Forbidden Frames

This is my second story here, and I've tried to be subtle and artistic in my tone. I welcome constructive feedback and hope you enjoy it.

All characters as 18 years and above.

Prologue: The Ask

It was a quiet afternoon, the kind that felt suspended in amber--sunlight catching dust in the air, time moving slower than it should. She stood in the doorway, camera in hand, gaze unreadable. Chloe had always chased the edge of truth, her lens peeling back what others hid, a hunger she couldn't name.

Chloe only asked once.

"

I need the two of you for something,

" she said.

Not a question. Not quite a command. Just a statement, like the idea had already settled into place and all that remained was their agreement.

Eleanor, Chloe's mom, looked up from her book, brows lifting. "

For what

?"

Chloe shrugged, but the movement was too precise to be careless. "

A project. Something personal. Visual. I don't want to explain it--it won't work if I do.

"

Liam, Chloe's brother, didn't speak. He just glanced between them, his gaze hollowed by Sarah's absence, finding an anchor in Mom's steady presence. He gave the faintest nod like he already understood more than he should.

Eleanor hesitated.

Her hands, those hands that had once flinched under her ex-husband's raised fist--tightened on the book, memories of fear flickering. She'd left him years ago, when the kids were teens, after the bruises faded but the fear didn't. Since then, Chloe and Liam had been her world, her tether. Yet Chloe's voice pulled her forward. She closed the book slowly, thumb resting between the pages.

"

Alright

," she said, softly. "

If it's for you.

"

The conservatory was chosen without discussion. Chloe moved through the space like a conductor before a symphony, arranging light and shadow. She brought Eleanor a dress. Told Liam what to wear. She didn't say why. She didn't need to.

There was a hush to the air--something taut, breathless. Chloe felt it settle in her chest, a quiet hunger. She thrived on this--pulling the best and worst from those around her. Whatever they began here, she knew, would spiral beyond her frame.

She raised the camera.

And the lens opened like an eye that would never close again.

Scene 1: Veiled Allure

Eleanor stood poised, her silhouette ghostlike beneath the lavender linen dress, the high collar brushing her jawline--a reminder of the restraint she'd worn like armor since the separation.

Liam's sweater clung to his shoulders, cords tracing his legs with reverent simplicity. He'd always looked up to her, his mother, steady and strong--never in a way that crossed lines.

But Sarah's leaving had left him raw, untethered, her absence carving a space only Mom's presence filled.

"

For 'Veiled Allure

'," Chloe said softly, adjusting her lens, "

I want the tension of what's hidden. The closeness that isn't yet touched. Let the air between you speak.

" Her fingers twitched on the camera, a flicker of doubt she ignored.

Eleanor's breath caught at Chloe's words. Tension of what's hidden? The phrase landed like a stone in still water, rippling through her. Did Chloe mean the quiet strength she'd rebuilt after years of fear, or something deeper--something she hadn't dared name?

She glanced at Liam, his familiar profile softened by the conservatory's light, and felt a tug of unease. Closeness that isn't touch. It sounded safe, and abstract, like a pose for a painting.

But Chloe's voice carried an edge, as if she saw through the armor Eleanor wore, urging her to shed it. Her hands flexed, uncertain. I can do this for her. Just move. Don't think too hard.

She let the words drift, vague as mist. She moved, a slow turn, feeling the space sharpen into something alive. Her hands brushed the air, hesitant but deliberate, as if testing the boundary Chloe had drawn. Let the air speak.

She imagined the space between her and Liam humming, alive with unspoken trust--the kind they'd built over years of mending each other's wounds. But as she turned, her pulse quickened, betraying her calm. This is just a pose, she told herself, even as the air felt heavier, and charged.

Liam shifted nearer, testing the invisible line. He'd always been her protector--fixing trellises, carrying groceries--his hands strong and quiet. Now they hovered, uncertain. He drifted closer. Their arms almost touched.

Eleanor's fingers brushed his sleeve, wool meeting skin beneath. A jolt ran through her, sharp and unexpected, like brushing a live wire. This isn't right, is it? The thought flickered, quick and sharp, but her hand lingered, caught in the warmth of his arm.

She'd touched him a thousand times--bandaging scrapes, ruffling his hair--but this felt different, heavier. It's Chloe's project. It's art. She clung to the excuse, letting her fingers stay, testing the edge of what Chloe's words might allow.

Liam turned his face slightly, jaw tight. His gaze slid from her throat to the flare of her collarbone beneath the translucent linen. Their eyes locked. Neither looked away.

Chloe's hand tightened around her camera. "

That's it... just... hold there."

Her throat dried, heart thumping. She hadn't planned this pull, but she fed it--her psychological hunger gnawing, pushing them toward the edge.

Scene 2: Temptation restrained (Eleanor's Perspective)

The shadows crept closer as Chloe adjusted the lighting. "

Temptation restrained

," she said. "

The suggestion of touch without permission.

" Her voice was steady, but her fingers trembled slightly, a crack in her resolve.

I watched Liam peel his sweater off, slow and deliberate. His torso was lean, dusted with hair--my boy, grown into a man. My hands curled into fists. I'd spent years shielding him and Chloe from their father's rage, building a life where touch meant safety.

Now, my fingers grazed his chest, the warmth echoing that summer day in the garden when his hand brushed mine over the trowel--a flicker I'd buried. This wasn't the touch I'd taught him--safe, distant. Why couldn't I stop?

"

Let your curiosity guide you,

" Chloe murmured.

My hand lingered, tracing the muscle above his ribs. His skin was warm, alive. Liam inhaled sharply, and I felt it: a tremor I hadn't known I could cause. This wasn't right, but my fingers stayed, drawn to the pulse beneath his skin. His hand ghosted near my shoulder--just fabric, just suggestion--but my breath hitched, a sound escaping me. I wanted to feel something unnamed, something mine.

The neckline of my dress slipped slightly, lace peeking through. Liam's gaze dropped, steady and unyielding. I should've pulled back. But Chloe's lens held me there, and I didn't want to stop.

Flashback: Eleanor's Memory

Years ago, late summer. Liam was sixteen, lanky and quiet, hands stained with soil as he knelt beside me in the garden. I'd been pulling weeds, still tender from the separation, when he reached over, his fingers brushing mine to take the trowel.

"

Let me,

" he'd said, voice soft but firm. His touch lingered--a tender, innocent weight--but there was a strength that made me feel seen. I'd smiled, grateful, and pushed the thought away, burying it deep where it couldn't grow.

Scene 3: Soft Unravelling (Liam's Perspective)

Chloe's voice was a murmur. "

Vulnerability. Not just of the body, but intention. Let it feel inevitable.

"

Mom's hands moved to her dress, loosening a button with a soft click. The linen parted, revealing lace, the curve of her shoulder--too intimate for this light. I couldn't look away. My hands undid my shirt, buttons slipping free, baring my chest. I'd loved her my whole life--purely, fiercely. But after Sarah left, the cracks in me widened, and now her touch woke something I couldn't name--dark, electric.

I stepped forward.

Her skin brushed my chest, lace catching against me. She gasped--not shock, but something deeper. What am I doing? her eyes seemed to ask, but her hands didn't stop. My fingers slid to her arms, flexing through the dress. Her hand found my spine, pulling me closer. This was wrong, but it felt like truth.

Chloe whispered, "

You're doing beautifully,

" her voice trembling. I didn't know who she meant. I didn't care.

Scene 4: Bare Intentions

"

Strip everything,

" Chloe said, voice low, strained. "

I want nothing left between the camera and the truth.

" Her lens wavered--she'd wanted truth, but this truth burned.

Eleanor's dress fell, leaving her in lace--delicate, youthful, a woman who'd forgotten she could be wanted. Liam's expression darkened, no longer hesitant. She stepped forward, hands hooking his trousers, pausing, breath uneven. This is too far, isn't it? her mind screamed, but her fingers trembled with need. Chloe's breath caught. She didn't intervene.

Eleanor unfastened his belt, trousers dropping, briefs taut against his arousal. Her gaze lingered, fascinated. She dropped to her knees, hands curling around his thighs, then hips. A pause--her breath uneven, heart racing. The pull was stronger than her fear. Her mouth parted, hovering--just a breath, a kiss--then a slow intake. Liam hissed, hands tangling in her hair, needing.

Chloe's lens trembled. Her internal conflict surged--she stepped outside, the cool air biting her skin. This was her frame, her truth, but it scared her. Yet the rawness pulled her back, curiosity outweighing doubt. She clicked the shutter, complicit, enthralled.

This wasn't art anymore. It was them, unmasked.

Scene 5: Unspoken Truth

Silence thickened the air--heavy, charged. Words would only ruin this.

Eleanor stood breathless, lips swollen, her hair a wild spill of tangles. Liam dragged her against him, bare skin meeting bare skin, heat flaring where they collided. A rough gasp escaped her as he pressed closer, his arousal unmistakable. She arched into him, fingers scraping against the fogged window, her breath leaving ghostly streaks on the glass. Their bodies moved--urgent, unrelenting--the rhythm a silent language of need. He entered her, possessive, primal, filling the space she hadn't known was empty.

A groan ripped from Liam's throat, raw and unfiltered. His hands dug into her waist, claiming, leaving marks she'd wear like secrets. Eleanor's cry was muffled, half-swallowed by pleasure, her body yielding even as she pressed back for more. This is us, broken and whole, she thought, their eyes meeting once--a flash of shame and need--before the silence swallowed it.

Chloe watched through the lens, no longer just an observer but a conspirator. The shutter clicked, capturing Eleanor's fingers splayed against the glass, Liam's muscles taut with restraint and hunger. The line between art and truth blurred, then shattered. She clicked again, no longer sure who she was capturing--herself, or them.

When it ended, the silence was deafening. Eleanor sagged against the window, trembling. Liam's hands fell away, leaving only the echo of his touch. Chloe lowered the camera, pulse unsteady.

The truth hadn't just been captured--it had consumed them all.

Afterlight

The conservatory hummed with the camera's powering down. Too normal a sound.

Eleanor pulled her dress on, hands fumbling, the fabric alien against her skin. Her bra lay discarded--she didn't touch it. That night, alone, she curled into her bed, hands pressed to her face as a hollow ache settled where relief should've been. What have I done? she whispered to the dark, but no answer came.

Liam sat on the bench, head bowed, hands slack. His hands shook, the weight of her touch heavier than he'd imagined. Shame flushed his chest. He didn't speak, didn't look up.

Chloe leaned against the glass, camera in hand, lens down. She tried to breathe, to distance herself.

"

Did you get what you wanted?

" Eleanor whispered, voice hollow.

Chloe nodded slowly. "

Yes

."

"

So did I,

" Eleanor said, an ache in her tone as if she'd found something she hadn't meant to want.

Liam exhaled a wounded sound. "

You can't show them.

"

"

I know,

" Chloe said, but her grip on the camera tightened.

Eleanor reached for it, hands steady now. Chloe let go after a possessive pause. Eleanor held it, feeling its heat, her unseen frames trapped inside. "

You were in it too,

" she said sharply.

Chloe met her gaze. "

I know.

"

Liam rose, hands clenched, his look torn between fear and devotion. The damage was done.

Chloe's Monologue: "

Frame by Frame

"

(Soft click. A photo loads. A breath.)

I thrive on this--drawing out the best and worst in people, watching them bloom or break under pressure. I told them it was art, wrote it neat and cold: "an exploration of intimacy, power, forbidden desire." But it's more. It's heat I can't escape. I framed their breaking, but it broke me too.

Frame one: Eleanor's hand on his sleeve, trembling. She's beautiful when she's unguarded--I've looked up to her my whole life, her strength, her quiet fire. I wanted to see how far she'd go for me, even if it meant this.

Frame thirty-two: Liam's shirt undone, his eyes on her--grateful, terrified. He's not just her son here. He's a man, and I pushed him there.

Frame seventy-eight: Eleanor on her knees. I didn't stop it. I wanted it to unfold, to see where their emotions would lead, taboo or not. Society would scream, but I don't care--I want them to keep going, to chase what's real.

There's a blurry frame--Eleanor's mouth open, Liam's hands gripping her. They fit. That's what haunts me: how right it looks. I dressed them, lit them, nudged them closer. I told myself it was the shot, but I craved their collapse.

The photos sit locked away, proof of something I can't let go. I'm not jealous of them--I'm jealous of their courage. They crossed a line I only framed.

I won't destroy it. I want to see the beauty in the breaking--and I'll keep pushing until it's all laid bare.

(Click. One more frame.)

Postscript: What Lingered

Days passed in silence. Chloe submitted a bland project, the camera gathering dust. She tucked the photos deeper in her drawer, her classmate's questions about her work too close, her pulse racing.

Eleanor gardened with gloved hands, slept with windows open, the air sharp against her skin. She avoided mirrors, afraid of who she'd see. Liam left early for university, calls sparse.

At first, distance ruled. When Liam visited, their eyes held too long over dinner, hands brushing as they passed a fork--lingering, remembering. A warmth they didn't name, a truth they carried quietly. Eleanor's sobs softened over months, replaced by a quiet ache. Liam's letters grew longer, warmer.

Chloe watched, hands wrapped around her tea, never touching the camera. The truth settled beneath their skin--not love, not regret, but an echo of a line blurred so gently it never broke.

Over time, their silences eased. Hands found purpose again--Eleanor's in soil, Liam's in books, Chloe's in sketches. The conservatory stayed empty, but its weight lessened.

Some truths don't explode. They settle. And, slowly, heal.