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.
