Z Photo Studio
by mandezulu
Warning: Raceplay, Taboo, Voyeurism.
My first job out of college was as a nature photographer up in Door County, Wisconsin. The terrain up there in northern Wisconsin is wild, rocky and pine trees are everywhere. You won't see much variety beyond that, unless you count the deep waters to the left and right of the County, eventually the land runs out in front of you. If you look at a map of Wisconsin, Door County is the "finger" on the right-hand side of the state, running north and off to the side towards Michigan. The majority of the Door County area is a unique series of small towns, no McDonalds or Walmarts, almost a retro vintage sort of place. Today, minus people doing the zombie walk with their phones up to their noses you might think it was 1990. If you wanted a decent coffee you had to visit an actual coffee shop, not a Starbucks.
My studio is small but the location is stellar; at the edge of a huge cliff surrounded left and right by stands of pine trees. There still are a lot of wild places, huge tracts of State-owned land, National Forests, and hundreds of miles of shoreline scattered with driftwood and clear blue water. My studio, Zee Photo, is next to a major highway which runs north until you run out of road and hit the Great Lakes, it is about 25 miles away from the end of the "finger." I was born down south in Iowa, moved to Wisconsin for college and then got offered a job in Photography up in Great Eagle, the name of the town I currently reside. Small town vibes everywhere, some places could fit right into the 1950s with drive-in movie theaters and commercialism in the form of gift shops, t-shirt vendors, bear skin rug and knife shops made to look like Gold Rush-era general good shops, fudge confectioneries, and healing crystal bullshit shops.
I was pretty much right out of college and was amazed I could get a decent paying job that involved some of a my useless photography and pottery degrees. Originally the guy who hired me, Zeke Vanderhoof, put me on simple jobs, shooting background scenes that would be used as backdrops in portrait photos, via the use of Photoshop. I was good at the job and Z, as he was known to all the locals as, even helped me find my current apartment, in the same town, not even all that far from the studio. Getting set up like that I had it so good and business wasn't booming but it wasn't as bad as it is now. Nowadays it's different, any fool with a smart phone can take pics and overlap them, mask out an area and insert another picture pretty damn seamlessly. I moved up here about 13 years ago and now I own the business, Z passed away in 2009 from a hunting accident.
I have two staff people, a secretary who is my wife, Sherry, and a young female named Jasmine. Jasmine had a very hard time finding work, as she stands out like a sore thumb up here in these parts, she's a dark shade of ebony. But Jasmine is a good worker, unlike my wife who pretty much shows up when she feels like it and puts in a half-assed effort. Sherry is my second wife, and I am her second husband. Her old man was a biker and got drunk and high one night and decided it was a good idea to ride his bike at night without headlights or a helmet. Bob was a hardcore biker type, was in a gang and I was this white college boy with pockets filled with cash. I met Sherry at a bookstore where she was browsing the Adult magazines and I was getting some blank sketch books. They say opposites attract which I think is horseshit, but Sherry was down to earth, humble, and drop dead gorgeous. She later shared stories of being an "old lady" in the biker gang and she willingly passed herself around to the other members and leader.
Sherry was 5-3", blonde, tanned skin, and most noticeably had huge beach ball tits, implants. She was 42 now, I was 39, but she still dressed like the highschool cheerleader slut she grew up as. Why did I marry her? Lust honestly, but after that sheen wore off she was back to her old ways, riding on the back of her dead husband's friends motorcycles, drinking at bars, and just up to no good. I was 99% sure she was screwing some of her old leather-clad friends, but I wasn't the type to break up a relationship. I was the nerd, the goody two shoes guy, Mr. show up early, leave late and work hard guy. Sherry could give less of a shit. She wanted me to get a Harley, wear a leather jacket and just be more out-going, more take-charge but that wasn't me. I thought I could change her. Make her dress nicer, no more ripped jeans and an old Hooters t-shirt and black bra underneath. She was who she was, and I wasn't about to drop her off and start all over with a new girlfriend, make her a wife, etc. Everyone in town knew each other and they would talk. More than they did now, as nice as a small town was, there are downsides.
Jasmine was in the office sorting through cardboard boxes of old photos when I came into the studio that morning. She was dressed like a school girl, white blouse and black tie, dark blue short skirt, white socks and black shoes with the buckle. Jasmine Deanner was a different type of woman, I wasn't sure what to pin it down to honestly, her race and upbringing, her peculiar fashion sense, or whatever but she was fun to look at bent over my desk, rummaging through the boxes. I couldn't care less what she was looking for, my attention was on her long ebony legs in white stockings and her butt which jiggled now and then as she reached down into a box, grabbing a handful of old Polaroids. She was wearing white cotton panties, which were my favorite on a woman. I wanted to reach up and grab her, bring her close and kiss the back of her neck. She wore the same perfume every day, it was heavy and earthy yet lingered like smoke.
It was almost like a curse but my thick white penis was getting hard looking at her bent over my wooden desk. What turned me on the most was her dark ebony skin. The color was hard to describe, like dark red mixed with black. She wasn't super dark like an Ethopian woman, but darker than a light-skinned woman of color. I had never been with a black woman before, calling Jas, as I referred to her as, a woman was a legitimately true being 18 years old but in worldly-practice she was still a child, naive to the ways of the world. She had graduated from highschool with top grades and her family "kicked her black ass out" of the house as she put it during the interview, left her to fend for herself. She told me an unbelievable story about buying a Greyhound bus ticket north to Green Bay where she hung out with a guy she met on Tinder for a few weeks and then hitchhiked north up to Door County. I asked her why come up here where there were so few black people, it must feel awkward or out of place but she said it was a spur of the moment decision, to just get away from the Tinder guy and see what was up at the top of the state. Those long black legs clad in white pantyhose were driving me crazy, I wanted to run my hands over her so badly.
Jas was 18 years old, a slender but curvy build at 5-6", about 165 lbs, and had long straightened hair that shimmered like an Elle girl magazine model. She painted her nails white, never wore a bra as far as I could tell, and had nice full breasts, probably a D cup. Her posture was very good and I liked that about her and how she looked you in the eyes when she spoke. Her skin was always flawlessly smooth and clean, her nose slightly pushed up and there was a gap between her front teeth but to me she was the most beautiful woman. I never made a pass at her, or even laid a hand on her except to shake her hand at the end of the interview which was last Tuesday. Today is was Monday and I wanted to make a move, do something to show I was interested in her but not just grab her ass. I coughed and she turned around quickly, straightened up and looked me in the eyes,
"Oh, good morning Sir. I was just, umm, cleaning up these boxes. They're everywhere, ain't they?" She stammered a bit, it was unlike her to be unsure of her demeanor. I brushed past her, coffee in hand, my leather work bag slung over my right shoulder. I had a coffee in each hand, one for her and one for me. She took the hint and grabbed one white cup, nodding her head in thanks. She was an odd duck, but she was my odd duck. I sat behind the desk, putting my cup on the desk and my work bag on the floor. It was true, those old cardboard boxes were all over the office, by my desk, her desk, the window, the front door, even blocking the fire exit.
