He Takes Pics for Parents Ch. 01

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.

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Preamble:

There is nudity, exhibitionist and voyeuristic tension, and teasing lite sex in this story.

If you are looking for animated, wailing and screeching sex, this is not for you. Move on.

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This story is about that time when my wife and I requested our son to help photograph us nude.

I am Ethan. My wife is Emma, or Em in our Brit vernacular. We are in our late forties. We have been married for close to 30 years.

We have one child. David in his twenties, single, is a successful go-getter technopreneur. He has his own start-up in the Financial Technology sector. He raked in his first million before he was twenty-five. David is a 6-footer, good-looking, carries an energetic and vital demeanour. His brew of energy and chill makes him popular with the ladies. Em likens our son to Michelangelo's David.

We live in a remote countryside cottage perched on a picturesque sea cliff in southwest England.

Brown haired Em is the quintessential English rose. Em is pretty in a plain sort of way. Em was a ballet dancer in her youth. Although she has stopped active dancing a long time ago, she maintains the upright graceful mien of a ballerina.

Now, how do I best describe Em's body without contradiction? Confoundingly buxomly and nubile in the same hiss of breath.

Let's try this. Imagine you are doing a spot of photo editing. Your base image is a mature woman, five feet four inches, just shy of buxom. She has her obligatory share of flabs and sags of her age. Generous pendulous breasts. A dusting of freckles on upper chest. Softly contoured rump, prominent, but short of provocative. Soft rise of tummy. An artful delicate caesarean section cut filament line just above her mound. Well-turned legs flare into wide hips. Lite Rubenesque.

You have a secondary picture image resource to draw from in your photo editing project. A fresh faced nubile adolescent, also five feet four inches tall, on the cusp of womanhood. Her budding breasts are contoured in a soft wide arc. A gentle rise that promises lush in the fullness of time.

Her silken mons pubis is a minimalist dainty gash. A smooth impish cleft with no inner lips protruding.

Now, copy-and-paste the budding breasts, and pubescent bottom, from the secondary to the primary image.

Voila! There you have it, Em! A curious confluence abstraction of buxom and nubile, of pubescent and mature. It all hangs together surreally into a sensual womanly whole that is alluring. Easy to identify, but hard to define precisely.

Em has mixed feelings about her body. Self-evidently, she likes her buxom bits. But, she is acutely conscious of her modest top. While I feel that her buxomness heightens her pubescent allure to conjure a comely feminine whole, she feels that it accentuates her topside deficit. Em is shy. But, she is no prude.

I am five feet eight inches tall. I have my share of mellowed contours. My penis is above average in length, but by not much. My girth is below average, but not spindly. Em describes my endowment as statuesque, though which particular statue, I don't know. My shaved groin complements Em's virginal pubescence.

Em and I are on holiday. The holiday is a birthday, as well as a wedding anniversary gift from our son. An expression of his appreciation for our having given him the foundation of a nurturing upbringing and an education, to set him up for his technopreneurship success. He made all the arrangements unbeknownst to us until three days before our scheduled check-in. A most pleasant surprise. The hotel is 30 kilometers from our home, along the same coastline.

We are spending Em's and my fiftieth birthday in this well-appointed hotel. Our birthdays are a day apart. My birthday comes first, then Em's. Also, by design, we married on Em's birthday. This is our thirtieth wedding anniversary.

We agreed that we will do a triple celebration on Em's birthday. My birthday, belatedly by a day. Our wedding anniversary. A three-in-one milestone. We want this to be special and memorable.

The hotel is lovely. High floor. In-room jacuzzi. Breathtaking seaview. Balcony with 360 degree privacy. An overhang of mini infinity pool. Fancy electronics for illumination, climate control, audio, video. A single remote control unit controls this electronic universe.

The hotel apparently got wind of our birthdays from our check-in registration details. They throw in generous freebies. A bespoke dinner menu. Birthday cake. Wine. An in-room couples massage. The works.

After a lovely dinner, and then drinks at the piano bar, we repair to our room. As we are dressed to the nine, I tell Em that I would like to snap some pictures of her before we change into our bedwear.

Em is dressed in a mid-thigh length smouldering black dress number. The dress mercilessly hugs her body to the point of suffocation, thrusting every curve to the fore. Her fuck-me, criminally provocative high heels complete the sensual visual assault.

Em has never been a willing photography subject because of her ambivalence about her body. I tell her that this is a very special occasion. She looks gorgeous. The ambience is right. As is our mood. My camera is a Nikon DSLR. We can experimentally take any number of pictures, and delete the pictures that she doesn't like. And the picture collection will be our private possession, privy to our eyes only.

Em eventually reluctantly consents after much cajoling, on condition that she reserves the right to delete whichever pictures she chooses. I agree.

Em: Let me freshen my makeup.

Me: You look just fine. But, go ahead if that's what you want.

Em tarts up. I get ready my camera gear.

For starters, I have Em sit in the chair. I take a couple of portrait pictures from the front and sides.

I then sit Em on the bed against the headboard. I place a pillow to prop her back. Em is half-reclined, with her legs together, knees drawn up. I tell her to chill. Her raven black dress juxtaposed against the white bedtop provides perfect photographic contrast.

Click.

Me: Run your fingers through your hair. Raise your right leg to rest over your left knee.

Click.

Me: Dangle your right leg high heels from your toes, come hither.

Click.

Me: Move over to the coffee table. Sit near the edge. Legs crossed.

Click.

Me: Look to your left. Now, to your right.

Click.

Click.

Me: On the couch. Roll onto your tummy. Elbows on the couch. Prop your chin in your hands. Bend your right leg behind you, incline it left. Dangle your high heels from your toes.

Click.

Em: I think I'm showing too much of who I am not.

Me: You're a lovely model. And it's only you and me seeing these pictures. Now, I want to take some lingerie shots. Bra and thong. And high heels.

Em: Oh no! We have gone way too far.

Me: Come on! It's no different from your bikini. Just this once. Humour me on this night of our triple celebration. Wear your sexiest lingerie.

Em rifles through her wardrobe velvety stash. She selects a sinful dainty black lacy half-cup bra, and matching thong panties. She dresses up, or more aptly, dresses down, in these economical garments. Her light chocolate smear of areolas and perky nipples can be made out through the sheer fabric. She decides to freshen her makeup.

She then hesitates for a moment wondering just what she is doing. She appears to decide that she is enjoying herself.

I have Em pose in several positions. Coquettish, kittenish. Bordering on saucy. But never lewd, which I have an aversion to. And the ballerina in Em feels the same.

There is a sort of "marginal utility of sensuality" that a photographer is sensitive to. Knowing how to artfully calibrate the visual effect to the sensuality richter scale.

Me: Stand there. Put your foot on the dresser table as if you are a ballerina practising at the barre. Point your toes.

I click away from several angles.

Me: Now, lean forward towards the table. Hold your ankle.

Click.

Me: Execute a ballerina's arabesque position. Stand on one leg. The other leg turned out, extended behind your body. Both legs held straight.

I orbit Em.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Me: You're a super model. Nicely turned legs, flaring to lush hips. A good figure. Are you enjoying this?

Em: Like you say, it's the same as a bikini. I'm beginning to mindlessly believe you.

Me: On the bed again. Flat on your back.

Em: Hey! This is getting into the lewd zone.

Me: No. It won't. It is not necessarily the pose that defines the shot. It is the interaction of model, pose and photographic rendering. Trust me. I find lewd and lusty distasteful too.

I convinced Em.

Click.

Me: Flat on your back. Bend your knees. That's it.

Click.

Me: Raise your bent knees higher. Knees together in a knock-knee position. Gaze left with a contemplative faraway look. Lovely!

Her legs are presented in a playful flirty symmetry.

Click.

Me: Knees apart. Lovely thong.

Click.

Me: Now sit up in the middle of the bed.

I take hold of Em's hands and place them on her breasts.

Me: Push them up and together, like this.

Click.

I pull one bra strap off her shoulder and the cup of her bra down, revealing her perky nub which engorges even more as my thumb grazes over it.

Em (protesting): Hey! This is more exposure than a bikini!

Click.

Me: Can't stop now. We've come so far. Again, these are our private pictures.

I move behind Em. I slip off the fastening of her bra, taking it off completely. I put my hands round and cup her breasts, pinching her nipples between thumb and forefinger. I suggest she put her hands under her breasts, lifting them some, like an offering of treasured gifts.

Click.

I put my arms right round Em. I hold her right breast in my left hand, massaging and squeezing. My right hand slides down the front of her thong. My finger slips through the hermetic seal of her vagina. I move my finger inside her for a few seconds then withdraw. Em is sopping wet. I break away.

Me: Now, I want you to repeat what I have just done. Left hand massaging your right breast. Right hand into your thong pleasuring yourself.

Em: Whoa! We are deviating further and further from our script!

Me: Please...

She relents.

Click.

I move over to Em. I am so hot. I ease her thong to her ankles without asking her. She is surprised by my unannounced action. But, she does not resist. Em is now totally native.

I slip my finger into her vagina. She is leaking copiously. A musty smell permeates the air. Our eyes lock in a moment of heat.

Em: If I'm going to be naked, you should be too. Your trousers are contorted in agony. Lose your textile.

I am naked. Em cannot resist reaching out, kissing the hard flesh in front of her. She licks off the precum glistening on my proud head.

Em: I feel very exposed. Vulnerable. Just a couple more pictures only, please.

Em is conscious of her exposed bottom. She lays on the bed, flat on her stomach.

Em: Well, don't get anything up needlessly. I'm not showing much.

Me: Raise your head and shoulders. Pull yourself up enough. Nipples on the bed out of view, but only just so.

A provocative teasing peek-a-boo pose. I can see her soft rise of breasts nicely, but not her nipples.

Click.

Em: You get my bare derrière. But, I'm keeping my legs closed. So, don't billow your hopes up.

I go around the bed taking pictures of her back, especially her nice, round butt. Hot!

Me: Maintain your pose. But, bend your right leg. Dangle your high heels on your toes, come hither.

Click.

Me: Just a few standing shots and we will be done.

Em: Oh no! I am not exposing my bare lady part.

Me: Let's do this. I will take the shots. Artistically composed. In our review of the pictures, we can decide what to do. You can choose to delete the pictures. Or, based on your selection, I can photo edit them and airbrush the bits you deem offensive.

Em: Hmmm... you are determined! I guess I have to let you have your ration of jollies, this being your birthday celebration.

Em is standing in her buxom pubescent full glory, perched on her high heels. Her legs are together, clasped tightly, guarding her nether charms. Her pristine mons pubis, and impish hint of cleft accentuate her pubescent allure. A buxom pubescent curiosity.

Click.

Me: Sit on the edge of the table. Cross your legs. Kittenish look.

Click.

Me: Spread your legs. Look right, away from the camera as if something is holding your attention.

Em hesitates. This is the maiden shot of her revealed lady part.

Me: Please? We are almost done. You can delete this picture in our review if you are not happy with it. Or, I photo edit airbrush what little that we see of your muff.

Click.

Me: Stand with your back to me. Legs apart. Wider. Good! Bend right down. Right hand hold your left ankle.

Em: Oh God! No! This is smut!

Me: This is hot! Please? We can review later and decide if it is indeed smut. From my view here, it is a sensual aesthetic rendition of who you are. Your face can't be seen anyway. Lovely! This picture will be it.

Em relents.

Click.

I upload the pictures onto my laptop PC. I hook up the PC to the large TV monitor so that we can slideshow the pictures. Em is about to throw on her bathrobe, but I tell her that we stay native, enjoy our nudity, cuddle up, as we review our pictures.

I laze on the couch with my legs extended. Em sits in front of me, pauses, as if giving me notice of her next move, then reclines, and melts onto me as if I am a lounge chair. We make some fine bodily adjustments. We are in the groove.

As we view the slideshow, I fondle Em's breasts, and knead her pliant eraser tip nipples. Em mews a musical exotic kittenspeak. I drift south. I am in full flourish, as is Em, judging from her moist bottom.

Em is pleased with the black dress series of pictures. She looks regally elegant and yet, sexy.

After initial misgivings, Em warms up to her bra and thong shots. She particularly likes the ballerina pose shots. Dance is close to her heart. These shots resonate with who she is. The shots have the unlikely quality combination of the artistic, soft athleticism, the pristine pubescence of a ballerina, and yet coquettish appeal, all at once.

We are aroused viewing Em's nude series. I tell Em that we are in the mood, in our element, and I will love to take some shots of us together in intimate poses. Again sexy, but not lewd. I lament that I don't have a tripod for my camera now. We will do those shots belatedly when we get home. Hopefully, we can recreate this mood.

The doorbell chimes. It startles us as we are not expecting anyone. We promptly put on our hotel bathrobes. I go to the door.

Surprise, surprise! It is our son, David! He carries a champagne in an ice bucket on one hand, and what looks like a birthday cake in a box on the other.

David: Mum and Dad, Happy Birthday and Happy Anniversary!

Em: Oh David, this is such a pleasant surprise!

David (noting his parents in bathrobes with apparently nothing beneath): Errr... am I interrupting anything? Do you want me to come back later?

Me: No. Not at all!

David sets up the champagne bucket, and flutes on the coffee table in the lounge area. It is a Krug. Our fave bubbly poison.

Em loves strawberries. She remarks that the champagne will pair nicely with the strawberries from the complimentary fruit basket of the day that is in our room.

David: Oh! That reminds me. I have that covered too! My hands were full with champagne, ice bucket and cake. Let me go to my car to get the bouquet of fresh strawberries. Give me ten minutes.

As David turns to leave, he inadvertently sees the picture of his mum on the TV screen. We have totally forgotten about the slideshow! This is the picture of Em in full frontal on her high heels, with her legs closed, betraying a hint of cleft. Em is mortified.

David acts nonchalantly, pivots casually away, as if the picture isn't there. A perfect gentleman. He almost convinces me that he has seen nothing. As I let him out of the room, he gives me a knowing smile, "I apologise for interrupting mum and you. I will be back shortly with the strawberries."

Em (flustered): I'm so embarrassed! It's all your fault! This photos obsession.

Me: Chill, chill! I don't think David saw anything. If he did, it was fleeting. A blip. In any case, it is a tasteful artistic picture. Nothing to be embarrassed about.

Em: But, he saw my breasts! And horror of horrors, my lady parts!

Me: As you have witnessed yourself at the hotel beach, many guests sunbathe au naturel. David could just as well have dropped in on us while you are sunbathing nude at the hotel poolside or beach. In that situation, he would have seen you in the flesh.

Em: Hmmm... I don't see how this is relevant. We are not nudists. Many of the hotel guests are foreigners, enjoying carefree anonymity, far from home. And I have never been in anything less than a sensible one-piece in public.

Perversely, as we banter, the picture is still on the TV monitor in its epic cinematic glory. We revisit it intently. I feel a tingle knowing that a strapping young man, our son, no less, has admired this vision of loveliness just a moment ago, if only for a second.

Me: Look, Em! The picture is artistically rendered. Your slit is barely visible beneath your plump mound. Your barely legal pubescence lends a pristine aura to the image.

Em calms down somewhat.

Em (curiously): I saw David talking with you at the door. What did he say?

Me (jocularly): Boys talk! He said he saw the loveliest woman ever, and he came in his pants. Twice over. Just kidding, he he!

Em (lightening up): Very funny!

Me: David apologised for interrupting us. It must be because we are in our bathrobes. Maybe we look hot and bothered?

Em: Hmmm... so he saw my picture.

Me: Give him a break! You are reading way too much into this fleeting episode.

Em: Hmmm... I guess so. We raised him well. He is a gentleman. And a handsome strapping young one to boot. My very own copy of Michelangelo's David. I guess I am over reacting. To be honest, I do get a surge from his glimpse of my picture, fleeting as it may be.

I walk over to Em. I slither my hand beneath her bathrobe and caress her muff. She is devilishly dewy moist.

Em: So, now you know. You must be thinking badly of me, David being our son.

As I bend over my PC to close the slideshow, my penis peeks through my gaping bathrobe quivering.

Em (patting my tumescence): Hmmm... looks like the feeling is mutual.

Me (philosophically): There is an inherent dualism about us. You are a mum and a woman. Just as David is a son and a man. And if we have a daughter, I will be a dad and a man. Most times, you are a mum when you are with David. But, there is just no telling when the woman in you shows up. It is beyond your control.

Em: Hmmm... I have never thought of it this way.

Me: So, you have the combination modes of the usual state of mum-son, and then less frequently, mum-man, woman-son, culminating in woman-man. On the flipside, for David, hypothetically, from his perspective, son-mum, son-woman, man-mum, culminating in man-woman.

Em: So, what is the operating mode when I get a tingle from David looking at my nude picture just now?

Me: Hmmm... I don't know if he did look. Assume he did fleetingly. Only you will know what's playing in your head. I can only speculate at best.

Em: Your speculation?

Me (pondering): Mum-man. As in you are in a motherly frameset. You see, first and foremost, a man looking at your nude picture, even though that man is your son. And that gives you a tingle.

Em: Hmmm...

Me: And possibly woman-son mode. You are in a woman frameset. Either way, there is a lurking element of the taboo.