#michael laine

[maaarine]

Antoine Machut:

"Les marchés financiers se sont développés dans les années 1980 dans un contexte de la financiarisation de la société.

Ça a eu pour effet d'inciter les médias à réintégrer dans leurs colonnes des rubriques financières et boursières.

Pourquoi? Parce qu'il y avait une activité à couvrir, certes, mais surtout parce que ça attirait les annonceurs et de la publicité financière.

C'est lié à ce que Julien Duval a appelé "la dynamique des cadres," à partir de l'émergence de la catégorie sociale des cadres dans les années 1970, qui est une catégorie très prisée par les annonceurs.

Donc la presse a tout intérêt à attirer ce lectorat-là.

C'est ce qui explique aussi que ce qui domine dans le traitement de l'information c'est la logique gestionnaire de l'entreprise."

Michaël Lainé:

"Dès lors que les médias interprètent le fonctionnement des marchés financiers ou les questions de dette publique, il y a une forme de naturalisation du système économique.

On fait comme si le système économique résultait de la force des choses et non pas d'un choix de politique économique.

Donc typiquement on interprète l'économie en très grande majorité dans les médias selon une logique gestionnaire.

Ce qui en soi ne pose pas de problème, sauf que rabattre la logique gestionnaire sur la logique macroéconomique c'est ce qu'on appelle "le sophisme de composition".

On ne peut pas raisonner au niveau macroéconomique comme on raisonne au niveau microéconomique d'une entité.

Il est nécessaire d'avoir une logique gestionnaire pour gérer une entreprise, mais on ne peut pas transposer cette logique-là à l'analyse de l'économie.

Tout simplement parce que tout phénomène économique a toujours deux faces.

Si je me rends chez un commerçant et dépense quelque chose, c'est pour moi un coût, et pour le commerçant c'est un revenu.

La logique gestionnaire n'amène à voir qu'une seule des deux dimensions, alors que c'est les deux en même temps.

Source: Entendez-vous l'éco ?: La fabrique du discours économique — Épisode 3/3 : Quand les médias parlent d’éco

[d-criss-news]

Via Maia Glasman, Anna Beth Riggs, Hair Artist CMT, Michael Ivan Carrier, Clarissa Cueva, Grant Lewis, Chase Del Rey, Tyler Lain's Instagram Story (November 12th, 2024)

[skibidirizzler68]

More Christie stuff for some reason yayayyayayyayy

[rdlain]

finally someone with a lain themed url and icon whos not a male/TIM. love your blog <3

Oh thank you my sweet, it's all for y'all 🫶

[paulic]

Denny’s death hit me more than I expected it to :( I remember when I discovered the Wings and thought the guitar was just superb. December can’t be easy for Paul whew

[chicinsilk]

US Vogue July 1986

Monika Schnarre wears a long wool jersey dress (Jasco), by Michael Kors. toque, Patricia Underwood, boots, Donna Karan. Belt used as a collar, Robert Lee Morris, belt, Barry Kieselstein-Cord. Hairdressing, Madeleine Cofano for Bruno Dessange; makeup, Lydia Snyder.

Monika Schnarre porte une robe longue en jersey de laine (Jasco), par Michael Kors. toque, Patricia Underwood, boots, Donna Karan. Ceinture utilisée comme collier, Robert Lee Morris, ceinture, Barry Kieselstein-Cord. Coiffure, Madeleine Cofano pour Bruno Dessange ; maquillage, Lydia Snyder.

Photo Bill King vogue archive

[beatlesradioshows]

Beatles, Things We Said Today #404 – Denny Laine Tribute & the RPM School White Album Course Download

Episode 404 is our last Things We Said Today for 2023, and it’s a long one – and something different. Catching up with the news of the last few weeks, Ken Michaels, Allan Kozinn and Darren Devivo pay tribute to the late Denny Laine [04:00-33:00], followed by plenty more news [33:00-50:00], But for the main part of the show [at 50:00] we welcome the faculty of the RPM School – Walter Everett, author of the extraordinary “The Beatles As Musicians” two-volume set, Jack Petruzzelli, the multi-instrumentalist, producer and songwriter who many listeners will know as a member of the Fab Faux, and Cameron Greider, also a multi-instrumentalist and producer, who has worked with Sean Lennon and many others – who will give us a preview of their online course on the “White Album,” which starts on January 8. Information about the RPM School can be found at https://www.rpm-school.com/home-1. More information about the White Album course is here: https://www.rpm-school.com/

email address thingswesaidtodayradioshow@gmail.com Facebook page @thingswesaidfab  iTunes  Tune In Radio  YouTube 

[moviesandmania]

GHOST (2023) Reviews of apocalyptic demonic horror

‘Forgive me father’ Ghost is a 2023 American action horror film about a deadly religious cult that is weaponising demonic entities; it’s therefore up to a band of church-funded mercenaries to take the cult down before they literally unleash Hell on Earth. When word of a Fallen Angel reaches the team, the stakes are raised and the fate of humanity rests on the shoulders of one man: Ghost. Written…

[fortheturnstiles]

most popular ships chart if it was accurate and real to what i see on tumblr . com [JUST THE RPF]

1. torksmith

2. helmbertson

3. dylobertson

4. Bruce Springsteen and Clarence clemons

5. dylarrison

6. neilphen

7. nashby

8. Simon and garfunkel

9. Rick Danko and Neil Young at the Last Waltz 1976

10. bob dylan joan baez lesbianism

11. Martin Scorsese and robbie robertson

12. jork

13. csny polycule drama

13.5: Paul simon and Carrie Fisher

14. Wings lesbian throuple (paul + linda + denny laine)

15. mclennon i guess

16. that time Michael nesmith met The Kinks

17. Joan baez lezzing out

18. Richard Manuel and Rick Danko from theband

19. uhhh who else. the dudes from Genesis (several combinations)

20. Chris hillman Stephen Stills

Feel free to add more or rearrange 👍🏻

[goredist]

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ##‎ ‎ ‎ nurse-related ‎ ‎id ‎ pack ‎ ‎!

names ‎ ‎ : ‎ ‎ nursette ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ nursesse ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ michelle ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ michael

luciel ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ lucie/lucy ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ lace ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ lain ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ angel(o)

ame ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ jace ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ malachi ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ natasha ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ amor(e)

savior ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ cross ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ josiah/joasias ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ kaison

raphael ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ jason ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ ellison ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ solitude ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ ivy

pronouns ‎ ‎ : ‎ ‎ heal ﾉ heals ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ healer ﾉ healers ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ nurse ﾉ nurses

med ﾉ meds ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ syringe ﾉ syringes ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ needle ﾉ needles

syr ﾉ syrs ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ syri ﾉ syris ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ lace ﾉ laces ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ heart ﾉ hearts

cross ﾉ crosses ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ help ﾉ helps ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ savior ﾉ saviors

mask ﾉ masks ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ aid ﾉ aides‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ 1 ﾉ 1s

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blood ﾉ bloods ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ tape ﾉ tapes ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ iv ﾉ ivs ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ ivy ﾉ ivys

ivy ﾉ ivies ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ herb ﾉ herbs ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ herb ﾉ herbal ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ gauze ﾉ gauzes

clean ﾉ cleans ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ nur ﾉ se ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ soap ﾉ soaps ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ gown ﾉ gowns

xenos ‎ ‎ : ‎ ‎ nursegender ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ maginurse ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ clumsinurseic

lacenursic ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ nursemoongender ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ nurseprogram

putrinursic ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ ossunursic ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ azranursic ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ nonhununursegender

adnursdollic ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ ethernursic ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ cosmicnursegender ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ larotnursic

nurseoctogender ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ axonurse ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ nursplaugic ‎ ‎ ‎♡ ‎ ‎ vampnursecatgender

[triviareads]

Francesca Wanted Michael to Get Her Pregnant

can't believe I'm back at it but after reading this recently published Screen Rant article rank Bridgerton spouses and rank Michael/Michaela Stirling fifth because, and I quote from the article—

Michael Stirling even threatens to impregnate Francesca Bridgerton if she refuses to marry him, which is not a good perception of his best side.

Like.... no. That is not what happened at all. Full stop. After having CONSENSUAL sex for the first time with Michael, Francesca is conflicted about "betraying" John her late husband, and isn't sure about her feelings towards Michael, but she's also aware of the practicalities of having sex, and having sex out of wedlock as far as reputation goes, so this is what SHE tells Michael:

And then, without even looking at him, she said, “I will consider it.” He quirked a brow, waiting for her to elaborate. “Marrying you,” she clarified, still keeping her eyes on the fire. “But I won’t give you an answer now.” “You might be carrying my child,” he said softly. “I am very much aware of that.” She wrapped her arms around her bent knees and hugged. “I will give you an answer once I have that answer.” —When He Was Wicked by Julia Quinn, chapter 18

So she tells him to wait, has sex with him again, and at this point, Michael believes she wouldn't have sex with him twice if she didn't feel something for him, so he reiterates his marriage proposal:

“Will you marry me?” he repeated, and this time the words were hard, with more of an edge to them. “I don’t know,” she finally answered. “I need more time.” "Time for what?“ he snapped. ”For me to try a little harder to get you pregnant?“ She flinched as if struck. He advanced upon her. “Because I’ll do it,” he warned. “I’ll take you right now, and then again tonight, and then three times tomorrow if that’s what is required.” “Michael, stop…” she whispered. “I have lain with you,” he said, his words stark and yet strangely urgent. "Twice. You are no innocent. You know what that means.“ And it was because she was no innocent—and no one would ever expect her to be—that she was able to say, “I know. But that doesn’t matter. Not if I don’t conceive.” —When He Was Wicked by Julia Quinn, chapter 20

Is it the nicest of proposals? No, and Michael is pissy that she isn't capitulating just because there's a *chance* she might be pregnant. That being said, he's NOT forcing her to get pregnant, and Francesca is 100% fine with continuing to have sex with Michael on the off-chance she could get pregnant, and if she does, only then will she make a decision about marrying him because at this moment in time, she is still unsure of her feelings for Michael and still feels like she's betraying John. But Michael is neither coercing her to have sex with him, nor is he attempting to get her pregnant against her will. And shortly after this dialogue, he storms off because he thinks convincing her further is futile and he's feeling tragic and *used* by her lol.

And ultimately, Francesca is INTO the idea of getting pregnant, or hell, trying to get pregnant with him.... a breeding kink if you will. There's a VERY telling passage after she says she'll marry him despite not being pregnant but having had sex with him multiple times over three weeks:

He rose slowly to his feet. “There will be no backing out. No cold feet. No changed minds.” “No,” she said. “I promise.” And that was when he finally let himself believe her. Francesca did not give promises lightly. And she never broke her vows. He was across the room in an instant, his hands at her back, his arms around her, his mouth raining desperate kisses on her face. “You will be mine,” he said. “This is it. Do you understand?” She nodded, arching her neck as his lips slid down the long column to her shoulder. “If I want to tie you to the bed, and keep you there until you’re heavy with child, I’ll do it,” he vowed. “Yes,” she gasped. “And you won’t complain.” She shook her head. His fingers tugged at her gown. It fell to the floor with stunning speed. “And you’ll like it,” he growled. “Yes. Oh, yes.” —When He Was Wicked by Julia Quinn, chapter 21

Come on.... the "yes oh yes?" What do we think that is if not enthusiastic consent?

[misseviehyde]

INSTITUTIONALIZED

Michael was smart - real smart. But he also knew that he lived in a society full of institutionalized racism that made it harder for a black kid like him to make it in the white world.

He wanted to go to University, but he knew he would be competing against a lot of spoiled white kids and his family didn't have enough money to support him through even the cheapest college.

True he could skip college and get straight to work but he didn't want to end up like his Uncle Luther who was a petty criminal and a bad role model.  Just this morning Luther had woken Michael up and demanded he hide a cache of guns in the house.  Michael was afraid of his uncle so he had obeyed.

It was whilst he was looking through the guns, wondering what he had gotten into and where to put them where his Mom wouldn't find them, that he came across a weird looking blaster.  It looked more like something from a science fiction film than a real gun so he found a serial number on the base and googled it on a black market page.

The info read - "The Costume gun. Stolen hi-tech weapon. Turns anyone fired at into an empty skin that can be worn to allow a person to adopt their identity. Highly dangerous experimental weapon. Can cause identity dysmorphia."

Michael was astonished. He checked a bit further and soon became convinced this was the real deal.  A gun that could let him take another persons identity was now in his possession.  A lot of things began to click in his mind. What if he used the gun to steal the life of a rich, privileged white person about to go to college?

It seemed evil to steal another life, but Michael was sick of being denied opportunities because of systematic racism. He could zap some dumb frat boy - study at university and then one day reverse the effect perhaps. He could work it out as he went along - he just knew he needed to get out of this life.

But where was he gonna find a frat boy?

He put the gun in his bag and went out for a walk to think it over.

It was whilst he was walking down an empty street that he saw Madison Laine - the richest bitch in the neighbourhood approaching. She was walking and talking on her mobile phone to her slutty friends whilst chewing gum. Her tight outfit left very little to the imagination - a tiny pair of daisy dukes and a tight pink boob tube.

She was the same age as Michael but they were definitely not in the same social circles. Madison went to an exclusive private school and her Daddy was a multi-millionaire oil magnate.  She was spoiled, beautiful and rich and already had a place at an Ivy League University.  He had read about her online - she was already a semi-famous instagrammer and aspiring model. Everyone in the area lusted after her in one way or another.

She was also a total bitch and as Michael approached the look of total disdain in her eyes made something in him snap. She giggled and a sneer appeared on her pretty lips. "Oh my gosh girls, I thought all black guys were fucking hot - but I just saw this TOTAL fucking nerd. What a LOSER."

Madison had quite the taste for black guys. She apparantly only fucked black cock and could be found out in the clubs cheating on her white boyfriend nearly every night. That would have turned a lot of black guys on - a perfect blonde snow bunny ready to give herself to superior men.

But Michael was sick of privileged sluts like this one treating black guys like they were either nothing, or simply big dicks to fetishize over. He walked past Madison in barely contained fury and she caught his expression and scowled.

"Hey you... you fucking nerd. How dare you like look at me like that. I'm your fucking superior and you better fucking show it."

Michael ground his teeth. "You're not my superior, you're just an over-privileged white girl that thinks she deserves all her Daddy's blood money."

"Hold on girls, I just need to deal with something," grinned Madison as she hung up. Advancing on Michael she jabbed him hard in the chest with a long acyrillic nail and giggled as he yelped in pain. "Haha, listen dork. All I have to do is make one call to the cops. 'Ohhhhh, help me help me.' Who knows what those racist fucks will do when they see me, the scared innocent white girl being pestered by you."

"You fucking bitch," snapped Michael and suddenly the gun was in his hands.

"What the fuck is that? A toy? Ohhhh this gets even better. They'll probably shoot you when they see you're 'armed'." Laughing Madison began to dial 911.

With a gasp of panic Michael pulled the trigger.

The gun whined and a pink ray leapt out and engulfed Madison. Her face turned suprised, then the beautiful slut moaned softly as her body deflated and in an instant she was just an empty skin lying on the pavement with a discarded handbag and phone next to it.

Michael felt a cold moment of panic - what the hell had he done that for?

He immediately considered flipping the reverse switch and transforming her back - but he knew full well Madison would call the cops. She wouldn't be grateful for him reversing the rays effects.

In a panic he reached down and gathered the skin. It was impossibly soft and her skin smelt amazing. Her hair was even nicer to touch and still felt warm. He stuffed the skin and all the skimpy clothes into his bag and ran home.

On the way, Michael imagined what would happen if a cop stopped him and searched him. How would he explain this situation. He felt more anger than ever.

Safe back home Michael laid Madison and her things on his bed. What was he going to do? If Madison didn't turn up, her bitchy friends and family would stop at nothing to track her down. They'd easily track her back to him and he'd be screwed. If he turned her back, she'd just call the cops on him. He had no choice... he was going to have to become Madison.

A shameful part of him was excited at the idea as he examined the tiny skin and all her girly clothes.

Michael stripped off and then picking up Madison, examined how to wear her. There was a slit down the back of the suit - so he opened it and slowly pushed his feet inside. The skin was soft and warm and his feet slid easily inside. It felt like the skin was eagerly welcoming him inside and clinging to him possessively.

It looked weird as his feet and legs slid in and Madison's skin overrode his. Not only were his legs now perfectly smooth and sexy - they were white. His feet were tiny now. Somehow the skin was making him smaller, fitting him inside. He wiggled his toes and gasped to see the ten perfectly pedicured toes wriggle with their white nails and toe rings.

"Hmmmm this feels pretty good," groaned Michael as he pulled the skin up to his waist. He thrust his cock deep inside the groin of the skin and snapped Madison's taut buttocks over his own. His cock tingled and then sensation vanished, instead replaced by Madison's pampered pink pussy - freshly waxed and shaven.

"Holy fuck I have a pussy now,"  grinned Michael sliding his fingers in and gasping as he felt them slide deep into his own velvety softness.  This was the real deal - the skin was reallt making him into a girl.

He quickly pulled the rest of it up, tugging Madison's big heavy boobs into place. They felt amazing on his body and it was weird to look down and see them hanging there - but also kind of nice. Each one was full and round. Rubbing the nipples felt good.

His whole body was tiny and curvy now. Entirely hairless. A bellybutton ring twinkled in his toned abdomen and washboard tummy.

His arms were now slender and lightly tanned, the fingers ending in slutty acryllic nails and ornamented with rings.

Only one thing was left to do.

With a tingle of excitement Michael slid his head inside Madison's beautiful face and shivered as he felt the slot on the back seal up and the suit tighten.

Blonde hair fastened to his scalp and his eyes rolled up as his voice box changed and he moaned in feminine pleasure as the suit completed transforming him into Madison.

A hot flush ran through him and his head tingled. A host of unfamiliar memories throbbed in his mind and he realised he was gaining all of Madison's knowledge and memories along with enough of her personality and mannerisms to pass safely as her. 

You naughty boy... how does it feel inside me. Good huh?

A voice seemed to whisper in Michael's head telling him he was someone else now. Someone better.

Yesssss Michael. You're a naughty white girl now - you're a slut and a bitch. Your Daddy is rich and you can be a spoiled little whore, every single day. This is what you wanted all along. You're Madison now!

Turning to the mirror the new Madison; giggled as she saw her reflection. A pretty bitch used to getting what she wanted, when she wanted it. It felt good to be Madison.

"Ohhhh fuck I feel like sooooo fucking naughty, mmmmmh I am sooooo hawt now." 

Michael smirked at how big his white titties were and how sexy his manicured nails felt. It was amazing to be this beautiful.

Yessss that's it. You're me now loser. You love being me.  Your mind is becoming my mind. Our thoughts and desires are as one. You are inside me and you never want to leave.

Muchael purred as he accepted these strange new thoughts. Whilst in the skin it was so easy to think, act and feel like a naughty bitch.  All thoughts of taking the skin off were burned away by Madison's intrinsic narcissism. Why would anyone NOT want to be her?

Michael knew inside he was still Michael; but right now Michael was enjoying being Madison too much to care. Taking control of Madison's white privilege was making him feel dizzy.

Eughhhh I have to get out of this dump and back to my mansion. I totally have plans to make and college is going to be so much fun now I'm an Alpha bitch.

Picking up Madison's phone Michael laughed delightedly as it unlocked via face recognition. Her life was his. He WAS Madison. He hadn't meant to use the gun on her, but he had and it was too late now.

"Yessss, as Madison I can have it all. I deserve to be the pampered spoiled brat who gets what she wants. Being a mean, white, brat is gonna be so much fun. No wait... what am I saying? I hate girls like Madison."

That's why you wanna be me so badly dweeb. You lust to have my white privilege and get it all. You can't fight me Michael, you're already under my control. Give yourself to me and take your place as the new Madison.

Lying on his bed Michael began to helplessly play with his new body. He was being overwhelmed by Madison's bratty personality, he was becoming her.

You are ME loser.

Michael/Madison opened her eyes and giggled. Of course she was her. Who else would she be?

Her personality now in flux she was about to play with herself some more when she suddenly heard a creak downstairs and her heart skipped a beat. Who the fuck could that be?

The answer came as the door opened and Luther suddenly walked in. He was back to collect his guns, but he gawped and looked amazed as he beheld the gorgeous white girl in his dweeby nephews room. "Hey gorgeous who the fuck are you?"

Michael was usually scared of Luther but now he was Madison, he felt different. In fact Madison felt turned on by this situation. She had never noticed how big and strong Luther was.  She bet he had a big dick too.

"Ohhhh hey, you must be Luther.  I'm Michael's friend from school Madison. In fact we're like actually we're fuck buddies. Mmmmh you see, I can't get enough of black guys you see - I love a big black cock, it's what I live for. Michael is totally average but he's still superior to some white loser."

Michael was amazed at the slutty trash coming out of his mouth - but the Madison part of him was just turned on by it. She felt her pussy get wet as Luther looked at her appraisingly and he unzipped his fly slowly.

"You little white slut - you think my nerdy Nephew is a good fuck, you should come suck on a real mans cock."

"Mmmmh like ummm okay," giggled Madison without hesitation as Luther's massive black dick flopped out and she hungrily advanced.

Michael found his mouth salivating. He couldn't control himself. He was a horny white size queen now and he needed big cock. He couldn't control his new body as Madison's instincts took control.

Meanwhile Luther groaned happily as Madison lowered herself to her knees and slid her hot wet mouth around his dick.

He had no idea his dweeby Nephew had such great taste.

Licking and stroking Luther's cock - worshiping it in delight - Madison giggled as it got bigger and bigger for her. She knew this was twisted and wrong - potentially incestuous even if Luther was a distant 'uncle', but in this skin she wasn't Luther's Nephew anymore - she was a spoiled size queen who loved a big black dick and Luther was all hers. The sense of power - of knowing Luther wanted and needed her mouth and pussy so bad was intoxicating.

Madison got to work sucking and slurping on the monster cock before her.  She had memories of sucking lots of cock - but this was actually the biggest she had ever had and of course in reality - for Michael this was his first. The skin gave him the muscle memory and skills of a practiced college cheerleader - Madison had learned to suck cock years ago and she loved to swallow cum.

Luther moaned in pleasure. This bitch was amazing. "Yesssss that's it baby. White sluts like you live to suck black dick. Work that tongue baby, suck it real good."

Yesss Michael. You really wanna know how it feels to be a slut and be me, hurry up and get that cock inside you. This monster is all yours and it's going to feel so good stretching your tight young pussy out. You're such a bad girl and you love it. At college there will be even more cock to ride. I know you can't wait. You're Madison now so enjoy it!

"Yessss I love being Madison, oooohbh I need you to fuck me Luther - I want your cock so bad," whined Madison as she finished slurping and looked at him endearingly. The voice in her head made her want to do such deliciously nasty things. "Please fuck my pussy." 

Luther bent Madison over and slapped her ass hard. She moaned and pushed her back up - presenting her tight pussy to her lover as he growled in appreciation and slowly pushed his massive cock inside Madison's super tight teenage pussy

"Ohhhhh fuck yes -  ohhhh its so big!" moaned Madison in joy as Luther began to slide in and out of her soaking pussy and thrust harder and harder into her.  It felt so good and her huge tits jiggled as he fucked the shit out of her.

Being a white slut feels good doesn't it?  You love being me.

Luther pounded Madison and she squealed as she orgasmed over his dick. Then he picked her up and fucked her even deeper till she came again.

Madison's pussy juices were dripping down lubricating his cock and making him slide so deep into her perfect pussy and fucking her felt so good. Luther couldn't take much more of this insatiable slut. She was a sex machine.

"Shit baby - I'm gonna cum," he grunted.

"Yessss do it all over my face; I want all that cum,"  begged Madison. Luther was happy to oblige and she squealed in delight as he unloaded all over her pretty face. Thick globs of warm cum erupted over her lips and her chin, dripping down onto her large firm tits.

With cum dripping over his outer body and making him feel like such a delicious whore - inside the skin Michael had accepted that this was his new life now. 

Being Madison felt amazing. The devious slut wondered whether there was even a way to make Luther appear responsible for Michael's inevitable disappearance in a few days.  Maybe she could engineer something after all she had Luther hooked now. 

"Damn girl that pussy is fine. Are you in town all summer?"

"Yeah; till I go to college. We can fuck again if you like baby?"

Luther grinned. He was all for more but he had no idea the horny slut in front of him was already planning to make it look like he killed Michael in a fit of jealousy and her Daddy's lawyers would make mincemeat out of this idiot and keep the story out of the papers. Money and white privillege always won in the end.

"Ooohhh and in the meantime we can fuck that big dick and cum all night.  Hehe we're so bad."

Michael had become exactly the sort of white privileged manipulative bitch he had always despised. As Madison he would go to University, join a sorority ride a lot of dick and party. It was gonna be fun.  Michael was now Madison and he had definitely been institutionalized.

She was gonna use the system to get what she wanted and spend her days filled with big black dick. Fetish or no fetish she was an evil blonde whore and college was going to be a blast.

THE END

[skibidirizzler68]

Genuinely one of my favorite drawings ever this is grimace passing the blunt to lain I drew this with my new art tablet

[pupsmailbox]

MEDICAL︰GORE ID PACK

NAMES︰ aceso. addison. aden. aero. airmed. aliza. alora. althea. ambrose. ambulette. ame. amelie. amor. amore. angel. angelique. angelo. anna. anthony. apollo. arabella. arzt. asa. avian. babe. baby. bambi. bandage. bandagette. blanche. blanchette. blood. bloodette. bright. brigid. cal. carla. carmelita. catherine. cathie. cathy. cecil. chamomile. charge. charles. charlotte. clara. clemence. clement. connie. cora. corina. corry. cosmas. cross. crosse. crossette. daisy. daniel. david. delilah. desdemona. dorothea. dropsy. edema. edith. eira. elias. eliza. elizabeth. ellison. emil. emily. emma. evangeline. feronia. fleur. florence. fragilette. frailette. galen. ginger. gram. grimm. hansen. harmonie. harmony. hazel. healer. hira. hospette. ida. incisionette. incisionne. ivie. ivy. jace. jackie. james. jason. jayla. jayr. jen. jennifer. joasias. john. josiah. joy. jules. kaison. lace. lain. laryn. leah. lee. leigh. leuk. lucie. luciel. lucile. lucy. lue. lues. lyra. lyrica. mae. maebell. maggie. maiya. malachi. mark. mary. marybelle. may. maya. meddette. medette. medicel. medicette. medicinalle. medilita. mercia. michael. michelle. milo. milu. mitzi. moraxella. morgan. natasha. needlette. nile. norrie. norry. nursesse. nursette. nursie. nwurse. nyura. palsy. penny. phoebe. phoebus. pille. pillette. pott. potter. quinn. raphael. ray. red. redde. reseda. reye. richard. robert. rose. salmon. savior. scalpelle. scarlet. scrivener. scrubbe. scrubette. scrubs. serra. shiga. solitude. steven. stitch. stitches. stitchette. susan. sylvie. syrinelle. syringe. syringette. thomas. triage. vasc. viper. vitas. vitus. wiel. winnie. yves. zika. zoster.

PRONOUNS︰ ache/ache. ai/aid. aid/aid. aid/aide. amb/ambulance. ambulance/ambulance. bacteria/bacteria. band/age. band/aid. band/bandaid. bandage/bandage. bandaid/bandaid. bile/bile. blood/blood. bu/bubonic. bump/bump. ca/care. care/care. chick/chicken. chronic/chronic. chu/chu. clean/clean. cold/cold. cough/cough. crab/crab. cross/cross. cross/crosse. cure/cure. cyu/cyu. die/dying. doc/doc. doc/doctor. doctor/doctor. dra/draw. drug/drug. fe/fever. fever/fever. flu/flu. fluff/fluffie. fragi/fragile. fragile/fragile. fragile/fragility. frail/frail. frail/frailty. gauze/gauze. germ/germ. gown/gown. gross/gross. he/heal. he/heart. he/help. he/hem. heal/heal. heal/healer. healer/healer. heart/heart. help/help. herb/herb. herb/herbal. hos/hospital. hospital/hospital. ill/ill. in/inject. incision/incision. infect/infection. injure/injury. iv/iv. ivy/ivie. ivy/ivy. lace/lace. li/live. love/love. lung/lung. luv/luv. mas/mask. mask/mask. med/med. med/medic. med/medical. med/medicine. medi/medic. medi/medicine. medic/medic. medical/medical. medicine/medicine. nee/needle. need/needle. needle/needle. nu/nurse. nur/nurse. nur/se. nurse/nurse. out/outbreak. pain/pain. pat/patient. patient/patient. pi/pill. pil/pill. pill/pill. pla/plague. plus/plushe. poke/poke. red/red. sa/save. savior/savior. sca/scan. scissor/scissor. scissor/scissors‎. scrub/scrub. shi/hir. si/sick. sic/sick. sick/sick. sick/sickly. skin/skin. sle/sleep. sneeze/sneeze. so/soft. soap/soap. sore/sore. stab/stab. stem/cell. stitch/stitch. stu/study. su/surgeon. sun/sun. sweet/sweet. symptom/symptom. syn/syndrome. syr/syr. syr/syringe. syri/syri. syrin/syringe. syringe/syringe. tape/tape. te/test. virus/viruse. ward/ward. we/well. wrap/wrap. ☎ . ☣️ . ⚰ . ❤️‍🩹 . 🌀 . 🌡️ . 🎀 . 🏥 . 🏨 . 👨🏻‍⚕️ . 👩🏻‍⚕️ . 💉 . 💊 . 💐 . 💤 . 📞 . 🔬 . 😷 . 🚑 . 🤒 . 🤢 . 🤧 . 🥀 . 🥼 . 🦠 . 🧊 . 🧑‍⚕️ . 🧠 . 🧪 . 🧫 . 🧬 . 🩸 . 🩹 . 🩺 .

[ros64]

Written in My Own Heart's Blood

Chapter 66

“None shall sleep.” It was a piece—a melody, as Brianna had called it—from an opera he knew; she had performed in a university production of it, dressed in Chinese clothing. Ian smiled, imagining his tall cousin, towering over so many men, gliding across a stage with silk garments swishing around her; he would have loved to see her. He had begun thinking of her the moment he opened the small deerskin pouch containing his face pigments. Bree was a painter, and a talented one at that. She ground her own pigments, had made him the red ochre, as well as the black and white from charcoal and dried clay. She had even crafted a deep green from crushed malachite and a bright yellow from the bile of a buffalo she’d killed with her mother. No one else had colors so vivid, and for a moment, he wished Turtle Eater and others from his Mohawk tribe were there to admire them.

The camp noises in the distance reminded him of the cicadas’ song by riverside trees: a buzz too loud to think, yet fading once you adjusted to it. None shall sleep… Women and children might sleep… but certainly not the whores. Not tonight. That thought brought a twitch he quickly dismissed. He thought of Rachel, and dismissed her, too, though reluctantly.

He opened the willow-bark box where he kept the deer fat and smeared it on his face, chest, and shoulders, slowly, focusing. Normally, during this ritual, he would call upon the spirits of the earth and then his saints, Michael and Brigid. But tonight, neither was present; Brianna lingered in his mind instead, though her image was beginning to fade. Most of all, he felt his father’s presence, which unsettled him. It didn’t seem respectful to dismiss his father. He stopped what he was doing and closed his eyes instead, trying to discern whether Papa had something to tell him.

“I hope you haven’t come to speak to me about my death, aye?” he said aloud. “Because I don’t intend to die—not before I’ve lain with Rachel, at least.”

“Well, a noble goal, to be sure.”

The dry voice belonged to Uncle Jamie. Ian’s eyes shot open. His uncle stood amid the branches of a willow drooping into the water, wearing nothing but his shirt.

“Out of uniform, eh, Uncle?” Ian said, though his heart jumped like a startled deer mouse. “General Washington won’t be pleased.”

Washington was meticulous about his men’s uniforms. Officers were to be properly dressed at all times; he said the Continentals would never be taken as a proper army if they appeared on the battlefield like a disordered mob with weapons.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Ian,” Jamie said, stepping out from the willow. The moon was nearly set; he looked like a specter, bare-legged with his shirt billowing. “But who were you talking to?”

“Oh. To Papa. He was… here, in my mind, aye? I mean, I think of him often, but it’s rare to feel him with me. So, I wondered if he’d come to tell me I’m going to die today.”

Jamie nodded; the idea didn’t seem to disturb him.

“I doubt it,” he said. “You’re painting your face with war colors, aye? You’re preparing.”

“Aye, I was about to. Want some, too?”

He said it half-jokingly, but Jamie took it as humor.

“I would, Ian. But I think General Washington would have me strung up by my thumbs and flogged if I showed up to the lines with my face painted like a Mohawk.”

Ian let out a small amused sound and dipped two fingers into the red ochre, smearing it across his chest.

“And what are you doing here in just a shirt?”

“I was washing,” Jamie replied, though his tone suggested there was more to the story. “And… speaking with my dead.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“My uncle Dougal and Murtagh, my godfather. They’re the two I’d most want beside me in battle.” He shifted slightly, uneasy. “If I can, I take a moment to be alone before a battle. To wash, you know… and to pray. And… to ask them to stand with me.”

Ian found this interesting; he hadn’t known either man, both having died at Culloden, though he’d heard many stories about them.

“Two fine warriors,” he said. “Did you ask my father to join you, too? Maybe that’s why he’s here.”

Jamie turned sharply to his nephew, surprised. Then he relaxed, shaking his head.

“I’ve never had to ask Ian Mòr,” he said quietly. “He was… always with me.” He made a brief gesture toward the darkness on his right.

Ian felt his eyes sting and a lump rise in his throat. But it was dark; it didn’t matter. He cleared his throat and handed Jamie one of his pigment dishes.

“Give me a hand, Uncle Jamie?”

“Oh? Aye, of course. How do you want the marks?”

“Red on the forehead… but I can do that myself. Black from the dots to the chin.” He traced a finger along the line of dotted tattoos curving beneath his cheekbones. “Black is for strength, aye? It says you’re a warrior. And yellow means you’re not afraid to die.”

“Oh, aye. Want the yellow today?”

“No.” His tone revealed a faint smile, and Jamie laughed.

Jamie spread some color with a brush made from a rabbit’s paw, then smoothed it evenly with his thumb. Ian closed his eyes, feeling a new strength surge under that touch.

“You usually do this yourself, Ian? Seems hard without a mirror.”

“Mostly. Or we do it in a group, and a brother from the tribe paints you. If it’s something significant—like a large raid or a war—it’s the medicine man who paints us while singing.”

“Tell me you don’t want me to sing, Ian,” Jamie muttered. “I mean, I could try, but…”

“I’ll manage without, thanks.”

Black for the lower face, red for the forehead, and a stripe of malachite green across the tattoo line from ear to ear, over the nose. Ian studied the pigment dishes and quickly spotted the white, which he pointed to.

“Maybe you could draw a small arrow for me, Uncle? On the forehead.” He traced a finger across his brow to show where.

“Aye.”

Jamie bent over the dishes, hand poised. “But didn’t you tell me once that white is for peace?”

“Aye; if you’re going to confer or negotiate, you use plenty of white. But it’s also for mourning: so, you’d probably use it for vengeance, too.”

At those words, Jamie raised his head and looked at him intently.

“The arrow’s not for revenge,” Ian explained. “It’s for Flying Arrow. The dead man whose place I took when I was adopted.”

He tried to keep his tone casual but felt Jamie tense and look down. Neither would ever forget the day of the separation, when Ian had gone to the Kahnyen’kehaka, and they had thought it was forever.

Now Jamie bent and placed a hand on Ian’s arm.

“That day, Uncle Jamie, you told me: ‘Cuimhnich.’ And I have. Remember.”

“I have, too, Ian,” Jamie said softly, drawing the arrow on his forehead like a priest making the sign of the cross on Ash Wednesday. “We all have. It’s right.”

Ian cautiously touched the green stripe to ensure it was dry enough.

“Aye, I think it’s fine. You know Bree made these pigments for me? I was thinking of her, but then I thought maybe I shouldn’t bring her into this.”

He felt Jamie’s breath on his skin as his uncle huffed and leaned against the willow.

“A man always brings his women into battle, Ian Òg. They’re the root of your strength.”

“Oh, aye?” It made sense, and Ian felt relieved. Yet… “I was thinking it might not be right to think of Rachel in a place like this. Considering she’s a Quaker.”

Jamie dipped his middle finger into deer fat, then into the white clay powder, and delicately painted a large, deep “V” near the crest of Ian’s right shoulder. Even in the dark, it stood out vividly.

“A white dove,” Jamie said, nodding. He seemed satisfied. “This will be Rachel, for you.”

He wiped his fingers on a rock, then stood and stretched his muscles. Ian saw him turn eastward. It was still night, but the air had changed in the brief time they’d sat together. Uncle Jamie’s tall figure stood out sharply against the sky, where before it had seemed part of the darkness.

“An hour, no more,” Jamie said. “Eat something first, aye?”

With that, he turned back to the stream, and to his interrupted prayers.

«Nessun dorma.» Era un brano – un’aria, così l’aveva chiamata Brianna – di un’opera che conosceva; vi aveva recitato in una rappresentazione universitaria, vestita in abiti cinesi. Ian sorrise, pensando a sua cugina, che superava in altezza tanti uomini, mentre si muoveva su un palcoscenico, facendo frusciare gli indumenti di seta intorno a lei; avrebbe tanto voluto vederla. Aveva cominciato a pensare a lei nell’istante in cui aveva aperto la piccola sacca di pelle di daino in cui teneva i colori per il viso. Era una pittrice, Bree, ed era molto brava. Macinava da sola i pigmenti, e gli aveva fatto l’ocra rossa, e anche il nero e il bianco con il carbone di legna e l’argilla essiccata; e gli aveva preparato anche un bel verde cupo con della malachite tritata, e un giallo brillante con la bile del bisonte che aveva ucciso con sua madre; nessun altro aveva dei colori così intensi, e per un attimo desiderò che Mangia Tartarughe e qualcun altro della sua tribù Mohawk fossero lì con lui per ammirarli. Il rumore dell’accampamento in lontananza gli ricordò il canto delle cicale tra gli alberi vicino a un fiume; un brusio troppo alto, che non ti lasciava pensare, che però svaniva non appena ti ci abituavi. Nessun dorma... Donne e bambini potevano dormire... ma di sicuro le sgualdrine no. Non quella notte. A quel pensiero avvertì uno spasmo, che però liquidò subito. Pensò a Rachel, e liquidò anche lei, anche se controvoglia. Aprì la cassetta di corteccia di salice, in cui teneva il grasso di daino, e si unse faccia, torace e spalle, lentamente, concentrandosi. Normalmente si sarebbe rivolto agli spiriti della terra, durante quell’operazione, e poi ai suoi santi, Michele e Brigida. Ma non stava vedendo né l’uno né l’altra; Brianna era ancora con lui, anche se la sua immagine cominciava a sbiadire, ma stava avvertendo soprattutto la presenza di suo padre, e questo fatto lo sconcertò. Non gli parve rispettoso liquidare il genitore. Smise di fare quello che stava facendo e chiuse gli occhi, invece: voleva capire se Papà avesse qualcosa da dirgli. «Spero tu non sia venuto per parlarmi della mia morte, aye?» disse ad alta voce. «Perché non intendo farlo, non prima di aver giaciuto con Rachel, almeno.» «Be’, un obiettivo nobile, non c’è che dire.» La voce asciutta apparteneva a Zio Jamie; Ian aprì gli occhi di scatto. Suo zio era in mezzo alle fronde di un salice lungo la riva, che scendevano in acqua, con indosso soltanto la camicia. «Senza uniforme, eh, Zio?» disse il giovane, anche se il cuore gli era balzato nel petto come un topo cervo. «Il Generale Washington non ne sarà felice.» Washington era molto pignolo riguardo al fatto che i suoi uomini avessero sempre l’uniforme in ordine. Gli ufficiali dovevano essere vestiti a dovere in ogni situazione; diceva che i Continentali non sarebbero mai stati considerati un vero esercito, se si fossero presentati sul campo di battaglia come una folla disordinata che aveva imbracciato le armi. «Mi dispiace interromperti, Ian», disse Zio Jamie, uscendo dal salice. La luna era quasi tramontata; sembrava uno spettro, con le gambe nude e la camicia fluttuante. «Ma con chi stavi parlando?» «Oh. Con Papà. Lui era... qui, nella mia mente, aye? Voglio dire, penso spesso a lui, ma non mi capita spesso di sentirlo con me. Così mi sono chiesto se fosse venuto a dirmi che morirò oggi.» Jamie annuì, apparentemente quell’idea non sembrò turbarlo. «Ne dubito», disse. «Ti stai dipingendo il viso con i colori di guerra, aye? Ti stai preparando.» «Aye, stavo per farlo. Ne vuoi anche tu?» Lo disse a metà tra il serio e il faceto, ma Jamie lo prese come uno scherzo. «Li metterei, Ian. Ma credo che il Generale Washington mi farebbe appendere per i pollici e fustigare, se dovessi presentarmi con i miei uomini schierati e il viso dipinto come un Mohawk.» Ian emise un piccolo verso divertito, e intinse due dita nel piatto con l’ocra rossa, che poi si strofinò sul petto. «E tu che cosa ci fai qui in camicia?» «Mi stavo lavando», rispose Jamie, ma il suo tono lasciò intendere che non stava dicendo tutta la verità.

«E... stavo parlando con i miei morti.» «Con qualcuno in particolare?» «Mio zio Dougal, e Murtagh, il mio padrino. Sono le due persone che più di tutte vorrei accanto, in battaglia.» Fece un piccolo movimento, inquieto. «Se posso, cerco di ricavarmi un momento in cui rimanere solo, prima di una battaglia. Per lavarmi, sai... e per pregare. E... per chiedere loro di starmi accanto.» Ian lo trovò interessante; non aveva conosciuto nessuno dei due; erano morti entrambi a Culloden, ma aveva sentito tante storie su entrambi. «Due bravi combattenti», disse. «L’hai chiesto anche a mio padre? Di venire con te, intendo. Forse è per questo che è qui.» Jamie si voltò di scatto verso il nipote, sorpreso. Poi si rilassò, e scosse la testa. «Non ho mai dovuto chiederlo a Ian Mòr», disse, sommessamente. «Lui era... sempre con me.» Fece un breve gesto verso l’oscurità, alla sua destra. Ian sentì bruciare gli occhi, un nodo in gola. Ma era buio; non aveva importanza. Si schiarì la gola e gli porse uno dei suoi piattini. «Mi dai una mano, Zio Jamie?» «Oh? Aye, certo. Come li vuoi i segni?» «Rosso sulla fronte... ma posso pensarci io. Nero dai puntini fino al mento.» Si passò un dito sulla linea di puntini tatuati che descriveva una curva sotto gli zigomi. «Il nero sta per la forza, aye? Dice che sei un guerriero. E il giallo significa che non hai paura di morire.» «Oh, aye. Vuoi il giallo, oggi?» «No.» Lasciò trasparire un sorriso, dal suo tono, e Jamie rise. Jamie gli spalmò un po’ di colore con il pennello ricavato da una zampa di coniglio, e poi lo stese uniformemente con il pollice. Ian chiuse gli occhi, e sotto quel tocco si sentì invaso da una nuova forza. «Di solito lo fai da solo, Ian? Sembra difficile, senza uno specchio.» «Quasi sempre. Oppure lo facciamo in gruppo, ed è un fratello della tribù a dipingerti. Se si tratta di una cosa importante – di una scorreria in massa, ad esempio, o di una guerra contro qualcuno – allora è l’uomo di medicina a dipingerci, mentre canta.» «Dimmi che non vuoi che mi metta a cantare, Ian», mormorò Zio Jamie. «Voglio dire, potrei provarci ma...» «Farò senza, grazie.» Nero per la parte inferiore del viso, rosso sulla fronte, e una striscia di verde malachite lungo la linea dei tatuaggi, da un orecchio all’altro, attraverso il naso. Ian guardò i piattini con i pigmenti; non ebbe problemi a individuare il bianco, che indicò. «Magari potresti disegnarmi una piccola freccia, Zio? Sulla fronte.» Si passò un dito da sinistra a destra, per mostrargli dove farla. «Aye.» La testa di Jamie era china sopra i piattini, la mano sospesa. «Ma una volta non mi hai detto che il bianco è per la pace?» «Aye; se devi andare a conferire o a trattare, usi bianco in abbondanza. Ma serve anche per i lutti: quindi, probabilmente lo useresti anche per vendicare qualcuno.» A quelle parole, Jamie alzò la testa e lo guardò fisso. «La freccia non è per vendetta», spiegò Ian. «È per Freccia Volante. L’uomo morto di cui presi il posto, quando fui adottato.» Si sforzò di usare un tono disinvolto, ma sentì lo zio farsi teso e abbassare lo sguardo. Nessuno dei due avrebbe mai dimenticato il giorno della separazione, quando lui era andato dai Kahnyen’kehaka, e avevano creduto che sarebbe stato per sempre. Adesso si chinò e gli mise una mano sul braccio. «Quel giorno, Zio Jamie, tu mi dicesti: ‘Cuimhnich’. E io l’ho fatto. Ricorda.» «L’ho fatto anch’io, Ian», disse Jamie, piano, disegnandogli la freccia sulla fronte, come un sacerdote che, il Mercoledì delle Ceneri, gli faceva il segno della croce. «L’abbiamo fatto tutti. Va bene così?» Ian toccò con cautela la striscia verde, per essere sicuro che fosse abbastanza asciutta. «Aye, penso di sì. Sai che è stata Brianna a prepararmi i colori? Stavo pensando a lei, ma poi ho pensato che forse non dovrei portarla con me, in questa situazione.» Sentì il respiro dello zio sulla sua pelle, quando questi sbuffò e si appoggiò al salice con la schiena. «Un uomo porta sempre le sue donne in battaglia, Ian Òg. Sono la radice della tua forza.» «Oh, aye?»

Era una cosa sensata, e per lui fu un sollievo. Eppure... «Stavo pensando che forse non sarebbe giusto pensare a Rachel in un posto del genere. Considerato che è quacchera.» Jamie intinse il dito medio nel grasso di cervo, e poi lo immerse delicatamente nella polvere d’argilla bianca, con cui disegnò una grossa e profonda «V» vicino alla cresta della spalla destra di Ian. Anche al buio appariva vivida. «Una colomba bianca», disse, annuendo. Sembrava compiaciuto. «Questa sarà Rachel, per te.» Si pulì le dita su una roccia, poi si alzò e allungò i muscoli. Ian lo vide voltarsi e guardare verso est. Era ancora notte, ma l’aria era cambiata nei pochi minuti in cui erano rimasti seduti. La sagoma alta di Zio Jamie si stagliava netta sullo sfondo del cielo, mentre poco prima era sembrata parte della notte. «Un’ora, non di più», disse Jamie. «Prima mangia qualcosa, aye?» Con ciò, si voltò e tornò al torrente, e alle sue preghiere interrotte.

[chicinsilk]

US Vogue July 1973

Lauren Hutton wears a black wool gabardine suit. By Bill Blass. Silver fox boa, by Blassport, chains, Donald Stannard, bracelets, Michael Danyon. Black tights, Round-theClock. Herbert Levine sandals. Ara Gallant. Editor, Polly Mellen.

Lauren Hutton porte un tailleur en gabardine de laine noire. Par Bill Blass. Boa en renard argenté, par Blassport, chaînes, Donald Stannard, bracelets, Michael Danyon. Colllants noirs, Round-theClock. Sandales Herbert Levine. Ara Gallant. Èditrice, Polly Mellen.

Photo Richard Avedon vogue archive