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.
***
This story is about that time when my wife and I requested our hotel room service staff to help photograph us nude.
I am John. My wife is Sophie, or Soph in our Brit vernacular. We were in our late forties then. We had been married for close to 30 years. Three grown children scattered in three continents. Grandparents three times over with installments to come. We lived in a remote countryside cottage perched on a picturesque sea cliff in southwest England.
Brown haired Soph is the quintessential English rose. Soph is pretty in a plain sort of way. Soph was a ballet dancer in her youth. Although she had stopped active dancing a long time ago, she maintained the upright graceful mien of a ballerina.
Now, how do I best describe her 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. Medium 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 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, Soph! 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.
Soph 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. Soph is shy. But, she is no prude.
I am five feet eight inches tall. I have my share of mellowed contours. I am average in every dimension. My penis is above average in length, but by not much. My girth is below average, but not spindly. Soph describes my endowment as statuesque, though which particular statue, I don't know. My shaved groin complements Soph's virginal pubescence.
Soph and I were on holiday. It was the farthest that we have ever been away from home. A distant continent where we knew nobody. Liberating anonymity.
The upmarket hotel we stayed in was lovely. High floor. In-room jacuzzi. Breathtaking ocean view. Balcony with 360 degree privacy. Fancy electronics for illumination, climate control, audio, video. A single remote control unit controls this electronic universe.
We would be spending Soph's and my fiftieth birthday in this well-appointed hotel. We wanted to spoil ourselves rotten. Indulge. Our birthdays were a day apart. My birthday came first, then Soph's. Also, by design, we married on Soph's birthday. This was our thirtieth wedding anniversary.
We agreed that we will do a triple celebration on Soph's birthday. My birthday. Our wedding anniversary. A three-in-one milestone. We wanted this to be special and memorable.
We had a lovely dinner. The hotel got wind of our birthdays from our check-in registration details. They threw in generous freebies. A bespoke dinner menu. Birthday cake. Wine. Champagne. An in-room couples massage. The works.
After a lovely dinner, and then drinks at the piano bar, we repaired to our room. As we were dressed to the nines, I told Soph that I would like to snap some pictures of her before we changed into our bedwear.
Soph was dressed in a mid-thigh length smoldering black dress number. The dress mercilessly hugged her body to the point of suffocation, thrusting every curve to the fore. Her fuck-me, criminally provocative high heels completed the sensual visual assault.
Soph had never been a willing photography subject because of her ambivalence about her body. I told her that this was a very special occasion. She looked gorgeous. The ambience was right. As was our mood. My camera was a digital Nikon DSLR. We could experimentally take any number of pictures, and delete the pictures that she didn't like. And the picture collection would be our private possession, privy to our eyes only.
Soph eventually reluctantly consented after much cajoling, on condition that she reserved the right to delete whichever pictures she chose. I agreed.
Soph: Let me freshen my makeup.
Me: You look just fine. But, go ahead if that's what you want.
As Soph tarted up, I got ready my camera gear.
For starters, I had Soph sit in the chair and took a couple of portrait pictures from the front and sides.
I then sat Soph on the bed against the headboard. I placed a pillow to prop her back. Soph was half-reclined, with her legs together, knees drawn up. I told her to chill. Her raven black dress juxtaposed against the white bedtop provided 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: Soph, 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: Go 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.
Soph: I think I'm showing too much of who I am not.
Me: Soph, 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.
Soph: Oh no! We have gone way too far.
Me: Come on! It's no different from your Wicked Weasel bikini. Just this once. Humour me on this night of our triple celebration. Wear your sexiest lingerie.
Soph rifled through her wardrobe velvety stash. She selected a sinful dainty black lacy half-cup bra, and matching thong panties. She dressed up, or rather, dressed down, in these economical garments. Her light chocolate smear of areolas and perky nipples could be made out through the sheer fabric. She decided to freshen her makeup.
She then hesitated for a moment wondering just what she was doing. She appeared to decide that she was enjoying herself.
I had Soph pose in several positions. Coquettish, kittenish. Bordering on saucy. But never lewd, which I had an aversion to. And the ballerina in Soph would feel 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 clicked 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 orbited Soph.
Click. Click. Click.
Me: You're a super model. Nicely turned legs, flaring to lush hips. A good figure. Are you enjoying this?
Soph: Like you said, it's the same as a bikini. I'm beginning to mindlessly believe you.
Me: On the bed again. Flat on your back.
Soph: 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 Soph.
Click.
Me: Flat on your back. Bend your knees. That's it.
Click.
Me: Raise your bent knees higher. Knees together in a knock-kneed position. Gaze left with a contemplative faraway look. Lovely!
Her legs were presented in a playful flirty symmetry.
Click.
Me: Knees apart. Lovely thong.
Click.
Me: Now sit up in the middle of the bed.
I took hold of Soph's hands and placed them on her breasts.
Me: Push them up and together, like this.
Click.
I pulled one bra strap off her shoulder and the cup of her bra down, revealing her perky nub which engorged even more as my thumb grazed over it.
Soph (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 moved behind Soph. I slipped the fastening of her bra, taking it off completely. I put my hands round and cupped her breasts, pinching her nipples between thumb and forefinger. I suggested she put her hands under her breasts, lifting them some, like an offering of treasured gifts.
Click.
