Birthday Photoshoot

"Okay, boys, we're probably about done. Unless there are any last-minute requests?"

I look expectantly round the faces of the young men I'm posing for. I should probably mention that the photographers are my brother, Martin, and three of his friends. And I'm Emma: Emma Daniels.

I can see that there's something Gurdip -- the quiet, shy one -- wants to say, but he'll be too shy to speak up. He's enjoyed himself -- they all have -- but he's barely said a word over the whole one-hour session.

I prompt him. "Gurdip?"

"Er... well, yeah." He's embarrassed and I encourage him with a smile. "You know those Czech casting photos you get on the Internet?"

I do. "Where the model ends up on the stool?"

He nods and manages a self-conscious grin.

I know what he wants. I perch myself at the front edge of the stool they've provided, spread my legs as far apart as they'll go, with my hands on my thighs, and smile at Gurdip, who is delighted. He takes the shot and is followed by the others. We do it again with my hands on the stool, then behind my head, then cupping my breasts. There's some moving in for close-ups, too; they've gained confidence over the last hour.

Did I mention that I'm naked?

Eventually they're done and the session is over. "We can do selfies, if anyone would like to."

There are nods all round; they would like to do selfies. The young ones usually do: it's something to show their mates.

While we're taking selfies, Mum, who has excellent timing, brings in the coffee.

And if you're wondering why I'm posing for my brother and his friends, the explanation -- most of which I will spare you -- is complicated. But, basically, I blame my mother.

Her mother, my gran, was a stripper in the seventies, when censorship by the Lord Chamberlain ended and girls could dance naked for an audience without being arrested. And they did: in theatres, clubs, and the back rooms of local pubs. We still meet people now who remember Gran stripping all those years ago.

Mum was a model. It was before the Internet got going, in the heyday of top-shelf magazines some of which became very explicit. A lot of that stuff has been scanned by 'collectors' and is now on the Internet, and no doubt on the phones and laptops of half the boys at Martin's school. Not to mention the teachers and a handful of the girls. Mum's forty-two now and gave up modelling in her thirties, but she's looked after herself. She's noticed the growing demand for older models in the magazines and on porn sites, though, and she's thinking about it. Again.

So, you see, it's in the blood.

As for me, I got to uni against the odds and need to earn to cover basic living costs. Bar work and waitressing pay peanuts and I don't fancy escorting, table dancing or sucking off the landlord in lieu of rent. So, like my mum, I ended up as a 'glamour' model. There's an agency; there is in most university towns. Mostly it's not glamour, of course, it's just soft porn. Some of it's quite sexy and erotic, though, even if it is quite explicit, and some of it's just spreading your legs and shoving things up your fanny: 'insertions' in the jargon of amateur pornographers. You'd be surprised at the variety of insertions.

By and large, though, I haven't found amateur pornographers to be the bunch of sleazy perverts you might imagine. Most are friendly and sociable once you get to know them, reasonably polite, and observe the unwritten 'no touching' rule without being told. They pay me; I take my clothes off, pose however they want and they take photographs. What they do with them is up to them.

Not that anyone's paying for the present session, of course; this one's a freebie. A gift.

Pictures inevitably find their way onto the Internet and I did worry at one time about embarrassing Martin, but it seems that having a mother and a sister who are pornstars -- not that either of us have ever been 'stars', exactly -- earned him some kudos. And half of them swap naked selfies these days anyway, and share stuff that they find, so I guess it's not such a big deal.

Nevertheless I was surprised when Mum said that what Martin fancied for his birthday was a photo-shoot with me for him and his mates. It's his eighteenth, which is quite a big deal: end of schooldays, off to uni, etc. I had to think about it, though. I mean, I love him dearly but he is my brother and I had visions of all his rugby team, not to mention his classmates, turning up for a cheap thrill. I needn't have worried: he only invited three -- all lads I'd met before -- and in hindsight I can see he set it up as much for them as for himself. They're an eclectic bunch, though.

There's Gurdip. Like Martin, Gurdip's into maths and science and stuff, but he's bright, seriously bright. Straight A's all the way through school and in October he's off to Cambridge to study computer science. Small, bespectacled, of Indian extraction, a kid almost made to be bullied, which he would have been had he not made a friend of Terry, though a more unlikely pair would be hard to imagine.

Terry is Martin's best mate; they play rugby together. They were friends in primary school, and Terry was a big lad even then. Now, he's about six foot two and built, as they say in these parts, like a brick shithouse. And it's all muscle. On the rugby field Terry is formidable: fast and agile despite his size and very hard to stop. He's aiming for a career in professional rugby. And no one picks on his friend, Gurdip.

Off the field you couldn't meet a nicer bloke than Terry. He's quiet, polite, softly spoken. Perhaps he has to be: if he ever lost his rag with someone he'd probably rip them apart. I've watched him play -- big, strong thighs in skimpy little shorts -- and I won't pretend that a lascivious thought has never crossed my mind.

Then there's Lorne, another of Martin's friends from way back. Lorne's an artist -- not brilliant, but pretty good. He draws, paints, sculpts -- we have a small statuette he made in our living room -- but his big thing is photography and he's off to art school in September. I suspect that's why he's here; they probably won't learn much from me, but there's plenty that Lorne could teach them about taking photographs.

Incidentally, I doubt if Gurdip's ever seen a girl naked; Terry probably has: he'll certainly have had plenty of offers; and I'm sure I won't be the first woman Lorne has photographed in the altogether, nor the last.

They've moved the furniture around to make space in the middle of the floor. Someone, presumably Lorne, has set up a couple of studio lights round a big, circular rug and a stool, which I presume is where they'll want me to pose, and I see they're all sporting proper digital cameras. No one is using a phone.

I smile to put them at their ease. "Are you going to tell me what to do, boys, or leave it up to me?"

"You kick it off," says Lorne, "and we'll chip in as and when."

I'm wearing a short skirt, button blouse, brief but pretty undies and stripper heels. I start with some pinup-type poses -- lots of thigh flashing, glimpses of underwear, that sort of thing. Lorne is already organising them, encouraging them to take turns rather than jostle for position and helping them find good angles. I catch his eye and and he grins -- he knows that this is a warm-up and the clothes will be coming off soon enough.

Next I'm undoing buttons, then the bra has gone, the blouse is wide open and my tits are on show. There's a trick, by the way, to getting a bra off from under a blouse but most strippers and pretty well all models can do it.

Lorne has me squeezing my breasts, cupping them and tweaking the nipples, then leaning so that they hang, though mine don't hang much. He's shooting from some interesting angles, too. He's taking over, but the others don't seem to mind: he knows what he's doing, and they're happy to follow his lead.

I imagine that the skirt will be next to go, but not so. Lorne has me lifting the skirt to my waist and slipping my knickers down until they're round my thighs, then round my ankles. It takes longer than you'd think: He has me turning this way and that, front shots, rear shots, bending over the stool, and there are four of them shooting.

Finally the knickers go, too, it gets a bit more raunchy and I'm a bit surprised that it's Martin who's calling the shots: on my back, legs in the air, firstly together then spread wide. I think I may need to have a word with him later. The others like it, and move in one by one for each shot, then it's hands and knees, or perched on the stool. I've still got the skirt -- wearing something is often sexier than wearing nothing -- but we're doing wide-open leg shots now with the skirt round my waist.

This is the sort of thing the amateur pornographers love and, let's face it, it's is not fine art. It's erotic photography, pornography if you will, and doing it well involves a lot more than just taking your clothes off. I want my regular punters to come back for more because I need the repeat bookings and I want these four to enjoy themselves because they're Martin's friends. And judging from the bulges in their trousers I'm achieving my objective.

Eventually the skirt is off and I'm naked for a while before Lorne suggests a change of costume. The others nod their agreement and I show them the lingerie I've brought along.

Lorne grins at Martin. "You choose, mate -- it's your birthday."

Martin, who's sporting as obvious an erection as any of them, colours slightly but ruffles through the assorted fripperies and picks out a pretty satin basque. For those unfamiliar with such garments, a basque is a corset with a built-in bra but no bottom, just long, sexy suspenders. I have lacy stockings to go with it and it's a turn on for a lot of guys, especially without knickers. Or panties as Terry calls them, bless him.

They watch, and take the odd candid snap as I get into the basque -- it fastens at the front -- pull on the stockings and fasten the suspenders.

"Do we want knickers?" I look around the four expectant faces.

"Er, no," mutters Martin. "I mean, if that's all right with you, Sis?"

Well, yes, it's all right with me -- it's what I'm used to -- but I hadn't expected it to come from Martin. We're definitely going to have to have a Talk.

Lorne directs me through another series of poses, getting quite explicit now; he seems to have an inexhaustible imagination. Eventually the stockings and basque are off and I'm naked again.

I look around the four of them. "Anyone got any poses they'd like me to do?"

There are a few and then finally there is Gurdip's Czech casting pose, which is actually is quite erotic if you like that sort of thing. The trick is for the model to look as though she takes pleasure in exhibiting herself, which not all models do. I'm not ashamed to admit that I get a bit of a buzz out of it.

We spend a while doing selfies -- I'm still naked and there's a certain amount of touching, but nothing untoward -- and then we stand around chatting and sipping coffee. This is no ordinary coffee; since it's Martin's birthday Mum has made Irish coffee -- sweet black coffee coffee with whiskey and a layer of cream floating on top.

I notice that she's attracting Lorne's gaze.

"Thanks, Mrs Daniels, you've been very kind."

"Not at all, Lorne. I'm glad you've enjoyed yourselves."

And then I realise he's looking her up and down with his speculative, pornographer's eye.

"Er... I don't suppose there's any chance, you know, while we've got the lights here and everything..."

She smiles and shakes her head. "I'm afraid not, Lorne. But you never know, maybe some day..."

Epilogue

Terry asked me out! Obviously I've had dates before and so has Terry, but it's the first time I've gone out with someone who's already seen me naked. We had a quiet evening out and I took him home and up to my room. He insisted he wasn't expecting ... etc, etc. I told him not to be so soft and to get his kit off, which he did and we shagged. And it was nice. And if that sounds like a less than ringing endorsement, bear in mind that it was our first time together and neither of us has actually been around that much. The next night we shagged again and it was better. Now, while I'm at home, I'm seeing Terry pretty much every day. Sometimes we go out and then back to his place, or mine, and we shag. Sometimes we just stay in and shag. And we are getting much better at it and it's a lot of fun.

Unfortunately I'll be going back to uni in a few weeks and Terry has a trial with a well known rugby club in south-west London; if they take him on he'll be moving away. No doubt there'll be others, but Terry has set a pretty high bar. And if there are girls in Streatham who fancy a kind, gentle, six-foot-two rugby player they're going to benefit a lot from stuff I've taught Terry and things we've worked out together. One way and another, this has been a holiday I'll remember for a long time.

Oh, and I did have a word with Martin and told him I had no idea he saw me that way. He says it's quite normal for blokes to fancy their sisters, especially if they're pretty and wander round the house with not much on. I ask if I should stop doing that and his reply was, "Hell, no!"

I know what he'd like, but I'm afraid he can dream on. I've told him he can watch me in the shower occasionally if he wants to, and rub me down afterwards, which I'm pretty sure is more intimacy than most blokes get from their sisters, and if he behaves I'll give him the odd wank, but that's it. There's no way I'm going to fuck my brother unless I'm totally desperate, and that won't happen while there are men like Terry about.

A set of new, recent pics of my mum has appeared on one of the smaller porn sites. They're raunchy but I think she looks quite good in them and I detect the hand of Lorne in the the posing. She hasn't said anything yet, but she will. And there's a growing fashion for mothers and daughters posing naked together...