Me My Dad And My Camera

I reached behind and used his piss to lubricate my hand. I pushed his cock against my hole until he was on but not in.

*****

Photography is not only about capturing the perfect moment, or finding ways to return to memories so far from us they could belong to someone else. Photography is about access to worlds inconceivable from our own, as well as those we wish we were a part of but never could be.

I like photography because I can experiment with reality, just like a lucid dream. I decided that I wanted to take photos for a living ever since I discovered the endless possibilities invited by lenses, filters and computer programs. But this endlessness is something I always found intimidating, which is why I prefer photo over film. Limits and constraints are what breed creativity, and by being bound to the frame so was I bound to imagine the world outside without needing to capture it.

I was always a fan of testing limits, knowing wholeheartedly that these limits existed to humble me. I never wanted to feel like I owned the world, but that I belonged to a part of it that was made especially for me.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I started to test the waters with erotic photography. After all the years of being a horny young man accustomed to viewing pictures of attractive people, I grew envious. “I should be taking those photos,” I thought to myself. There was a constant disappointment with how rudimentary popular pornography seemed to be. The lighting was never great and the editing was always shoddy. Not to mention the locations were never conducive to arousal.

Beds are boring. I wanted to test the male form.

A lack of access to naked men my age for a very long time meant I had to take up this dream of nude photography by myself with years to practice. However, it wasn’t long before I developed a unique artistic approach that could seriously define my work as something actually valuable (and viable for purchase).

My love for flesh and form means my photos don’t shy away from human imperfection–it is the technique of capturing that avoids imperfection. I was never afraid to show off my body as I knew every bump, crack, and crevice was something worth exploiting. I knew I was attractive enough to be an object of desire for many, and talented enough to market myself.

Most of my late teens and early 20s were spent contorting my body for the camera, putting myself in imperceptibly possible positions with a desire to find the best way of making these poses permanent for my imagined audiences. When my figure started to get more toned and mature, this only encouraged me more. Every area with new body hair, for instance, was one I could play around with visually.

When I started to frequent men sexually, this was when my portfolio really started to diversify. After hundreds of images of me and my flushed white skin bending over backwards for the frame, I noticed it was much easier and inspiring to find other people to exploit artistically. I would invite them over, show them my work (which would get them going), we would fuck, then we would take photos drenched in sweat with cocktails of cum still on (and in) our bodies. After I was done with them, they would always want to practice taking photos of me which I found endearing.

I was very lucky to have had a small studio built for me by my father. Though we have always been very close, I never told him about my erotic enterprise. I didn’t think he would disapprove of the direction I wanted to take with this career, but I also didn’t want him knowing it was all happening under his roof. He was quite liberal, but he still had limits.

As the content of these photos grew to be more explicit over the years, so did my fear of him finding them. When I started doing this with only pictures of my back and legs, I had not a care in the world. It was when I started to capture more fetishistic moments with piss on my chest an gags in my mouth that I worried he would kick me out or have the studio destroyed.

Though I could not have been more wrong. We would both come to learn that we were not who we thought we were, and that the relationship we shared was one unlike any other.

I only found out Dad was bisexual because, following his divorce, he had started to introduce me to his new dates–both women and men. His “coming out” to me was very casual, which made my “coming out” all the more unnecessary. We are both attracted to men and that was never anything but the standard, even though I had missed out on the fortunes of bisexuality in favor of just sleeping with men.

When I got older, we started talking about boys and relationships. He would give me well-researched advice on how to manage the typically cold and distant behaviour our male partners were so biologically wired to exude. As these conversations grew more mature, so did the details of these relationships. It turned quickly from chats about his recommendations for certain protective measures, to stories about different sexual positions I had tried and whom I had tried them with.

They say hindsight is 20-20 and that could not be truer in my case. Reaching the apex of our relationship allowed me to look back at all the hints I should have received about his desire for me. Physical queues like raised eyebrows and smirks flew over my head like wind, and his persistent questions about my preference for older men was of no concern. And I couldn’t blame him for being discrete. As much I love him now, I knew there was at one time no context where making a move on me would be the right thing to do.

That notion changed the day I found him at his most vulnerable, exposing to me a harboured secret I would come to be too familiar with.

The fear of him finding my erotic portfolio was a fear well-managed, or so I thought. All digital copies of erotic photos were locked on my computer behind a hidden folder with a PIN code. My physical copies were kept in a drawer by my beside beneath a stash of once-important documents and letters. There was no way he could find anything without snooping. He confessed to me later that it was not snooping he was doing, but that would not change what he had decided to do when he found it.

One afternoon he went looking in the studio for a pair of gym sneakers he had lent to me for a portfolio item. I told him I was going to use them to model a fake advertisement, when in reality I had loaned them to one of my hookups for a socks-and-sneakers-inspired shoot. Walking into the studio, he opened the lights and found them perched on a box in center of the canvas sheet. I had just had the photos of the sneaker shoot developed, so these were the photos he had found. Just to mock my absolute worst fears, he found two series of these pornographic photos. The first was a solo series of an athletically built 40 year old wearing nothing but a cock ring and my own father’s shoes. The second series was of me, completely nude, at his service.

Some of these scenes involved me (visibly unidentifiable) slobbering over his quite sizeable cock. Others involved him sticking his fingers into my mouth. The worst ones were of my pink hole splayed open covered in piss and semen. I had given them to the hookup that night before he left (the second time around), but they must have slipped out of his handbag.

I never noticed they had disappeared, and that was the best my father could ask for. When he saw them, his cock swelled and hardened beneath his jeans; his heart jumped several beats as he wrapped his mind around what he was witnessing: his son servicing an older man wearing his own sneakers.

Maybe it was the sneakers. Maybe it was the body hair. Nonetheless, what my father came to realize is that this was a scene worth fantasizing over. He imagined himself looming over me with his stature, pointing the cock that made me right at my puckered lips. He put himself in the model’s shoes (or his own, rather) and imagined what it would be like to inseminate me after a long hot photography session.

At least that’s what he eventually admitted to me. But I had to find out for myself.

We were both great at keeping secrets. This meant I had not noticed the missing photos until I caught him lusting over them in a moment of perceived privacy. Another afternoon after school, long after he had originally found them, I almost walked in on him jerking off to them. He didn’t notice me peeking behind the slit in the door ajar, and I could see everything from the sweat on his sleeked-back hair to the throbbing purple manhood erect between his legs. His back faced the door, so he never saw me or my own erection. I started to touch myself the moment I realized there was something worth touching myself over. I was half-disgusted with the fact that I was horny for my own father, but that wore off by the thought that he was horny for me, too.

We almost ejaculated at the same time, he only a couple seconds before me. His creamy spunk sprayed all over his stomach and chest, even getting some on the photo of my hole. I came in my jeans as soon as I saw the small glimmers of semen that I could. He took one of his socks off his feet to wipe away the mess, and I made a hurry to get going before he caught me.

Though unlike what I am used to, I wasn’t followed by guilt. Usually after I cum, I am accustomed to an immense feeling of regret that weighs over me like, “I am covered in sweat and cum and piss. Now what?” The feeling of cleaning up when I just wanted to sleep was not present. A small part of me wanted Dad to find me red-faced with hands down my cum-soaked pants. However, I made sure to clean it up before he left the room.

At dinner that evening I pretended like nothing at happened, but it was a lot harder than he was letting on. Where he was stoic and unmoved by the thought of eating dinner with me after secretly jerking off to nude pictures of me, all I could think of wrapping my legs around his body and slobbering his face. “How long has he been doing this?” I thought, wiggling uncomfortably in the dining chair. With a short calculation I was able to determine that it had been three months since the photoshoot with the 40-year-old, which means at least three months of these secret masturbatory sessions had elapsed.

While he cooked, he talked about getting the car fixed and I found myself ogling the firm ass cheeks almost spilling out of his jeans. While I did the dishes, talking about my day at school, he stayed at the table to do some paperwork and I could feel him ogling mine. Games of avoidant interest like this continued back and forth for several more weeks until neither of us could take the pressure building longer.

His schedule is fairly consistent, which means I was able to count on finding him mid-jerk off at least once or twice every week (always over the photos). Coming into the house and tip-toeing to the crack in the door was convenient since the front-door was far from his room and the floors never creaked. Soon enough, I started to concoct a plan to surprise him.

Another ordinary Thursday afternoon came and I expected to find him in his room when all I could find were a pair of blue briefs on the floor in front of the chair. His car was not in the driveway, so I counted on him being out of the house. Seizing the opportunity to blow a load in my father’s briefs before he returned, I undressed and slid onto the chair, grabbed the briefs off the floor like stolen goods and wrapped them around my already hard cock. I started to pull my foreskin back with the piece of the fabric that touched his cock and wondered about stealing them for good to use in my own sessions.

“Would he notice?” I thought. It didn’t matter. At that moment all I wanted to do was shove my face into his underwear and sniff them, imagining what he would smell like as he fucked me. “This is all his fault. He got me thinking like this.” I continued to jerk off into them until my prostate began to throb and I ejaculated all over the crotch area. My heart raced and my mind cleared. I immediately started thinking of an exit plan. But there was no reason to.

I heard the soft sound of the door opening behind me. I craned my neck to see my father standing in the threshold completely nude. I forgot that he had taken the car to the bodyshop yesterday to get it fixed.

His manhood was upright and firm (which meant he probably hadn’t cum yet), and he was holding my fetish photo series in his hands. It seemed as if he was returning his session after fetching them from where they were hidden. We looked at each other straight in the eyes and raced through all the things we could possibly say to each other that would ease the tension, though there was nothing that could be said.

Like a statue I remained in his masturbation chair while he took a seat on the edge of the bed beside me. I turned away so that I would not have to look at his face and with this he saw my embarrassment. Yet, even as I sat there embarrassed, there was still no guilt, not regret–only anticipation. I would only feel guilty if I had done something wrong, but I knew that this was not the case.

“Hey son, why was I never in these?” He cracked, gesturing to the pictures.

I was stunned by these words. While I was used to his sense of humor being the resolution to most of our conflicts, I did not think this was a moment that warranted humor. Nonetheless, I was hiding my smirk.

“It’s over now,” he continued. “Neither of us have to be embarrassed. It seems like we’re both on the same page here.”

And he was right. I had consistently invaded his privacy over the course of several weeks not thinking that my own privacy would be the subject of interference. It was only fair, and it was something we both wanted.

I waited a moment for him to crack another joke, but he was giving me and my thoughts the space to breathe. He had seated himself away enough on the edge of the bed, leaving me room to comfortably withdraw without showing any of my privates. But I didn’t. I only removed his underwear, exposing a glob of semen coating the fabric and the head of my still rock-hard cock. He looked down at the mess knowing I was show it off for him.

I wanted to ask, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” We could have started sooner. I wished I hadn’t waited for him to catch me like this, but I knew he had morals and principles, and that asking me to start a sexual relationship would mean risking his entire fatherhood to me. So instead, I went with “I’m sorry it had to be this way.” The truest words I could use express my anticipation without seeming too eager.

“No, no. Don’t be sorry, son. Please.” He inched closer to me. “I mean, I’m sorry you had to see me with these photos. These are quite–” he paused. Then sharply, “Look at me.”

So I did. His bottomless brown eyes beamed through my very spirit with only one glance. They almost cut me in half. His jaw was clenched and his brows kissed one another forming a ripple of skin on his forehead. “He is magnificent” I thought, and from that unforgettably intense moment of mutual lust, I was grateful to be his seed.

“We are both on the same page, are we not?” He asked.

“We are,” I replied, a little embarrassment still leaking out.

“Then I should be the one to apologize for taking these.” He returned me the pictures, holding them out for me to grab. But by taking them back, I would have to accept the possibility this could be the last time we acknowledge our desire for one another, and that we could never speak of this again. This was a reality I couldn’t fathom. Looking at our naked bodies, vulnerable with our now equally-soft manhoods, I took this as an opportunity to let down any and all reservations I held about my lust for him.

“Dad. You can keep them.”

He didn’t seemed surprised, but he kept them out for another moment in case I changed my mind. I never did. Instead, by refusing to take them back, this was my queue to him that I was really fine with all of this.

“These are yours,” I added, holding out the briefs steeped in a puddle of my cum. He smirked and so did I. There was no hesitation in his movement. He came even closer and practically yanked them away from me before making a gesture to throw them on the floor beside him–but that was where he stopped. Instead of discarding them, he brought the briefs close to him and started to rub his cock with the remnants of me still on the fabric.

Just like I did, he started to pull his foreskin back with the crotch-flap, though this time using my cum as lubricant. It was only a handful of seconds before he was completely wet and hard, exposing his thick purple head glistening with semen. He never stopped looking me in the eyes, and once I noticed this my cock started to grow again. Then he shot his eyes to my groin and backed up on the bed with an air of invitation.

“He wants me to lie down with him,” I thought. But I had an even better idea. “Stay right here I said.”

His raised a brow with inquiry as I headed into the studio, still naked, to fetch my camera. I know the lighting wouldn’t be optimal, but it would certainly be intimate. When I returned, I closed the door and shutters and left my father to figure out the rest. I tested the flash on his body, catching him off guard. I looked at the preview, and even in the angst of my utmost desire I still held my knack for framing.

The photo was exquisite. His body was centered off to the right side with his cock sticking upright and nothing to the left of him but pitch darkness. The flash illuminated the cum that coated his manhood from the base to the tip, highlighting every curve and dent in his abdomen, as well as every vein in his forearms. Had his face not been blurry, you would have guessed him to be just another one of my hookups. But he was different. He was my father. There was something divine and reflective about seeing every inch of the man that made me, bathed in the light of my talent.

I came closer to him. “Hold it up,” I demanded, gesturing to his penis. But he only flexed it as his way of telling me, “No, you do it.”

So I grabbed him. He was so hot in my hands I thought I would melt. He winced as if I was giving him blue-balls, and he flexed his cock once again. Nothing could compare to this treasure.

“Move your hand.” I wanted close-ups of it from every angle so that I could have something to jerk off to when he wouldn’t be there to satisfy my needs, or in case we decided to stop this. I was already thinking ahead.

His manhood was large and intimidating, about 7 and a half inches long and as thick as a cucumber. It was even better that my cum stained his flesh as it preserved a part of me in the photo. In these photos, you could see the pair of briefs in the background and nothing but my hand leaning on his testicles. He seemed pleased with taking directions from me as he knew he would soon have what he waited so long for.

The photos were amateur but they were special. For once I was not concerned with capturing an impossible reality, or altering the one I belonged to; I was not even worried about finding imperfections because he was perfect.

“Turn it off and sit beside Daddy”, he said patting the space beside him. So I placed the camera on the nightstand and relished the darkness. I crawled over him, our erections briefly brushing up one another. I almost came again just then, knowing this the closest I could possibly ever be to him. I could do whatever I wanted now and I didn’t even need to see.

I grabbed his cock, in my other hand this time, as he moved to kiss my cheek. I turned my head to his and opened my mouth to receive his tongue. His flexed his manhood again, as a reminder of my commitment to this task, and met lips for the first time. It was not long after I started tugging his sticky foreskin that he was jutting his tongue deep into my throat and huffing into my neck. He moved my other hand to his abdomen, where I started to pet the fur that trailed down to his groin. “Daddy…” I whispered, ready to ask him to slow down, but he placed his right arm around me and shoved me closer. He moved his index finger to my exposed hole (which itself flexed with invitation) and pulled me by my chin to his penis.

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