“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.
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.
~~~oOo~~~
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.