Photographs Ch. 01

DISCLAIMER: This is included in the novel/novella category because of length. It is a mother/son incest story. There are also instances of abuse (two of them, which are not the focus of the story). As far as heat level, this story is quite tame, and if you are look for page after page of screaming sex, you might want to look elsewhere. If you want a STORY, please read on.

My editor is Mike2230.

*****

Christie MacAwley Tyler stood naked in her husband's photography studio in the basement of their home. Goose bumps prickled her arms. Winter in Los Angeles, and the heat not on, but watching him set up a tripod at the edge of the open space in the room made her shiver. He had not taken photographs for a long time, having taken so many in the early years of their marriage that he had plenty to ogle or jerk off to, or whatever he did with them. Christie never knew; the photographs never appeared in the house. She wondered for the thousandth time where he was hiding them and how she might coerce or trick him into telling her where they were.

If I take a lover, would Steve kill me? she asked herself.

The camera only came out now when he had something special planned, some new act of humiliation or depravity that she had never before endured. With her eighteen-year-old son Danny away for winter break, Steve had days to abuse her with plenty of time for the worst of it to fade before his return. She rolled her shoulder and resisted the urge to touch the welt on the back of her upper arm. It lay over the top of another bruise from the night before. She wondered if the placement had been deliberate. Probably. Steve was an expert with the strap, his favorite. Never over the kidneys, never any place that would show, always a fixed number of blows, and usually repeated in the same spot enough times to cause a bruise if the first blow wasn't hard enough already. He was careful, too, about always allowing a few weeks' time for her body to heal entirely before starting the show all over.

Having secured the camera in its mount, Steve shifted the tripod around, peering at the viewer until he had the exact frame he wanted. A moment and a push of a few buttons, and the camera began taking shots automatically, every fifteen seconds. Sending directly to his laptop through a cable, the camera had almost limitless memory. Hours and hours of entertainment for her sociopath husband. She sometimes wondered why he never converted to video, but photographs seemed to be his fetish.

Steve moved to a secured cabinet and removed handcuffs. Christie tried to breath calmly, the acrid scent of developing chemicals in her nose. She associated the smell with pain.

"What are we doing next?" she asked warily, rather than thrust out her wrists in the way he liked her to do. He used the cuffs when he was doing something to the front of her body, where she had never managed to learn not to defend herself, or something particularly painful.

"New toy," he said, his usual mild expression twisted into a little smirk. Steve was nothing if not bland. Average height, sandy blond hair, hazel eyes. He could be very charming if he put his mind to it, or equally forgettable when he wanted to fade. He was easy to overlook, which made him doubly dangerous.

"What toy?"

"Never mind that." He waved his hand toward her. "Come here. Now."

"Steve," she said, stalling, "why don't you find someone who does this for a living? Wouldn't it be more satisfying to you if you found someone who enjoyed this sort of thing?"

He paused his advance toward her. "That's exactly the reason," he said. "They want it."

Her stomach turned, and she started to back away. She had been naive and weak when she married Steve, and so very young, but through their sixteen years of marriage, Christie had learned to be strong. To others, her submission might seem a failing, but this was one of her many subtle ways of fighting back. He wanted her to scream and fight. Steve wanted to break her, so she denied him the opportunity.

But sometimes, sometimes, the compulsion to protect herself, the drive for revenge, burst out of the tiny pocket where she held it for safekeeping. If she didn't let it out now and then, she thought a piece of her might die and with it the hope of ever getting out of this devil's bargain she'd made.

If I take a lover, would Steve kill me? The question was becoming an obsession. It was more than wanting the sadistic sex to end; she wanted tenderness. Love. Things Steve had never given her, was incapable of giving her.

"No," she said, backing away further. "Not tonight. You did enough last night."

Steve's face lit up with a cunning, feral light. "You don't get to say no to me, Christie." The handcuffs jerked as he gripped them tighter in anticipation. His cock was already half hard.

He sprang. Christie ducked low to her right, towards the door. Steve tackled her around the waist, bringing them both to the floor. That quickly he had a full erection. She could feel it through his silk boxers, pressing against her thigh. He reached up for one arm, dragging it down while at the same time she tried to twist to the side to get a knee into his groin. She thrust with everything she had but the angle was wrong, and she only managed to reach his inner thigh. She hoped it left a big bruise. Steve dragged her arm behind her back, fumbled with the cuffs for a moment, and then one bracelet circled her wrist.

All the while bucking and struggling to get out from beneath him, Christie turned her head and bit down hard on the hand that was holding her other arm. In response he gave a vicious yank to the arm he had pinned behind her back. Tears spring to her eyes, but she cursed silently, never showing anything.

Steve dragged her free arm inexorably downward. Christie was the same height as Steve, five-feet-ten, healthy and strong, but the sad truth is that an average man is still stronger than an average woman. Steve was no average man; he either lifted weights or ran every day of the week. Despite all her efforts, he soon had her dragged, the skin of her torso and thighs scraping across the rough carpet, to slip the cuffs through a large u-shaped bolt on the floor, trapping her there on her hands and knees. She stared down at her hands caught to either side of the bolt and then closed her eyes.

"I hate you, Steve," she said.

"It doesn't matter, does it?"

"Some day I'll find a way out."

He leaned down until she could feel his hot breath on her ear, smell the beer he had when he first came home. "Look at me." She turned her head away at first, but then opened her eyes to look at him. "You know what happens, Christie. You leave and I destroy your whole family. What will your precious Danny think when he finds out about Andy? Hmm?"

He moved back toward the cabinet. She heard the whisper of silk on skin as he removed his boxers, then the soft rattle of an object being picked up. When he returned to her sight, he was carrying a long thin rod.

"A cane?! You're going to cane me?"

Steve merely slapped the cane lightly against his palm. His erection twitched, dark and veined, with pre-cum dripping onto the carpet, leaving a trail of damp spots. Even though he was highly aroused, he had monumental control, enough to draw this out for a long time before he gave in and fucked her.

"Do you even know how to use that thing? It will break the skin, Steve."

"I know what I'm doing. You know I would never harm my little pumpkin." He held the cane up. The tip twitched. He raised the cane and swung it at her buttocks. It was excruciating, like fire striking down to the bone. Christie couldn't avoid crying out. Clearly, he knew what he was doing. He had probably practiced somewhere.

Bent over her to survey the results, he said, "You know the rules. Leave, speak out, and I'll destroy everyone you love, including your darling son. Agreement or no agreement."

He waited, letting the pain subside. He liked to do that at first. Steve was no dom. There was no preparation or safe words. There would be no aftercare. Christie would be left lying on the studio's rough carpet, having to tend to her own wounds.

He was simply a man who liked to hurt women.

Steve swung the cane faster this time. Christie could hear it hiss as it came down. More fire. Gradually, the pauses became shorter, Steve saying with each stroke, "You're mine, Christie. Mine." After a while she could no longer hold back her screams.

If I take a lover, Steve won't kill me. He'll kill him.

######

Kyle's father helped Danny lug his gear - skis, duffel, sports bag - up to the door, but he only said a hurried, "Sorry it turned out this way," before jogging back to where his car stood idling in the driveway.

"Don't be," Danny called after him. "Wasn't your fault." He turned to unlock the door with his key and quietly let himself into the house. Feeling dejected, he moved around the darkened entry with hardly a sound, setting his bags gently on the tiled floor. It wasn't anyone's fault that Kyle's little sister broke her leg on the bunny slope in their first hour of skiing, but still he was disappointed.

Leaving his bags in the entry, Danny went to the kitchen to stand silently in front of the open refrigerator, it's light flooding into the dark room. Six hours in the waiting room of the hospital in San Bernardino with little to eat but nasty cafeteria macaroni and cheese, and nacho chips from vending machines. At eighteen, and already 6'5", Danny needed solid food and lots of it. But first...cookie jar. He shut the fridge and turned to the ceramic pig on the counter, smiled a little as he peered inside to find his mom had kept it full even if he wouldn't be back for a week. He could almost hear her automatic "no cookies before dinner" and his reply "I'd like to see you try and stop me." When he was little, she would stop him, but as he grew her admonishment came more as a reflex, without heat, and his reply was delivered with a smug grin seconds before a cookie popped into his mouth.

And she always kept the jar full of his favorites. One of many many reasons he loved his mom.

He grew thoughtful as he withdrew the makings of a submarine sandwich from the fridge. Kyle's family had an openness and warmth that always made him feel both welcomed and uncomfortable at the same time. Watching them at the hospital that afternoon, he had finally figured out why. It was the parents. They relied on one another, leaned on each other for advice, comfort, and support. Small pats on the shoulder, a quick kiss on the cheek. Danny had that kind of warm relationship with his mother, but not with his father, and he had never seen his parents behave that way toward each other. Now, on the verge of adulthood, he was old enough to see that this was not normal, and to wonder what kind of effect it had on his mom to live this way. Never mind what effect it had on Danny to be raised by a man who had never accepted him as his son.

The house remained dark as he sat on a stool at the counter, eating his sandwich and cookies. He thought he heard loud voices from the basement but decided he was mistaken. His parents must have gone to sleep early, he thought, so rather than announce himself he went quietly towards his room, grabbing his duffel but leaving his gear behind as he passed the entry. To his surprise, as he passed the basement stairs he found a rectangle of light streaming onto the carpet outside his dad's studio, with sounds issuing from within. Curious, he dropped his duffel and crept downstairs.

"I hate you, Steve," his mother said.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" his father replied.

"Someday I will find a way out."

Danny froze in the shadows outside the doorway, shamelessly listening to a conversation he knew they would never want him to hear. After a second he peeked around the doorway to see his mother kneeling naked on the floor, her hands cuffed to a bolt his father had told him was used to chain equipment down to keep it steady. Welts covered her back, upper arms, and thighs.

"What will your precious Danny think when he finds out about Andy?" his father said, his erection peeking through the opening in his boxers as he leaned over his mother. Danny screwed up his face and tried to look away, but he couldn't. What he saw was too new, too startling. It was clear his parents had a history that he had never known or even guessed about. Danny knew he should leave, but he couldn't make himself. Until that moment he had never realized that he hated his father.

Steve walked to a tall white cabinet against a far wall that had always remained locked before. It stood with the doors wide, revealing more cuffs and leather straps. Steve pulled down his boxers, leaving them on the floor, and now Danny really wanted to look away, but before he did his attention was caught by the object his father removed from the cabinet. A cane. If he had any doubts about his mother's willingness, they were dispelled when she shrieked. Danny moved forward a few inches, just to the edge of the shadow that hid him. Whatever was going on, he needed to stop it. He watched in horror as his father delivered the first blow, and Danny shifted to the doorway. If either parent turned their head a fraction, they would see him, but neither did. Instead, his father said something that gave Danny pause: "You know the rules. Leave, speak out, and I'll destroy everyone you love, including your darling son. Agreement or no agreement."

His father caned his mother, paused to rub the livid red mark it left behind, and then raised his arm to hit her again. Torn, Danny stood frozen in the door frame. More was going on than he knew. He wanted to stop it, but suspected that involving himself in this would make things worse. When his mother screamed, he cursed himself for being a coward, but backed away from the door and went up the stairs. In the entry he paused to gather up his belongings and then silently left the house to sit on the front steps. He couldn't hear a sound from that spot, but he still could hear the screaming in his head.

#####

After about two hours, Danny quietly ventured inside but found the basement stairs dark. Next door to the studio, his father's door was open, and he glimpsed his father passed out on his back, naked and snoring softly. Not something he cared to contemplate for long. His parents slept in separate rooms, something he never understood until today. Upstairs, his mother's door also stood open, the room empty. He quickly ducked into his room to drop his bags and went to the kitchen. After stopping at the refrigerator to get a soda, he searched for his mother.

He found her in the ground floor den, lying on a sofa with a game controller and playing Mario Kart. She was raised up on her elbows, an awkward position to play video games, but he surmised that she probably couldn't sit down. A fist of anger curled in his gut at the thought, but that was overwhelmed by the sight of the sexy little satin robe she wore. It was short and white, with a deep v-neck, and there was obviously nothing underneath. A section of her right breast curved into the open neckline, and her long legs were thoroughly exposed. For a moment he stood in the doorway, staring openly. Ever since puberty, he had been hyper-aware of how very beautiful his mother was. She was what people used to call "Black Irish," with very fair skin that barely tanned, rosy cheeks, long curly black hair, and deep blue eyes. She was tall, and gorgeous, and sexy, and he doubted any girl he ever found would measure up to her. It was monstrously unfair. Added to that, she had been only sixteen when he was born, and was now just thirty-four. People stared, women and men.

He swallowed. Mom never dressed like this when he was around. "Mom?" he said.

"Danny!" She started to move, glanced down to where her breasts were escaping her robe, and grabbed an afghan from the back of the sofa, quickly covering herself with it. Not quickly enough for him to miss the welts on the back of her thighs. "What are you doing home?" Her eyes widened. "How long have you been here?"

"Just got home," he said as he moved into the room. He set his soda on the coffee table and settled onto the floor by her side. "Sandy broke her leg this morning." He talked about his long day, the trip to the emergency room that lasted for hours, the drive home with Sandy in the back of the car, moaning the entire way.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," his mom said at last. "We'll find other things to do to make it up to you. I don't have any court dates this week. I can take a few days off."

"Want to watch me beat you at Mario Kart right now?" he asked, grinning with a humor he didn't actually feel.

"Tonight's my night, kid. Do your worst."

They played several games. Danny was so distracted that his mom did manage to beat him two out of three games. All the while, he grew more and more uneasy, until he barely saw the little karts winding around the track.

"You've missed three bananas in a row," his mother said, still absorbed in the game. "Tired? Maybe you should crash for the night."

Danny put down his controller, even though the game had not ended. "Mom, I lied."

She looked over at him now, the controller stilled, and gave him a piercing look. "About what?"

"I've been home for hours," he admitted.

His mother's lips parted and her cheeks paled. "Oh," she said. She looked down at the controller in her hands as if seeing it for the first time, and then placed it with a shaking hand on the floor beside her. The game beeped the end of the round, followed by canned applause.

"What did you see?" she asked when she looked up again.

"More than I wanted to. I wanted to go in and stop it, but the things he said. The things he said he'd do..." His voice started to break, and he stopped to take a deep breath. He would not cry. "He was hurting you so much and I couldn't do anything and-"

And then she stretched forward to wrap her arms around his torso, her soft hair falling in his face. She told him it was all right, and though he knew it was a lie, it comforted him anyway. When she pulled away, she placed her fingertips over her lashes for a moment.

"I never wanted you to know about that," she said.

"Why, Mom? He said you had to do that or he would destroy the whole family."

"I can't talk about it, honey. I just can't."

He bit his lower lip and waited for a moment. "Is it about my real father? He said something about Andy. Is Andy my real father?" he asked softly, a subject his mother refused to discuss, and talking about anything with his stepfather was an excursion into half-truths and out-and-out lies. But from the day he learned about chromosomes in science, he had known that one of his parents could not naturally be his. His mom was pure Irish, his father fair and sandy-haired, but it was blatantly obvious half of Danny's genes had come from someone of color. His hair was kinky, his skin the color of light coffee, and his eyes were a deep brown. From his height, he guessed his father was black.

"You know I don't like talking about that, Danny," she said with a sigh.

He pursed his lips in both frustration and a little bit of long-held anger about the subject. "I'm eighteen now. Don't you think I can handle it, whatever it is?"

"Probably."

Blue eyes looked into his, and they almost seemed to beg him to let it go, but he was tired and angry and he'd had a terrible shock that night. "Dad told me that you partied and drank and slept around so much that they didn't even know who to ask for a DNA test."

"What?!" she burst out and propelled herself to her feet. She stomped to the door, the afghan forgotten as it slipped to the floor. She shut the door very firmly but still quietly, and hissed. "What exactly did he tell you and when?"