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前情概要
Xin chào. Tôi là Jim, và tôi nghĩ vợ tôi đang đụ thằng con trai chúng tôi.À, có lẽ chưa, nhưng bà ấy đang cố.
背景/人物关系
tôi - vợ tôi - con trai
剧情
Hi. I'm Jim, and I think my wife is fucking our son.
Well, maybe not yet, but she's trying.
Yes, yes, I can hear you all out there. All those different points of view. 1. 'He's taking your place as the alpha male, and you'll be in his room soon.' 2. 'You're not enough for her, you limp wimp.' 3. 'Your wife is a sick slut.' 4.'You need to call her out and stop this.' 5. And, of course, 'you need to catch them and join them.'
So, rather than state that all those points of view are bullshit, I'll talk about what I'm seeing and experiencing.
Susan, my wife, and I live in a medium-sized city. We have two children. Jane, our oldest at twenty-four, moved out to attend college and now lives on the other side of town. Our son Bob is a senior in high school and will be attending one of the colleges here in the city. He lives with us.
Now, about that wimp in the bedroom thing. Susan is a voracious and energetic lover. My wife is tall and curvy with a full head of raven black hair and a pair of tits made for fucking. She fucks me like a nymphomaniac that just escaped from a convent. We had our room soundproofed years ago if that tells you anything. She's in her forties now and hitting her peak. We fuck all the time and all over the place. Bobs caught us a few times. No, he didn't stay and watch.
So, I noticed that Susan is wearing different and less clothing. Not crazy, but breakfast attire now has no long flannel robe. It's one of my tees, long, hangs over her perfect ass, and a thong, usually still full of our cum. Bob noticed, and now he hugs Mom more often, and she pecks him on the lips.
Bob is a great son. But he is introverted and awkward. He'd probably show up on the spectrum if we had him tested, but I don't trust that shit. I'll bet they all show up on the spectrum. It's all about money. He's never had a date. Big surprise, he's a gamer. I think Susan is aiming to change that.
Why not speak up? Because I think it's fucking exciting that they are doing this dance and think I don't know. Susan is just as good a lover, better now if that's possible. I think she is into the wicked idea of sneaky incest. I understand. I've had urges. So here I am, the perverted voyeur wondering if my son will respond and reaping the harvest of a guilty wife.
It's Monday. I wrapped up my work early. My routine is to stop by the lounge in the hotel next door. The place is dead this time of day, which is what I like after a hectic day.
My stopover also gives Susan and Bob a little time to perhaps move things along. I need to devise a strategy to keep track of the progress.
The place was practically empty. I took a booth, set up my laptop, and shopped for surveillance gear. Oh, this is going to be fun.
"I don't know why you guys don't just stay at your desk instead of killing the vibe here."
Mid-twenties. Curvy, blond, full-sleeve tattoo. Smiling. My waitress. She must be new. The usual girl is older than me and, well, used up. This was a delightful improvement. I smiled back. "You give this place more vibe than it deserves."
"Why, thank you. I think." She said, warming to my compliment.
"You're welcome...."
"Becky."
"You're welcome, Becky. I could use a Stella if you please."
As Becky walked away, I was back in college. An awkward freshman. A girl who looked a little like Becky took a liking to me and turned me from awkward to confident. After one semester, she left the school and broke all contact with me. There were rumors. Then I met Susan.
So, I had an idea. My wife is pursuing a personal agenda. I'm going to have some fun too. I haven't thought about another woman since I got married, and I'm wondering if I still have it. My wedding ring is at the jeweler getting polished, so I appear available. I'll just flirt until it looks like I could seal the deal and then back off. But I'm going to need a story.
"So, what kind of scumbag boss has his employees working during cocktail hour when they should be overtipping their waitress for amazing service?" Becky was back with my beer.
"Well, that would be me. I'm a private investigator. And you're cute and fun, but all you've done is get me a beer. Quickly, but with a bit of sass." Me smiling, using my charming 'I want to fuck you' voice.
Becky bumped her hip against my shoulder. "I'm not sassy. Teenage girls are sassy. I'm feisty."
I leaned back, put my hand to my chin, looking thoughtful. "Feisty. Yeah, I went out with a feisty girl once,"
Becky waved her finger. "You're my father's age."
I laughed. "Ouch. You lost points towards the big tip."
"Ha! If I wanted to do that, I'd be rich."
She peered at my screen filled with the Amazon page of surveillance cameras. "So, who do you work for, looking up that shit?"
"I shouldn't say. Confidentiality and all, but since you're so feisty, I can't resist."
Becky laughed. "Why can't you be my age? You're funny."
"The guys in your generation are stupid. If I was your age, I'd chase you from horizon to horizon until you agreed to a date."
Becky put her hand on my shoulder. It felt nice. "Oh, and I bet you'd make it a memorable date."
"Never on the first date. You need to let the mutual desire build."
Becky fanned herself. "Okay, enough of that, whew. So, can you give me a hint?"
"Sure, why not. You aren't going to tell anyone. I got hired by a husband who thinks his wife wants to fuck another guy."
Becky rolled her eyes. "Wow, like that never happens."
I looked up at her and smiled. "It's their son."
"Whoa! Get the fuck outa here. Really?"
"You're not grossed out?"
Becky stood up. "No, Should I be? Are you? I mean unless he's a little kid."
"He's eighteen."
Becky waved her hand. "Oh, okay. No, I'm really a do what you want kinda girl. Consenting adults and all. I guess it doesn't bother you? Hey, if you put spy cams in, you're gonna see...."
"No, doesn't bother me. I know people who have done incest, and yeah, I will see if they consummate the mother-son relationship."
Becky snorted, "consummate, too funny." as she left to take care of her other table. I ordered the gear and happily noted it was on a two-day ship.
I went home early for the next two days to put the chill on. I didn't want to let things get going before I could watch. Susan was her usual self in bed. A new thing. She wanted me to fuck her ass. That's not new. The new part was the dildo in her pussy while I fucked her ass. The girl has plans.
***
Day one of 'operation-fuck the son.' I was in my booth in the lounge, laptop open, checking the time. Bob should be walking in the door at home any minute. I made sure to remind Susan I'd be home at seven. Nice and precise. Now, let's see if I'm right.
"You spyin?" Becky, over my shoulder.
"Yup, got em all installed. Smoke detectors, every room."
"Even the bathroom?"
I laughed. "Nah, somethings you don't need to see."
Becky laughed, got me my beer. "Hey, so what's your name?"
"Jim."
Becky shifted from foot to foot, nervous. 'So, I know I'm not supposed to, but this is kinky, and I'd never tell anyone, but."
I was looking at the screen. Bob had just gotten home. "You want to watch, you devil." I looked up. Becky's face was red.
"Sorry, that was wrong. But I have no boyfriend, and all I do is work...."
"I get it, Becky. I'm single too. We're adults here. You've set the rules. So, instead of a tip, or a date, I'll let you peek."
My cock was hard. Having a stranger watch my son and wife, not knowing the truth. Becky getting wet watching my family. I'm a perv and loving it. Besides, I'm helping a horny kid get off. Public service, right? And who knows? Maybe I'll break a rule or two.
Becky, still blushing. "Thanks. I'm pitiful."
I touched her hand. "Not hardly, kiddo. I think you have a wild streak under that calm exterior."
Becky walked away, mumbling. "Oh fuck."
Why am I doing this? Sharing? I thought about it. Yeah, I like having this kid like me, being tempted. But I'm doing it for my ego. I'm clever and smart, and I want someone to know it. I'm a perv, and I want someone to watch. Maybe I'm a cuckold too? Oh, and I'm having the best time of my life.
So, if you've read any mom-son stories on here, you'll know that sometimes the son is a little dense. That's my boy. Just like me at that age. Horny and clueless. He's a handsome young man. Sometimes they're called twinks. I watched for two days as Susan touched more, wore less, kissed him closer to his mouth. The cameras were excellent, and I could zoom in. The shocked look mixed with the bulge in his pants when his braless mother hugged him in only a tank top, rubbing her body on him. I would have been fucking her on the floor. Oh wait, I do that now.
My co-conspirator kept asking, and I told her, not yet. It takes time.
Friday, I left the house early. I've been doing that since Susan likes to tease Bob over breakfast, and I like to watch it in my office in real time. She rubs on him. Kisses him lightly on the lips, bends over, showing him her panty-clad ass. The cameras and microphones are so good I can watch my son's cock get hard in his briefs. Not my thing, but still, I gotta laugh. Come on, son, make a move.
Well, today, Susan upped her game. After I left, she changed into what I call her after-sex robe. It's a silky thing with a lot of Asian symbols. It barely covers her ass. Her hair is a mess. That tells me she's been masturbating. As I watch, she's moving around the kitchen alone. She has her head cocked. It's comical. She's listening for the squeaky stair, so she'll know when Bob is coming for breakfast. I hear the squeak. Susan looks towards the doorway and loosens the belt on her robe. It's going to open as soon as she moves. I assume she's naked under it.
Bob comes in, rubbing his eyes. He's got loose PJs on. Susan has her back to him, and I watch as he stops short and stares. I snort. I can fucking see his dick growing. Oh, this will be fun.
Our son sits at the table, almost missing the chair because he won't take his eyes off his mother. Still puttering over his breakfast, Susan opens the fridge and bends down to get the milk. I hear Bob gasp. I was right. Susan has nothing under the robe, and when she bends over, Bob has a perfect view of his mother's vagina and butthole neatly framed by a fringe of black pubic hair. I'm hard. My horny wife makes a show of 'looking' for something and finally stands up. Bob is rubbing his cock through his PJ pants.
Susan turns and pretends to be surprised. "Oh, you're up early." She says. I'm laughing. He wasn't before, but he sure as shit is now, me too. And he's right on his usual time for breakfast also.
Now that knot on the robe. The knot my wife loosened as she heard our son. It's just a loose, single overhand, and it is losing the battle with my wife's incredible tits and hard round ass.
As she turns from the counter, coffee in one hand and Bob's breakfast in the other, oh my, the knot slips, the robe opens, and my son gets the full frontal of his mother, who pretends not to notice.
She bends over in front of him, her nipples hard as rocks, and I'm sure her lust scent is in the air. My son has one hand in his lap, stroking his cock under the table as he stares at his mom's naked body.
Susan stands back up and 'notices' that her robe has opened -- Oh my. This is a fucking riot.
She makes no attempt to re-tie the belt. "Oh damn, that knot came loose. I'm sorry, Bob. You had to look at your old mom's saggy body."
Bob, still staring, mumbles. "You look nice, mom, "He loads up his spoon with sugar flakes.
"Oh, that's nice, son. You think mom's okay? Even if I don't shave like the girls your age?"
While she speaks, she runs her hand over her breast, down her front, and over her pubic hair. Bob's spoon misses his mouth, and cereal is all over the place.
"Oh, my," Susan says as she goes to get a towel, and somehow, that loose robe falls off. I'm laughing like hell. This is like lousy porn, and my poor son is clueless.
Susan goes over and yanks Bob's PJ shirt off. "Let's get this off you. It's covered." That was one spoonful of cereal. Now my wife 'suddenly notices' that her eighteen-year-old son has a raging boner. She looks right at the tent in his PJ pants. "Did I cause that?"
She's naked, leaning over her son, her big tits nearly in his face. 'Did I cause that?' She's killin' me.
"Sorry, mom. Yeah, kinda."
"Well, stand up. We need to get those wet pants off you."
Poor Bob doesn't know what to do. He gets up, trying to keep his hands covering his boner. Susan ignoring his plight. "Well, get them off. I'll need to wash them."
As his mother watches, Bob slips his fingers under the waistband of his PJ pants and pushes them down, letting his hard cock free. He bends over, picks them up, and hands them to mom, who tosses them in a chair.
"Baby, you can't go to school in that condition. I feel responsible."
Bob, mumbling. "It's okay, mom. It'll go down."
Susan, the caring mom. "Well, that could take a while. I think you need to-- you know."
Bob stares at his mother. She shrugs. "Son, I know you masturbate. Everybody does. I do. It's no big deal. I'll even help a little."
Bob stares, his cock flinching so damn hard it has to hurt. "I'll go to my room," he mumbles.
Susan moves closer. "It's okay to do it here. Would you like to touch me while you do it? Since it's my fault, you got so hard?"
Bob's eyes go wide. "Really? What about dad?"
Susan takes his hand and gently places it on her nipple. "It'll be our secret. Go ahead. Mommy wants to watch."
The light finally comes on for my son. He takes his cock, which is pretty impressive, about the same size as mine, and masturbates, while caressing his mother's nipples.
"That's nice, baby. You're making mom feel good."
"You feel nice, mom. I like this."
"You can touch mommy anywhere."
Bob looks right at his mother's neatly trimmed black bush. "Anywhere?"
She takes his hand and drags it along her abdomen. "Yes, baby. You can touch mommy's pussy. It's very wet."
Bob puts his hand over his mother's pussy. "Wow, you're really wet, mom."
She runs her hand through her son's hair. "You do that to me. I love watching my son masturbate. I've already had one orgasm."
"Oh, fuck, mom. I can't hold back."
"On me, baby. Cum all over mommy."
Like a fucking firehose. I laughed as a fat rocket of cum jetted out and painted a line from Susan's navel to her chin. Bob panting and pounding his cock, shot twice more, re-covering the same area. He stepped back, still holding his cock.
"I'm so sorry, mom. I couldn't help it."
Susan ran her finger through the mess of cum that covered her. "This is just another way of showing mom how much you love her. Now run up and get ready for school."
Bob takes off, and my wife scoops up his cum and licks her fingers till she is mostly clean. As she does that, she puts a foot up on a chair and rubs her clit, coming in record time. I can see her orgasm running down the inside of her thighs.
I had to go to the men's room and watch the last bit again as I jacked a load. Fuckin hottest thing I've ever seen.
***
My ass isn't even in the booth when Becky is over me. "Well?"
I smile at her. "Bingo. She crossed the bridge."
Becky's eyes go wide. "So, tell."
"Give me your email, I'll give you the link."
"You'd do that? I could copy that and send it anywhere."
I smiled. "No, the file can't be copied, and if you try to record it with your phone, it'll be all cloudy. It's some geek thing."
Becky is shifting from foot to foot, looking around. "You sure? I know I asked, but...."
"Would you like to see?"
"I'm so fucking pitiful and sick, but yeah."
Becky, blushing hard, gave me her number and then went off to get her other tables. Business had picked up in this place. All guys. I think they're coming to see her. Tough luck, guys.
I send the link. I watch Becky as she feels her phone vibrate. She checks it, doesn't look at me, and heads for the back. I sip my beer and wait. My cock gets hard picturing this twenty-something girl rubbing her pussy while watching my wife and son masturbate. This is so much fun.
Becky was back in about twenty minutes. As she walks up, I swear I can smell her excitement.
"Was it a good one?" I ask, looking at my laptop. I glance up. Becky's eyes are bugged out.
"I can't believe you said that!"
I laugh lightly. "Come on, Becky. We're both adults. We both know why you wanted to see it. What do you think I did when I watched it?"
She waves her hands. "TMI, Jim," Laughing. Then she stops. "Hey, you don't have some sneaky thing on my phone that turns the camera on or anything?"
I look right at her. "No. That's creepy and a huge violation of trust. I'm getting paid for this, and the client knows. Well, he doesn't know about you watching. That's just the old guy helping out a horny girl."
"You make me sound pitiful."
"Not hardly, Becky. You're human, that's all."
She cocks a wry smile. "You're getting off. Knowing what this does to me."
"Maybe. If you don't mind."
Becky smiles, her shoulders drop, relaxed. "No, I don't mind. I guess we're a couple of pervs. Just keep it mental there, dad."
"So, you won't mind if I send more? If it keeps going."
Becky leaned in, her lips brushing my ear. "I'll kill you if you don't."
We laughed as she walked away.
***
It's the weekend. I made sure to be at home. I had a very good time watching my son and wife always circling each other with one eye on me. Susan knows I'm a light sleeper and she's smart enough to not take chances. Instead, she let me fuck every one of her holes. I pretended not to notice that the door was cracked open, and Bob stood in the dark of the hall, masturbating.
***
Monday at breakfast. Everybody is dressed, of course, but my son can't keep his eyes off his mother, who keeps watching me. I wanted to out them right there, but I knew I'd have more fun watching.
I'd gotten a motel room for the day. If I know my wife, she's gonna go for a while. I left, telling Susan I may be back if my meeting was canceled. You should have seen their faces. That was just a stall, so I'd have time to get to the room and set up.
Sixty-inch flat screen with my laptop hooked in, headphones on, naked. I was ready. Sent a text. The meeting is on, and then we have to tour the new plant. May be late tonight. Love you.
The cameras have microphones, good ones. Watching her read my message, smiling. As he gets up, the cameras switch. They're motion-sensitive. Up the stairs to Rob's room. He's on his bed. He changed from school clothes back into his PJs. Clever wife. If I come back, she can say he's not feeling well. He's gaming; looks up when mom opens the door. Susan smiles, she's got her robe untied, and her body is on display. Bob stops and stares. "Hi, mom. You look pretty."
Susan says, "Hey, baby. Dad's gonna be gone all day. Let's go to my room and have some fun."
'Really, mom?"
Susan drops the robe. "Really. Today you're gonna lose your virginity to your mother and more."
Bob sat there for a second. Then leaped out of bed and ran out the door. I switched to the camera in our room. Susan, standing, waiting as Bob ran in. "slow down, son. We have all day." She hands him a pill and a cup of water. "What's this, mom?" Susan smiles. "A sex pill that will keep my boy coming all day long."
I'm lying on the motel bed, naked and stroking just enough. I want to cum when my son fills his mom's pussy with his cum.
"Now, take your clothes off for mommy."
Finally getting it, Bob slides his hands up his trim abdomen, pushing his shirt. Susan rubs her nipples. "Mmmmmm, nice, baby."
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.
I move behind Em. I slip off the fastening of her bra, taking it off completely. I put my hands round and cup her breasts, pinching her nipples between thumb and forefinger. I suggest she put her hands under her breasts, lifting them some, like an offering of treasured gifts.
Click.
I put my arms right round Em. I hold her right breast in my left hand, massaging and squeezing. My right hand slides down the front of her thong. My finger slips through the hermetic seal of her vagina. I move my finger inside her for a few seconds then withdraw. Em is sopping wet. I break away.
Me: Now, I want you to repeat what I have just done. Left hand massaging your right breast. Right hand into your thong pleasuring yourself.
Em: Whoa! We are deviating further and further from our script!
Me: Please...
She relents.
Click.
I move over to Em. I am so hot. I ease her thong to her ankles without asking her. She is surprised by my unannounced action. But, she does not resist. Em is now totally native.
I slip my finger into her vagina. She is leaking copiously. A musty smell permeates the air. Our eyes lock in a moment of heat.
Em: If I'm going to be naked, you should be too. Your trousers are contorted in agony. Lose your textile.
I am naked. Em cannot resist reaching out, kissing the hard flesh in front of her. She licks off the precum glistening on my proud head.
Em: I feel very exposed. Vulnerable. Just a couple more pictures only, please.
Em is conscious of her exposed bottom. She lays on the bed, flat on her stomach.
Em: Well, don't get anything up needlessly. I'm not showing much.
Me: Raise your head and shoulders. Pull yourself up enough. Nipples on the bed out of view, but only just so.
A provocative teasing peek-a-boo pose. I can see her soft rise of breasts nicely, but not her nipples.
Click.
Em: You get my bare derrière. But, I'm keeping my legs closed. So, don't billow your hopes up.
I go around the bed taking pictures of her back, especially her nice, round butt. Hot!
Me: Maintain your pose. But, bend your right leg. Dangle your high heels on your toes, come hither.
Click.
Me: Just a few standing shots and we will be done.
Em: Oh no! I am not exposing my bare lady part.
Me: Let's do this. I will take the shots. Artistically composed. In our review of the pictures, we can decide what to do. You can choose to delete the pictures. Or, based on your selection, I can photo edit them and airbrush the bits you deem offensive.
Em: Hmmm... you are determined! I guess I have to let you have your ration of jollies, this being your birthday celebration.
Em is standing in her buxom pubescent full glory, perched on her high heels. Her legs are together, clasped tightly, guarding her nether charms. Her pristine mons pubis, and impish hint of cleft accentuate her pubescent allure. A buxom pubescent curiosity.
Click.
Me: Sit on the edge of the table. Cross your legs. Kittenish look.
Click.
Me: Spread your legs. Look right, away from the camera as if something is holding your attention.
Em hesitates. This is the maiden shot of her revealed lady part.
Me: Please? We are almost done. You can delete this picture in our review if you are not happy with it. Or, I photo edit airbrush what little that we see of your muff.
Click.
Me: Stand with your back to me. Legs apart. Wider. Good! Bend right down. Right hand hold your left ankle.
Em: Oh God! No! This is smut!
Me: This is hot! Please? We can review later and decide if it is indeed smut. From my view here, it is a sensual aesthetic rendition of who you are. Your face can't be seen anyway. Lovely! This picture will be it.
Em relents.
Click.
I upload the pictures onto my laptop PC. I hook up the PC to the large TV monitor so that we can slideshow the pictures. Em is about to throw on her bathrobe, but I tell her that we stay native, enjoy our nudity, cuddle up, as we review our pictures.
I laze on the couch with my legs extended. Em sits in front of me, pauses, as if giving me notice of her next move, then reclines, and melts onto me as if I am a lounge chair. We make some fine bodily adjustments. We are in the groove.
As we view the slideshow, I fondle Em's breasts, and knead her pliant eraser tip nipples. Em mews a musical exotic kittenspeak. I drift south. I am in full flourish, as is Em, judging from her moist bottom.
Em is pleased with the black dress series of pictures. She looks regally elegant and yet, sexy.
After initial misgivings, Em warms up to her bra and thong shots. She particularly likes the ballerina pose shots. Dance is close to her heart. These shots resonate with who she is. The shots have the unlikely quality combination of the artistic, soft athleticism, the pristine pubescence of a ballerina, and yet coquettish appeal, all at once.
We are aroused viewing Em's nude series. I tell Em that we are in the mood, in our element, and I will love to take some shots of us together in intimate poses. Again sexy, but not lewd. I lament that I don't have a tripod for my camera now. We will do those shots belatedly when we get home. Hopefully, we can recreate this mood.
The doorbell chimes. It startles us as we are not expecting anyone. We promptly put on our hotel bathrobes. I go to the door.
Surprise, surprise! It is our son, David! He carries a champagne in an ice bucket on one hand, and what looks like a birthday cake in a box on the other.
David: Mum and Dad, Happy Birthday and Happy Anniversary!
Em: Oh David, this is such a pleasant surprise!
David (noting his parents in bathrobes with apparently nothing beneath): Errr... am I interrupting anything? Do you want me to come back later?
Me: No. Not at all!
David sets up the champagne bucket, and flutes on the coffee table in the lounge area. It is a Krug. Our fave bubbly poison.
Em loves strawberries. She remarks that the champagne will pair nicely with the strawberries from the complimentary fruit basket of the day that is in our room.
David: Oh! That reminds me. I have that covered too! My hands were full with champagne, ice bucket and cake. Let me go to my car to get the bouquet of fresh strawberries. Give me ten minutes.
As David turns to leave, he inadvertently sees the picture of his mum on the TV screen. We have totally forgotten about the slideshow! This is the picture of Em in full frontal on her high heels, with her legs closed, betraying a hint of cleft. Em is mortified.
David acts nonchalantly, pivots casually away, as if the picture isn't there. A perfect gentleman. He almost convinces me that he has seen nothing. As I let him out of the room, he gives me a knowing smile, "I apologise for interrupting mum and you. I will be back shortly with the strawberries."
Em (flustered): I'm so embarrassed! It's all your fault! This photos obsession.
Me: Chill, chill! I don't think David saw anything. If he did, it was fleeting. A blip. In any case, it is a tasteful artistic picture. Nothing to be embarrassed about.
Em: But, he saw my breasts! And horror of horrors, my lady parts!
Me: As you have witnessed yourself at the hotel beach, many guests sunbathe au naturel. David could just as well have dropped in on us while you are sunbathing nude at the hotel poolside or beach. In that situation, he would have seen you in the flesh.
Em: Hmmm... I don't see how this is relevant. We are not nudists. Many of the hotel guests are foreigners, enjoying carefree anonymity, far from home. And I have never been in anything less than a sensible one-piece in public.
Perversely, as we banter, the picture is still on the TV monitor in its epic cinematic glory. We revisit it intently. I feel a tingle knowing that a strapping young man, our son, no less, has admired this vision of loveliness just a moment ago, if only for a second.
Me: Look, Em! The picture is artistically rendered. Your slit is barely visible beneath your plump mound. Your barely legal pubescence lends a pristine aura to the image.
Em calms down somewhat.
Em (curiously): I saw David talking with you at the door. What did he say?
Me (jocularly): Boys talk! He said he saw the loveliest woman ever, and he came in his pants. Twice over. Just kidding, he he!
Em (lightening up): Very funny!
Me: David apologised for interrupting us. It must be because we are in our bathrobes. Maybe we look hot and bothered?
Em: Hmmm... so he saw my picture.
Me: Give him a break! You are reading way too much into this fleeting episode.
Em: Hmmm... I guess so. We raised him well. He is a gentleman. And a handsome strapping young one to boot. My very own copy of Michelangelo's David. I guess I am over reacting. To be honest, I do get a surge from his glimpse of my picture, fleeting as it may be.
I walk over to Em. I slither my hand beneath her bathrobe and caress her muff. She is devilishly dewy moist.
Em: So, now you know. You must be thinking badly of me, David being our son.
As I bend over my PC to close the slideshow, my penis peeks through my gaping bathrobe quivering.
Em (patting my tumescence): Hmmm... looks like the feeling is mutual.
Me (philosophically): There is an inherent dualism about us. You are a mum and a woman. Just as David is a son and a man. And if we have a daughter, I will be a dad and a man. Most times, you are a mum when you are with David. But, there is just no telling when the woman in you shows up. It is beyond your control.
Em: Hmmm... I have never thought of it this way.
Me: So, you have the combination modes of the usual state of mum-son, and then less frequently, mum-man, woman-son, culminating in woman-man. On the flipside, for David, hypothetically, from his perspective, son-mum, son-woman, man-mum, culminating in man-woman.
Em: So, what is the operating mode when I get a tingle from David looking at my nude picture just now?
Me: Hmmm... I don't know if he did look. Assume he did fleetingly. Only you will know what's playing in your head. I can only speculate at best.
Em: Your speculation?
Me (pondering): Mum-man. As in you are in a motherly frameset. You see, first and foremost, a man looking at your nude picture, even though that man is your son. And that gives you a tingle.
Em: Hmmm...
Me: And possibly woman-son mode. You are in a woman frameset. Either way, there is a lurking element of the taboo.
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