Accidentally Emailed Pictures

Preamble:

There is sexual tension, but no sex in this story.

***

I'm a mum.

My husband is the technologist in my family. He setup the IT gizmos in our home. The WiFi network and the like, including a set of email accounts for me, our son, and himself based on our family name, and a suffix system to denote each specific person.

I was in my late 40's then. My husband was a couple of years older.

Our son, John, was 22. John was on a 2-year overseas assignment in a southern European country, enjoying the work, and immersing in the biodiversity.

My husband was on a month-long overseas project. In his off-work hours killing time in the shopping mall near his hotel, he chanced upon a yellow Wicked Weasel bikini which he thought would look good on me. He took a picture of the garment on his cellphone, and sent it to me to consider. If OK, he would make the purchase.

The bikini was nothing like any of the swimsuits I have worn so far. Put simply, it was barely legal. Wicked. It left nothing to even the dullest of imaginations.

Even though I considered myself to have a good body, it was a venerable body that was mellowed by its complement of sags and flabs. My husband described my body as lite Rubenesque. Alluring without being overpowering. He liked it, in pleasing contrast to those impossibly perfect, confected plasticky models that assaulted one's senses incessantly on the internet. He said my sags and flabs were by design, to complement the other perfections. Self-evidently, my husband was a visually attuned person.

I was about to tell my husband no freaking way, don't waste his money. Then, I thought.... hmmm... there was more going on here than mere itsy bits of economical textile. There was the physical, and there was the mental realm. I'd let him have his fun. This would keep his inner innard embers glowing, as he laboured through his project, away from the soft comforts of home.

So, I said OK, but qualified that I would wear it only for him, at his pleasure, as the exclusive privileged audience. Membership had its privileges, and he was my only member. Or, if I was really up to feeling sufficiently depraved, I would wear it during vacations at exotic locales where we knew nobody, and could be cavalier.

My husband was ecstatic. He duly purchased the bikini. He said he couldn't wait to see me in it.

On his third week away, my husband told me that it was unlikely that his project could be completed within 4 weeks. He would have to stay on for an additional 4 weeks.

My husband said that he would courier the bikini to me. The suspense was gnawing him away. He would like me to put on the bikini, take some selfies, and send them to him. Mildly kinky, but quite flattering really.

The bikini arrived. I used our family point-and-shoot digital camera, tripod and timer, to take a few pictures of myself at our poolside and patio. The aggregate of being so exposed in the skimpy bikini, and the thought that my husband would be getting his jollies from these images, gave me goosebumps.

I reviewed the pictures on my PC.

The top barely covered my chocolate smear of areolas. There were hints of pinkish brown peeking out cheekily at the sides of the top. The form and substance of my slightly saggy breasts were presented in their near native pendulous glory. Yes, the mammary sag added an allure edge that was easy to identify, but elusive to define.

I had a soft rise of tummy. But, I didn't mind it so much. Its contours blended seamlessly into my scheme of curves. I was beginning to believe my husband that these were by design.

My loin bottom covered my plump mons pubis only just so, hugging it mercilessly, betraying the suggestive outline of a soft labia rise, descending sharply into cleft. Good thing I was shaven scrupulously.

My rump was entirely exposed, trussed in an ornamental string, as was obligatory for a thong bikini.

I thought I would feel exposed and vulnerable. But, counterintuitively no. I felt sexy, living up to my husband's ideal of lite Rubenesque. I was pleased with myself, and the body that was me. Not too shabby for a late 40's matriarch!

I launched the email program. I typed the first characters of my husband's email account. The system auto-filled the rest in a hurried flurry. I attached the pictures. Since this enterprise was lavishly minimalist, I typed a coquettish "enjoY" on the email title line, and fired it flippantly into the internet yonder. I messaged my husband: "It's in the mail!" My deprived spouse would be fed his rations.

An hour later, my husband replied that there was nothing in his email. I checked. Oh dear! I had inadvertently sent the email to my son's email account, as auto-filled by the email program. Shit happens! I promptly resent the pictures to my husband, triple-checking that I got the account address right this time.

My husband confirmed that he received the email. He asked what happened? I said, minor technical glitch. I airbrushed it off by saying I would explain to him when he was back home. What was important was that he got his happy fix in hand.

I attempted to retrieve the email that was sent to my son. There was no retrieve function. I googled the help for the email program. No such function. Mild panic gripped me. What do I do now? On the one hand, the images were just bikini pictures, and tastefully rendered ones at that. Not nudes, so, not such a big deal on the sensuality Richter scale. That said, my son had never seen me in anything more revealing than a sensible one-piece swimsuit. No fleeting bathroom nudity glimpses. No inadvertent lingerie revelation flash moments. It would be a visual leap for my son.

The short and sweet "enjoY" email title was manifestly wicked. And in this mum-son context, it was titillation at a level bordering on the cusp of lite taboo. What would my son make of this? More pertinently, what would my son think of his mum?

I rationalised that what was done was done. They were mere bikini pictures, even if racy ones. I shouldn't overreact. It was not like we were a raging and foaming conservative religious fundamentalist family, cowering under the wrath of an omnipresent, omniscient god. I would just wait for my son's reaction, then craft my response accordingly. If you thought too hard about matters, you get contrived outcomes that don't pan out well.

Three days later, I received an email response from my son.

"Dear mum,

Thank you for sharing your bikini pictures. It was a pleasing surprise. I presume it's a new bikini. All your past swimsuits, for as long as I can remember, have been one-piece outfits. What possessed you to buy this bikini? Or, maybe dad bought it for you?

This one is a revelation, in more ways than one. You look fabulous. You look so appealing. Comely would be my spontaneous gush word of choice, if a son is allowed to describe that of his mum. I have more to say, but I'd better rein myself in here because it's a small treacherous step to tripping headlong over the line. A son is socially permitted to describe his mum in only so many ways, before he ranges into a man describing a woman.

Most importantly, besides bodily appeal, I see a confident radiant you in flourish, perversely, inversely proportional to your swimsuit cover!

Dad is one lucky son of a bitch!

And yes, I enjoyed the pictures. Many times over. It's usual for emails like this, at this juncture, for the son to ask for more pictures. But, this will not be the case for me.

Love

John"

"Dear John,

Comely, huh? Are you describing your mum, or yourself? Sorry, just teasing. It's all your fault. Your email set me in this raunchy mood.

The bikini is a sublime figment of your dad's overheated imagination. He is such a visual person.

Just so you know, the email you received was actually meant for your dad. But, because of an email address typo, a comedy of typo error, you became the lucky beneficiary of your dad's visual feed. Don't be embarrassed. I am not. When we discovered the error of my ways, I decided to let that email to you just be, rather than overreact. I thought it'll be interesting and cute to get your reaction. Put you through the son-mum tension mill, juxtaposed against the backdrop of man-woman tension. As it has panned out, this is the right decision.

We've both dealt with this in an adult way that celebrates sensuality for what it is, within our mum-son context, without the awkwardness and burden of the taboo. You appreciated your mum's womanly charms as a young man, while treating her respectfully as a mum. Your middle-aged mum in turn is flattered by her young son's attention, boosting her womanly confidence.

I'm not sending to you the pictures that you didn't ask for. I've a better idea. In your next home leave, you, dad and I will have a family pool laze about party. Bring that high-end Nikon plaything of yours. You'll need every pixel you can muster to bear on your subject.

Love,

Mum"

Fast forward. My husband was back from his overseas assignment. John was home on a leave break.

It was bedtime. I was reading a book in bed. My husband was next to me. He was clearing his emails and messages of the day, and then drifted to something else on his cellphone. I peered over. He was looking at my Wicked Weasel pictures! I found it somewhat bizarre that here was a man admiring me digitally on a looking glass, while I was sitting in rippling flesh in a sexy nightie next to him.

Husband: You never did tell me about the technical glitch you encountered when you sent the Wicked Weasel pictures to me.

Me: I inadvertently sent the goodies to our son when the email program auto-filled the recipient input field. It's all your fault, in the way you setup the email account identities.

Husband: Oh! You never told me.

Me: Well, you never asked. And I have forgotten about it.

Husband: And what was our son's reaction?

Me: He intimated that he loved it. Understandably, more so than you, since you've seen me naked on more than a few occasions, whereas his most compelling view of his statuesque mum before was her one-piece swimsuit, he he! The boy had an underprivileged teenhood! Methinks your son carries your 'visual' genes, in case you haven't noticed.

Husband: In that case, you need to put on your yellow peril when we go family swimming in our garden pool, to make it up for our son.

Me: You don't mind if your son checks out his old mum?

Husband: I'd rather he checks out his mum than his dad! And if a strapping lad checks out his mum, it only means that the husband has got a winner.

And so we had our family pool day. Suffice to say, we had a good time. It was not all centred on my yellow peril. It had a competitor.

John surprised us. He brought back a cultural sliver of Europe to our pool. John wore a devilish European-styled swimming brief. Effectively a penis sheath, a cock sock.

The End