This story is from the point of view of a woman who walks into what appears to be an art gallery…
Twelve Pictures
I only went into the art gallery because it was raining. I would have walked right past it otherwise. In fact I had been down the street many times before and I had never noticed the Veridicality Gallery before. Its open door was sandwiched between two large stores. Beyond the door there was a narrow stairway leading up to the first floor.
I trudged up the stairs. I would look around until it stopped raining, and then continue home. There was no point in getting soaked to the skin.
The stairs led up to a long, thin gallery. The floor was black marble tiles, and the walls were white. The place was lit by bright, overhead neon lights. I was the only person in the place. There wasn’t even any security.
I could see that there was what looked like a dozen pictures arranged along one wall. I went to stand in front of the first picture. It was a life-sized black and white photograph. The picture had been taken from behind the woman as she entered the Veridicality Gallery. The woman had short, dark hair. Her hair was dark, so I presumed that it was brown, like mine. I couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, though. She was wearing a raincoat which was similar to mine. I could just see the end of one high-heeled boot beneath the raincoat as she strode along.
It was raining in the picture. The photographer must have been very talented, as I could see some of the individual drops of rain as they fell out of the sky. I wondered who the woman was. Probably some friend of the photographer.
The second picture was showing some woman in a raincoat, but the picture had been cropped so as not to show the woman’s head or face. The woman was pulling her raincoat open to show the fact that she was wearing fetish clothing underneath it. The woman was in front of some plain, white wall. It had to be one of the walls of this gallery.
I could see that she was wearing thigh-high shiny patent leather boots, ones with quite severe heels.
She was wearing a very restricting corset. It pulled her waist in very tightly. I didn’t see how she could breathe while wearing it.
She had on a pair of very tight black latex knickers. I could see how they delineated her pubis. Somebody might have said that she had a camel toe. But I’ve never liked that term. It had to have been a man who invented it.
She wore a latex bra covering her breasts. And, finally, there was some sort of leather choker around her throat. The choker had a ring at the front.
The camera had been so good that I could see every little detail of the woman. She had a body just like mine. For some reason that made me feel a little uneasy. But I was also beginning to get a little turned on. I had always had fantasies about latex and leather, although I had never done anything about it. In fact, if I was being honest, my fantasies were a lot darker than just leather and latex. But I tried not to think about them. Not while I was in a public building.
I walked over to the third picture.
The third photograph showed the woman still holding her raincoat open, like in the second one, and still with her face not being shown. She was wearing the same fetish clothing, apart from her latex brassiere. That had been removed. I could see her breasts. They looked just like mine. But I had never put clover clamps on my nipples, crushing them almost flat. Nor had I hung weights from the end of those selfsame clamps, stretching my nipples down.
The woman’s nipples must have been agony. Was that why her face had not been shown? Did the photographer not want people to see the expression of pain? I didn’t like the fact that her face wasn’t shown. It was as though the photographer was turning her into a piece of meat. Or perhaps it was she who had asked for her face to be cropped out of the picture, so that she wouldn’t be recognised.
This was pornography. Yet I was now turned on. I couldn’t deny it. The picture was beginning to make me wet.
It was wet outside. I could hear the rain coming down like staccato machine gun fire on the roof of the gallery. It sounded like a cloudburst. There was no way that I was going back outside. Not without an umbrella.
I looked up and down the gallery. I was still alone in the place. At least nobody could see me staring at the photograph.
I moved on to the next picture.
The fourth photograph showed the same woman, in the same pose, still holding the raincoat open. Her fingers, though, seemed to have tightened their grip on the raincoat. Perhaps that was because, in addition to her nipples being clamped and weighted, her now nude labia had similar clover clamps attached to them. Those clamps had also been weighted, and they were stretching her labia down by several inches. She had to be in agony.
I cast a furtive glance at the door leading to the stairs. Nobody was in the gallery, looking at the pornography on the wall. But, for some reason, I felt as though I was being watched, as though somebody knew that I was there.
I went back to the top of the stairs. There was a door there, with a simple Yale lock on it. I closed the door, so that I would not be disturbed. If anybody came out – anybody who owned the gallery – I would tell them that the door had banged shut in the wind.
I felt a little more relieved once the door was closed. I felt furtive, in getting turned on by looking at the woman in the pictures. I didn’t want anybody coming in and seeing how turned on I was. I wanted to look at these pictures just by myself.
I walked back to the fourth photograph. I stared at it a little more. I imagined myself being the woman in the picture. It was close to some of the fantasies which I had had late at night. But I would never have told anybody those fantasies. And I would never have posed for anything like the picture on the wall.
I moved on to the next photograph.
The fifth photograph showed the woman bent over what looked like a miniature vaulting horse, supporting her stomach. She was shown side on, and she had finally cast her raincoat aside. Again the photograph had been cropped so that her face could not be seen.
Her breasts hung over one side of the piece of equipment under her stomach. She still had the clamps and weights on her nipples, painfully pulling them down.
What got my attention, though, were the thin, dark grey lines on her buttocks. The lines went from where her thighs ended up to where her corset began. She had been whipped or, more likely, caned. I stared at those marks. In real life they would have been dark red or purple. But, in the photograph, they were dark grey, of course, as all of these photographs were black and white.
I wondered what I had felt like, to have the cane coming down mercilessly on my buttocks, to create such marks. It must have been agonising. I had fantasised about such things, knowing that they would always stay fantasies. But the woman in the picture had actually done them.
I rubbed myself through my slacks without really realising that I was doing it. I knew that my face was red. My cheeks always went red when I was turned on. But at least there was nobody in the gallery to see it.
I moved on to the next picture.
The sixth photograph showed the woman in chains. She was still wearing the latex boots and the corset. The photographer had cropped the photo just where the black choker was so that, yet again, I couldn’t see her face, the mysterious masochist in the picture.
There were chains on her ankles, spreading her legs wide. She had been photographed, again, in front of a white wall. The chains disappeared out of the picture.
I couldn’t see her arms beyond her shoulders. But it was clear that her arms had been raised. I imagined that they must have been chained above her head.
The weighted clamps had been removed from her nipples. There were still clamps on her labia, pulling the skin down.
The reason why the clamps had been removed from her nipples was because her breasts had been whipped. The marks were dark grey, just like they had been on her buttocks. The canning or whipping of her breasts had been as equally savage as that of her backside. But how had she withstood the pain? My breasts were far more sensitive than my buttocks were. I could hardly imagine what it must have meant like.
One of my hands had sneaked down inside my slacks and knickers, to rub at my slit. I was soaked. Despite the indignities which the model had suffered I was massively turned on. It wouldn’t take much more for me to cum.
I moved on to the next picture, guessing what I was about to see.
The seventh photograph showed the woman hanging upside down, her head out of shot, yet again. There were manacles around her ankles, and chains attached to those manacles. Her legs had been spread wide. And her crotch had been whipped, as I had guessed that it would be. The marks on her labia were savage. They did not appear to have drawn blood. But I guessed that she would wear those marks for weeks before they finally faded.
I slipped out of my raincoat. I suddenly felt very hot. If I could have done so, without getting arrested, I would have gone out into the pouring rain, and cooled off. But I couldn’t do that.
I could take my clothes off, though, with the door to the gallery being locked. Nobody would see me. The idea that some owner of the gallery might suddenly appear was a thought which I pushed to the side of my mind.
The idea of being nude in public appealed to me, in my aroused state. I was obviously not thinking clearly. If I had I would never have disrobed. I had never been to a naturist beach in the past. I had not even been to a topless beach in the past.
Before I changed my mind I stripped off my clothes, as quickly as possible. I felt very naughty being in the art gallery with no clothes on. It was cool in there, with a very faint draught. But it was not so cold as to be uncomfortable. Besides, I don’t think that the cold could have got my nipples any more erect than they already were.
I didn’t touch myself. I forced myself to hold off. I could see that there were another five photographs to look at, and I didn’t want to cum until I got to the last picture. It was orgasm denial of the self, because I knew that, when I finally did cum, it was going to be one of the best orgasms I had ever had. As long as I didn’t actually touch my groin I knew that I was going to be fine.
I moved on to stand in front of the next picture.
The eighth photograph showed the woman lying on some bed, her head, again, missing from the picture. She was still in her fetish clothing. The woman was holding the ends of what looked like a pair of large dildos inside her vagina and anus. I presumed that she was working them in and out of herself.
This photograph had an inset at the bottom. It showed a ruler with inches on it. Next to the ruler there were two dildoes, both black. One was thin, and twelve inches long. It looked like it was plastic. I knew that this was the dildo which the woman had forced into her anus. She had got all but the last couple of inches inside herself.
The other dildo was longer than the ruler. It had to be at least fourteen inches long. It was not shiny like the first dildo, and I guessed that either it was made from leather or covered with that substance. But what got me to gasp was the fact that the dildo was covered with little shiny metal studs. The picture was not a fake. The woman was torturing herself by forcing a massive, studded dildo into the softness of her vagina. This was almost beyond insane.
My legs felt weak. My cheeks were burning. My breath was coming in shallow gasps, as I staggered on to look at the next picture.
The ninth photograph showed the woman naked, chained to a white wall. Yet again her head had been cropped out of the picture. She was still wearing the boots and the corset.
She had been turned into a pincushion. There was no space in her breasts to put any more needles. I saw that the needles were not going sideways, making shallow wounds through the flesh, but had been stabbed down into the meat of the breasts.
Not only her breasts had been tortured, but also her crotch. It was equally covered by little metal intruders: needles had gone into her mound, through her labia, and three had gone through her clitoral hood, pinning that little bit of skin back but not actually piercing the clit.
I wondered what it felt like to have so many needles forced into your body. Was the fifth needle worse than the first? Or were they all equally bad? She must have had a hundred needles in her.
Once, when I had been a lot younger, I had accidentally sat on a needle, thanks to the fact that my mother had been into sewing. It had been really painful, and it had only been my backside, rather than anywhere more sensitive. What was it like to have as many needles thrust into my pussy lips as would fit?
I was so turned on that pussy juice was dripping down my thighs.
I moved on to stare at the tenth picture.
The tenth photograph showed the woman strapped down to what looked like some sort of gynaecological chair. Her legs were spread wide. The angle of the picture meant that the woman’s face could not be seen. The picture showed every detail of her crotch, though, as the fact that metal dildo were in her anus and vagina; and the fact that there was a cruel crocodile clip attached to the base of the woman’s clitoris. I could see something peeping out of her urethra. Something thin and metal had been forced in there.
There were wires going from the clamp on the clit, and the three metal intruders, to a box in the foreground of the picture. Both the woman’s crotch and the box were in perfect detail, neither of them out of focus.
The box was some sort of electric shock machine. All of the dials had been turned up to maximum.
Once, when I had been much younger, I had touched a fence which had been electrified, not knowing that it had been. Ever since then I had been scared of electric shocks. But also, conversely, I had been turned on by stories of women being tortured with electricity. In my darkest moments I had sought out those stories on the internet, imaging myself to be the woman. Those dark, torturous tales had never failed to get me to cum. And now I was staring at a massive, six foot tall photograph in which a woman had subjected herself to such torture.
I had to move on to the next picture, or I would have cum even without touching myself.
The eleventh photograph showed the woman’s naked crotch. It was a massive close-up of her most intimate area. I knew that it was the woman in the other pictures because she had the same whip marks on her crotch as in the other pictures.
The woman had had rings put through her labia, perhaps as a result of the piercing in picture nine. There were a couple of rings each side. Thin chains were attached to those rings, and the other end of the chains went to leather bands which could be glimpsed high on the woman’s thighs. The chains were taut, and her labia had been wrenched wide, opening up the woman as completely as in any gynaecological exam. I could see inside at flesh which was glistening.
That was not all, though. I could see a couple of arms in the picture. They were covered in latex, and they were thin: another woman’s arms. I couldn’t see her body, though.
One latex clad hand had one finger either side of the tortured woman’s erect clitoris, holding back the clitoral hood so that the clitoris was entirely exposed. Her other hand held a burning cigarette, the hot tip almost making contact with the defenceless clit. The end of the cigarette had been tinted a bright orange red. It was the only bit of colour in any of the pictures.
I stared at the cigarette, so close to burning the end of the clitoris. The picture was only posed. The woman holding the cigarette there must have moved it away once the photo had been taken, mustn’t she? But what if she hadn’t? What if the burning tip of the cigarette had briefly touched the end of the clitoris? What must that felt like? What if, rather than the merest touch, the female domme had stubbed out the cigarette on the other woman’s pleasure centre?
I moved on to the next picture. I had to see them all, no matter what.
The twelfth photograph was as large as any of the others. It stood a full six feet tall. Like all of the others it had been snapped in arty black and white.
It was of a woman’s head and face. It showed a woman in agony. But it was clear from her expression that she was also incredibly turned on. Looking at her face I knew that she was cumming and being tortured both at the same time. I could see her smudged mascara, the individual beads of sweat dripping off her face. I could see her mouth open in orgasm, showing her white teeth. I could see that her dark hair was drenched in sweat from the many orgasms which she must have had.
It was my face, despite the fact that I had never been in this gallery before. But this was no normal gallery, but something else. That was why I had never seen it before, despite the fact that I had been down the street many times.
Staring at the impossible picture of my face I came, my legs collapsing as I enjoyed the greatest orgasm of my life.
I’m not sure how long I was there on the floor. But when I came around I could no longer hear the rain. I could get dressed, go home, and try to forget all about this art gallery which seemed to have photographs of me being tortured.
I stood up. I saw that there was another door at the end of the art gallery. I was sure that the door had not been there before. The door had been covered in black leather, inscribed with gold writing.
Above the door read the words the truth will set you free. The gold writing on the black leather read Beyond lies unending torment. Each day shall last forever, and shall be as the pictures you have seen.
I stared at the door. It opened with a creak. Beyond I could see only darkness.
I walked through the door.