ZOLA AND THE PHOTOGRAPHER
story codes: BDSM
ZOLA AND THE PHOTOGRAPHER
By Robert White
After I had finished descending several dozen of the cold cement
steps, I thought I heard Zola say, "Hurry up. This story doesn’t go
anywhere until you get to the bottom of the stairs."
With Zola’s voice echoing in my ears, at least one of the pills
began to bring my mind into a distorted focus. I began to analyze
the meaning of the three women. Was Zola the evil step-mother
with two wicked stepdaughters? I couldn’t believe that Zola was
wicked. Or maybe it was the story of the three bears but which one
was baby bear? Some other clues pointed to Alice in Wonderland.
Three pills and three women. Each woman contributed a pill but
what would be the final results of each of the pills? And what was
the importance of the chastity belts? I was beginning to feel like I
was in the middle of a story half Disney and half deSade.
After I had gone down what seemed like dozens and dozens of
cement and stone steps, Zola said, "All right, Mr. Photographer,
we're at the bottom now." And sure enough, I was standing on a
"How far are we underground?"
"I gave you one rule and you’ve forgotten it already. Did you get my
permission to speak?"
"No. May I speak?"
"You already did. We are ten floors underground."
"You should have told that to my grandfather. Right now we are at
the bottom of the largest bomb shelter ever privately built in the
"And your grandfather built this?"
"Oh, he built it based on advice he got from his scientific buddy in
New Mexico where my grandfather was living at the time. My
grandfather was an engineer with a minor in physics. In the fall of
1944 in a bar just outside Alamogordo, my grandfather got to be
friends with one of the physicists working on a secret project for the
government. By February of 1945, he had told my grandfather
enough that granddaddy packed up and moved north and bought
this large piece of land in the middle of nowhere. Then, hiring all
the equipment and buying all the cement he could, he began to dig
a hundred foot deep hole approximately a city block square. In the
meantime, the scientist was able to contact a man named Harry,
tell Harry about the project, and get a government grant from him
so the project could be finished."
"Your grandfather talked to Harry Truman?"
Not my grandfather. The scientist. The friend of my grandfather who
was still in New Mexico. And I don’t know he talked to Truman. All
my grandfather said was his friend contacted a man named Harry.
Of course in July of 1945, the world took note when Truman and his
scientist cronies not only built and exploded the bomb, they also
shifted tons of money out of government programs to construct
dozens of shelters like this one. They started building these huge
private shelters in July of 1945, the day after they found out what
the thing they built could do. This bomb shelter project was so
secret, some of these things are still being found today and there
are no records of how many other smaller ones are out there. It
was at that time that my grandfather got enough money to finish the
project, a mammoth underground shelter the government could use
in case they felt it would be needed."
"Does this one have more than a 500 rooms?"
"Yeah, Mr. Photographer. This bunker has more than 75 rooms per
Zola turned and closed the door behind me and from the solid click
that it made, I knew the door was locked. On each side of me was
a slab of brown, wooden paneling, creating the sides of a small,
oblong room that seemed to have a life of it’s own and at the
moment was squeezing in on us. And right in front of us was
another door with a cardboard sign on it that said OPEN ME. To
me, the three of us, our nude bodies sometimes touching as we
moved, seemed to be crammed together in this small paneled
passage with the door in front of us being the only way out.
The Stallion, who was closest to the door, pushed it open. I
followed her into a dimly lit medium sized room while Zola brought
up the rear. The room seemed to further compress me because,
from floor to ceiling, it couldn't have been more than slightly over six
feet in height. Or at least that's the way it appeared to my brain that
was, by this time, totally fueled by the drugs that Zola had given to
me. But it was the contents of the room that startled me the most.
Every wall in the room was covered with a series of hooks from
which hung whips, crops, straps, rods, canes, belts, and paddles,
each very different in appearance from it’s neighbor. There had to
be more than a hundred of these devices dangling around the
Zola guided me over to a padded bar stool and said, "Here, sit
down. Be comfortable while you enjoy the first part of the show. The
warm-up to the main event so to speak."
Not more than five feet in front of me was a platform that rose
about nine inches from the floor. There was a saw horse sitting
diagonally that took up around a quarter of the platform. A narrow
mat had been positioned near the platform’s edge, the edge that
was to my right.
Over the saw horse, folded in half and firmly secured by her wrists
and ankles, a small pillow protecting her stomach from the sharp
wooden edge of the horse, was a slim woman I'll call "The Tree."
Except for a tight black nylon hood that completely covered her
head and a red ball that had been forced in her mouth and
strapped tightly around the outside of the hood, she was totally
Suddenly, a series of bright lights came on, all of them directed
toward the platform. The details of the woman’s body strapped
tightly over the horse was now clear. Her plight was more shocking
than it seemed at first glance in the dim light. No doubts remained
as to the trial that she was going to be put through in the next few
minutes. It was show time.
The Fireman walked over to the wall and took down a leather strap
with a wooden handle and, holding the thick strap down to her side,
she stepped up onto the platform. Then, not wasting time, The
Fireman, with a well-practiced swing, brought the instrument of
pain up and around and straight down on the protruding buttocks of
The Tree with enough force to produce a loud cracking sound that
filled the room and that caused The Tree to moan and twist and tug
her body helplessly against the restraints binding her tightly to the
The Fireman paused and slowly circled the horse, studying her
victim from various angles, deliberately taking her time, and then
she delivered a second blow, immediately followed by a third, each
expertly executed, each designed to cause a maximum amount of
Then The Fireman paused and paced some more. It was obvious
that The Fireman was going to slowly and deliberately enjoy
herself. When the pain came, it would come slowly, methodically,
stroke after stroke, all precisely aligned to enforce upon the
helpless woman the maximum amount of agony. The Fireman
seemed like she was more than eager to deliver. And she had at
her disposal all the tools that she needed to bring her self-defined
mission to completion.
Zola slipped off the stool she was sitting on and walked around to
the side of the platform so she would have a better view. She
looked up at me and motioned for me to join her, which I reluctantly
The Fireman continued to pace slowly, moving from side to side,
changing her position, altering her angle, sizing up her target
before skillfully delivering another savage blow that, as I watched
from not more than a couple of yards away, quickly turned the
posterior of The Tree to almost the same shade of red as The
I could not help myself from wondering how it would feel at this
moment to be The Tree, tightly bound ten stories underground,
helpless, at the mercy of a sadistic amazon with not only a sturdy
leather strap but also the unholy desire to use it without restraint on
helpless naked human flesh. It was hard for me to believe what I
was seeing and hearing. Within seconds I was becoming erect
As the punishment slowly continued, The Fireman traded the strap
for a flexible rod and, at a leisurely pace, proceeded downward
from The Tree's bruised and battered posterior, delivering a
prolonged series of overlapping strokes across the back of The
Tree's thighs, continuing the methodical assault until the bright red
welts extended downward from her buttocks to the sensitive area
at the back of her knees, then, still not satisfied, The Fireman
continued the canning downward, covering The Tree's pale white
calves with thin red stripes all the way down to just above her
Obviously not satisfied, The Fireman exchanged the rod for a whip
with multiple leather straps, then walked around to the other side of
the horse and quickly followed the painful canning of the back of
The Tree's thighs and legs with a new series of flat harsh strokes,
this time moving downward from The Tree's tender rear to her
lower back, waist, and then to her upper back and across her
As the punishment continued, the struggles by The Tree lessened
but she continued to moan involuntarily into her gag. It was
amazing to me that anyone would be able to tolerate the amount of
pain that The Tree was being subjected to.
Finally, after receiving a total of close to a hundred powerful blows
from The Fireman, the final dozen blows to her shoulders and
upper back, The Tree slowly succumbed to unconsciousness and
hung silently over the sturdy horse.
The Fireman, obviously still wishing to inflict further punishment on
the helpless body hanging limply in front of her, circled the horse,
studying the damaged body of The Tree from every angle. Then
after careful study, she gave The Tree a final deliberate blow to her
rump, delivered with enough force to cause a swaying motion of
the unconscious woman's dangling hooded head.
In total silence, The Fireman stood looking at the savagely beaten
woman for several minutes, the whip still poised to deliver yet
another blow, before she finally turned and walked back to the wall
and hung up the instrument she had so effectively used just
The Stallion, who had been standing in the back corner of the
room, walked forward, stepped upon the platform, and moved over
to The Tree and quickly unstrapped the fastenings around her
ankles and wrists, then lifted her draped form easily from the horse
and laid her on her back on the mat. The pain from her bruised and
battered back, buttocks, and legs contacting the mat caused The
Tree body to react with an involuntary jerk that was painful to watch
and then she began to stir slightly. The Stallion removed her gag
and then pulled the hood from her head.
I walked over to where The Tree lay on the mat. She appeared to
be somewhere between 35 and 40 years old, approximately six
feet tall, and abnormally thin. I learned later that she was a stern
school teacher, ruthless in her own discipline toward her private-
school students, while being addicted to excessive amounts of
pain and humiliation that Zola and her friends were more than
happy to provide.
The Fireman, obviously on a high from the suffering she had just
inflicted on The Tree, walked over and spoke to me, her voice
more husky than it had been before.
"Learn anything yet."
I shook my head no.
"Open your mouth."
I looked at her. She definitely meant business so I obeyed.
I opened my mouth as wide as I could.
The Fireman leaned close to me and propelled a large glob of spit
directly into my mouth. The act shocked me but at the same time I
felt myself becoming even more aroused than I had while watching
"Now have you learned anything?" she asked, gently wrapping the
fingers of her right hand around my swollen cock and giving it a
I shook my head yes.
"What's the matter? Don't you enjoy my spit?"
"Yes." And in saying yes I wasn't entirely lying.
"I don't believe you." Then, without any warning, she spit a second
time directly onto my face.
"That's to make sure you remember your lesson."
To Be Continued
Read Chapter One
Read Chapter Two
Read Chapter Three
© 2007 Robert White
Robert lives by himself in the USA and likes to watch