At the time of this narrative I was finishing my first year of a Master of Fine Arts degree at a university in the northeast. I was living with my mother, Connie, who while I was in college had divorced my father because of his philandering. When I asked mom if I could stay at her place while in graduate school, she was delighted by the idea. While she's a strong and self-reliant woman, it still gave her tremendous peace of mind to have a man around the house.
I was specializing in photography and for the first-year capstone project we were to submit a portfolio of photographs in a sub-genre of our choosing. I would then write a paper on my subject to go along with the portfolio. Despite my experience, a bit of what could be called photographer's block was giving me trouble as I tried to come up with something original.
One early spring day I was walking in the commercial district near our house when I passed a photography shop that had some samples in the window. I stopped, drawn to a particular portrait of a striking older woman. She was the epitome of elegant beauty, with long, straight platinum hair and a figure that could still attract the longing gaze of a young man at least half her age. It was then that I had the idea of centering my portfolio theme on photos of mom, every bit as tasteful as the one before me.
The block was gone as I envisioned photos of mom elegantly dressed - which she does naturally - and in various settings, like the local park as spring is blooming, or next to a shelf full of books. In her early fifties, mom is still a very attractive woman with an enviable figure and expressive face. The artistic possibilities seemed to effortlessly unfold in front of me as I walked home.
Once there, I began making notes about what settings, wardrobe, and photographic modalities I wished to use. Being on the demure side, I thought she would be hesitant to do it, but I believed I could win her over with the artistic arguments.
I was pleasantly surprised by mom's reaction. At first she thought I was just asking for her help in setting up my equipment and for advice on setting, but she blushed with embarrassment when I told her what I had in mind. Nevertheless, she was eager to help. As I provided more details, mom grew visibly more enthusiastic. Although a very proper and modest lady, she enjoyed the prospect of being the center of attention, if only for a short time.
The first day's shooting was short. Mostly it involved the usual period of both photographer and subject getting used to one another, and in the subject's case, losing her self-consciousness as the camera clicked away. With my subjects, too, I like to have a conversation with them as we're getting underway so that everything feels natural and unaffected, which helps the subject feel natural and unaffected. In this case, I already knew a lot about mom, but I endeavored to get her talking about herself, which embarrassed her at first, but as with my other subjects she quickly grew comfortable, followed my directions without question, and before long hardly noticed the camera snapping away.
I considered the shoot a success and that evening as I viewed the day's work, I was very pleased with the result. Mom was an excellent subject. I spent some time upstairs in my room working with the images, changing them to sepia or black and white, softening the focus, and generally trying to get them in the shape I thought best for the project.
While doing this I experienced a strange new sensation. I was starting to see mom not as my mother, but as a very attractive woman. It was a disquieting combination of guilt and excitement as I noticed her physical attributes: her pleasant smile, how tastefully she dresses, and most of all, her still eye-catching figure.
This wasn't supposed to happen!
Granted it had been a while since my last girlfriend, but this was my mother I was admiring. Maybe I should put a stop to our photo sessions. But how could I gracefully do that since mom was nice enough to help me with my project? And she said she was looking forward to more sessions. Truth be told I think she liked the attention, but I was still of a mind to be very careful. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt her feelings or, even worse, make her think I'm some kind of pervert.
The next session was a few days later and I think my nervousness showed. Mom asked if something was bothering me, but I replied no as casually as possible. It might have been my imagination, but through the lens it looked like mom was being more flirtatious than she had before, almost as if she were trying to tease me a little as we worked.
At one point, sitting next to the picture window in the living room, I got the impression mom was showing more leg than might be considered proper under the circumstances. She gave every appearance of enjoying herself. I wondered if she might have an exhibitionist streak underneath that proper demeanor.
That night, while going through the day's shots, I found myself once again getting aroused to the point that I decided to dive into the deep end and get myself off thinking about mom. It wasn't easy at first, but as I abandoned myself to my twisted fantasies I had an amazing orgasm. In fact, I forgot where I was and let out a couple of moans that I feared might carry to the other end of the hall where I hoped mom was soundly sleeping.
It occurred to me afterward that since I had gone that far I could return to normal and think no more about it, but try as I might I couldn't get it out of my mind. And I couldn't sleep so I pulled out my Kindle and started doing some research on consensual adult incest.
It was difficult to discern fact from fiction (I suspected mostly the latter), but discovering the sheer volume in terms of just fiction and role-play, it seemed to me that this was not just something cooked up in the dark unseen depths of my psyche. If nothing else, getting off privately should allow me to focus more on the work than on my lecherous thoughts. At least, I hoped.
For the rest of the week things were pretty normal around the house. I was dealing with other school projects and mom was working. Even so, I sensed a change in her behavior toward me. She was more affectionate than usual. It wasn't anything overtly sexual; at least I didn't want to think it was sexual. There were more hugs, more shoulder rubs, or playfully running a hand through my hair, or touching my arm when I made her laugh. I grew worried that my mind had taken up permanent residence in the Freudian part of town.
And in the privacy of my room I continued to study the photographs of mom and imagining how much fun it would be to see her naked. I should have been ashamed, but I wasn't. That was the kicker. The more I read online about this phenomenon the more fascinated I became. Surely it was all about the taste of forbidden fruit.
The following Monday afternoon we shot in the park near the house. It was a chilly day so mom was dressed for the weather, and even then she looked very attractive. She wore a baggy sweater, jeans, and a pair of fashionable boots. In public things were a bit more subdued. Mom was playful in front of the camera, occasionally pensive, but there was no hint of suggestiveness. Perhaps I had imagined it all. Even so, the project was taking shape nicely. My creative block was in the past.
In retrospect, I'm not sure when I crossed the line, at least not exactly. Was it when I started to fantasize about mom in the solitude of my room? Or was it the moment a few days after the session in the park when I stole quietly down the hallway and peaked into the bathroom to try to catch a glimpse of her in the shower?
I recall that vividly because even just the obscured outline of her naked body behind the glass door was exciting. It was exciting because it was taboo, of course, but also because of the prospect of getting caught. If that happened, I would have to think fast on my feet.
On the other hand, it seemed pretty obvious when mom crossed the line. We were eating dinner when she smiled cryptically and I asked her what was on her mind. She blushed a little, almost as if I had caught her out in an unguarded moment and she had forgotten I was there.
"Oh, it's nothing, darling. I shouldn't say." Of course putting it that way almost guaranteed that I wouldn't let it go at that so I pressed her gently and she relented. "It's just that I think I'm enjoying working with you on your project a little too much."
