These pictures were different. Whether the couple were genuinely mother and son there was no way of knowing, but the pictures portrayed what seemed to be a tender, loving relationship with a hint of shyness.
In the first picture the mother was sitting and the boy was standing in front of her. The boy was naked and his penis was level with her face and his hand was touching one of her breasts.
The mother was not completely nude in the first picture. She was naked down to the waist, and at her waist was what I took to be a nightdress that had been pulled down.
It had been the woman’s attitude that had first appealed to me. She was not the world’s most beautiful woman — whatever that means — she was in fact very slender. In none of the pictures could I get any clear idea of how tall she was.
Blonde hair hung in a single plait over one shoulder; her brow smooth and serene, almost like a child’s, and child-like too was her slightly tilted nose above full, finely defined lips; sensual yet at the same time grave and sensitive. Between narrow lids her green eyes had a brooding look about them.
Her breasts were not large and dropped down a little, but with well defined forward pointing nipples.
One of her features that often drew my attention was her long thighs that gave promise of a powerful grasp round the boy — this was portrayed in the last picture of the series.
Yet for me there was something more than this. What she was sitting on could not be properly seen; certainly it was backless, and as she sat her head was turned slightly away from the young man and his penis that was so close to her face.
On her face was a look of tenderness combined with what I interpreted as shyness. This for me was more alluring than all the more blatant and coarse pictures. I longed to be the young man in the picture, to be there to enjoy this woman with her touch of reserve, or was it modesty?
The next picture in the series showed the woman holding the young man’s penis with her hand while her lips closed over its head. Next he was kneeling before her, his head between her widely parted legs and her hands behind his head.
The last picture showed them on a couch or divan, the boy on top of her, her legs wrapped round him.
In a sense it was all very frustrating. I wanted to know how they came to be together like that in the first place; who said what to whom to bring about this scene of loving sexual encounter, and what went on between the successive pictures.
I used to sit there looking at them and imagining the circumstances, trying to fill in the gaps.
I envied the boy – the son if that is what he really was. I longed to be there with that sensitive looking woman; to kiss her, touch her breasts; to taste and smell her sex organ; to feel her lips over my penis and to shoot my sperm into her warm, moist tunnel of love; to hear her cry out as she climaxed, and afterwards lie with her in my arms.
Often I sat looking at those pictures, and if I thought there was no danger of being discovered I would masturbate.