Zola And The Photographer
story codes: BDSM


ZOLA AND THE PHOTOGRAPHER
By Robert White


CHAPTER SIX


I am no longer a photographer. And since I finished writing the last
chapter, I'm not sure whether Zola put the straight jacket on me before The
Fireman punished The Rock, as I related it in the last episode, or if the
Rock got her castigation from The Fireman first and then Zola put the
canvas straightjacket on me. The painful erection caused by the
confinement of my penis did happen, only it might have happened on
another occasion after The Rock's punishment. Also, as I am writing this, I
remember the electric heaters that were placed on either side of The
Rock, causing sweat to drip from her body onto the floor.

But then this all this happened over 10 years ago and, as I realized later, I
was still more under the influence of the nefarious drugs than I thought I
had been at the time.

I now remember Zola turning off the two heaters and moving them out of
the way. Since The Rock had relieved herself of the water she had been
forced to hold in her body, she was sweating even more than when the
heat was directed at her.

"In case you're wondering, Mr. Photographer, we've done this before to
The Rock and she told us that being bloated with water caused some pain
but really more extreme discomfort. Whatever painful act we decide to
perform on her body and especially her pussy, an act that varies with our
whims from one evening to the next, tends to decrease the discomfort and
increase the pain The Rock is feeling. When the stopper holding the water
back is removed and the water is involuntary forced out by her body, the
pain increases ten-fold, and that is when she always slips into
unconsciousness."

"And The Rock volunteers to let you do this to her?"

"Absolutely. Well, since we don't have anything to do while we wait, you
wouldn't mind being humiliated, would you Mr. Photographer?"

I knew it would do me no use to say "yes" so I shook my head no.

"Walk over and stand by the right side of The Rock. Get a little closer to
her. Good. Now I want you to burrow your face into her armpit and start
licking."

I had no choice. The Fireman grabbed a handful of my hair and forced my
face into the thick damp mucky mat of sweaty underarm hair, which was
conveniently available since The Rock's arms were still strapped spread
out over her head to the X. Then The Fireman pushed against my head
until, due to the fact I was at the moment securely bound in the straight
jacket and not able to get a deep breath of air, I was suffocating in the
mass of wet hair that grew out of the surface of The Rock's large armpit. I
opened my mouth and began using my tongue as a mop, dragging it
through The Rock's dank, tangled, underarm hair.

"Keep licking until we tell you to stop, Mr. Photographer. Otherwise, The
Fireman will have to continue instructing you until you get it right."

This was a new experience for me and, as Zola had said, was definitely
humiliating. I also considered being forced to put on this performance as
something disgusting and detestable, but then, at that moment in time, I
did not understand that humiliation came in degrees and this one rated no
more than a one on a scale of 10.

I heard The Fireman and Zola pull up a couple of chairs close to me and I
have to assume that they watched, an audience of two, while I lapped up
the sweat that continued to trickle down The Rock's arm, while more was
being produced by the glans in her spongy armpit.

After what seemed like forever but wasn't probably more than five minutes,
they had me move around The Rock and do the same thing with her left
armpit. Before I could get a good start, The Stallion entered the room with
The Tree. While The Stallion still wore only the chastity belt, The Tree had
been wrapped in a short robe. From the looks of the lash marks on her
lower legs that weren't covered by the robe, I could imagine what the whole
back of her body looked like.

When The Fireman stood up, The Tree walked over and sat on her chair,
gently easing her weight down to minimize the pain that she would be
feeling for weeks to come.

The Fireman uncapped a bottle of water and poured it over The Rock's
head. She began to groan as the water ran down her body. It took another
two bottles of water before The Rock became aware enough to raise her
head and look groggily around the room, drool running down over her chin
and breasts from the ballgag that was still filling her mouth.

The Stallion reached behind The Rock's head and unstrapped the gag
and removed it from her mouth then slipped the red bandana handkerchief
that had cut off The Rock's vision over her head. Meanwhile, The Fireman
picked up the bucket that was nearly filled with urine and water and was
still positioned between The Rock's legs and set it under the table holding
the remaining bottles of water.

Then the two women tipped the top of the X away from the wall until it was
balanced upright. Using considerable effort, they then pivoted the frame
until they had room to lower it flat to the floor. After the effort of moving the
frame, even these two women, who I would call amazons at the least,
needed a few minutes rest before they recovered from the energy it took
to move the rack while The Rock still strapped to it.

So Zola, kneeling on a mat she had pulled close to the X frame, unbuckled
the bands, one strap at a time, that had held The Rock to the frame. The
Rock, not fully conscious and wobbly from the three hour ordeal she had
just been through, still managed to push herself up and roll off the frame
onto the cement floor where she laid on her stomach on the cool cement,
continuing to sweat and, once in a while, producing a noisy groan.

The Fireman and The Stallion both crossed over to her and gently helped
her to roll over on her back, leaving a large wet spot on the cement floor
the size of her body. She looked up at The Fireman and said, "My fucking
cunt is never going to be the same thanks to you."

After getting a better look at The Rock, I realized she was about ten years
older than The Tree, probably close to fifty. Obviously trying to comfort the
pain, The Rock wasted no time reaching down with both hands and
massaging the extremely tender pink flesh between her legs.

"Okay, Mr. Photographer, as part of your humiliation, it's your turn to ease
the pain that's throbbing through the raw cunt of The Rock. Get down on
your knees on the rubber mat and give us a demonstration as to how good
you are at eating pussy while strapped in a straightjacket."

The Stallion wrapped her arms around my chest and held me securely
while I bent my legs until my knees had touched the mat in front of The
Rock. In the meantime, The Rock, who I was quickly beginning to realize
was anything but a novice at the sick art of demeaning and degrading
people at the slightest suggestion, had pulled her knees back and then
spread her feet, legs, and thighs apart, providing maximum exposure to all
her body parts from her bellybutton to her asshole and beyond. At the
moment she was using her fingers to spread her urine soaked pubic hair
allowing her swollen clitoris to project upward from between her bloated
fleshy vulva. I was surprised to see that her clitoris was an abnormal-sized
appendage that appeared to me to be at least as large as my thumb.

The Stallion lowered me flat on the mat, my neck positioned precisely
between The Rock's legs while I was pressed face first into the flabby wet
flesh just below The Rock's stomach. The Rock didn't waste any time
tangling her stubby fingers in my hair and rubbing my face back and forth
across her sweaty bloated flesh.

All The Stallion had to do was pull me backward by the ankles about six
inches and The Rock was able to smash my face tightly into her crotch
while at the same time she squeezed my head between her legs, causing
my mouth to be positioned directly against that giant clit projecting from the
thick triangle of urine soaked hair.

It was immediately clear that I was to suck on her colossal clitoris so I
gently let it slide into my mouth and then, trying my best to pretend that it
was mine and asking myself what I could do to stimulate the mouthful of
sensitive flesh that I now found pressing my tongue down and half filling my
mouth, I began to try to swallow it while tonguing its underside.

The Rock immediately began to complain that I was too rough and wasn't
pleasuring her. I couldn't hear her exact words because her enormous
thighs were blocking my ears to the point that my sense of hearing had all
but disappeared.

Then I felt someone put their foot just above my right knee, pressing my
knee firmly into the mat. Next they gripped me by my right ankle and lifted
my foot in the air.

In the next five seconds I felt the worst pain I had ever felt in my life. If my
brain had been working, I would had immediately known that The Fireman
had, using a skill that I didn't even know existed, deliberately dislocated my
right toe. With her abnormal strength, she had pulled my toe out of it's joint
and bent it into an aberrant position for several seconds before slowly
restraightening it and easing it back into place. The toe throbbed like a
son of a bitch but, her savage action had given me a new motivation.
Without another thought at what I was doing, I slathered and sucked The
Rock's pussy, ignoring the frequent streams of piss that was still leaking
from The Rock's piss hole, with an inspiration that I didn't know I
possessed.

While totally lost between the continuous pain that flowed down my leg and
the struggle to breathe as The Rock would, at her discretion, press my
face ever more tightly between her legs as I gave her orgasm after
orgasm, I felt someone taping my dislocated toe to the toe next to it.

I quickly lost count of the number of orgasms I had given The Rock but
eventually, even with my head still locked between her legs, I heard her
screaming "Stop. Stop. I can't take any more."

The Fireman came up behind me and, like I was nothing more nor less
than a rag doll, she lifted me up from the mat and sat me in a chair. I had a
taste in my mouth that went far beyond disgusting but, since I wasn't
offered any water, I just sat in the chair and ignored the revolting sensation.

Zola looked at me. "Do you have any questions, Mr. Photographer?"

"I didn't know that a toe could be dislocated."

The Fireman turned and said, "Any joint in the body can be dislocated. I
learned that at the prison after being attacked once. The next time a guy
tried that, I twisted his thumb out of joint and he went down on his knees.
Of course, a stun gun is more effective but even I'm not cruel enough to
use one on you."

"But you have used them?"

"Oh, yes. I've used them quite often and, I'll assure you, they are a very
effective form of defense or torture. Depending upon the situation, of
course."

"Well, Mr. Photographer, now that you've had a minute to rest, I have
someone to introduce you to. But I have to be honest, you already know
her. She has a room right down the hall that she works in when she's here
and can find a volunteer."

"Tell me who she is, please."

"Come on. The Fireman and Stallion will help you down the hall. Then you
can see for yourself."

Zola was right. While The Rock still reclined on the mat and The Tree sat
without moving in the chair, The Fireman and Stallion got me on my feet.
Zola opened the door, and, trying to ignore the pain in my right toe and
leg, I alternated between walking and hobbling out into the cool hallway, a
real treat after being encapsulated for a couple of hours in that hot room.

After making two turns and passing four open doors, the three women
stopped.

I looked into the room. The woman standing in the middle of the room
turned, looked at me, and we locked eyes for a second. I had
photographed more than one woman in a costume of a dominatrix but
nothing I had ever imagined came close to the black and red leather boots
that ran to her thighs or the tight black leather corset that left her breasts
and crotch exposed. The top half of her face, except for her piercing eyes,
was covered with an exotically shaped jeweled mask.

After glancing at me she turned back to an almost totally naked girl, well,
naked except for her wrist and ankle cuffs that held her clamped to eyelets
mounted in the wall. I learned later that Zola called them "pin" girls. When a
pin girl was punished, the punisher used a lightweight rope with 20 clothes
pins, each pin painted black, threaded on it (enough pins for the breasts
only), 40 black pins (for the breasts and stomach), 60 (allowing enough
pins to also cover the pubic area), 80 (to complete the thighs to the
knees), and finally the long 100 pin rope. I watched as the person who
dominated the room finished applying the 98th, 99th, and then the final
clothes pin to the victim's left thigh. The "volunteer" wenched as each pin
bit into her flesh.

Then, after checking several of the pins to make sure they hadn't come
loose, she turned and spoke to me.

"Hello, Tony. You look good in that straightjacket. How's my favorite
photographer?"

Her face may have been hidden behind the mask but I immediately knew
her voice.

"Good, Christina. Except my toe is swollen at the moment."

"So Fireman, you're up to your tricks again."

Zola tugged at the canvas sleeve. I leaned down and she whispered in my
ear, "Here you never call her Christina. I know that's her name but here
you must refer to her as The Night Queen."


To Be Continued

© 2007 Robert White

Read Chapter One
Read Chapter Two
Read Chapter Three
Read Chapter Four
Read Chapter Five


Robert  lives by himself in the USA and likes to watch bondage
videos