Photoshoot Mom

There is mom-son nude photography titillating tension, but no sex in this story. Move on if you are looking for bruising, wailing, oozing sex.

*

I'm an avid amateur photographer. I often help relatives and friends in casual photoshoots and events photography. I'm also pretty good at photo-editing.

This incident happened when I was in my 20's.

Mom had just turned 50. The big five-o! A milestone. Mom was the archetype of the full-figured, lush woman. She had a love-hate relationship with her body, until she discovered the famous model, Lizzie Miller. Lizzie was the plus-size model who single-handedly revolutionized the popular worldview on full-figured women. She made luscious women sexy in the eyes of the world, and more importantly, in their own eyes.

Thereafter, mom fashioned herself after Lizzie. I was happy for mom. Her self-confidence shot through the roof. She finally found her poised self in the Lizzie Miller in her.

The day after mom turned 50, we were alone at home. She confided in me sheepishly that she wanted some nude pictures of herself, as of fifty years old, to keep for posterity, as a record of her significant milestone in life.

She had actually taken some pictures of herself earlier using the self-timer of the family point-and-shoot digital camera on a tripod in her bedroom. She struggled with the camera gear, the illumination, and the compositions. The pictures were unsatisfying. Mom said that she had thought about asking dad, or her sister to help. But, their photography competency did not inspire confidence in her. Artless dad couldn't photoshoot a fruitcake in suspended animation if his life depended on it.

So, mom asked if I could do it. She stressed that the pictures would be Lizzie Miller-esque. Subtle, tasteful, trumpeting mutedly her soft fulsomeness. Nothing lewd. Exuberant but not riotous. Charming but not saucy. Mom showed me some Lizzie Miller pictures on her cellphone to give me an idea of what she had in mind.

I asked if she would be awkward being nude in front of me, her son. I had never seen her in any state of undress before, let alone starkers. She said that she had pondered this matter before she approached me. She was cool. This was going to be like a one-off professional photoshoot. Aesthetic. Artistic. Nothing risqué. Nothing untoward. But, mom cautioned that this photoshoot should be a private aesthetic enterprise just between the two of us. Other people may not understand this photography project of ours. I asked her how would she explain the photos if she ever had the inclination to show them off to anyone in the future, such as dad, her sister, or her close female friends. Mom said that she would say that she retained the services of a female professional photographer from the nearby community college art class to do the job. I assured mom that my lips were hermetically sealed. Twice over. And one more thing. Mom insisted that she would, in her own authoritative words, "take custody" of the camera's memory card right after the shoot. I asked whether she would like to post-review the photos with me on the PC monitor, in case any photo-editing was required. She gave it some thought. She said that she was an aesthetic purist. She was happy to accept her warts and all. She didn't want any airbrushing of unflattering features. That would be self-delusion. Inauthenticity. My mom, the uncompromising noble artist. Even if that art was her body. I told her that there were many dimensions to photo-editing, such as adjusting the brightness and contrast, and cropping, which did not necessarily modify her body form per se. She said that we would load the memory card on her laptop-PC, and do the post-review right after the shoot. I could photo-edit, if necessary, on her laptop-PC. We could also reshoot any composition that she deemed unsatisfying on the spot. That way, there was no necessity to copy the pictures across PCs.

I teased: "So, you're worried that I would ogle at your pictures if I have a set, he he?"

She shocked me by patting my pants, and quipped cheekily. "If you're a good boy, I will let you keep a couple."

I rubbed my hands in mock glee, and replied jokingly: "Yessss!"

Mom shrieked in mock mortification. Mom appeared to be warming up to our project.

"So, when do you want to do this?"

She said: "Right away! I so want to time this to my 50th birthday. No one is home today. We've the house, our studio, to ourselves for a good 3 hours."

I replied: "Cool!"

Mom beetled to her bedroom to tart herself up. I got down to the business of preparing my photography gear and lighting implements.

Mom emerged in her bathrobe. True to her authenticity, she was lightly made-up. She was eminently confident in who she was. Great! She said matter-of-factly: "Let's get started. I have 10 poses in mind."

Mom turned around and lowered her bathrobe. Her rump was subtly luscious without being demonstratively provocative. Her pronounced sacral dimples nailed down the finishing touches of allure to her pear shape. I felt a stab of awkwardness. But, mom put me at ease with her cool nonchalance.

Mon turned around. Her top was lush. She was scrupulously shaven. Palpably Rubenesque. I couldn't help staring at my photography subject.

Mom said: "So, what do you think of the work that is cut out for you?" I said: "It won't be work at all."

So we got to the 10 poses that mom had composed methodically in her mind. Mom liked obliquely angled perspective shots. None of the pictures showed her nipples explicitly, nor her vaginal slit. We stayed faithful to our aesthetic photoshoot plan.

The most risqué shot, if it could be classified as that at all, was of mom cupping her breasts hesitantly, nipples covered artfully only just so, looking away from the camera dreamily, her legs clenched together, stretched out straight, toes pointed, not giving any of her lower feminine secrets away.

All too soon, we were done.

And now, the post-review of the fruits of our labor. We sat on the sofa. Mom fired up her laptop-PC on the lounge table. She inserted the photo memory card. Launched the photo viewer app. Curiously, in her eagerness to see how her photos panned out, mom hadn't bothered to dress up.

As if reading my mind, she felt obliged to explain: "I will just stay native. If we need to reshoot any particular pose, we can do it right away."

Mom was pleased with all the pictures except the risqué one. The picture was fine, except that there was a hint of the top of her vee slit. Mom was not comfortable with that wee exposé. I instinctively clicked the photo viewer app to magnify the offending spot to get a sense of the issue. I then felt sheepish about having done that, zoomed into mom's most intimate, with my mom right next to me.

I suggested: "Mom, I can quite easily airbrush that off with the photo-editor."

Mom mulled. The persistent purist in her prevailed. She insisted: "Let's just reshoot the pose. It will just take a minute." And so we did. This time, with some fine bodily adjustments, we got her mons pubis photographically pristine.

We were done.

I teased: "Errr... mom, you forgot about my minimum wage? The two pictures you promised me?"

Mom winked: "It's in the mail!"

The End