I didn’t quite understood why my mother didn’t like the fact that I had become a photographer. At first it was just a hobby, but then one day a few miles from where we lived, there was an RTC: a Road Traffic Collision. And not a small one at that. I had been cycling home at the time and when the actual collision took place, I was about thirty meters away. I dumped my cycle, grabbed my camera for I always had it with me, and began shooting as fast as I could.
“Er, excuse me young man,” I felt a hand clamp my shoulders. Turning, I saw a traffic cop. You can always tell a traffic cop, their caps are white rather than black.
“What?” I asked, vaguely, wanting to get back to my shooting.
“You cannot be photographing this.”
“Oh. Sorry, erm, hang on,” I dropped my camera, it was on a strap around my neck so it didn’t fall, and grabbed my wallet. From it I pulled a business card and handed it over.
“Colin Pearce. Photographer,” read the policeman. “You’re not the press though, are you?” Then he frowned. “And you look a little young for that anyway.”
I was seventeen, and though I could probably pretend to be nineteen, any more was pushing it. I decided to ignore the second part of the policeman’s question, and concentrate on the first, it was easier. “I’m not employed by anyone, I’m freelance. I sell to the press, I do photographs for books, and I’ll let you have all the originals, and I’ll even sell them to the insurance companies as well if they want them.” Most of this was wishful thinking on my part, of course.
“You think we’ll pay for them?” asked the policeman angrily. He reached out to take my camera but I moved slightly away from him.
“I didn’t say I’d charge you,” I said, very annoyed and not hiding it. “I said I’d give them to you. Now. You get on with your job, and I’ll get on with mine.”
The copper stared at me hard. “Make sure I get all those photo’s before you leave,” he snapped.
Luckily I had my notebook in my bag as well, and before I gave my memory card to the police, I copied all the images off onto my notebook. Reluctantly, the traffic cop gave me a receipt for the card, though it took months, and many phone calls from both me and my father to eventually get the card returned. Sadly no one else would pay me for those photo’s, but I was called into court to give evidence about them.
That episode led to me taking up photography in a far more professional way. Mostly I did specific assignments. I’d have loved to be doing sports photography. Football was particularly hard to get into, but rugby and cricket were almost as difficult. I started out with, of all things, women’s hockey. As an eighteen year old, this wasn’t easy, but by the time I was twenty I had become known locally as a good photographer.
Sadly, I wasn’t to stay in sport, I was too interested in photographing the people, rather than the action, and this meant I took photo’s that the sports editors couldn’t use. They could however, be used by any number of other people, including both gossip and fashion, as well as just what became known as ‘life’ shots. Photographs of people doing ordinary things. While this ‘carelessness’ on my part lost me one job, it did teach me a valuable lesson about separating what I wanted to photograph, from what I was being paid to photograph.
Ultimately this meant I started doing local fashion shows, and similar, and soon catalogues. This was the ultimate in boredom. I hated doing these, but I had learned well, and they paid my bills. And truth be told I was good at them, and got regular contracts. It was these in particular Mum hated me doing, but she wouldn’t say why.
“Urgh,” I grunted, as the ringing phone pulled me from my sleep. I grabbed the handset. “Ugh?” I grunted into the mouthpiece.
“Colin,” came the voice of my agent. “You’re needed in an hour at the Tower Studio. They’re prepared to pay you one point two times your normal rate.”
“I’m in bed,” I muttered. “I only finished work at midnight.”
“It’s ten am,” came the brusque reply.
My eyes opened in surprise, and I stared blearily at the clock on my bedside table. The digital read-out said 9:58.
“Oh fuck. Can’t get there for eleven. Make it twelve.”
“Soon as you can after eleven,” came the reply.
I just grunted my assent. I wasn’t a morning person. Not voluntarily.
“Thank you my love,” said my agent cheerily.
“Sod off Sharon,” I muttered, but she just laughed and hung up.
Sharon Acorn was my agent. She was sixty five, not even slightly attractive, and a cougar. Fortunately I’d been warned about her predatory nature, and so far hadn’t been caught. However by stringing her along just enough, without ever promising anything, she got me lots of work. Luckily she also had a good sense of humour, so when I told her to sod off, or bugger off, or I called her a bastard or a bitch to her face, she just laughed it off. She was a bitch, but she was also extremely good at her job, and found me more than enough work to enable me to pay to do the photography I wanted to do, that no one would pay me to do. For that I put up with her occasional early morning calls, and her slightly more frequent wandering hands. I did wonder why, when a woman does it to a man it’s called teasing, or fun, or a come-on but when a man does it to a woman it’s called sexual harassment.
I got there at twenty past eleven, only to be told the shoot wasn’t expected to start until twelve, so I was about on time. It always took me about thirty minutes to get set up, so I liked to arrive forty minutes early so that I wasn’t rushing, and had a chance for a coffee or a loo break.
“Ahhhh! Bitch,” I said angrily. Luckily the woman I was talking to knew I wasn’t referring to her.
“But you love me none-the less,” came Sharon’s voice behind me. I turned and glared at her, but her permanently cheerful, over made-up, face always made me smile anyway. As per normal she was dressed as if she was a glamorous forty-year old. I just shook my head resignedly. She had done this to me before, but not often, and it had got me here on time, even if I had been rushing.
“What is it today?”
“Catalogue work. Lingerie.”
“Oh fuck.” I didn’t like catalogue work, and particularly hated lingerie. Strange as it may sound, it was boring. I was a twenty-four year old male with a healthy libido. But I still found it boring. I worked out, so was fit, and not to be blunt about it, I was good looking. I had my fair share of girls, more than that maybe. The models were attractive, even sexy, but taking half a dozen photographs of a girl wearing a pair of knickers or a bra, then having her go off and change while a second, then third came out in different pairs, sometimes identical just in a different colour, for exactly the same shots was mind numbingly boring. Now I knew why they were paying over the normal rate. It wasn’t. It was the standard rate for the job.
I glared at Sharon again. She just smiled beatifically at me, and left me to setup my camera.
“Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks, bollocks,” I muttered.
“I know what you mean,” said another voice.
I turned, startled. “Oh, hi Ade.” Adrian, or Ade, was my regular gopher, and sometime backup. He wasn’t as good as me at this sort of work, but neither of us cared. His photographic interests were different. He liked photographing insects and other creepy crawlies, and close-ups of flowers and webs covered in dew, and other such crap that just left me cold. And he was damn good at it and made money on it. As such, I didn’t consider him a worse photographer than me, just different. We got on very well together, and when we weren’t working, were either talking cameras and accessories, or talking about the next projects we wanted to do. Even if I wasn’t interested in what he was photographing, the techniques and equipment were interesting.
The first model came out, and started to pose in front of me, but then her hands went in front of her crotch. “Colin?” she said, shock in her voice.
I looked up. “Mum?” I gasped. I had found out why my mother hated the fact that I was a photographer.
My mum was forty-five. I knew she had a nice figure, but I never really thought about it. She was pretty in an understated way. She also couldn’t swim, so I had never seen her in a bikini or swim suit.
My jaw dropped. Her body, from toe to neck could have been that of a twenty-year-old. Only her face suggested older. The clever makeup she was now wearing, made her look ten years younger than she really was.
“Oh shit,” I gasped.
The director stormed up,
“What the fuck’s going on here?” He demanded.
“I can’t work in front of this photographer,” Mum sighed. She didn’t say it in a nasty way, for which I was slightly relieved.
“Why not?” he demanded.
“Because she’s my mother,” I said grumpily.
There was a long pause.
There was another long pause as the director mulled things over. He turned to Ade. “Can you do Stephie’s shots?”
“Haven’t got my kit with me.”
“Use Colin’s,” he snapped, then saw the look on both our faces. “What?”
“We don’t loan,” I said. “I use Canon, he uses Nikon. They’re just as good as each other, but they’re very different. It would take Ade an hour to learn how to use my camera even close to properly. Plus, I’ll have mine set up differently to how he likes his set up.”
“Surely they’ll be set up the same for the same shoot?”
Ade shook his head. “Nope. Even on an identical camera, two photographers will set up their cameras different for the same shot.”
“Well, work something out between you. We haven’t got time.” He glared at my mother. “This is a professional shoot. You’re a professional model,” that I had never known, just that she worked in fashion, “he’s a professional photographer. You’re both professionals, deal with it.”
“Sorry, Mum,” I said, sighing deeply. “I didn’t know.”
She shook her head, also sighing. “Very well,” she muttered, though she was unhappy about the situation.
She went back to her position and started her poses again. I think we were both rattled because it took me nearly a dozen shots to get the first, frontal shot, correct. I pulled myself together so that it now took the more usual half dozen or so shots to get the rear view. And it was a gorgeous rear view.
Normally by the end of these sessions I was tired and irritable. This time I was also horny. All three models quickly knew Stephie and I were mother and son, and at first very kindly they did two sets each to my mother’s one set. But that was tiring for them too, so by the end my mother just gritted her teeth and did her share of the work.
Looking at my mother’s gorgeous figure wearing just knickers and bra was getting me aroused. So much so that for once I found even the other girls were getting me horny as well. I was going to have to do something about that as soon as I got home. Sadly I was between girlfriends, and I happened to know that one of the two other models on the shoot had a big burly husband, the other a similarly built boyfriend. I had picked up a model or two in the past, not this time. I was going to have to use Rosy Palm and her five daughters.
I got home, and all I could think about was my mother’s figure. I could just imagine her pussy in those sexy knickers. Her boobs in those bra’s. Fuck me. For the first time ever I was going to masturbate thinking about my mother.
The buzzer went just as I had grasped my huge boner.
“Shit, fuck, shit.” I banged the button. “What?”
“It’s your mother, dear. Let me in please.”
“Mum,” I cried, frustrated. “Fuck,” I thought. I jabbed the release button, and grabbed my boxers and my dressing gown while I waited for her to come up the three flights of stairs to my flat.
“I was just about to get in the shower,” I grumbled when I let her in.
“A cold shower,” she laughed.
I just glared at her and closed the door.
“Look,” she said, “I know you were horny. I couldn’t help but see it. The other girls noticed it too.”
“Shit, Mum, I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right babe. It happens.”
“Not on that sort of shoot, not to me.”
“I know love.”
I gave a big sigh, my erection now mostly history. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know you would be there. Hell, I didn’t know you modelled.”
She gave a huffing laugh, and nodded. “I usually don’t show my face. It doesn’t really fit my bod.”
I laughed, marginally more relaxed now. “No. Sharon never told me you would be there.”
“She doesn’t know we’re related, and in any case I use a modelling name. I’m Stephie Wilks. Wilks is my maternal grandmother’s maiden name.”
“Ah. That makes sense then.” I shrugged. “Sorry though, but I’ve still never heard of you.”
“That’s all right. But we’d better check in future who we’ll be working with.”
“Yeah. What type of work do you do?”
“Almost entirely lingerie. But mostly those photo’s where my head isn’t showing.”
“Okay. Um. Sit. Coffee?”
She shook her head. Thanks. I’m not gonna stay long. Your Dad’s away for two nights so I was planning on having an early tea with Joanne, then an early night.” Joanne was my ‘baby’ sister.
“She doesn’t model as well does she?” I asked suddenly feeling a touch of panic. Joanne had Mum’s figure, she did wear bikini’s, but she also had the face to go with the body.
Mum smiled slightly, and shook her head. “No. I tried to persuade her a couple of years ago, but only until you started doing fashion photography. She just wasn’t interested. To be honest I think she’s too shy for that sort of work.”
I just nodded. Joanne wasn’t shy at all, but if that’s what Mum wanted to believe, that was okay by me. Barely three months later, Joanne joined the Royal Navy. That relieved me slightly, as modelling while being a member of the armed forces was strictly prohibited. Those caught, and there were usually a few a year, were almost always summarily dismissed. I knew Joanne wouldn’t want that.
“So apart from lingerie, what else do you do?”
Mum blushed hard. “Er. Nothing. Just lingerie.”
I frowned at mum’s sudden nervous reaction. “Oh. You said mostly just lingerie.”
“Oh. Er. Er. Er.” Her shoulders slumped.
“Mum?” I asked, puzzled.
“I do some work for Ann Summers,” she whispered.
I laughed. “Ah. Sexier lingerie. Very sexy lingerie.”
Her shoulders drooped even more.
“Oh,” I said.
She nodded. “I also do sex toys and things like that,” she whispered.
My boner was back harder than ever. “Does Dad know?”
She just nodded. “He has no problem with any of it.”
She looked up at me. “You’re horny again.” She said simply.
I could only nod.
“So am I.”
She stood and opened her long coat. I hadn’t thought about the fact that she was wearing a long coat: it was a very cold November day and it made sense. I gasped. Under it she was wearing high heels, stockings and suspenders, knickers and bra, and nothing else. And they were a very sexy, erotic, set. Not one of the sets I had photographed earlier, some of which had been sexy in their own way, but were, for the most part, just ‘ordinary’ knicker and bra sets.
“Holy fuck, Mum,” I gasped.
She smiled and slowly let her coat drop to the floor. I stood and let my dressing gown drop also. Mum could now see my boner tenting my boxers.
“Good,” she whispered. “I’ve been wanting to see that properly for the last four hours.”
I could only stare at her. Her smile widened and she stepped closer to me. Instinctively I wrapped my arms around her. Suddenly we were kissing frantically. In her high heels, Mum was as tall as I was, and I was six foot.
I pressed my hard on against her flat belly, one hand going onto a tight bum cheek. Her arms went around me. Moments later she was pushing my boxers down below my hips. I gave a little shimmy and let them fall to the floor, stepping out of them and kicking them across the room. Now my hard cock was pressing directly onto her skin. I slid my hand into her backside, only twigging then that she was wearing thong knickers. I already knew she had pubic hair, some of the knickers I had photographed her in earlier, had been at least partly transparent, and I’d seen the dark outline. Now, as I laid her down onto my bed, I could see that she had a small, circular, patch of pubes just above her slit.
I twitched her bra off, to reveal two gorgeous little boobies, probably no more than a C cup, and very firm. For ten minutes I just played with her body, kissing, licking, sucking, stroking, caressing. Starting at her mouth, and moving slowly down her neck to her boobs, and then to her navel.
Eventually I moved lower, and Mum’s gasps and moans got loader and more intense. Her pussy looked gorgeous. It tasted just as good and for ages, I’ve no idea how long, I just kissed and licked her pussy; teasing her clit, then pushing my tongue deep inside her, then kissing her labia.
After I had brought her to two gasping climaxes, I loved watching her tummy bounce as I licked and nuzzled her clit while she orgasmed, she grabbed my head and pulled me up. “I want you inside me,” she gasped.
I wanted exactly the same, and stroked my rock hard bell end against her sodden labia, finding the correct angle. Mum wasn’t interested in slow. She reached around me, grabbed my arse checks, and pulled. It took two moves, but then I was as deep inside her as I could get. We both gasped.
“Oh fuck,” I whispered. I was inside my own mother. My cock was inside my own mother’s cunt. I was having sex with my own mother. My brain just went into meltdown.
“Oh baby,” replied Mum.
I stared into her face, and then began the small thrusting motions.
“Harder, faster,” gasped Mum.
“Oh god, oh god,” I gasped as my climax quickly worked its way up my body. “I’m gonna come.”
“Come for Momma,” whispered Mum, her hips banging against mine as she frantically strove to both bring me off and to come herself.
I gasped, froze and felt my cock expand and spit out three, four, five huge globs of spunk deep into her body. I collapsed onto her, our hips still slowly thrusting back and forth. Mum grinned at me. “Good?”
“Very,” I gasped back. “Amazing. You?”
She nodded. “Happy. Very happy.” She paused. “Again?”
Well I couldn’t be that bad if she wanted me a second time. I nodded.
“Good. Take me from behind.”
I pulled free of her and helped her over onto her hands and knees. Entering her from behind was very different, yet just as amazing. I reached over her and grabbed her boobs as I thrust into her. She had one hand on her crotch, stroking herself and me as I thrust hard and fast. I swept her long dark hair aside and kissed the back of her neck. She shuddered, moaning in delight. “Yes,” she whispered. “Do that again.”
We fucked, hard and fast, and though by the end I hadn’t come for a while, and wasn’t going to come again any time soon, Mum did, regularly and repeatedly. “I love what you are doing to me,” she told me. “Your Dad is an amazing lover, but he likes it slow and gentle. He still manages to surprise me and keep me aroused, and that’s good, but I love it hard and fast, and he’s not very good at that. That’s why I wouldn’t let you just make slow love to me. Your Dad does that perfectly. I want hard fast shags off you.”
I giggled. Hey, I was exhausted. “But I like it slow as well,” I said.
“Get that off your girlfriends,” she laughed.
“Between girlfriends at the moment,” I said with a wry smile.
“Aww, poor baby.”
She rolled onto her back, pulled me on top of her, slid me inside. The feeling as my belly pressed and moved against hers as we slowly began to make love was amazing. It was slow and gentle and loving and tender. And it was wonderful. When we finally both came to a soft but intense orgasm, some while later, we both just collapsed, completely exhausted.
I managed a glance at the clock. We had now been doing this almost ninety minutes. Eventually Mum stirred and pushed me away. “I really must go,” she whispered. “Joanne will be wondering where I am.”
I nodded, and even though I was exhausted, helped her up and pushed her gently into my shower. I left her to it while I went and made a coffee.
“Oh thank you love,” she said as she came out, fully dressed. Her jeans and tee-shirt must have been in her bag. Even her high heels had been replaced by more comfortable trainers.
I caressed her thigh softly. “Aww,” I said with a laugh. “No stockings and suspenders.”
Mum smiled and shook her head. “Same knickers and bra though.”
My cock twitched at that, and as I was still naked, Mum spotted it and smiled. She stroked it gently. “Next time,” she said softly. “I want to suck it.”
I smiled. Next time? That made my cock twitch again, and Mum’s smile grew wider.
After she had left, I showered, then collapsed onto the sofa in the livingroom.
“Holy fuck,” I whispered. “What a body.” I wondered at the fact that I had never realised my mother still had the body of someone over twenty years her junior. Hell, in my work I’d seen models more than twenty years her junior with bodies there weren’t as good as hers. That was amazing, but what was mind blowing, was what we had then done. What she had let me do. What we had both wanted to do. “Why on Earth did...” I muttered to myself. “How ... Oh fuck but she’s horny.”
I still had the photographs I had taken, I still had to work on them for the client. When I loaded them all onto the computer, I fired up GIMP and began to work. I knew the first few photo’s were of Mum, and at least the next four sets weren’t, but after that I started to get lost. When all you could see was from mid calf to below the ribs, it was very hard to tell the models apart. It had never bothered or interested me in the past. This time I was curious. Eventually I worked out which was Mum by comparing navel’s. Since I knew the first one was Mum’s I soon knew which were the photo’s of Mum. I could tell the other two apart as well, but was unable to put a face to a body until I suddenly realised that only one model had allowed her face to be shown when wearing a bra. After that I just matched bra to knickers, face to bra, and navel to knickers, and soon had separated the three out. I’d never done this before, but this time, for some reason, it felt important.
I was soon doing it every time, and the first shot of every model, was always a full length shot that showed her face and her navel, just to allow me to separate each one out. This was always only for my own image cataloguing purposes, not for any other reason.
For now though, I took a separate copy of all the photographs of Mum, put them into a separate folder, and then began on my work. I cropped, changed colour balance, and removed tiny blemishes, then chose the two best front and two best rear photo’s from each separate garment, batched them up and sent them off to the client with an invoice. Despite what I was looking at, it was incredibly boring.
Then I found the best ones of Mum and put them all on screen. My cock very quickly rose, but oddly, because of the anonymity of these photo’s I couldn’t find it in me to lust over them. I smiled to myself, closed everything down, and went off to make myself some dinner.
I didn’t see Mum again for nearly six weeks, professionally or socially, but then another call came in for a similar shoot. “Is Stephie Wilks one of the models?” I asked.
There was a pause. “Nope.”
“Okay. I’ll be there.” I was both disappointed and relieved.
Mum was there. She grinned at me, dropped me a wink, and instantly I got another boner. “I told them to tell you I wasn’t there,” she told me quietly. “I got thinking about it after the last time, and realised I didn’t mind at all.”
I smiled, gave her a hug, she was still fully dressed, and we got on with our work. This client wanted full torso, including head shots of the models when wearing bra’s, as well as a few full length shots showing matching bra and knickers. Since Mum’s standard contract was to not show her face, she only did single knickers or stockings and suspenders or tights, and wore a tight tee-shirt and no make-up throughout the session. She still managed to get me incredibly horny though.
Afterwards we went back to my flat and shagged, hard and furious. Mum did lick and suck me off, and because I still didn’t have a girlfriend, we made love, just once, slowly and gently.
My next call came three weeks later, and then the following week. It wasn’t long before I was getting a similar call almost every week, sometimes more than once, and soon found out that Mum was explicitly asking for me as her prime photographer. Sadly, due to my other commitments and contracts I was only available to photograph her about one in three of these times; slightly less often than once every two weeks.
“I trust him,” she told everyone. “He is my son, and he doesn’t letch after me.” Actually I did, sort of, but because, after every shoot, we would head back to my flat and shag our brains out, I didn’t ever need to. If I didn’t have a current girl-friend, we would make slow and tender love, just the once each session, but if I did, we only ever shagged: hard and fast and furious. Whatever we did, it was always glorious sex. We weren’t ‘in love’ we weren’t having an affair, we weren’t strictly speaking, even ‘in lust’. We were just getting our rocks off, and relieving our sexual pressures. It was sex, nothing more, nothing less. But it was ninety minutes or so of stunningly amazingly glorious sex for both of us,
She didn’t ask for me for her more explicit work, we both felt that was a bit too much. Not because either of us didn’t want to, but because no one would have believed her if she said she wanted her own son to photograph her with a vibrator stuck up her cunt. And if they had believed her, they would have also suspected that we were doing exactly what we really were doing, and that we didn’t need.
Mum kept up her work for another four years, and about twenty or so times a year we would get together to fuck our brains out. But then her body suddenly started to change as ‘the change’ started to come over her. To both our disappointment, she found her work rapidly drying up.