xcunning_linguistx
Virgin
- Joined
- Mar 26, 2006
- Posts
- 3
My Kink Is Not Your Kink?
((kso, I'm playing the photographer. He has a fetish for very frail, weak women (i.e. his models.) I need someone to play a model for me. :] This kind of an experimental RP, I'd like it to just run its course. PM me please. <3 Oh, and the sex I do tends to be kind of vanilla. So if that's a problem for you, you might want to look elsewhere. X] ))
Richard Tide, Rip for short, was a photographer; the mastermind behind the luscious, quasi-pornographic spreads in all the hot fashion and gossip magazines. In the world of modeling, he was a legend. Any model, any celebrity, any musician, no matter how difficult or bratty or asexual, looked like the paradigm of cool seduction under his lens.
Rip was also notorious for being hot-headed and borderline abusive. He had certain requirements, kept all of "his" models on painfully strict diets, chewed them out when they went astray, slept with them and generally abused his power as Creative Genius, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter because Rip made money, the models made money, everyone together made sex, and sex sells, baby. That's the biz.
These models were the ones that mothers saw and frowned at, saying, "They give our teenagers an impossible standard to meet." These models were the ones that yuppies saw and sighed at and became bulimic to emulate. These models were the ones that most boys looked at and went, "She's too skinny, she's fake, I don't like that," but in secret they all masturbated to them. They were all around five feet, eleven inches, the shortest being five-six, the tallest being six-one. Few of them weighed over a hundred pounds. All of them had features that were so severely beautiful they bordered frightening. Two had had breast implants that stuck out now like water-filled balloons on their frail frames.
People wondered about Rip. It seemed that this type of woman was some sort of fetish of his- he only ever slept around with these weak-looking drug-addict models, when he could have had any woman he liked. He was, after all, successful, wealthy and intelligent, not to mention handsome in that delightfully quirky way that most artists tend to be. He wore silver-framed glasses and dyed his hair blue, and refused to wear anything but blue jeans and button-down, popped-collar shirts.
No one knew better than Rip did the unfairness of the world. To him, there was no yin or yang, no good or evil, no scales to even things out. Everything was the way it was; chaotic and totally imbalanced. And all of this just because of the two-faced nature of the world of modeling. Behind all the glitz and glamour, there was a lot of filth and dirty laundry. Behind every successful model there were eating disorders and airbrushing and abuse and promiscuity, and behind that successful photographer there was a whole abyss of loneliness and hurt, waiting to be filled by someone.
((kso, I'm playing the photographer. He has a fetish for very frail, weak women (i.e. his models.) I need someone to play a model for me. :] This kind of an experimental RP, I'd like it to just run its course. PM me please. <3 Oh, and the sex I do tends to be kind of vanilla. So if that's a problem for you, you might want to look elsewhere. X] ))
Richard Tide, Rip for short, was a photographer; the mastermind behind the luscious, quasi-pornographic spreads in all the hot fashion and gossip magazines. In the world of modeling, he was a legend. Any model, any celebrity, any musician, no matter how difficult or bratty or asexual, looked like the paradigm of cool seduction under his lens.
Rip was also notorious for being hot-headed and borderline abusive. He had certain requirements, kept all of "his" models on painfully strict diets, chewed them out when they went astray, slept with them and generally abused his power as Creative Genius, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter because Rip made money, the models made money, everyone together made sex, and sex sells, baby. That's the biz.
These models were the ones that mothers saw and frowned at, saying, "They give our teenagers an impossible standard to meet." These models were the ones that yuppies saw and sighed at and became bulimic to emulate. These models were the ones that most boys looked at and went, "She's too skinny, she's fake, I don't like that," but in secret they all masturbated to them. They were all around five feet, eleven inches, the shortest being five-six, the tallest being six-one. Few of them weighed over a hundred pounds. All of them had features that were so severely beautiful they bordered frightening. Two had had breast implants that stuck out now like water-filled balloons on their frail frames.
People wondered about Rip. It seemed that this type of woman was some sort of fetish of his- he only ever slept around with these weak-looking drug-addict models, when he could have had any woman he liked. He was, after all, successful, wealthy and intelligent, not to mention handsome in that delightfully quirky way that most artists tend to be. He wore silver-framed glasses and dyed his hair blue, and refused to wear anything but blue jeans and button-down, popped-collar shirts.
No one knew better than Rip did the unfairness of the world. To him, there was no yin or yang, no good or evil, no scales to even things out. Everything was the way it was; chaotic and totally imbalanced. And all of this just because of the two-faced nature of the world of modeling. Behind all the glitz and glamour, there was a lot of filth and dirty laundry. Behind every successful model there were eating disorders and airbrushing and abuse and promiscuity, and behind that successful photographer there was a whole abyss of loneliness and hurt, waiting to be filled by someone.
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