Mom’s Nude Pictures

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Ass

There is titillating nudity tension, but no sex in this story.

*

Mine is a family of four. At the time when I saw mom’s pictures, I was 22. I was in the publishing business.

Mom was then in her late forties. Being in the Technology sector, she was IT savvy. Although age had stealthily crept up on her over the years, she still looked more than appealing in a fulsome curvy way.

Dad was 52. He ran a small successful business.

My elder brother was 25. He was a Humanities lecturer in the local community college. Related to his academic interest, he ran a freelance photography business providing events photography services and such.

On one occasion, my laptop-PC could not be booted-up. I had an immovable work deadline to meet that night. Shit happens!

Mom assessed my PC. She concluded that the hard disk had crashed. Mom setup her PC for my use. I labored through the night. At 4am, I emailed my work to my editor. I was done. I felt tired. And yet, I could not will myself to sleep. This was probably due to my having stared down at the glare of the PC screen for a blast of 8 straight hours.

Instinctively, my PC mouse drifted to mom’s photo folders. I traipsed fleetingly through some folders. The folder names were typical. Work. Travel. Family. Events. Fashion. I was about to quit the viewing when a folder named “Mdl2016” piqued my interest.

I clicked. There were pictures of mom nude. About 50 images. Various poses and compositions. My first instinct was to close the window, get outta there quicktime, shutdown the PC, and get to bed. Somehow, an invisible force appropriated my being into slavish mindless submission.

I maximized the window, and initiated the slideshow. When a particular picture buzzed me a warm tingle, if not a tremor, I was moved to capture the image on my cellphone camera. Click. The pictures were artfully composed. Collectively, they carried an unlikely aura of professionally rendered, but amateurish homey casual charm. Think the best taken, artistically-nuanced classy nude photos in amateur wives websites that showcase mature allure in good taste. In the pictures which featured mom’s nipples, and her pristine mons pubis, her feminine bits were revealed tastefully without any hint of lewdness.

It was at the crack of a new dawn when I reclaimed my former self. I shutdown mom’s PC. I fell into a deep coma. And dreamt maternal dreams.

Fast forward. Three days later. I had a quiet breakfast moment with mom. It was the weekend. Dad was on business travel. My brother was on a field trip with his students.

This was our conversation.

Mom: Did you enjoy it?

Me: Huh? Enjoy what?

Mom: Me!

I gazed deep into her eyes. She knew. In the way that moms knew.

Me: I’m so sorry! I’m a wretch. A creep. You had kindly helped me with your PC, and I violated your trust and privacy. I don’t have a good reason for what I did. I’m so ashamed.

There was a deafening pall of silence. The cosmos went on pause.

Mom: What were your first instincts when you opened the folder? Tell me… I want to understand what possessed you to do what you did.

Me: The luring pull of the forbidden. I guess my moral fence just caved in to the beckoning allure of the taboo. This is lame. But, it’s the truth.

Mom (reflecting): Thank you for being so honest with me. You would’ve pissed me off royally if you had danced around in a mush of bullshit. Did it ever cross your mind to tell me about this? To own up?

Me: Honestly, no. It’s counter intuitively difficult to do.

Mom: I can understand that… Do you look at me differently now, with the benefit of your new insights?

Me avcılar üniversiteli escort (reflectively): As a mom, no. As a woman, to be honest, yes.

Mom: And how do you reconcile that?

I paused, and pondered over the question. It was an apt philosophical question. Its answer would point the way forward for us.

Me: I’m not sure if there is anything to reconcile. You were my mom, and a woman, before I viewed your pictures. You’re still my mom, and still a woman now. I think the only difference is that I now have a heightened appreciation of you, the woman.

Mom: You’re too glib smart for your own good. Heightened appreciation, huh? I’m sure…

Me: I didn’t mean to be cute.

Mom: I know… I’ve a cruel subterranean streak. I wanted to see you squirm some. Let me have a think about what we’ve discussed. A lot to process. And I’m sure for you too.

A week passed. Mom and I again had our breakfast moment in the weekend tranquility of our home.

Mom: I mulled over our last conversation. Particularly about that pseudo philosophical mom/woman dualism bit which resonated, not dissonantly, with my intuitions. If we extend the idea, there is correspondingly the son/man dimension. And if we analyze this to another level, there are the combinations of son-mom, son-woman, mom-man, man-woman. Then, stir in social conditioning juxtaposed against visceral impulses. An unwieldy simmering tensioned matrix brew.

Me: Wow! You’ve really rationalized this to a T. The pragmatic technologist in you.

Mom: I reckon we need closure to this matter, for us to move on. I guess you have stated your position with birdsong clarity. You must be wanting to hear from me. So, here goes. What happened happened. It was what it was. Nobody planned it. Nothing untoward happened. It’s not like you saw me nude in rippling flesh. You saw an artful rendition of me. The man-woman impulses of the moment overwhelmed you. And I dare say the man-mom part fanned the embers to high glow. So, I can appreciate the heightened state you found yourself in. I value your honestly on this matter. Please maintain that always. I’m cool!

Me (relieved): Thanks mom for your understanding.

Mom (questioning look): Is there anything else I should know?

Instinctively, I looked away from mom. Mom read me like an open nursery school book. She wasn’t sure, but now, she knew. A probing rhetorical question that had taken a dramatic turn to a full-bore rhetorical question in a nano blip.

Me (sheepishly): I don’t know what to say. I took pictures of some the images displayed on the PC monitor with my cellphone camera. I just couldn’t help it. I will delete them now.

I took out my cellphone. I navigated to the picture album. There were 10 pictures in the stash. I hadn’t rationed myself to 10. It just so happened that these were the ones which gave me the most compelling quivers. I passed my cellphone to mom.

Me: Here. You delete the album. And then, empty the trash.

Mom took my cellphone. She surprised me. Instead of promptly deleting the album in a fit of disgust, she appeared to be viewing the pictures. Curiously, she edged next to me, and positioned the cellphone screen before both our eyes. She gestured the slideshow along. I could sense mom was lightening up. There was no awkwardness in our viewing her nude pictures with her sitting in the flesh, thigh-to-thigh with me.

Mom: The image quality is poor.

Me (sheepishly with guarded mirth): Well, desperados can’t be choosers. And maybe my hands were shuddering.

Mom (pouting exaggeratedly): And only 10 picks? avrupa yakası escort That’s rather economical on a base of 50. Is your old mom so harrowing to look at?

I sensed a sea change in mom’s demeanor. I perceived that she was angling for feminine validation. I would go along with this course.

Me: Like you observed earlier, it was difficult for me to take quality pictures on the PC monitor. So, these 10 were my picks under the less than ideal circumstances. If you must know, these images gave me the most vigorous of twitches.

Mom (in a mischievous mood): Twitches huh? So, a collection of mere pixels can move body and soul. That powerful, huh?

Me (soberly): That’s about right.

Mom (in a reflective mood):

If this is not awkward for you, and it’s not awkward for me, I would like to review the 10 pictures with you. I would like to hear from you why you picked them. A liberating catharsis of sorts. Your dad gives me feedback on my body. But, your dad is not the most aesthetically sentient of our species, a certified philistine, and he has seen my body since my twenties, so I take his comments with a lavish spatula of salt. I do get feedback from my sis, and girlfriends, but that is from the female perspective. You’re a young man with a discerning fresh eye. Your feedback will be useful.

Me: So, are we talking son-mom, or son-woman or man-woman worldview here?

Mom pondered.

Mom: For this to be useful for my purpose, I guess it has to be man-woman. Be candid. Be brutally honest. But, no lewd or lusty comments, please. Let’s keep this on a civil aesthetic plane. And you’re a red-blooded young man. If you get a buzz from this, I will understand. Actually, it would be flattering, and a validation of sorts. Just go with the flow.

Me: I hope it doesn’t come to flow!

Mom: Don’t get cute! You’re getting ahead of yourself.

Me: Hmmm… not just yet, working on it, he he!

I moved my hand to take my cellphone from mom. And that was when I had my second surprise of the morning.

Mom: Oh no! We are not going to strain our eyes on these abysmal quality images on your small cellphone screen. They don’t do justice to who I am. I want to do this properly.

Mom went into her bedroom to fetch her laptop-PC. She fired up her PC on the lounge coffee table. We were seated on the couch. The thumbnails of her fifty plus pictures sprinkled on the screen like stars illuminating the wondrous night sky. Never in my wildest dreams, and mind you, I’ve had a few in recent past history, did I imagine that I would get a second viewing of this photo suite. And with the spasming live model right next to me to augment reality.

Mom (grinning coquettishly): Not expecting this rerun, huh?

Me (cheekily): No. I’m just so happy to be of help to my mom.

Mom (smiling, and then winked wickedly): I’m sure… We’ll slideshow through the 50 pictures, and cross-reference them to your cellphone pictures. You’ll critique on each of the 10 as we navigate through.

I summarily denounced my atheism, and prayed to the heavens that one of the 10 would be picture number 50 in the album. Perversely, as if plumbing and reading the murky depths of my mind, mom pivoted to me with a devilish grin.

Mom: If you’re lucky, one of your 10 picks may be picture number 50 in the album. He he!

Me (emboldened): It has crossed my mind. But, you know, my luck is in your hands. I think they call it Lady Luck.

Mom (sagely): We’ll see…

And so the slideshow began. Initially, we struggled somewhat to match the pictures because some of the compositions were not so bağdat caddesi escort different from one another. The pose variations were subtle. I didn’t mind. Mom didn’t appear to mind. We had time. We matched the first of the 10. It was a picture of the back of mom.

Mom: Here we go. Numero uno. Remember, for this to work, I require brutal candor.

Me (playfully): I spy with my little eye. I spy an enticing expanse of lush form, artfully defined by soft curved contours. A luscious pear shape whose allure is nailed down by two sacral dimples. Your buttocks are teasingly curvaceous without being demonstratively riotous. Killer legs flare up into hips.

Mom: You’re quite a poet! Now, let’s get down to business. Tell me about my flab and sag?

Me: Subtle hints of flab and sag. They are there for sure. But, they defy specific identification. They blend seamlessly into your total form, to conjure a sexy image whole. If you are scrupulously lean and mean, you’ll carry the devastating look of sculpted machinery. The kind you see in plasticky impossibly perfect models, or female body builders.

Mom: Give me one word.

Me: Comely

Mom appeared particularly pleased that I uttered the magic word spontaneously. Well, not magic, but magical.

Me: And mom, since you mentioned earlier about being OK if I get a buzz, just so you know, I am deeply aroused by this. I don’t know if it’s just this picture, or it’s the sensual aggregate of this picture, my sitting next to you the model in the flesh, and then, our discussing your most intimate features.

Mom: I’m flattered that my venerable body can still stir senses… Pace yourself. This is only the first picture.

Next up was a full frontal. Mom was standing in high heels. Her top was lush. A hint of sag, and soft rise of belly, heightened her allure. Her legs were together. She was scrupulously shaven. Her most feminine secret was hushed under the curve of her pristine mons pubis. A naughty peek intimation of cleft.

Me: Mom, you’re a sight to behold!

Mom: Tell me more…

Me: A perfect storm of perfections, and lesser perfections, conjuring vivid imagery. The image can’t be decomposed. The substance coalesces seamlessly into form. The sum of the parts is larger than the whole.

Mom (skeptically): Are you weaseling out of critiquing my unflattering parts?

Me (with deep conviction): You wanted blazing furnace face honesty. I gave you just that. I stand unwaveringly by my critique.

Mom (appearing fulfilled): Cute! OK, I know what you mean.

And so we moved on with the next picture match-up. All too soon, we were done. The spell ended.

Mom had an air of light contentment, and a spring in her spirit. There was a kittenish fulfilled glow on her face that was easy to identify, but hard to define precisely.

Mom shutdown her PC. I got up to go.

Mom: Errr… have you forgotten something?

Me: What?

Mom: Your cellphone stash?

I passed my cellphone to mom. I preferred that she did the sanitizing, to make a clean breast of the whole matter.

Me: Mom, at the risk of dissing you off, can I ask a rather personal question? You’re not obliged to answer if you don’t want to.

Mom: We’ve come so far. You’ve seen me in my native glory. Just shoot.

Me (hesitatingly): It’s evident that you couldn’t have self-managed this photo project with tripod and self-timer. And dad couldn’t photograph a fruitcake in suspended animation, if his life depended on it. Who took the pictures?

Mom appeared momentarily conflicted. Then, she flashed a fiendish grin.

Mom: Your bro is such a talented photographer, don’t you think so?

And that was the third surprise of my morning.

Fast forward. A year on. I was backpacking as a travel writer, in a marginal corner of this lonely planet. Ping! I received an email. Ten attachments. I scrolled to the bottom. “Mom’s the word”

That was my fourth and last surprise. We never spoke about this unstated bond. Ever.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir cevap yazın