story codes: BDSM


ZOLA AND THE PHOTOGRAPHER
By Robert White

CHAPTER SEVEN


A couple of years ago, Christina had been one of my models. As near as
I can remember, she walked in one day looking for a job and then came
back and posed for me several times over the next year before she
disappeared. At my small studio, that was the typical story of a model as
girls came, posed, and left, never to be heard from again.

Christina, since I had seen her last, had apparently morphed herself into
The Night Queen. She turned to Zola and said, "Do me a favor. Unstrap
that thing between his legs and let his cock loose. Then strap him into that
chair."

And that is exactly what Zola did. I was surprised at how hot my cock was
and how much better it felt dangling with the cool air caressing it.

Then, without the strap holding it, the straight jacket slowly slid up my
sweat-covered body. Meanwhile, The Fireman and The Stallion sat my
bare ass down on a rough wooden chair with a high back then, using a
strap at least six inches wide dangling from the sides of the back of the
chair, strapped me securely to the simple device.

After giving Zola the orders leading to my upcoming fate, The Night
Queen turned back to the girl and proceeded to remove a half dozen of
the pins and then replace them in a slightly different place on the girl's
body, causing the naked girl pain both when the pin was released and
then again when it was relocated in a slightly different position.

When The Night Queen appeared to be satisfied with adjustments she
had made to the pins on the girl, who appeared to be mostly numb from
the relentless tension of the hundred pins pinching her body for what could
have been minutes, hours, or even a full day, The Queen turned and
slipped her mask off her face and up over her head. Then she handed it
to Zola. I was surprised. From the wide-eyed look on the three women's
faces, the only logical assumption that I could come up with is that none of
my captors, Zola, The Fireman, nor The Stallion, had ever seen The Night
Queen without her mask before.

The camera had always been kind to Christina and tonight, as usual, she
looked stunning in makeup she had personally selected and skillfully
applied to her face, just as she had each time she came in my studio. The
makeup formed another mask over her face, a second mask beneath the
first, one that she always carefully removed between the time I finished
photographing her and when she walked back down the stairs to the
street.

Now that she had removed her mask, she stared at me, completely
ignoring the girl who was beginning to squirm from the new pain caused
by the unclamping, moving, and reclampling the pins, while the wrist and
ankle cuffs continued to hold her securely to the wall.

"How did you get such a gigantic cock?"

"I can make it any size I like. That's one of the advantages of writing this
story."

"I see. But really, there's no reason you had to make it that big."

Ignoring me for a moment, Christina pulled up a chair and sat down,
pushing my legs apart so she could squeeze the chair in between them.
Then she dipped the fingers of both of her hands up to her second
knuckle into a large jar of some kind of petroleum jelly and proceeded to
massage the length of my cock, going back and getting a second glob
she used to cover the end of my penis.

At the moment, due to the numbness caused by my cock being firmly
strapped for I don't know how long up between my asscrack, I was in the
first of the six stages of masturbation, the detached stage where, no
matter how much skilled stimulation was brought to bear, my cock still felt
as if it belonged to someone else.

"Do you know what the point of no return is?"

"Yeah."

"When you feel like you're even getting close to that point, I want you to let
me know. In no case do I want you to go all the way. Get it?"

"Got it." I didn't mention that from the way my cock felt at the moment, I
was 90% sure that I'd never get to the mystical point where all body
control ceases to function while the cock took over, doing the single most
pleasurable thing that a man, any man, could possibly experience.

She seemed to immediately adjust into a pattern where she exchanged
hands from the base of my penis pulling them gently wrapped around my
rod until they slid down to the electric zone buried inside the tip of my
dick, the only place at the moment where I seemed to have any feeling at
all.

Then, suddenly, I felt myself slipping into the conflict stage. I began to feel
gentle waives originating and moving from my body down to the tip of my
penis, where my sense of feeling was slowly increasing. As far as I am
concerned, this feeling of what was to come is the greatest moment in the
sex act. And the way she was handling things while a gentle smile played
across her lips, I could tell that she could also feel the light but irregular
involuntary twitches coursing the length of my penis. I was allowing my
body to relax, as much as the strap holding me to the chair and the tight
wrapping of the straightjacket permitted, allowing the wave-like motions
crawling down my penis to follow the movement of her hands. She never
hurried or increased pressure. She seemed to be enjoying it as much as I
was.

And then, without any warning, I reached stage three, the connection.
From the way she paused for a few moments, I could tell that she felt it
too. She released my cock which by this time had the beginning of an
erection forming inside it and got even more of the lubricant from the
large jar. When she began again, the downward strokes were lighter than
the ones she had been previously applying. With the lighter strokes, she
worked the shaft, ending with a gentle squeezing of the tip of my penis
while at the same time slowly rotating her fingers underneath and her
thumb on top of the head.

I didn't want to get any closer to the climax. I was enjoying the warm
feeling of the connection too much. But she wasn't about to quit. More goo
and the continued stroking action caused my cock to involuntarily
progress from stage three to stage four. I was now at the intensity stage,
where the erection took over and each stroke seemed to increase the
voltage that was storing itself in the most sensitive part of my body, the
raw end of my penis.

Christina, who for the last fifteen minutes, was concentrating on my penis,
staring at it, giving it her full attention, suddenly paused her stroking
motions and looked up at me.

"Are you getting to the place we were talking about?"

"Yes."

"Don't forget. No climax."

Then she began the stroking again. In the few seconds that her hand
movements had stopped, the intense feeling had also dropped, losing
some of it's edge. But by the time she had made three or four new
strokes, it had returned and this time didn't stop but moved on into the fifth
stage, the summit. And, as any man will tell you, there is a very thin line
that divides the summit from the sixth and final stage, the point of no
return, the climax.

"It's getting close."

"Thanks for letting me know. However, the way I just felt the throbbing
increase in intensity, I suspected that it was getting time to shut it down."

And without giving me a moments warning, Christina slipped her thumb
under the soft place just behind the head of the penis and then wrapped
her index and middle finger over the top of the same area and squeezed
the end of my penis until it felt like it was trapped in a velvet vice, a move
that for one moment made me think that I was gong to ejaculate and the
next moment know that while my body craved the final release, in reality I
was sliding slowly back from any possibility of an immediate climax.

"Good boy. I think you could have taken two or three more strokes, but
there's really no use in over tempting you. Once you pass that inevitable
point, well, there's no putting the genie back into the bottle, as they say."

A couple of minutes passed by while Christina squeezed all the feeling
out of the end of my penis and I continued to slide backward from the
summit, through intensity, and into the connection zone. Zola, The
Fireman, and The Stallion continued to stand in the corner of the room,
pretty much directly opposite the pin girl. Probably because of my seated
position, I don't really know for sure, but for some crazy reason I suddenly
became aware that The Sisterhood of Humiliation and Torture were still
wearing their chastity belts.

And then, after making a decision that I had returned to the point of
connection, Christina began to repeat the process, only this time she
applied her finger vice before I had a chance to say anything about my
rapidly approaching orgasm. Showing off her masturbating skill, no doubt.
And then, in a cycle that she started and stopped to some inner beat all
her own, she repeated and repeated moving me from connection to
intensity to summit, then blocked the possibility of climax until I slid back
to intensity and finally connection. I kept count up to the twelfth time she
brought me close to the brink before applying the pressure that inevitably
forced me to retreat.

Several times she brought me to the very tip of the summit but always
managed at the last moment to deaden the feeling before I could reach
the point of no return. Sometimes she'd only grip me for a couple of
minutes which made it very easy for her to bring me to the edge when she
started again. Other times she held on until my cock returned to a state of
numbness. It was a game of try this and then try that. But, under no
circumstances, was she in the mood to allow me to ejaculate.

I will never forget how frustrating and draining the whole processes
became as the repetitions built upon themselves until I could feel myself
slowly losing my grip of reality. Day, month, year, none of it made any
difference. Release, release, that's all that mattered, release of the sperm
that was crazy to exit my body.

I finally got to the point that each time Christina began to pump me up
again, I'd beg her to let me cum. But she'd only laugh and continue the
infernal massaging, taking me within a stroke of cumming before applying
the breaks, preparing me for yet another torturous cycle.

Somewhere after the first several forced masturbatory loops, long before I
began to lose touch with the sexual reality or any reality at all for that
matter, Zola began to tell me a story about how The Sisterhood originally
assembled. It seemed that her parents made their living traveling with a
circus that made week-long stops in the small southern towns where
entertainment was scarce. The three girls had met and bonded during the
enormous amount of downtime they had between doing their acts. The
Fireman was a master of the flaming batons. The Stallion was a horse
trainer and would enter the tent standing balanced between two black
horses that would circle the arena. Zola worked in the sideshow, a smaller
tent hidden behind the main arena, where she worked in a Grand-Guignol
owned by her parents.

The Grand-Guignol, as Zola explained it, was based on the French
theater Le Theatre du Grand Guignol, the smallest theater in France that
presented plays of the macabre. Her mother, who happened to be
French, translated the plays from the original Grand-Guignol plays,
concentrating on the goriest material that she could find.

In the vast repertoire of plays her parents presented on their small stage,
Zola was always the victim. She could remember being shot, scalped,
strangled, disemboweled, raped, hanged, quartered, burned, imprisoned,
poisoned, and whipped. The methods used to achieve these effects were
very realistic and their small section of the sideshow tent was always sold
out as there was never a shortage of people who sought out the goriest
entertainment they could find.

The Fireman and The Stallion spent all their spare time in the back of the
small area and it was from watching the ever-changing shows that they
developed The Sisterhood of Torture that would later be expanded to The
Sisterhood of Humiliation and Torture.

Christina must have brought me to the brink of the point of no return more
than 50 times before she decided to quit. She slid the chair back, stood
up, and turned to Zola.

"Go ahead and get Tony on his feet. And refasten the strap between his
legs."

After giving Zola her instructions, she turned to the girl still fastened to the
wall by her ankles and wrists like a butterfly specimen pinned to a board.
"Hey Pin Girl. Are you ready to get those pins off?"

"Yes Night Queen."

"I'll get them off you in a jiffy." Turning to The Stallion, she asked, "See if
you can find Zodiac. I've seen him running around tonight on this floor."

In two minutes, Zodiac came into the room. He had brown fur that
appeared to be naturally marked with many strange symbols, some of
them clearly signs of the Zodiac. He quickly circled the room, glanced at
the girl fastened to the wall, then jumped up to her. When he placed his
paws on the wall, he stood as tall as she was and he proceeded to lick
her on the face until The Night Queen grabbed him by a thick black collar
and pulled him away from the girl.

The dog had knocked off a dozen or more of the pins and they hung loose
from the girl's body. The Night Queen took the loop of rope hanging from
between the girl's legs to the floor and fastened the rope to where the
leash would normally be secured. Then she picked up a ball off the floor.

"Here, Zodiac. Look. Here's you're ball. You want you're ball, don't you?"

The dog perked up his ears and eagerly looked at the ball that The Night
Queen was waving in front of his face. Then she threw the ball through the
door and I watched the ball disappear down the hall, the dog in rapid
pursuit.

The girl let out a loud scream as the pins were ripped from her body. The
rapid removal of the pins left dozens of red square welts from the girls
thighs up over her crotch, stomach, ribs, chest, upper arms, and even
around her neck.

Within moments she let out a second scream that was louder than the first.

To Be Continued

© 2007 Robert White

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six


Robert  lives by himself in the USA and likes to watch bondage
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Zola And The Photographer