to Ryan’s side to stroke his shoulder-length hair, “You sure we don’t want to give him a girlier hairstyle? I agree that the mid-length is good but we could give him bangs or something.”
Shaking her head without looking away from Ryan’s face, Deloris responded, “Seldom few people can pull off bangs properly. Besides, if we cut his hair any shorter, they’ll be less to play with.” The two girls chuckled once again, imagining the variety of precious hairstyles they could give him once the make-up game ended and the dress-up game began.
*DING DONG! BING BONG!*
Suddenly, Rachel, Deloris, and Ryan all froze as a fancy doorbell sounded off, alerting the trio to the presence of a visitor. “It’s not his father. He would’ve just come in,” said Rachel, who wasn’t aware anyone else would be stopping by today.
Ryan, however, was well aware of who was downstairs. A droplet of sweat ran down his neck as he realized this situation was about to go from bad to worse now that his childhood friend, Sara, had arrived for their two o’clock hangout.
TO BE CONTINUED…
PART 2
PART 3
-------------------------------------------------------------
You could've read this story two weeks earlier! Join my Patreon, where you can get early access to commissioned stories like this one, as well as exclusive content you won't find anywhere else! Dozens of exciting stories are already available, so be sure to check out patreon.com/crissiebaby!
Edited by AllySmolShork
52 notes
·
View notes
Invisible Women: Exposing Data Bias in a World Designed for Men (Caroline Criado-Perez, 2019)
"For women who try to escape from war and disaster, the gender-neutral nightmare often continues in the refugee camps of the world.
‘We have learned from so many mistakes in the past that women are at a greater risk for sexual assault and violence if they don’t have separate bathrooms,’ says Gauri van Gulik, Amnesty International’s deputy director for Europe and Central Asia.
In fact international guidelines state that toilets in refugee camps should be sex-segregated, marked and lockable.
But these requirements are often not enforced. (…)
Female refugees regularly complain that the remote location of many toilets is worsened by a lack of adequate lighting both on the routes to the latrines and in the facilities themselves.
Large areas of the infamous Idomeni camp in Greece were described as ‘pitch-black’ at night.
And although two studies have found that installing solar lighting or handing out individual solar lights to women in camps has had a dramatic impact on their sense of safety, it’s a solution that has not been widely adopted.
So most women find their own solutions.
A year after the 2004 tsunami women and girls in Indian displacement camps were still walking in pairs to and from the community toilet and bathing facilities to ward off harassment from men.
A group of Yezidi women who ended up in Nea Kavala camp in northern Greece after fleeing sexual slavery under ISIS formed protection circles so they could accompany each other to the toilet.
Others (69% in one 2016 study), including pregnant women who need frequent toilet trips, simply don’t go at night.
Some women in reception centres in Germany have resorted to not eating and drinking, a solution also reported by female refugees in Idomeni, at the time Greece’s largest informal refugee camp.
According to a 2018 Guardian report, some women have taken to wearing adult nappies." (…)
The irony of ignoring the potential for male violence when it comes to designing systems for female refugees is that male violence is often the reason women are refugees in the first place.
We tend to think of people being displaced because of war and disaster: this is usually why men flee.
But this perception is another example of male-default thinking: while women do seek refuge on this basis, female homelessness is more usually driven by the violence women face from men.
Women flee from ‘corrective’ rape (where men rape a lesbian to ‘turn her straight’), from institutionalised rape (as happened in Bosnia), from forced marriage, child marriage and domestic violence.
Male violence is often why women flee their homes in low-income countries, and it’s why women flee their homes in the affluent West."
9 notes
·
View notes