{"loaderData":{"4":{"story":{"id":"fa17e21d-8a24-4a42-8931-0c60346049c9","seriesId":null,"seriesName":null,"currentUserId":"00000000-0000-0000-0000-000000000000","added":"2019-03-09T12:20:17.16Z","title":"Twelve Pictures","slug":"twelve-pictures","shortId":"ZdkaYV1g","authorNote":null,"disclaimer":null,"type":"Short","paidUrl":null,"synopsis":"","partCount":1,"parts":[{"partId":"b70c443c-268e-46bc-a09b-e7f5f45a469e","title":null,"summary":"This\nstory is from the point of view of a woman who walks into what\nappears to be an art gallery…\n\n\n","wordCount":3212,"readTime":16,"number":1,"state":"Published"}],"currentPart":1,"contentTitle":"Chapter 1","content":"

This\nstory is from the point of view of a woman who walks into what\nappears to be an art gallery…

Twelve\nPictures

I\nonly went into the art gallery because it was raining. I would have\nwalked right past it otherwise. In fact I had been down the street\nmany times before and I had never noticed the Veridicality Gallery\nbefore. Its open door was sandwiched between two large stores. Beyond\nthe door there was a narrow stairway leading up to the first floor.

I\ntrudged up the stairs. I would look around until it stopped raining,\nand then continue home. There was no point in getting soaked to the\nskin.

The\nstairs led up to a long, thin gallery. The floor was black marble\ntiles, and the walls were white. The place was lit by bright,\noverhead neon lights. I was the only person in the place. There\nwasn’t even any security. \n

I\ncould see that there was what looked like a dozen pictures arranged\nalong one wall. I went to stand in front of the first picture. It was\na life-sized black and white photograph. The picture had been taken\nfrom behind the woman as she entered the Veridicality Gallery. The\nwoman had short, dark hair. Her hair was dark, so I presumed that it\nwas brown, like mine. I couldn’t be one hundred percent sure,\nthough. She was wearing a raincoat which was similar to mine. I could\njust see the end of one high-heeled boot beneath the raincoat as she\nstrode along.

It\nwas raining in the picture. The photographer must have been very\ntalented, as I could see some of the individual drops of rain as they\nfell out of the sky. I wondered who the woman was. Probably some\nfriend of the photographer.

The\nsecond picture was showing some woman in a raincoat, but the picture\nhad been cropped so as not to show the woman’s head or face. The\nwoman was pulling her raincoat open to show the fact that she was\nwearing fetish clothing underneath it. The woman was in front of some\nplain, white wall. It had to be one of the walls of this gallery.

I\ncould see that she was wearing thigh-high shiny patent leather boots,\nones with quite severe heels. \n

She\nwas wearing a very restricting corset. It pulled her waist in very\ntightly. I didn’t see how she could breathe while wearing it. \n

She\nhad on a pair of very tight black latex knickers. I could see how\nthey delineated her pubis. Somebody might have said that she had a\ncamel toe. But I’ve never liked that term. It had to have been a\nman who invented it.

She\nwore a latex bra covering her breasts. And, finally, there was some\nsort of leather choker around her throat. The choker had a ring at\nthe front.

The\ncamera had been so good that I could see every little detail of the\nwoman. She had a body just like mine. For some reason that made me\nfeel a little uneasy. But I was also beginning to get a little turned\non. I had always had fantasies about latex and leather, although I\nhad never done anything about it. In fact, if I was being honest, my\nfantasies were a lot darker than just leather and latex. But I tried\nnot to think about them. Not while I was in a public building.

I\nwalked over to the third picture.

The\nthird photograph showed the woman still holding her raincoat open,\nlike in the second one, and still with her face not being shown. She\nwas wearing the same fetish clothing, apart from her latex brassiere.\nThat had been removed. I could see her breasts. They looked just like\nmine. But I had never put clover clamps on my nipples, crushing them\nalmost flat. Nor had I hung weights from the end of those selfsame\nclamps, stretching my nipples down. \n

The\nwoman’s nipples must have been agony. Was that why her face had not\nbeen shown? Did the photographer not want people to see the\nexpression of pain? I didn’t like the fact that her face wasn’t\nshown. It was as though the photographer was turning her into a piece\nof meat. Or perhaps it was she who had asked for her face to be\ncropped out of the picture, so that she wouldn’t be recognised.

This\nwas pornography. Yet I was now turned on. I couldn’t deny it. The\npicture was beginning to make me wet. \n

It\nwas wet outside. I could hear the rain coming down like staccato\nmachine gun fire on the roof of the gallery. It sounded like a\ncloudburst. There was no way that I was going back outside. Not\nwithout an umbrella.

I\nlooked up and down the gallery. I was still alone in the place. At\nleast nobody could see me staring at the photograph.

I\nmoved on to the next picture.

The\nfourth photograph showed the same woman, in the same pose, still\nholding the raincoat open. Her fingers, though, seemed to have\ntightened their grip on the raincoat. Perhaps that was because, in\naddition to her nipples being clamped and weighted, her now nude\nlabia had similar clover clamps attached to them. Those clamps had\nalso been weighted, and they were stretching her labia down by\nseveral inches. She had to be in agony.

I\ncast a furtive glance at the door leading to the stairs. Nobody was\nin the gallery, looking at the pornography on the wall. But, for some\nreason, I felt as though I was being watched, as though somebody knew\nthat I was there.

I\nwent back to the top of the stairs. There was a door there, with a\nsimple Yale lock on it. I closed the door, so that I would not be\ndisturbed. If anybody came out – anybody who owned the gallery –\nI would tell them that the door had banged shut in the wind.

I\nfelt a little more relieved once the door was closed. I felt furtive,\nin getting turned on by looking at the woman in the pictures. I\ndidn’t want anybody coming in and seeing how turned on I was. I\nwanted to look at these pictures just by myself.

I\nwalked back to the fourth photograph. I stared at it a little more. I\nimagined myself being the woman in the picture. It was close to some\nof the fantasies which I had had late at night. But I would never\nhave told anybody those fantasies. And I would never have posed for\nanything like the picture on the wall.

I\nmoved on to the next photograph. \n

The\nfifth photograph showed the woman bent over what looked like a\nminiature vaulting horse, supporting her stomach. She was shown side\non, and she had finally cast her raincoat aside. Again the photograph\nhad been cropped so that her face could not be seen.

Her\nbreasts hung over one side of the piece of equipment under her\nstomach. She still had the clamps and weights on her nipples,\npainfully pulling them down.

What\ngot my attention, though, were the thin, dark grey lines on her\nbuttocks. The lines went from where her thighs ended up to where her\ncorset began. She had been whipped or, more likely, caned. I stared\nat those marks. In real life they would have been dark red or purple.\nBut, in the photograph, they were dark grey, of course, as all of\nthese photographs were black and white.

I\nwondered what I had felt like, to have the cane coming down\nmercilessly on my buttocks, to create such marks. It must have been\nagonising. I had fantasised about such things, knowing that they\nwould always stay fantasies. But the woman in the picture had\nactually done them.

I\nrubbed myself through my slacks without really realising that I was\ndoing it. I knew that my face was red. My cheeks always went red when\nI was turned on. But at least there was nobody in the gallery to see\nit.

I\nmoved on to the next picture.

The\nsixth photograph showed the woman in chains. She was still wearing\nthe latex boots and the corset. The photographer had cropped the\nphoto just where the black choker was so that, yet again, I couldn’t\nsee her face, the mysterious masochist in the picture.

There\nwere chains on her ankles, spreading her legs wide. She had been\nphotographed, again, in front of a white wall. The chains disappeared\nout of the picture. \n

I\ncouldn’t see her arms beyond her shoulders. But it was clear that\nher arms had been raised. I imagined that they must have been chained\nabove her head.

The\nweighted clamps had been removed from her nipples. There were still\nclamps on her labia, pulling the skin down. \n

The\nreason why the clamps had been removed from her nipples was because\nher breasts had been whipped. The marks were dark grey, just like\nthey had been on her buttocks. The canning or whipping of her breasts\nhad been as equally savage as that of her backside. But how had she\nwithstood the pain? My breasts were far more sensitive than my\nbuttocks were. I could hardly imagine what it must have meant like.

One\nof my hands had sneaked down inside my slacks and knickers, to rub at\nmy slit. I was soaked. Despite the indignities which the model had\nsuffered I was massively turned on. It wouldn’t take much more for\nme to cum.

I\nmoved on to the next picture, guessing what I was about to see. \n

The\nseventh photograph showed the woman hanging upside down, her head out\nof shot, yet again. There were manacles around her ankles, and chains\nattached to those manacles. Her legs had been spread wide. And her\ncrotch had been whipped, as I had guessed that it would be. The marks\non her labia were savage. They did not appear to have drawn blood.\nBut I guessed that she would wear those marks for weeks before they\nfinally faded.

I\nslipped out of my raincoat. I suddenly felt very hot. If I could have\ndone so, without getting arrested, I would have gone out into the\npouring rain, and cooled off. But I couldn’t do that. \n

I\ncould take my clothes off, though, with the door to the gallery being\nlocked. Nobody would see me. The idea that some owner of the gallery\nmight suddenly appear was a thought which I pushed to the side of my\nmind.

The\nidea of being nude in public appealed to me, in my aroused state. I\nwas obviously not thinking clearly. If I had I would never have\ndisrobed. I had never been to a naturist beach in the past. I had not\neven been to a topless beach in the past.

Before\nI changed my mind I stripped off my clothes, as quickly as possible.\nI felt very naughty being in the art gallery with no clothes on. It\nwas cool in there, with a very faint draught. But it was not so cold\nas to be uncomfortable. Besides, I don’t think that the cold could\nhave got my nipples any more erect than they already were.

I\ndidn’t touch myself. I forced myself to hold off. I could see that\nthere were another five photographs to look at, and I didn’t want\nto cum until I got to the last picture. It was orgasm denial of the\nself, because I knew that, when I finally did cum, it was going to be\none of the best orgasms I had ever had. As long as I didn’t\nactually touch my groin I knew that I was going to be fine.

I\nmoved on to stand in front of the next picture.

The\neighth photograph showed the woman lying on some bed, her head,\nagain, missing from the picture. She was still in her fetish\nclothing. The woman was holding the ends of what looked like a pair\nof large dildos inside her vagina and anus. I presumed that she was\nworking them in and out of herself. \n

This\nphotograph had an inset at the bottom. It showed a ruler with inches\non it. Next to the ruler there were two dildoes, both black. One was\nthin, and twelve inches long. It looked like it was plastic. I knew\nthat this was the dildo which the woman had forced into her anus. She\nhad got all but the last couple of inches inside herself.

The\nother dildo was longer than the ruler. It had to be at least fourteen\ninches long. It was not shiny like the first dildo, and I guessed\nthat either it was made from leather or covered with that substance.\nBut what got me to gasp was the fact that the dildo was covered with\nlittle shiny metal studs. The picture was not a fake. The woman was\ntorturing herself by forcing a massive, studded dildo into the\nsoftness of her vagina. This was almost beyond insane.

My\nlegs felt weak. My cheeks were burning. My breath was coming in\nshallow gasps, as I staggered on to look at the next picture. \n

The\nninth photograph showed the woman naked, chained to a white wall. Yet\nagain her head had been cropped out of the picture. She was still\nwearing the boots and the corset. \n

She\nhad been turned into a pincushion. There was no space in her breasts\nto put any more needles. I saw that the needles were not going\nsideways, making shallow wounds through the flesh, but had been\nstabbed down into the meat of the breasts.

Not\nonly her breasts had been tortured, but also her crotch. It was\nequally covered by little metal intruders: needles had gone into her\nmound, through her labia, and three had gone through her clitoral\nhood, pinning that little bit of skin back but not actually piercing\nthe clit.

I\nwondered what it felt like to have so many needles forced into your\nbody. Was the fifth needle worse than the first? Or were they all\nequally bad? She must have had a hundred needles in her.

Once,\nwhen I had been a lot younger, I had accidentally sat on a needle,\nthanks to the fact that my mother had been into sewing. It had been\nreally painful, and it had only been my backside, rather than\nanywhere more sensitive. What was it like to have as many needles\nthrust into my pussy lips as would fit?

I\nwas so turned on that pussy juice was dripping down my thighs.

I\nmoved on to stare at the tenth picture.

The\ntenth photograph showed the woman strapped down to what looked like\nsome sort of gynaecological chair. Her legs were spread wide. The\nangle of the picture meant that the woman’s face could not be seen.\nThe picture showed every detail of her crotch, though, as the fact\nthat metal dildo were in her anus and vagina; and the fact that there\nwas a cruel crocodile clip attached to the base of the woman’s\nclitoris. I could see something peeping out of her urethra. Something\nthin and metal had been forced in there.

There\nwere wires going from the clamp on the clit, and the three metal\nintruders, to a box in the foreground of the picture. Both the\nwoman’s crotch and the box were in perfect detail, neither of them\nout of focus. \n

The\nbox was some sort of electric shock machine. All of the dials had\nbeen turned up to maximum. \n

Once,\nwhen I had been much younger, I had touched a fence which had been\nelectrified, not knowing that it had been. Ever since then I had been\nscared of electric shocks. But also, conversely, I had been turned on\nby stories of women being tortured with electricity. In my darkest\nmoments I had sought out those stories on the internet, imaging\nmyself to be the woman. Those dark, torturous tales had never failed\nto get me to cum. And now I was staring at a massive, six foot tall\nphotograph in which a woman had subjected herself to such torture.

I\nhad to move on to the next picture, or I would have cum even without\ntouching myself.

The\neleventh photograph showed the woman’s naked crotch. It was a\nmassive close-up of her most intimate area. I knew that it was the\nwoman in the other pictures because she had the same whip marks on\nher crotch as in the other pictures.

The\nwoman had had rings put through her labia, perhaps as a result of the\npiercing in picture nine. There were a couple of rings each side.\nThin chains were attached to those rings, and the other end of the\nchains went to leather bands which could be glimpsed high on the\nwoman’s thighs. The chains were taut, and her labia had been\nwrenched wide, opening up the woman as completely as in any\ngynaecological exam. I could see inside at flesh which was\nglistening.

That\nwas not all, though. I could see a couple of arms in the picture.\nThey were covered in latex, and they were thin: another woman’s\narms. I couldn’t see her body, though.

One\nlatex clad hand had one finger either side of the tortured woman’s\nerect clitoris, holding back the clitoral hood so that the clitoris\nwas entirely exposed. Her other hand held a burning cigarette, the\nhot tip almost making contact with the defenceless clit. The end of\nthe cigarette had been tinted a bright orange red. It was the only\nbit of colour in any of the pictures.

I\nstared at the cigarette, so close to burning the end of the clitoris.\nThe picture was only posed. The woman holding the cigarette there\nmust have moved it away once the photo had been taken, mustn’t she?\nBut what if she hadn’t? What if the burning tip of the cigarette\nhad briefly touched the end of the clitoris? What must that felt\nlike? What if, rather than the merest touch, the female domme had\nstubbed out the cigarette on the other woman’s pleasure centre?

I\nmoved on to the next picture. I had to see them all, no matter what.

The\ntwelfth photograph was as large as any of the others. It stood a full\nsix feet tall. Like all of the others it had been snapped in arty\nblack and white.

It\nwas of a woman’s head and face. It showed a woman in agony. But it\nwas clear from her expression that she was also incredibly turned on.\nLooking at her face I knew that she was cumming and being tortured\nboth at the same time. I could see her smudged mascara, the\nindividual beads of sweat dripping off her face. I could see her\nmouth open in orgasm, showing her white teeth. I could see that her\ndark hair was drenched in sweat from the many orgasms which she must\nhave had.

It\nwas my face, despite the fact that I had never been in this gallery\nbefore. But this was no normal gallery, but something else. That was\nwhy I had never seen it before, despite the fact that I had been down\nthe street many times.

\nStaring at the impossible picture of\nmy face I came, my legs collapsing as I enjoyed the greatest orgasm\nof my life.

I’m\nnot sure how long I was there on the floor. But when I came around I\ncould no longer hear the rain. I could get dressed, go home, and try\nto forget all about this art gallery which seemed to have photographs\nof me being tortured.

I\nstood up. I saw that there was another door at the end of the art\ngallery. I was sure that the door had not been there before. The door\nhad been covered in black leather, inscribed with gold writing.

Above\nthe door read the words the\ntruth will set you free.\nThe gold writing on the black leather read\nBeyond lies unending torment. Each day shall last forever, and shall\nbe as the pictures you have seen.

I\nstared at the door. It opened with a creak. Beyond I could see only\ndarkness.

I\nwalked through the door.

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