Mother poses for her son

My son the photographer, Mother poses for her son, “Hi Mum,” I heard my son’s voice call out. “I’m home.” I turned and looked up from the flower bed I was weeding to see Andy clicking his camera. Andy’s always been keen on photography but it is such an expensive hobby with all that processing and printing so, for his birthday a couple of months ago, I bought him a mid-range digital camera. Now he clicks at anything in sight. You should see some of his flower close-ups: he has a knack of getting them just right.

I brushed an errant lock of hair back from my face and smiled, “Look at the state of me!” I was aware that I was wearing an old pair of jeans and an old shirt – both of them now smudged with soil marks but that didn’t seem to bother him: he just clicked away.


“That’s fine, Mum,” he assured me. “Looks good, looks natural.”

“I’ll show you natural,” I said, standing up and going towards him waving my muddy hands towards his face.

He shrieked in mock horror, “Don’t you dare!”

“Then don’t you dare takes pictures of me in this state! I’m about done anyway. Let me get cleaned up and we can have our meal out here in the sun. Sandwiches and cola OK?”

“Sandwiches and wine would be better. And put your glad rags on if you don’t want me to photo you in those old things.”

I went up to the bathroom, stripped and jumped under a cool shower – I was all hot and persipring from working under the hot sun all afternoon. I towelled down then looked at myself in the long mirror. “Hmm,” I thought, “not bad for 37.” My tummy was tight and my C-cup boobs were still firm. Just a couple of extra pounds around the hips.

Andy’s father had left me for a ‘younger model’ five years ago – leaving me with a 13-year-old boy to raise. Fortunately I had a small private income from a legacy which, with the maintenance I was getting from Andy’s father, left us reasonably comfortable. The house was mine, from my parents’ estate: a modest place but with a large secluded garden which was my love.

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I threw my bathrobe around me and returned to my bedroom where I selected plain white cotton bra and pants and a light knee-length summer button-through dress with an open neckline. I had made the sandwiches earlier so I only had to retrieve them from the fridge. I grabbed a bottle of wine and took it all out to the picnic table in the back garden.

Andy joined me after a couple of minutes with a couple of pages of pictures he’d printed off. He passed them over to me and I handed him the bottle to open. I looked through the pics and realised that they were very good. We sat down and Andy poured the wine. I passed him a plate of sandwiches and continued to look over the pictures. I had to chuckle at the sight of me with a streak of mud over my face where I had brushed my hair back and I told Andy not to take any more pics of me like that.

“OK,” he said, “when we’re finished you can pose for me as you are. You’re pretty enough like that. Deal?”

“Deal, you flatterer!” I smiled.

When we finished the sandwiches, Andy cleared the detritus of the meal away then moved my lounger away from the table. He had me sit in the chair and took a couple of portrait-type pictures from the front and sides. He adjusted the back of the lounger so I was half-reclined and told me to lie back and relax as if I were sunbathing. I could hear his camera clicking away.

“Run you fingers through your hair …” Click. “Raise your right leg over your knee …” Click. “Dangle your sandal from your toes …” Click. “Give me a bit of thigh …” I was beginning to feel like a model with a professional photographer as I allowed my hem to slide back a little, revealing a couple of inches above my knee. “Great …” Click, click, click as he moved around me.

“Up you get, Mum. Sit on the edge of the table, hands on your knees …” I complied. Click. Hands behind you and lean back …” Click. “Hold it there …” Andy made a slight adjustment to the folds of my skirt. Click. “Look to your left … look to your right …” Click, click.

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Next he had me shuffle back so my legs were straight out on the table. He clicked away as he had me turn my head and body various ways. “Raise your left knee half way, foot on the table …” Click. “Bit of thigh …” Click, click. “Knee right up …” he pulled a little at the folds of my skirt. Click. “Pop the bottom two buttons of your skirt, Mum.” I did so, allowing my thigh to be exposed to half way. “Magic …” He moved around, clicking the camera. “Roll onto your tummy. Elbows on the table and prop your chin in your hands …” Click. “Bend your right knee. That’s it, all the way …” Click. “Hands on the table, arch your back. Yes, head back, stretch …” Click. “One foot up …” Click. “Both feet …” Click, click. “Damn!”

I looked over to him with a query. “Card’s full! Let me go and upload these onto my computer. Want to see them?”

I sure did want to see how they had turned out so I followed him to his room. I sat at his shoulder as we went through the pictures. A few of them weren’t too good but mostly they were very clear.

“You’re a good model, Mum,” he commented as he clicked through the shots. Then I froze at a couple of the pictures – where I was on my back with my knee raised. Right up my dress showing all my thighs with my white pants clearly visible. “Andy,” I exclaimed, “they’re indecent.”

“Pshaw, Mum, you show much more when you’re in your bikini. Is that indecent?”

“Hmm,” I murmured, non-comittedly and watched as the rest of the pictures clicked through. Near the end of the sequence, I noticed that I was showing a lot of cleavage and in two shots my bra was also on show. Again I protested and again he said if it were my bikini, it would be OK, so what’s the difference? “Besides,” he said, “you have a lovely figure, you’re a super model and it’s only you and me seeing these.”

I was stumped and could only mutter that underwear was different, somehow. But secretly I had enjoyed myself acting as his model, even when I knew he was seeing my undies and I was flattered by his compliments so when he suggested I change into something different and we shoot some more I readily agreed.

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But what to wear? Well, I thought, if he’s going to photograph my underwear, that plain white cotton was out. I looked through my wardrobe and selected a cream silk shirt and a flowered cotton button-through skirt. I felt myself tingle at the thought of popping some of the six buttons. I had a positively sinful black lacy half-cup bra and matching panties. I knew my areolas and nipples could be made out through the thin material. I dressed in these and decided to put a little make-up on to colour my face.

I hesitated for a moment with my hand on the handle of the bedroom door, wondering just what I was doing then decided I was enjoying myself so I opened the door and ventured out into the garden. Andy was there waiting for me with a couple of bottles of wine in a wine bucket with ice in and he held out a fresh glass of wine which I gulped down in almost indecent haste and handed him my glass for a refill.

He had me pose in several innocent positions using the wine glass as a prop then, “OK, Mum. Stand there and put your foot on the table as if you were a dancer practicing at the barre. Good – point your toes.” He clicked away from several angles. “Lean forward …” Click. “Further – hold your ankle …” Click, click. “Can you hold it there?” I assured him I could. He moved to my side and started opening the buttons of my skirt. One, two, three, four – open all the way to just short of my crotch. Did his hand accidentally brush me there as he re-arranged the folds? If so it was just briefly.

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