The Photographer’s Mother

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Panzer’s Note:

Only the opening two verses of this story are told in a present-tense narrative. The rest is purely third-person. It wasn’t just for creative purposes, but because I felt it best served both context and subtext, establishing the story’s concept whilst capturing the fictional artist’s craft, photography, in the moment.

This is part one of a very long story that works hard on emotion, chemistry and atmosphere. If you don’t like to be teased toward a huge emotional payoff, I have other stuff you can have a three minute handshake to, filthy as this will be.




The true photographer knows many worlds other than this one. The true photographer is more than just an individual trained to capture images. They, like those creating with clay, ink, paint, or celluloid, are artists of a unique craft.

They are journalists and storytellers, visionaries and messengers, communicating through the images that they create, the moods that they capture, and the conclusions they invite us to interpret through our own perceived realities.

They have the unique ability to capture the essence of the human soul, to capture fleeting moments of beauty and perfection otherwise unseen to the roving and easily distracted eye and lost in time forever.

And while some seek the easy money, turning glamour models and celebrities into polished plastic candy, others like Daniel Jackson, with the natural power for provocation, invite society’s more cultured and courageous to take a look at themselves through the worlds he creates.

Until the final product is created, nobody, no assistant or model, not even Daniel himself sees with his own eyes what the book page or the canvas will show. The camera’s eye sees only what is, not what has yet to be.

Only Daniel’s instincts as a photographer tells him that his direction is true, and only his heart sees in its own way, that what he sees is true to that which the soul feels. Like a compass or a divining pendulum, Daniel is naturally attuned as an artist to compose imagery as though it were music. It flows and it yields to both the real and the ideal, free to do with dream and reality as it pleases.

And from within his private studio on an uninterrupted Saturday afternoon, Daniel alone with his two life models – a slender and naturally beautiful but ripening late fifties blonde woman with cropped grey hair, and a much younger, quite athletic dark-haired man of about thirty – waltzes from scene to scene, letting his latest opus, his latest story, unfold and to tell itself with an honesty that could never be scripted by any wordsmith in quite the same way.

The studio floor itself covers the size of a studio apartment, or about the size of two living rooms in a three-bedroom house and to look at it through eyes that see only threadbare reality, one would see something utilitarian, maybe even clinical, and so bereft of imagination, because the imagination is as of yet intangible.

Three walls are solidly black, the fourth wall – the one the audience never sees, for it only sees through the fourth wall – is busy with camera tripods, spotlights, shelves bearing rolls of different coloured and textured wallpapers, and props, and gels to colour the lights. Daniel’s current project needs no scenery for the eye to see. Humanity and flesh are all he wants to see.

And only Daniel, through the photographer’s instinct, and his heart and soul, sees the true picture. Mary and Adam see in their minds a script to be played out, and a mental picture of the story they’re playing out, and they are both consummately professional in their patience, just enjoying the experience of liberating themselves through character, although in essence they are truly playing out who and what they are behind the social masks they must wear.

On one breadth there lies a bed that has yet to be messed and slept in – another prop that will be used this afternoon. Thrown to the floor on the other side are a collection of cushions and pillows and sheets, which recently hid the naked forms of Adam and his motherly counterpart.

And in the dark, with only the contrasting golden glow of one yellow-gelled spotlight and the reflectors and mirrors otherwise throwing back ambient light from the other side, the next scene comes into play, the world around them disappearing beyond the spotlight.

And all that remains within their triangle is an awkward sexuality, which speaks much like the silence around them, but instead of travelling like sound, it hangs in the air with an excitingly heavy gravitational pressure.


Adam seats himself on a fine antique wooden chair, his more than notable erection now having subsided enough to continue. It won’t be long before he rises to the occasion again after his mother straddles him and perches herself high up in his lap, pressing her sex down against his. Her eyes convey that this should be nothing new…

Daniel doesn’t take exception when these things konyaaltı escort happen. Sometimes they have to. Sometimes what the camera doesn’t see is what makes the magic. In honesty, at least being quietly honest with himself, he enjoys the awkwardness and the bare-naked glory of it all. He enjoys the thrill of imagining how people will react when they see what he has done here.

And Adam is admittedly quite the specimen from top to bottom, one of the best he’s had the privilege of acquiring for the project, and without a hint of vanity. He doesn’t have the etiquette of a professional model, and yet he is naturally anything other than amateur. He has game, and he seems to enjoy letting Mary know it.

Birdlike, she waits for direction from the photographer, the nipples of her slight breasts hard and visibly protruding, despite how well-heated the studio is. There has been no shortage of goose-bumps from the outset. They come and go with certain fleeting touches between Mary and her son. When her naked vagina touches Adam, causing him to rise again, another chill causes her breasts and forearms to react.

Over by one radiator is a spray-bottle of water mixed with oil, which has waited two hours for this moment. Daniel retrieves it and carefully sprays Adam with the warm mixture, from his hairline and his face to his chest, to create the illusion of fever.

The camera lens sees sweat beading at every pore of Adam’s golden skin, his strong symmetrical shoulders glowing with a fainter sheen. It’s a convincing illusion. It almost advertises his bare flesh the way beer commercials sell you your own thirst.

‘This could get very… slippery,’ Mary hints softly in the silence, her grey eyes smiling as they meet Adam’s. The young man sneaks a cheeky smirk as Daniel lowered to his haunches to set up the tripod for the macro lens.

‘Well, we’ll try not to go crazy with the oil,’ Daniel assured humouredly. ‘No promises though.’

‘It’s not the oil I’m thinking about,’ Mary admits quite frankly, which catches him by surprise. Daniel can only laugh inwardly, wondering how excited she was already, as he attaches his faithful Nikon to the tripod base and focuses so that the side of Adam’s face will take up close to half of the intended picture.

‘If anything it should add to the mood,’ Daniel estimates with a hint of optimism.

‘Seems obvious what mood Adam is in today,’ Mary quips.

‘This isn’t exactly easy,’ Adam wants to say, but then chooses to avoid what would be an inevitable descend into innuendo. And it’s hard. So hard!

‘With your hand I want you to mop his hairline, as if you’re going to check his temperature,’ Daniel tells Mary, who immediately gets it just right. ‘Perfect! And now inch in to kissing distance, but not all the way…’

Mary moves in Adam’s lap, feeling his semi-erection twitch against her bare sex. Impulses secretly flow up through her abdomen and electrify her to the top of her spine and then right down to her fingertips. Her eyes widen as she tries not to smile.

Things are getting slippery.

‘You care deeply for him, Mary,’ Daniel hints. ‘Try to think of a time when he was younger, when he had the flu, or tonsillitis. You don’t care about catching what he has. He’s poorly and he needs you and that’s all that matters. You’re going to catch what he has anyway but you’ve been through it a hundred times.’

She doesn’t have to try at all though. Daniel has seen both her motherly concern and her sexuality naturally, as if her very appearance is gifted with such honesty. She might never make centrefold now, but she has clearly expressed such character through life that she’s a dream to work with. Even when she doesn’t express it, she cares.

‘Beautiful the both of you,’ Daniel lets slip. ‘Put your foreheads together and gaze at each other a while…’

Several angles and shots later, Daniel retrieves the spray-bottle once more and proceeds to refresh Adam’s feverish look while also spraying down Mary, annotating that the fever, contagiously, has passed from the son to his mother. The shoot, not for the first time today, becomes suggestively sexual.

‘Cradle the back of your son’s head by the neck with the other hand, and keep that hand at his hairline,’ he says, eyes fixated by so much glistening wet golden skin as he snaps away. And finally; ‘Give in to each other…’

The command couldn’t have come soon enough. What Daniel considers to be one of the most erotic and provocative sights he’s ever seen, Mary and her son begin making out like they invented the act and the room is filled with the sounds of their lips and tongues licking and smacking as they swap spit.

Languidly and yet hungrily their lips and tongue wetly devour each other. Thick and sweet, oozing like treacle, they stick together, become glued together. In his trousers Daniel is starting to feel like his own camera tripod. He develops an erection of his own which now shares his left trouser leg.

Somewhere kültür escort in the next five minutes of kissing, Mary starts to lose control of herself. Daniel hears the couple’s trimmed pubic mounds scrubbing together before he notices that she’s very stealthily gyrating and grinding her hips in Adam’s lap. Nervously he coughs, trying not to interrupt them.

If it isn’t for the steady mechanical clicking of the camera’s shutter, or the daring exhibitionism of the two models, Daniel might as well not even be there though. He lets them make out a while longer than he needs to, even once he stops snapping away, and just watches in wonder, before another vision flashes before his mind’s eye.

He swaps lenses again, opting to view yet more flesh and form; delighted by how Mary slides her oily breasts up against her son’s chest and not wanting to be selfish with his intended audience. But in the pit of his stomach he too is becoming slave to those exquisite impulses.

More oil; more and more…

Daniel messes up their hair a little, the way he remembers seeing himself in the mirror every time he suffered a feverish sweat. ‘Mary, tilt your head back and touch your forehead with the back of your hand, like you’re weakening to the fever. Close your eyes and gasp. Adam, wrap your arms around her waist. And now I want you to suck at her throat!’

Mary shudders in Adam’s embrace as he does so. ‘Oh god, don’t get me started,’ she sighs.

‘Quiet please,’ Daniel mock-scolds his female model. Adam gets a rise out of that. Mary is getting another rise completely out of Adam. So much that it’s now becoming a problem for the artist!

Daniel, moving further out to capture the full picture of mother and son in their feverish embrace, takes several more shots before he realises that Mary is practically saddled on the considerable length of Adam’s erection, as it protrudes from between her apple-shaped buttocks.


‘Yes Dan,’ Adam replies helpfully in anticipation, turning his attention to the photographer.

‘You’re popping out, mate.’ The three of them began to laugh when the couple realises what he means, character completely broken. ‘Do you want to stop or can you think of a better way to conceal it?’

Mary and Adam both look at each other grinning and then look back to Daniel with raised eyebrows. ‘I can’t guarantee I’ll be sitting very still.’

‘You won’t be the first,’ Daniel tells them, proving that he isn’t the type to shock. But Daniel’s own breath leaves him a moment. He repositions himself before they make the next move, so that there’s Adam’s back and buttocks against the chair’s back, his mother sat in his lap, and her hands rested on his shoulders.

‘Well, Mary,’ he says. ‘Feeling slippery?’ That earns him a suggestive pout.

‘Are you sure this is okay?’ she asks to be certain.

Daniel nods, winks; ‘Only way to check your temperature,’ he jokes. Adam grunts approvingly at that, stifling a laugh deep in his throat. Daniel, with the visionary’s eyes, sees not the sex that’s about to happen, but a picture of innuendo and contrast.

Even though Mary’s skin is visibly beginning to wrinkle in her maturity, her tone and structure beneath shows a strength unbound by time. There’s something sensational about the age contrast between mother and son too, especially considering their unique bond.

The fact that they are indeed mother and son makes this moment all the more dangerous and exciting. Maybe some people will see the pleasure in her face. Others will see the fear and apprehension beneath it.

Those who taste cherries, cassis and tree bark in their expensive red wine may see that which defines the conflicts of motherhood and womanhood, or they may see naturists pulling an elaborate prank. And in a way, that’s what it is.

‘Mary, I want you to make eye contact with me throughout if you can handle that?’ Daniel puts across as clearly as he can. ‘And no matter what, I want you to keep a straight face…’

‘Jesus, Daniel,’ she gasps, disbelieving what he’s expecting of her now.

‘I need you to trust me on this. I know it’ll be hard…’

‘So hard!’

‘Thanks Adam,’ Daniel laughs. That was inevitable. ‘Can you do that for me?’

Mary blushes. ‘I can do that,’ she promises against all odds. Then she raises herself up, one hand disappears between them, out of sight but nowhere out of Daniel’s mind, and as she lowers herself back into her son’s lap, she begins to tremble all over, her eyes fit to water, and exhales a long, intense breath. Daniel captures it every split second, trying his hardest to steady his own hands.

And as their movements go from subtle and cautious, to awkward and bumpy, to shamelessly hot and heavy, Daniel witnesses through the camera’s eye such unbridled exhilaration in her expression.

Mary is trying her hardest not to utter a sound, not to give away the incredible things she’s feeling, as her body becomes slave to their sexual tension and the markantalya escort adrenaline coursing through her veins. It takes immense control, using every tendon and tiny muscle from the neck up, but because of that her expression is invaluably unique in the moment.

Her eyes are startled alive. She is beyond aroused. What the camera can’t see Daniel can’t see, but he knows what nobody else will ever be able to prove. He can hear her soaking sex wrapping wetly around her own son’s thick hard length every time she raises up and then sinks down onto him and he is straining in his own pants as he witnesses with sight, sound and smell, this taboo act of love in the making.

He wants to fuel the fire but knows that words will ruin the moment. He wishes he was Adam and that Mary was his own mother and though most of the photographs he has taken throughout this whole project won’t ever be released to the public, he knows that they will provoke reaction, and debate, and challenge – but most importantly that something will be awakened in other mothers and sons that might even change the world…

Mary and Adam are getting deep into each other now and it no longer matters what they’re doing in front of Daniel, nor what the world will make of their involvement in his risque project. Daniel is no longer taking photos, merely mesmerised as his gaze meets Mary’s, and all the while she’s beginning to pant and to moan her pleasure.

‘Would you like to take some more, err, close-ups?’ Mary asks, now panting and sweating of her own accord, her face, throat and chest blushing sensually. She’s like a shapely little strawberry coming into season.

‘Something just for the two of you?’ Daniel understands. He beams a cheeky smile, gleaming white teeth sparkling from within the dark.

‘You’d be perfectly fine to enjoy them yourself for being such a star,’ Mary offers. It’s an offer he can’t refuse and he makes it known not a moment too soon. ‘Adam does enjoy a bit of voyeurism.’

‘You know something,’ Daniel admitted. ‘Lately so do I.’ And with that he steps in and raises his camera once again.


Eight months later the project was complete and Daniel Jackson’s book, “The Chronology of Motherhood”, was distributed for a UK and European release. Six couples in total, including Mary and Adam, all of them real-life mothers and sons, came together to portray Daniel’s provocative contrast of parenthood and sexuality, winning the photographer a series of art installations across the UK.

Naturally the tabloids wanted nothing to do with it, other than to pay a sudden interest in incest scandals and abuse, which didn’t sell papers quite like terrorism, so that was short-lived. Instead the installations and book-sales were helped along quite easily by the interests of the LGBTQ community, and by other artists who saw Daniel Jackson’s challenging of the public consciousness as fearless genius.

In the first month the publisher sold three thousand copies. That was Daniel’s best start so far. Now at the age of twenty-seven, Daniel had fought tooth and nail to make good of his talents, to make his love of the art worth what he – and his mother who was to thank for all of it, really – worked so hard to put into it.

The night he ordered her a copy and had it sent to her with a personal note, he was filled with such anticipation, excitement, and pride. He couldn’t wait to go back home to see her, and to see her reaction face to face.

“I owe it all to you, mum, so I devoted it to you, and here it is! For you!” read the note, adorned with kisses. He travelled to visit with her two weeks later.


Linda Jackson in some ways bore a striking resemblance to Mary Winters, even though she could have rounded off her own age from forty-nine to forty. With pixie-short blonde hair she had remarkably similar loving grey eyes and the same lean but bird-like appearance, matching in height at 5’2″.

Linda, Daniel’s devoted and proud mother, might even have subconsciously been Daniel’s model in mind when he found Mary and Adam. She had spent hours hypnotised by Daniel’s photography, studying everything about it – from the daring and racy intimacy between the couples, to Daniel’s own attention to detail and how he commanded the shapes those pictures took, and the emotions they commanded in turn.

When she opened the door to their family home in Camden, greeting him with a brilliant smile that travelled almost ear to ear, she could barely contain her pride and her excitement for her son, now on the road to making a real life for himself.

Linda accepted the tall dark stranger with open arms, resting her cheek against his chest, and squeezed the breath out of him. ‘Welcome home,’ she beamed, taking him by the hand and leading him in. Daniel carted behind him a travel-case full of autographed books, a rucksack over his shoulder carrying a minimalist change of clothes.

‘You must be tired with all the travelling,’ she carried on, leading him down the old spiral staircase and into the basement-level kitchen.

‘Well, you know how it is,’ Daniel humoured. ‘It’s not so bad until you hit Watford and trying to drive in a straight line at one speed consistently turns into Death Race 2000.’

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