Zola And The
Photographer
Story code:  BDSM


ZOLA AND THE PHOTOGRAPHER
By Robert White

CHAPTER NINE


Between my legs. I was eight years old. So very young. But I
remember. How could I ever forget….

I remember pulling my skirt up around my waist. I remember
taking my panties off. And I remember sprawling on the grass,
the cool grass beneath my back, spreading my legs apart….

I remember Tony. Sweet Tony. Flat on his stomach. Like he was
playing soldiers. Crawling along the grass on his stomach.
Crawling between my legs. His mouth on my hairless coozie, as
we both called it….

I remember the touch of Tony's tongue. Gentle. Very gentle. Very
tender….

I remember his tongue working it's way up and down the crack
between my legs. Instinctively searching for the tiny button Tony
knew was located someplace in the crack between my legs….

Neither Tony nor I knew what a clit was. But with a little practice,
Tony soon knew where to find it. His two slightly younger sisters
loved to pull their cracks open and give him a quick peek. But no
matter how much he would beg, neither of the two girls would let
him touch….

Quickly he learned to locate my tiny soft button. Then he'd wet the
soft patch between my legs with his tongue. And massage it until
I'd have a tiny orgasm. Oh, how I would look forward to that
feeling that only Tony could give me….

I'm so tired. So sleepy. Tomorrow's Christmas so I'll sleep in for
sure. The theater will be closed for the last week of this year….

Where has this year gone? Where do any of them go? What
happened to all the years I spent looking for Tony. It seems like it
took forever before I finally found him. I would never guess that
when I did find him he would turn out to be a photographer….

Then I had to locate the agency Tony used to hire his models.
Agency. Yeah. Well, the so-called agency was one small shithole
office that consisted of one old fat cigar-chewing man surrounded
by hundreds of notebooks crammed with photos. Ted? Max?
Joe? What was that fat old fart's name. I should remember. I had
to fuck him to get him to send me to the old rundown building that
Tony owned. I still remember looking up at it for the first time
those many years ago and studying the sign on the front of the
building. The Shutterbug….

Our mom and dad were genuinely loving people. The first time I
mentioned the word sideshow to Tony, he knew that the past had
caught up with him like it generally does with all of us. I could see
the socked look in his face. Then he squinted like he was going
to take another photograph of me, as if that would help him
remember those warm summer days on the grass. The
afternoons he spent between my legs. Days my eight-year-old
mind thought would go on forever. Between my legs. Sweet Tony
who I was afraid had been lost forever. Looking at him in his
studio, I thought he'd never get away from me again. Tony. Back
again. Where he belonged. Between my legs….

Mom, Doris, and dad, Mike. If two people were ever made for
each other, it was Mike and Doris. Both of them had been
married and divorced, Mike three times, before they met. Mike
had gone to the circus and ended up sitting next to Doris. Two
months later they were married. And fifteen months later they had
a baby boy who Mike named Tony. The birth had been hard on
Doris and, though they both wanted a large family, the prospects
of having one appeared out of question. According to the doctor,
Doris would probably die if she tried to have another child….

Oh, I wish I could go to sleep. I wish I didn't itch between my legs.
It's the feeling I always get when I think about Tony and the days
he spent between my legs. My sweet gentle Tony who thought he
could disappear forever. Who thought he could leave all of us
behind and never be found. And who almost succeeded….

Before Tony was a year old, our parents had joined a circus.
Mike didn't know anything about circuses but he was muscular
and could bullshit with the best and Doris had once journeyed to
France where her mother lived and worked during the late 50's.
Her mother worked in a little theater where she sewed costumes.
The theater was the smallest theater in France and called Le
Theatre du Grand Guignol….

There goes another train. I still live on the first floor of Tony's
studio, just two blocks from the tracks where every night, even
Christmas eve, a train passes by. An hour from now, a train will
pass going in the opposite direction. But I won't hear it. With any
luck, I'll be asleep by then….

My dear mother, who spoke in a soft English/French mixture,
would tell me the story at night. A bedtime story that turned into a
fairy tale belonging only to the two of us A story that began slightly
more than a year after Tony was born. The circus had set up in a
lot just blocks from the Mexico border….

According to mother's story, it was while the circus was stopped
there that two miracles happened. The first was a basket found
behind one of the tents. Inside the basket was a beautiful
redheaded girl my mother was sure was a rare full-blooded
Spaniard. In a poorly written note, that my mother kept to her
death, were the words, "My name is Anne. Please give me a
home in America…."

Then two days later a lady asked one of the female acrobats to
watch her young daughter a few minutes while she ran an errand.
The lady disappeared and, before the circus had left town, Mike
and Doris had taken in the two girls. The second girl was still too
young to talk so Doris named the beautiful girl with raven black
hair who appeared to be about two years old, Vivian, after the
beautiful Vivian Leigh, Doris' favorite actress from Doris' favorite
movie, Gone with the Wind. At least that's the way her story
went….

Six years later Mike and Doris could see the children growing up
and wanted one more baby. So this time they adopted the final
girl and called her Kate. So with my becoming the final member
of the fairytale family, Doris would always end the story….

Then one day, Tony was gone. He disappeared just before his
eighteenth birthday. Every time the circus stopped in a different
town, I expected Tony to turn up. I slowly grew up. One at a time, I
learned how to perform all the Guignol plays that my mother had
taken with her the last time she left France. Then, taught by my
mother, I learned the French that the plays had originally been
written in before they had been translated to all the other
languages in the world.

Vivian moved away first and then Anne. Several years later my
father died in an accident. Having lost the rest of her family, Doris
became fearful of losing me. The circus had a funeral for Mike,
then left town, leaving my mother and me behind as, by this time,
my mother was too sick to move. And then she too died….

I went through her papers. Boxes and boxes of plays, documents,
paid and unpaid bills. Sheet by sheet I studied everything my
mother left. And there, in the bottom of the last box, I found two
sheets of paper. The first one was wrinkled and written in poor
handwriting. "My name is Anne. Please give me a home in
America…."

The final page was a list of our names. Mike, Doris, Tony, Vivian,
Anne, and Kate. Beside each name was a number that identified
us. I recognized my number but had never seen the others. My
mother had kept a list of our Social Security numbers. And in that
moment my wish had come true. Tony. My sweet Tony. I had the
key. Now nothing could stop me from finding him….

Stacks of other boxes held her possessions, among them the
props that we used in the plays and a box containing several
metal belts that I am sure were gold plated. I sorted the items,
eliminating those that had no importance, and placing the rest in
storage. All except for one paper that I had framed. The paper
with the number that I had translated into the address of the
Shutter Bug where I again met Tony. Over 25 years older. But still
my Tony….

I remember the rush that came to me that day as I stood there in
front of Tony. There I was. Zola. And there was Tony. The
photographer. And the gold belt. A prop from one of our plays.
The gold belt. Between my legs….

I contacted Vivian and Anne and they both showed up for our
wedding. And three months later, they both showed up again for
Tony's funeral. They stayed for several days to comfort me as I
couldn't quit crying. I found my beloved Tony and now he was
gone again, but this time forever….

His heart had suddenly stopped and, in an instant, Tony had
disappeared, just as the circus we traveled with would disappear
in the darkness of the night. So I began to write about a model,
the photographer she met, and the Grand Guignol story that
followed….

I stayed downstairs, under the studio where Tony had spent his
life after he left us. Slowly I sold his equipment until his studio was
cleaned out. Then, as the lease ran out, I kept the downstairs
where I had slept next to Tony in what was to be our final days
while another couple moved in above me….

I became friends with them and over the next few years, the three
of us rented a small building further down the block and opened
an American version of Le Theatre du Grand Guignol….

I hope you found some interest in my story and, if you every find
my theater, I hope that you will stop in some night and take a look
at my plays….

I probably won't be in the theater. I'm an old woman now and
seldom leave the apartment. But I still have my memories of the
sweet summer days that will never end, and Tony, my sweet
Tony, for all eternity, making love to me between my legs….



© 2007 Robert White

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


Chapter One        Chapter Two        Chapter Three        
Chapter Four        Chapter Five        Chapter Six          
Chapter Seven        Chapter Eight