Photo Shoot

I belong to an amateur photographic club that takes cheesecake and mildly erotic pictures. We have to be careful to be discreet about our hobby to avoid offending our medium size community.

We own a former church hall that has been replaced by a larger, more modern building. We rent it out for other groups including another photographic club that has a wider range of interests including nature and landscape pictures. An Art/painting group meet at our hall on Saturday afternoons and exhibit their work on a few summer Saturdays. Our pictures are never exhibited locally and are sold on our anonymous website.

You might expect our membership to be wholly male. It isn't. We take pictures using male models as well as female ones. Some of the males pose for Gay Male erotica, some of the females for Lesbian.

Although amateur, we try to achieve professional standards and our website has a small but loyal group of members who provide us with sufficient income to keep our hall in good condition, to pay our models, and to improve our facilities.

One of our female members, Angela, who is openly lesbian, found a model agency we hadn't used. Some of us were doubtful but their rates per hour were so reasonable that we arranged a two-hour session as a trial. That evening almost all the active membership were present and we really enjoyed ourselves.

The three models were attractive, professional in their approach, and suggested poses we wouldn't have normally considered. Apart from simple cheesecake we were given opportunities to shoot mild bondage with scarves and rope. The models tied each other because we were not allowed to touch.

The agency had made it clear that the conditions were: Look, take pictures, ask for any reasonable pose, get as close as you want, but no touching, and no attempt to date the staff.

One of the models was obviously the supervisor. Elsa was slightly older than the other two and directed them and us subtly but clearly. At the end of the two hours Elsa announced that her agency would offer a prize to the club's member who had produced the most effective shot that evening.

We could choose up to five pictures as our entry, submitting them by email to the modelling agency's website. The winner would get a free evening's Christmas-themed workshop at their premises using their professional equipment. The winner wouldn't need to bring anything except a largish data stick to load the results on to.

Of course almost all of us would submit our five best pictures. It didn't really matter that none of us knew what Elsa or her bosses meant by "most effective". One of us would win and as there were only about twenty of us present on that evening there was a reasonable chance for each of us.

I had an idea. I asked Angela whether she would look through my pictures and give an opinion as to which of them she thought were "most effective", and I would look through hers. I have found before that working with Angela helps both of us. I've never tried to date her. What would be the point? She prefers women. So do I. She has a brain and is possibly a better photographer than I am.

Angela agreed if we involved her partner Petra as well. We would try to choose which were the best five each of us had taken. We three agreed to meet at their flat tomorrow evening for a critical session.

Later that evening I reviewed my shots and copied all of them that had no technical defects such as red-eye or poor focus to a data stick.

Next day Angela rang me at work. Petra was willing to cook for the three of us. Would Italian do? Of course it would. Almost any cooking that someone else made was better than me cooking for one. I'd bring some wine.

I walked to Angela and Petra's carrying Italian wine. The data stick was in my pocket. Angela let me in. The smell of cooking was wonderful. We ate dishes that Petra named. I'd never heard of most of them but enjoyed everything. We had drunk the wine by the end of the cheese course. While Petra cleared away Angela brought a laptop to the table. We sat beside the table with cups of coffee.

We tossed a coin to decide whose photos we would look at first. Petra won.

Petra's pictures were good with a bias towards the younger blonde, Dawn. She had taken many close-ups of body parts instead of the whole body. Petra's shot of Dawn's arm, partly shielding a breast, really worked for me, producing an instant erection. I liked the line of the arm showing tiny blonde hairs backlit and the contrast between the roughness of the rope bond with Dawn's breast texture.

I complimented Petra on it. Angela bristled. She thinks she is a better photographer than Dawn. In many ways she is, but Dawn's eye for detail, for small scale close ups, is better than Angela or me. Nearly always I shoot a complete body and I like the facial expressions on the models.

When we had agreed on the chosen five of Petra's shots we started on mine. Angela's comments were barbed, brutal, but possibly justified. Dawn's criticism was less forthright but equally candid, expressed more diplomatically. We agreed on four and were split on the fifth. We agreed to look at the two possibilities after Angela's.

Technically, all Angela's pictures were good. There were no flaws, no muffed shots, no inaccuracy of focus or exposure except when done deliberately for effect. It was hard to reduce the possible down to five until we decided to score each of our top twenty from one to ten and add our scores.

The worst, if any of Angela's could be called 'worst', scored twenty-two. The last of the top five scored 27, with two on 28, one on 29 and the one shot scoring a perfect 30.

Having given numbers to Angela's pictures we went back to Petra's. One of the possible last two scored higher than the one we had originally chosen as number four, which became the fifth.

We looked at mine again. Three shots were marked at 26, then one at 24 and another on 22. All my scores were lower than Angela or Petra's worst. We uploaded all fifteen pictures to the modelling agency's website. We hoped that at least one of us would succeed.

After coffee we discussed whether we thought any of the other club members would have produced competitive pictures. Our chairman, John, was capable of great pictures but we agreed he might not bother to enter. As a Chairman he was competent but he is lazy. He needs a good secretary to remind him about outstanding issues.

Some of the others, on a good day, could take better pictures than any of us but their standards were erratic. Angela was consistently good but rarely exceptional. Petra was good at her genre. I could be good, very rarely brilliant, but too often mediocre. All three of us had won at least one of the club's trophies but there were others who had won more.

Nothing much happened for the next fortnight. I had invited Angela and Petra back for a meal at my flat the following week. It wasn't a success. There seemed to be some tension between the two of them and Angela expressed even more criticism of my photography. I wasn't offended. I dismissed it as a symptom of whatever was wrong in their relationship. I was startled when Petra kissed me on a cheek as she left. Neither of them had ever treated me as anything but a friend before and I knew that they weren't attracted to men. It was the sort of kiss that an elderly aunt might have given me. It seemed to have no sexual overtones. Perhaps Petra was just expressing her thanks? It was odd.

Angela phoned me at work.

"Dave? Have you checked your inbox today?"

"No, Angela. Why?"

"Petra and I have had emails from Elsa. Apparently they have decided that all three of us, including you, have won a session at their studios. It's this Friday evening at 7.30. Could you make that?"

I opened my diary.

"Yes, Angela. I've got nothing on then."

"Look at the email and then ring me back this evening."

"OK."

I didn't look at the email until I'd finished the current job. I saved it then opened my inbox.

There was Elsa's email "Congratulations!". I might have consigned it to the Spam folder except that I recognised the website.

I read it. The arrangements were unusual. We were to meet Elsa in the town centre car park, having parked our cars and paid for the evening. Elsa would pick us up and return us to the car park at the end of the session. Only then did I realise that we had no idea where the studio was. We had the email address, a mobile telephone number, but no physical location.

Elsa explained that they kept their studio's location secret to avoid offending the neighbours who might object to bondage sessions even though they were for photography, not sex.

That I could understand but I was slightly uneasy. We would be going to an undisclosed location. But what could go wrong? Elsa's agency was a long-established business and had a good reputation for what it did.

When I spoke to Angela that evening she too was slightly wary. However she and I thought that if three of us were going we could look after each other. If anything went wrong we had mobile phones.

On Friday evening we met up about half an hour early and had coffee in the adjacent mall. Just before seven thirty we were waiting in the car park. Elsa drove up in a panel van, got out and opened the side door. We climbed in. There were several comfortable seats but no windows.

"OK?" Elsa asked. "It will only take a few minutes to the studio."

She shut the door. There was an interior light. We could see each other but couldn't see outside. The van drove off. We tried to keep count of the turns to get some idea where we were going but Elsa must have driven around a few blocks to confuse us.

The van stopped. We heard a door or gate opening and the van drove a few yards forward before stopping. The engine switched off. The door noise was repeated. Elsa opened the side door and we stepped out into a large garage. Behind the van a roller shutter door had closed. Elsa led us through a side door, up a flight of concrete stairs and then into a bland reception area.

There were a couple of settees, a curved desk with printed material advertising the studio's services, a clock, a water dispenser, but the general impression was anonymity.

"Take a seat," Elsa suggested. "We'll be ready for you in a few minutes. Toilets are through there."

She waved a hand at a door with signs for men and women before leaving through a door behind the desk. I wasn't sure but I thought I heard her lock the door behind her.

Petra snuggled close to Angela.

"I'm nervous," she announced.

"So am I," I said.

"Nonsense!" Angela snorted. "They're just protecting their privacy."

Elsa was back within a minute, dressed as a Santa's helper in a fake-fur trimmed short red dress, white tights, shiny red boots and with a red bobble hat. This time I was sure. She had to unlock the door to come back in. She took us through the door, down an anonymous corridor, and into a large room.

As we entered the main impression was clutter. There were lighting stands, cameras mounted on tripods, stepladders, reflectors, overhead spotlights, and computer screens with screensavers. Beyond the clutter was blackness until Elsa pressed a switch on a large switchboard.

We blinked as a massive four-poster bed was brightly lit. On a table out of line of the spotlights was a neat collection of coiled coloured ropes. Hanging from a clothes rail beside the table were masses of silk scarves.

Behind the table, on an old chest of drawers, were various leather items with buckles, straps, and gags. A large old fashioned wardrobe had its doors open. Hanging inside were dresses, petticoats, corsets, and leather bondage wear.

Elsa beckoned towards the dark area. A woman came forward, not one of the models we had seen at our club, but someone new. She was wearing a similar red dress, tights and boots. Her Santa's hat was pulled down to cover her hair completely and she had a white Santa Claus beard shielding everything but her eyes and nose.

"This is Janet," Elsa announced. "She and I will demonstrate some basic bondage poses for you. You can use the cameras over there. They are all digital and you should be able to use them easily. If not, ask me. OK?"

We nodded. I felt like a small child let loose in Santa's toy store. I had noticed some of the camera models. I'd never be able to afford such expensive kit.

"I'll start with a cleave gag with handcuffs for the wrists and ankles."

Janet sat on the edge of the bed. Elsa snapped the red fur-lined handcuffs around her ankles. Janet moved her hands behind her back. Elsa closed the next pair of furry handcuffs over Janet's wrists. She pulled a white silk scarf from the clothes rail, folded it into a triangle and then folded it again and again before she knotted it in the middle.

Elsa lifted the edge of the white beard. Janet opened her mouth. Elsa stuffed the knot behind Janet's teeth, took the ends of the scarf and tied them behind Janet's neck. The beard dropped back into place and the gag was invisible.

"OK. Now Janet will do some poses for you."

We took a camera each. Angela and I left the cameras on the tripods. Petra unscrewed hers and used it in her hands. Most of my pictures were from the neck downwards because I didn't like the effect of the beard and concealing hat.

Janet demonstrated various positions and expressions from resignation to fierce struggling but they were all an act. They were good acts but I wasn't wholly convinced that she was as helpless as she was pretending to be.

When Elsa asked "Finished?", Janet unflipped the handcuffs from her wrists, took the scarf out of her mouth, and lifted the handcuffs off her ankles. I laughed.

"Yes, Dave," Elsa said, "they are trick handcuffs. They don't lock. There are no keys. Janet could have freed herself at any time. We don't do real bondage, just the impression of bondage and that's all that is needed for photography. As long as the person looking at the photo or video thinks that the bondage is real, we will have achieved our object without hurting or marking our models."

"Even studios that do real and dangerous bondage play tricks. For example, the cleave gag shot is popular but as a gag it's useless. Janet?"

Janet walked towards Elsa carrying the knotted silk scarf.

"Look," Elsa said as she lifted the beard, slipped the knot back into Janet's mouth, "even with a knot..."

"...it doesn't stop me speaking clearly." Janet continued, "and a simple cleave gag is even less effective."

We got the point. Elsa pulled another white scarf from the rack.

"And the over-the-mouth or OTM gag isn't much better."

Elsa tied the scarf over the knotted scarf already gagging Janet. The beard covered both except from the sides.

"I can still speak but less clearly," Janet said.

She untied and removed the scarves. The beard fell back into place. She handed the scarves to Elsa.

"One of the reasons that we don't let amateur photographers actually perform bondage on our models is that the amateurs don't know how to make it look right without hurting the model.

Dave? Can you come here for a minute?"

Elsa walked over to the bed. I followed her.

"Sit down, please. These are the trick handcuffs. Look. You can pull them open easily."

I did. There was a very slight resistance and they opened.

"Put them on your wrists."

I did.

"Now take them off."

I pulled my wrists apart. The handcuffs opened easily. I put them on the bed beside me.

"Angela? You saw what I did to Janet with these scarves?"

Angela nodded.

"Then take these, and gag Dave the same way. You're OK with that aren't you Dave?"

"Yes."

Angela prepared the scarf. I opened my mouth. She pushed the knot in and tied the scarf behind my head. She folded the second scarf more than Janet had done and tied that over my mouth. I wasn't sure that I could speak as clearly as Janet had demonstrated. Angela's knots seemed tighter.

"Now, Dave, Angela will put the trick handcuffs on with your hands in front of you, please."

Angela picked up the handcuffs, the same handcuffs because they had been in my view all the time, and handcuffed my wrists together.

"OK. Now you two can take some pictures of Dave. His turn will come later."

Elsa made me move into different positions as the photos were taken before asking me to swing my legs on to the bed and lie down on my back. She demonstrated the second pair of trick handcuffs before putting them on my ankles.

After some more photos Elsa put a Santa's hat on my head covering my forehead. Angela and Petra took more pictures before Elsa added a white beard like Janet's. It hooked over my ears and concealed the white gag. I looked over at Janet.

If I was as muffled as she was no one could identify my face.

Elsa said:

"Dave isn't secured to that bed, in fact with those handcuffs he isn't secured at all, but he looks as if he is. If I attach this rope to the foot of the bed, through his ankle cuffs and back, and Dave, if you can lift your hands above your head, and I tie another rope from his wrists to a bar on the headboard, like so..."

She tied the ropes as she was speaking. Neither rope was pulling at the handcuffs.

She pulled at the ankle rope. I slid across the silk-covered duvet until my wrists were pulled up behind me. This was uncomfortable. I wanted to protest but somehow Angela's gag was much more effective than the one Elsa had used on Janet. All I could do was grunt ineffectually.

"Then Dave is secured. He's helpless. He can't move, can't speak, his trick cuffs won't undo and we can do whatever we want to do to him."

Despite my indignation at have been duped I could feel an erection beginning at the thought of being bound by these women and at their mercy.

But why?

Elsa walked away from the bed. Angela sat on the bed. Petra sat on the other side.

"Sorry, Dave," Angela said, "We set you up. In part it is retribution for some of the things you have said to Petra and I during the year. You have pretended to be just a friend, but when Petra told you we wanted a baby you offered your services. You made it clear that you would want to impregnate her in person yet you know that she, and I, aren't interested in men. Then you kept touching both of us inappropriately, apparently accidentally, but far too often to be accidents."

"It hurt us to know that you were sexually attracted to us," Petra added, "while pretending that you weren't. Some of the other members have been more open, admitting their attraction but acknowledging that we wouldn't be interested. We don't mind being admired but we wish you had been more honest about it."

"We would have confronted you and asked for an apology," Angela said. "That would have been enough and perhaps we could have continued as friends if you kept your hands off us. Maybe we still can but..."

"...someone else, one of our friends," Elsa continued, "you had treated badly. She wanted you helpless so that she could explain what you did to her and ask what you are going to do. We'll leave you with her. She can do whatever she wants to do because you are gagged, secured and at her mercy. We'll see you later."

Angela and Petra stood up. Then Angela surprised me. She pushed the hat clear of my forehead, leant over, kissed me and said:

"Despite everything Dave, we still think you can be a friend. Just be honest with yourself and us."

Elsa, Angela and Petra walked away. I heard a door shut behind them.

Janet, still hidden behind the white beard, sat down on the bed.

"I think we can lose the beards, Dave." Her voice was different, familiar.

She lifted my beard off my ears and threw it aside. She pulled off her Santa hat revealing a mass of red-gold hair. She unpinned it and shook her head. It fell over her shoulders. I was almost sure that Janet wasn't her name. I knew that hair and that voice. She pulled off her beard.

This was Michelle. Michelle had been colleague temporarily working on a project about six months ago until she left suddenly. We had been on a couple of dates but I had been warned off because she was married to a jealous husband.

"Well, Dave?" She said. "Why did you drop me like a hot potato the night after we'd made love for the first time. You ignored me. You cut me dead. Why?"

I tried to speak. Angela's scarf-tying was too effective. I couldn't say anything that Michelle could understand. I shook my head violently.

"OK! OK! I'll remove the gag but no one can hear you. The others are downstairs having coffee."

She leant over me. Her hair brushed my face. I remembered that wonderful hair and groaned. I had enjoyed kissing her with that hair caressing my face.

Michelle struggled to undo the knots. She had to get a nail file from her handbag to unpick the first one. I worked my mouth and swallowed.

"I was told that you were married..." I started to say.

"...Married? I'm not! Who told you that? I was told that you backed off because you're married and someone had told your wife about us. Then I found out that you weren't and never had been married."

"Someone's being lying to us," I said. "I was summoned to Human Resources, told you were married, had a very jealous husband who was making trouble and that I was to keep well clear of you or get fired for inappropriate behaviour at work. If I was seen with you I'd be disciplined."

"That's almost what I was told, but it was a lie. I was willing to take the risk but you ignored me."

"I had to. My manager was watching us. He had warned me as well."

"My friends set this up, tricked you into these bonds, just so that I could tell you what a bastard I thought you were and it seems we've both been set up. Why? Who?"

"I don't know but if we compare stories I think we might work out who if not why."

"Then I don't need you helpless, do I? But while you are..."

Michelle lowered herself on to me. Her face came down towards mine. Her glorious hair swung either side of my head as our lips met. We kissed, kissed again and made up for lost time. I tugged at the handcuffs securing my wrists to the head of the bed. Michelle moved up my body. Her soft breasts pressed against my face as I heard two clicks. The handcuffs were gone. I brought my arms around her back and buried myself in her cleavage.

"Hey!" Michelle protested. "You can't talk there."

I couldn't. I was enjoying myself too much. She reached around, unclasped my hands and slid back down so that we were face to face.

"Talk!" she ordered. "Other things might come later. Who told Human Resources that we were married and why?"

"Since we are not and never have been married, either someone told them lies or..."

"Or...?"

"Someone in Human Resources invented it. Who interviewed you?"

"Alan with Mary. Alan did all the talking. Mary was there as a chaperone."

"Alan interviewed me too, on his own. I think Alan was the villain."

"Why? Dave, why?"

"Who arranged for you to be on the project in our office?"

"Oh shit! Alan!"

"Did he ever ask you out?"

"Yes. A couple of times. I turned him down. He's a creep. He's old, unattractive and has bad breath."

"Could he have thought I was the reason you turned him down, Michelle?"

She thought for a moment, kissed me again and said slowly...

"I think on the last time I might have said that I'd prefer to go out with almost anyone else, even you, and I didn't know you at all. I didn't. Not then."

"And then you did go out with me. We didn't make it a secret, did we?"

"No, Dave, we didn't. I remember walking out of the office holding your hand. And I think Alan might have seen us."

"Well, now you know I'm not the villain you thought I was, can I get off this bed?"

Her answer was another long kiss.

"Not yet. I've got some explaining to do to my friends. Will you forgive them?"

"Of course, if you'll go out with me again, Michelle."

"That's blackmail," she giggled, kissed me, "but I will. Wait there."

She was gone about ten minutes. I tried to work out how to undo the cuffs around my ankles. I couldn't, so I was still manacled when all four women returned.

"I've explained how we were set up," Michelle said, "and that I'm not mad at you any more, if fact that we're together again. OK?"

I nodded. They smiled at me.

"But I don't understand how I offended you Angela, and Petra. I didn't mean to. What did I say, or do, that upset you?"

"It was back in October..." Angela started.

"...October?" Michelle interrupted. "That was when Dave and I were warned off each other."

"...and you weren't your normal self. You seemed depressed..."

"I was. I had met a woman I thought I loved and had been told that she was married."

"Shut up for a minute, Dave, and listen to Angela." Michelle said, sitting beside me and pressing a hand over my mouth.

"Petra and I hugged you because you looked so miserable. We intended it to be a short friendly hug but you wouldn't let go. A couple of times during the next few weeks you hugged each of us, too long and too tightly for a normal friend."

"Shh!" Michelle hissed in my ear as I tried to respond.

"When I talked about wanting a baby you offered to help," Petra said.

"That you can answer," Michelle said removing her hand, "and you should."

"I'm sorry if you got the wrong impression, Petra," I said. "What I actually said was that if you needed advice I'd like to help you find out about how lesbian couples could find a donor legally but I didn't know much about making babies other than the normal way. I never intended that I should be involved. That would be wrong."

"Is that what he said, Petra?" Angela asked.

"Now he's repeated it, I think that it was," Petra admitted.

"You silly girl!" Angela snorted. "He offered, as a friend, and you took it the wrong way! If I'd known exactly what he said I wouldn't have agreed to be involved in kidnapping him and tying him up. The hugs? Dave was unhappy and needed friends. If we'd known about him losing Michelle we'd have given him as many friendly hugs as he wanted and maybe found a hetero friend to give him more than we could. Will you forgive us, Dave?"

"Yes, if you'll forgive me for the hugs."

"I won't," Petra said firmly. "I'll just give you some more."

She pushed Michelle aside and hugged me fiercely. Angela came around the bed and hugged me from the other side.

"Hands off!" Michelle shouted. "He's mine! You can be friends with us, but no hugs except when I'm here."

"Well," Petra said, "You're here, so he's getting another one."

She pulled one of my arms around her body and rested against my shoulder.

"Get her off me, please, Angela," I asked. "Being friendly is one thing. Being squeezed breathless is another."

"And I want a hug too," Elsa added. "I need Dave's forgiveness too. I only did what I did as their friend but I'm the one who put the handcuffs on him".

Angela pulled Petra away. I opened my arms and hugged Elsa. I whispered in her ear.

"You put the cuffs on. Can you get them off me, now, please?"

"Yes," she whispered back. She stretched out. I heard two clicks and my ankles were free. I stood up and grabbed Michelle.

"This is the one I really want to hug," I announced. "I appreciate everyone else's hugs, as friends, but I want Michelle to be more than a friend."

"But friends can be useful, loyal, helpful," Angela said, "and what are you two going to do about the real villain, Alan? You might need our help."

"We won't," I said emphatically. "Alan was fired two months ago. Not for this but for inappropriate advances to another female colleague. I understand that he has moved to Scotland. I don't want any more plots, just a pleasant Christmas with Michelle."

We went downstairs for coffee and cakes. Elsa suggested that we shouldn't waste any more studio time.

I dressed as Santa Claus, without a beard. Elsa, Michelle, Angela and Petra dressed themselves as Elves, Santa's helpers, and Mother Christmas.

I have two albums of pictures of that session.

I'll never show one of them to the photo club members. One or more of us is half-naked, apparently bound, and in very suggestive poses.

The two I like best are one of Michelle, red skirt flipped up, bare-arsed across my knee, my hand raised and fake red finger marks on her backside; and the matching picture of me, bared-arsed over her skirted knees, with her hand descending.

That Christmas studio session will always stay in our memories. Whether our kids will ever see that photo album? We'll wait until they are adults and decide then.