Room Service Help Photoshoot Ch. 02

Soph: What? It's in the laundry...

Soph gets off the bed. She makes a move to the door. Then pirouettes around to face her husband. She pauses. Lifts her nightie off in a single movement.

Soph is in her leotard. The one and the same. The vee is snagged in her slit. Her silken mound glistens.

John: You are manifestly wicked!

Soph executes an arabesque. Stands on one leg, en pointe. The other leg turned out, extended behind her body. Both legs held straight.

Soph straightens her body upright, lowers her raised leg to touch the knee of her supporting leg. She executes a little pirouette.

John growls in a curious animistic linguistic construct that bespeaks of primal urgency. Soph skips over to her husband in quick petite ballerina steps, landing softly on the bed. John is in full flourish. En pointe.

Soph: I see you approve of my command performance?

John (commanding): I want you! Now! As you are.

Soph: Not going to let a little snag get in your way, huh?

DAY THREE

Soph and Seb have a relaxing morning. Seb joins his mum to go to the village to stock up on groceries.

After lunch, Seb receives a call from his office. There is an unforeseen urgent piece of work to be completed that only he has the knowledge and expertise to do, to meet an important client's immovable deadline. Seb's boss appeals to him to help out. This work is crucial to the company's financial well-being. Seb can add three days to his leave to compensate for this disruption, even though the work is estimated to take a day.

Seb agrees to take on the assignment. His office emails the work order details to him.

Seb asks his mum if he can use the family laptop-PC for his work. Soph sets up the PC in his bedroom for his use. His parents keep out of his hair so that he can focus on his assignment.

Seb labours through the afternoon and night. The work is more involved than originally envisaged. An odyssey.

4am. Seb emails his work to his office. Done! An epic effort.

Seb feels tired. And yet, he cannot will himself to sleep. This is due to his having stared down at the glare of the PC screen for a blast of more than twelve straight hours. And the gallons of tea that Soph had plied him.

Instinctively, his PC mouse drifts to the Albums folder. He traipses fleetingly through some folders. The folder names are typical. Admin. Business. Home. Travel. Family. Events. Dance. He clicks Travel. He is about to quit the viewing when a folder named "Intime" piques his interest. In time for what?

He clicks.

His mum in a classic black dress. Smouldering. A certified MILF.

The pictures get racier by the pixel. Thighs. Legs. Cleavage. Suggestive. Saucy. Come hither. Uncharacteristic of his mum.

And then her first disclosure. A breast. A perky soft arc.

Seb's first instinct is to close the window, shutdown the PC, and get to bed.

It dawns on him that "Intime" is French for intimate. Shame on him for being clueless, for a professed Francophile.

Somehow, an invisible force appropriates his being into slavish mindless self submission. Seb maximizes the window, and initiates the slideshow. When a particular picture buzzes him a warm tingle, if not a tremor, he is moved to copy the picture to a temporary folder.

The pictures are artfully composed, with an amateurish homey casual charm. None of the impossibly perfect professional photography edge.

In the few pictures which feature his mum's nipples, and her pristine mons pubis, her feminine bits are revealed tastefully, nary a hint of lewdness.

Seb marvels at his mum's curious seamless mix of the mature, and the pubescent. An incongruous mature buxomy adolescent on the cusp of womanhood, featuring budding soft arcs of breasts, and a pubescent bottom. A sensual oxymoron.

Seb magnifies his mum's defining centre of pubescence. A mere gash. He wonders how three children, including himself, have emerged through this wee portal.

The next series of pictures jolts Seb. His parents are artfully bodily locked in seven intimate poses, with angled perspective shots on some of them.

Again, Seb feels a sharp pang of guilt. His head tells him to stop here. Now! He has come a bridge too far. A bridge that cannot be uncrossed once crossed. It is one thing to look at nude pictures. Intimate pictures are another boiling kettle of exotic fish, at another level of moral dilemma. His heart is thrashing him to press on. Seb cannot do it. He cannot stop just now.

The shots are deviously composed to conceal his mum's nipples, only just so, and their genitals. It is not clear if his parents are having intercourse. Or, is it devilish simulation. But, a few pictures present his mum's face in the throes of ecstatic agony. His mum will have to be a serial Academy Award laureate to act that out.

The last picture in the intimate series, pose number ten, blows his mind. It is in the soft porn genre. The art bit is tenuous. Seb has a sense that his parents wanted a rousing finale to the photo shoot. End on a rapturous high. His mum in classic doggy posture. His dad behind, hands half-cupping her breasts. Again, it is not clear if his dad is in her, or it is adroit simulation. It is difficult to ascertain his mum's facial expression as she is looking obliquely away from the camera. She appears to have an intense look, not amounting to full-bore ecstasy. Regrettably, there are no other perspective shots to this pose. It is so hot!

Seb reviews the pictures that he has copied to his temporary folder.

His picks. There are ten.

(1) Mum in slinky black dress. Half-reclined on bed against headboard. Legs together. Knees drawn up. Fingers through hair. Right leg rests coyly on left knee. High heels dangle from toes. Come hither.

(2) Bra, thong, high heels. Ballerina classic arabesque. Stand tippy toes on one leg. Other leg turned out, extended behind body, toes pointed. Both legs held straight.

(3) Naked. Flat on stomach on bed. Legs guardedly closed. Head and shoulders raised. Apparent soft rise of breasts. Nipples obscured only just so, against bedsheet. Bare arse. Right leg bent at knee. High heels dangle from toes. Flagrantly come hither.

(4) Standing full frontal. Perched totteringly on high heels. Legs defensively together. Pristine silken mound. Pubescent hint of cleft.

(5) Naked. Seated edge of coffee table. Legs measuredly parted. Gazing right, away from camera. This is the one and only shot of his mum's revealed bottom in a parted legs, frontal rendition.

(6) Naked. Standing. Back to camera. Legs straight and slightly apart. Body bent low, as only a ballerina can. Right hand grabs left ankle. Face obscured by legs. It is not clear from the confused illumination and shadow optics whether her lady parts are visible.

(7) Naked couple shot. Both standing, facing camera. He is behind her. She leans forward ever so slightly. He half-cups her breasts concealing her nipples. Her hand covers her mound, teasingly only just so. His penis appears to be between her arse cheeks, but this is wishful conjecture, as their genitals are inconveniently obscured.

(8) Naked sitting coupling pose. He sits on chair facing camera. She parts her legs. Sits astride his lap facing him. Her sacral dimples nail down her allure. Passionate kissing. Again, it is unclear if he has made entry.

(9) Classic naked standing coupling pose. Both standing, facing each other. Her legs wrapped around his waist in an apparent vice grip. Bodies melded in a seamless tangle. Her face contorted in ecstasy.

(10) Classic naked doggy coupling.

Seb emailed the ten pictures to himself for later viewing. He is lucky. This is about the maximum megabytes of picture attachments payload that the email program permits. Seb experiences a stab of guilt as he hits the send button.

It is at the crack of a new dawn when Seb reclaims a semblance of his former self. He shuts down the PC. Since he will be sleeping in, he brings the PC to the lounge to return to his parents.

Seb falls into deep coma. And dreams picturesque maternal dreams.

DAY FOUR

Seb wakes up at the crack of noon. His dad is at work as usual. He has a pleasant lunch with his mum in the garden. Well, brunch for him, and lunch for his mum. Mother and son lingers to chill, enjoying the garden and ocean views, sipping wine.

Soph: Did you enjoy it?

Seb: Huh? Enjoy what?

Soph: Me!

Seb gazes deep into her eyes. She knows. In the uncanny way that mums know.

Seb: I am so sorry! I am a wretch! You and dad kindly let me use your PC, and I violated your trust and privacy. I do not have a good reason for what I did. I am so ashamed!

There is a deafening pall of silence. The cosmos goes on pause. The ocean, mute.

Soph: What were your first impulses when you became aware of the folder's contents? Tell me... I want to understand what possessed you to do what you did.

Seb: My heart overrode my head. Raw emotion rode roughshod over rational reason. The luring pull of the forbidden. I guess my moral dam just caved in to the beckoning allure of the taboo. This is so lame. But, it is the truth. I was physically and mentally knackered after the twelve straight hours of work. I am tempted to list fatigue as one of the contributing reasons, but I know that is not the reason.

Soph (reflecting): Thank you for being so honest with me. You would have pissed me off royally if you had danced around in a mush of bullshit. Did it ever cross your mind to tell me about this? To own up?

Seb: Honestly, no. It is counterintuitively difficult to do. I consciously went too far, and lingered way too long, into the folder contents to be able to say to you in good faith that I am sorry. I don't wish to add insult to injury, in what is already a deficit position.

Soph: Alright. I can understand that. Do you look at me differently now, with the benefit of your new insights?

Seb (reflectively): As a mum, no. As a woman, to be honest, yes.

Soph: And how do you reconcile that?

Seb pauses, and ponders over the question. It is an apt philosophical question. Its answer will point the way forward.

Seb: I am not sure if there is anything to reconcile. You were my mum, and a woman, before I viewed your pictures. You're still my mum, and still a woman now. I think the only difference is that I now have a heightened appreciation of you, the woman.

Soph: Hmmm... Heightened appreciation, huh? I'm sure...

Seb: I didn't mean to be cute.

Soph: I know... I've a cruel subterranean streak. I want to see you squirm some. Let me have a think about what we have discussed. A lot to process. And I am sure for you too.

Soph and Seb clear the table. They make their way back to the kitchen. After cleaning up, they sit in the lounge enjoying a glass of wine.

Soph: I mulled over our earlier conversation. Particularly about that pseudo philosophical mum-woman dualism bit which resonated, not dissonantly, with my intuitions. If we extend the idea, there is correspondingly the son-man dimension. And if we analyse this to another level, there are the combinations of son-mum, son-woman, mum-man, man-woman. Then, stir in social conditioning juxtaposed against visceral impulses. An unwieldy simmering tensioned matrix brew.

Seb: Wow! You have really rationalised this to a T. You are the pragmatic one.

Soph: I reckon we need closure to this matter, for us to move on. I guess you have stated your position with birdsong clarity. You must be wanting to hear from me. So, here goes. What happened happened. Nobody planned it. Nothing untoward happened. It is not like you saw me naked in rippling flesh. You saw an artful rendition of me. Well, most of the pictures anyway, aside from a few racy ones which are the inane products of your dad's overheated imagination on the night of our triple birthday-cum-anniversary celebration. It is all his fault. He made me do it. Or, at least, he initiated this whole photo project charade, and swept me along. I suspect the man-woman impulses of the moment overwhelmed you. And I dare say the man-mum part fanned the embers to high glow. So, I can appreciate the heightened state you found yourself in. I value your honesty in this matter. Please maintain that always. I am cool!

Seb (relieved): Thanks mum for your understanding.

Soph (questioning look): Is there anything else I should know?

Instinctively, Seb looks away from his mum. His mum reads him like an open nursery school book. She wasn't sure moments ago. But now, she knows.

Soph: Let me jog your memory. The folder "Temp" where you copied your presumably top picks of me to? Your very own Top of the Pops of your mum. Numbers one to ten.

Seb (sheepishly): I don't know what to say. I selected them from your album, and then emailed them to myself for later viewing. I just couldn't help it. I violated your and dad's privacy. I have no good reasons to offer.

Seb takes out his cellphone. He navigates to the email app screen displaying the particular email.

Seb: Here. You delete the email. And then, empty the trash.

Soph (in reconciliatory mood): Since it is your email, you delete it. You are my son. I trust you unconditionally. There is nothing for me to verify.

Seb deletes, then trashes the offending email.

Soph (breaking the tension): Now, let me go freshen our wine and munchies.

Seb senses a sea change in his mum's demeanour when she returns.

Soph (in a reflective mood):

If this is not awkward for you, and it is not awkward for me, I would like to review your selection of picks with you.

Seb: What?

Soph: I would like to hear from you why you picked them. A liberating catharsis of sorts. Your dad gives me feedback on my body. But, your dad is not the most aesthetically sentient of our species. A certified philistine. And he has seen my body for thirty years. So I take his comments with a lavish spatula of salt. I do get feedback from my sis, and girlfriends, but that is from the female perspective. You are a young man with a discerning fresh eye. Maybe too discerning for your own good. Your feedback will be useful.

Seb: So, are we talking son-mum, or son-woman or man-woman worldview here?

Soph (pondering): For this to be useful for my purpose, I guess it has to be man-woman. Be candid. Be brutally honest. But, no lewd or lusty comments, please. Let us keep this on a civil aesthetic plane. And you are a red-blooded young man. If you get a buzz from this, I will understand. No need to be bashful. We are both adults. Actually, it will be flattering, and a validation of sorts. Just go with the flow.

Seb: I hope it doesn't come to flow!

Soph: Don't get cute! You're getting ahead of yourself.

Seb perceives that his mum is angling for feminine validation. He will sail along this course.

Soph goes to her bedroom to fetch her PC. She boots up, and navigates to the picture folder.

She surprises Seb. She hooks up the PC to the wide-screen high-definition TV monitor in the lounge.

Soph: No sense in straining our eyes on the dismal PC screen when we can enjoy cinematic splendour.

Seb (jocularly): Bring on the popcorn!

And when the picture thumbnails light up the TV screen like scintillating stars in the wondrous night sky, Seb is surprised yet again. It is not his "Temp" folder of ten pictures, but the original folder!

Soph (grinning slyly): Not expecting this full feature rerun, huh?

Seb (cheekily): No. I am just so happy to be of help to my mum.

Soph: We will slideshow through the folder. We will stop at each of the ten pictures you picked. You critique the picture. Tell me what moved you to pick the picture. Here we go.

We advance through a few pictures.

Soph: I believe this is your numero uno. Me in my black dress reclined on the bed. I am surprised that you pick one of me dressed when there are more revealing renditions of me.

Seb: Well, I wanted a picture of you dressed. This slinky black dress smoulders. It best represents who you are. It draws out your curves to the fore, and more. Love the come hither look. Sexy without being risqué. Lovely!

Soph: Pick number two. Bra, thong, high heels. Ballerina arabesque pose. What's the backstory for this?

Seb: Mum, dance is who and what you are. This is why I picked this picture. Your ballerina pose captures your almost surreal combination of buxom and nubile, mature and pubescent. You are a walking contradiction, in an alluring way that defies definition.

Soph: Pick number three. Naked, flat on my tummy on the bed, legs closed, bare arsed.

Seb: Mum, you have a lovely rump. Lush without being provocative. Those orbs! I love the subtle coyness of this composition.

Soph: Pick number four. Full frontal glory.

Seb: Self-evidently, I wanted a full frontal rendition of you. And this is the only one in the pack. Your precarious perch on your high heels makes you sexy in a vulnerably feminine way. Your legs closed tight, lend you a coy and kittenish demeanour. Your hint of peeking cleft accentuates your earthy innocence, juxtaposed against your womanly hips.

Soph: Pick number five. Naked. I am seated not very ladylike. I believe my first nether revelation.

Seb: You said it, mum! That is why it is my pick. If you don't mind my being a little forward here, your lady parts are presented delicately. Where I had expected a flowering of petals, I see something else completely. It is more hinted at, rather than presented per se. A curvaceous luscious woman who looks the part of a schoolgirl, in her budding breasts, and her nether region.

Soph: Oh my God! I don't know what to think of your graphic, and yet, stirring maternal elucidation.

Seb: Remember you said earlier that it is alright if I get a tingle, being the healthy young man that I can't help but be. Well, viewing this stirring slideshow, sitting thigh-to-thigh with the one and the same living and breathing model, discussing her most intimate, and the model being coincidentally my mum, drives me near over the edge.

Soph (dissonant): Oh dear! I think we better move on. Pick number six. I have grave misgivings about this picture. Naked back shot of me bending over.

Seb: I picked this because it is the only picture of you in full posterior grandeur. Lovely body lines. I can understand your apprehension on this pose. But, it has panned out well, landing on the artistic rather than lewd side of sensuality.

Soph: Pick number seven. Your naked dad and I facing the camera. Your dad behind me half-cupping my breasts.

Seb: A classic pose. I just love it. Sizzling. And yet, all the bits that matter are artfully concealed. And it teases the viewer as to whether the subjects doing the deed or not? The charm is in never knowing for sure. So, I won't ask you, mum, he he!

Soph: Hmmm... ask me no questions and I will tell you no fibs. Pick number eight. Sitting astride your dad's lap, face to face, kissing passionately.

Seb: A classic pose. Why I picked it is self-evident. It is so sizzling hot! Love your sexy sacral dimples. They nail down your pear-shaped allure. And again, there is the simmering mystery of are you guys doing it?

Soph: Pick number nine. My legs wrapped around your dad's waist.

Seb: I love the visceral quality of this picture. I can almost feel the vice grip of your wrap in the intensity I parse from the composition.

Soph: Pick number ten. Classic doggy.

Seb: Mum, one word: Primal. This picture gives me tremors. As I am experiencing now. I will not spare you on this final picture. You owe it to me. Was dad doing it?

Soph (sheepishly): Study my face in the picture...

Seb: Mum, at the risk of crossing you, can I ask a rather personal question? You are not obliged to answer if you don't want to.

Soph: We have come so far. You have seen me in my native glory. Shoot.

Seb: Given the good quality of the intimate photo series, it is evident that dad and you couldn't have self-managed the shots with tripod and self-timer. Who took the pictures?