(Although I don't like revealing the plot, please note that, while most of this story is pure Exhibitionist & Voyeur, it does veer into mild Taboo territory towards the end.)
"Mom! The guy is here to take your pussy pics!"
Oh shit! He was at least fifteen minutes early. I never heard the door--had Kev been lurking down there? I grabbed my UPhone--wasn't he supposed to text? I had absolutely no time to change.
I flew down the stairs, still wearing my shredded jean shorts and my midriff-baring, tie-on blouse. I was a 41-year-old mom, and that is what we wore around the house in the 2030s.
When I hit the ground floor, I saw a very tall, very thin young man chatting with my 18-year-old son. They both turned to look at me. Oh my goodness: the young man could not have been more than 25! He also could have been family: like Kev and I, he had dark blonde hair, and deep brown eyes--but he was even taller and thinner than both of us.
Both young men were looking me over--my soon-to-be intimate photographer with a pleasant smile, Kev with a frown. I knew I still looked good. My shred-shorts weren't as shredded as what the younger girls got away with. My hips were pretty much bare on both sides. There were some long rips exposing both my asscheeks, about mid-cheek. In front though, there were only minuscule tears, just to the left and right of my pubes. I still had a lot of hair down there--I liked it, my husband loved it--and I was not giving in to the trend of shaving it all off.
The young man held out his hand. "Glenn Wright, photographer with the federal Genital Identification Program." He indicated his photo badge around his neck. I took his hand. "Katelyn Stapleton," I replied.
"Ms. Stapleton..."
"Call me Katelyn. Considering what we're about to do..."
"Katelyn." He smiled and his whole face transformed. He really was quite good-looking! Great, I thought. I am about to totally expose myself below the waist to a 25-year-old, handsome stranger.
My son Kev was still staring at me. I really wished he would go back to his room, and play with his virtual girlfriend. I was pretty sure that he was still a virgin; he hardly ever dated, and I was sad to think that his only sexual experiences so far were masturbating to a female nude, AI-generated, voluptuous 3D hologram.
"Kev," I started.
"I know," he shot back. He glared at both of us. "I guess you two wanna be alone." Then he stomped up the stairs and slammed the door to his room.
"Teenagers," I sighed. I turned to Glenn and forced a smile. "Okay: I was planning on changing into a really short loin-skirt, and then just lifting it up for you."
I was already blushing, and our semi-nude photo session had not even started yet.
"Oh, no, Ms.... Katelyn. The state agencies may do it that way, but we prefer our subjects to have nothing on from the waist down. It results in much better pictures, with much more flexibility."
My heart sank. "Nothing on?"
Glenn unexpectedly opened my front door. He waved, and I saw a young woman with glasses about the same age as Glenn, sitting in the passenger seat of the car out front. She waved back.
"That's Dominique," he said. "If you're not comfortable, she can come in and chaperone."
I slowly closed the door and bit my lip. "I'm 41, and, I hope I'm grownup enough not to require a chaperone!"
We walked into the living room. "Can we do it here?" I gestured at our expensive, somewhat decadent black leather sofa.
Glenn shook his head. "For the best, highest-quality photos, we need our female clients in a place in which they can totally lie back--and well--totally spread out. I usually recommend a comfortable bed."
I sighed again. I wanted this over with.
"Let's go," I said, and he followed me up the stairs.
I wondered if Glenn was taking in my exposed asscheeks. I'm a little on the thin side, but I do have a nice shape... except on top. My rear, I'm told, is round and firm. My legs, I know, are long and thin. It seems a lot of men like looking at long, thin legs. Is it because they remind them of teenaged legs?
How I wished that I had my shortest loin-skirt on now! Maybe if Glenn had been enjoying that upskirt view from behind, I could have flirtily sweet-talked him into just letting me flip it up in front.
The decade that was the 2030s became known as the second sexual revolution. In the first revolution, the 1960s, the symbol of sexual freedom was the miniskirt--and women burning their bras.
In the Dirty Thirties, the loin-skirt was the bold, barely-there, sex in your face fashion statement--and women ended up nearly bankrupting the panty industry.
Loin-skirts were based on loincloths--as in those old "me Tarzan: you Jane" movies. Loin-skirts consisted of a very thin belt that went around your waist, and two panels of fabric that hung down from that belt. Depending on how young you were--or how bold--you could wear a length from just below your lower lips in front, to a so-called "party-loin" that went down to the knees or even lower.
Ladies who were older and less bolder--like me--wore loin-skirts that only exposed our hips on the sides, and then went down to the midpoint between our groins and our knees. They were about the length of the old-fashioned miniskirts.
Once I got used to them--and the frisson of not wearing panties--my loin-skirt became my everyday skirt for shopping and running errands. I did love the freedom of going pantiless--and also the sexy feeling of knowing that only two panels of hanging fabric separated my best parts from the eyes of the world.
We entered my bedroom and Glenn had the grace to softly shut the door. I stood in front of the bed, the bed that I shared with my husband, blushing.
"I guess I'll just take these silly shorts off. No point going somewhere to change, since you're going to see everything."
"Whatever you like, Katelyn. I know this is uncomfortable, so whatever you need to do."
Great. He was a sweet guy too.
I sat on the edge of the bed, facing him. I kicked off my flip flops. I bit my lip as I kept looking at him--and not at what I was doing--as I unsnapped my shorts and tugged them down my legs and off.
I placed them on the bed.
I was bottomless in my bedroom in front of a stranger.
"How do you want me?"
"Lying back on your bed, with your um... bottom as close to the edge as possible. And with your knees bent and comfortably separated."
I lay back as if in a dream. I opened my legs and looked over. Glenn wasn't even watching me. He had a shoulder bag that he set down on my dresser. From that, he pulled out what was probably a tiny digital camera.
"Are you ready?" he asked. He was still standing by the dresser. "This is the most uncomfortable part, when I actually step up and, as you said, I see everything."
I blinked and nodded. Yes, Glenn was such a nice guy. He walked to a position where he was standing in front of me, looking down between my open legs. He looked me over and nodded. Did he like what he saw?
"For the best photos, we are going to have to do something about your hair. I have a comb and some gel. I can gel and comb it back, or you can do it."
"Uhhh..." Really? "I'll do it."
I propped my self up on my elbows as Glenn got close and pointed out my hairy issues. I had a lot of stray hairs over the upper part of my clitoral hood, then just a few hairs down below, right where my inner labia started to really bulge out.
I matted the offending hair down as directed. It didn't look as though I was going to need to use the pocket comb. As I looked up at Glenn, smiling his approval of my pussy hair gelling, I thought back to how this craziness began...
You know about the Great Hack of 2034--it's in all the history texts. Terrorists hired the world's best hackers to compromise nearly every facial recognition software database. Millions of photographic records were destroyed, including driver's licenses and passport photos.
Planes were grounded for the second time in the Century.
The hackers left too many clues behind, and the terrorist threat was averted. But suddenly, everyone needed either a new I. D., or some other new method of identification.
It was a mess. The American government decided on palm prints as an identification method. The problem was, only a comparative handful (no pun intended!) had had their palms printed. There were lines out the door and down the block and around the corner at every driver's license and passport facility in the rush to get printed.
Then, some governmental genius noted that everyone's genitals were unique. Taking genital pics would have been unthinkable in earlier times. But in the Dirty Thirties, women were allowed to bare breasts at most public beaches and pools. In some states, they were even allowed to bare everything. Men retaliated by demanding the right to go nude. Rather than arrest absolutely everyone, municipalities rewrote their public nudity statutes:
"Male nudity is hereby permitted, provided that males do not display their erect members in a harassing or threatening manner."
I don't believe that I have ever been on the receiving end of a threatening erection. Maybe I'm lucky.
Men had it easy: they would unzip, pull it out, and stick their penis in a disposable plastic sheath. An automatic, AI-assisted camera would scan their cockhead, taking multiple pictures. The pictures would then be assembled into a remarkably lifelike 3D image of a penis, pointing right at you.
Alas, women were a lot more complicated...
"Katelyn, you're doing great! I'm going to take our first set of pictures now, so just relax."
He got even closer, and slowly moved the camera from the very top of my hood, down to my perineum. He then reversed course, perineum to hood. The camera kept making soft little clicking noises.
But... what did he mean about "our first set of pictures"? I so just wanted this over with!
"How... how are we doing," I asked. My voice was so shaky.
Glenn was studying his camera. "Just letting the system confirm that we have enough photos of you to create a 3D image in your natural state."
"What do you mean by 'my natural state?'"
He looked down on me with a smile that was almost sad.
"A lot of men--and some women--actually get aroused having to expose themselves to the airport scanners. Men--and women--in a state of arousal will of course have slightly different-looking genitals. We have to take a second set of photos accounting for that difference."
I stared at him. I narrowed my eyes. "You... you have got to be kidding me! What am I supposed to do--masturbate in front of you?"
"It's your choice. Or--I am fully trained to help you achieve that aroused state--either manually or orally."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I was speechless.
Glenn continued. "Your husband had his pics taken at a state agency?
I must have nodded.
"He probably didn't share this with you... but. Men are also required to have pictures taken when they are aroused. What usually happens is: a male clerk takes their initial photos. If the man happens to get aroused--fine. If not, a usually very pretty female clerk takes over. She makes a fuss about taking some 'very special pictures.' If the man still doesn't get aroused by her presence... let's just say she takes matters into her own hands."
I was quiet for a while. I had to look away.
