Chapter 10: Farm Photography
Kaitlyn’s parents invited the three of us to their traditional big after-church lunch, so we packed Carlo’s photo gear up into the Nude-Mobile, a configuration of Kaitlyn’s “happy-blue” Subaru that let anyone in the middle seat be as nude as they pleased: back cargo area piled with gear, side windows blocked off with hangings from the clothes hooks over the doors, and a blanket over the front bucket seats to occlude the view through the gap between them. All that and the aftermarket window tint created a fairly private bubble back there.
On seeing the result, Carlo said, “It’s perfect!” Then he turned to my wife and asked, “You’re joining me here in the back, I assume?”
“Yup!” she agreed.
That settled, we made a potato salad for lunch — with mustard at my insistence — packed up Carlo’s things, and got on down the road, me driving, the only one clothed, and that scantily: just a tee shirt and cargo shorts, barefoot and commando.
While I drove, enjoying the unaccustomed feel of the pedals on my feet, the other two got back to work on our budding side-business’s graphic designs, Carlo’s warm computer shifting from lap to lap, ideas communicated with each exchange, its minimal cover all they had.
When Carlo saw where we’d arrived, he asked tremulously, “I can get out here? Naked?”
By way of answer, Kaitlyn and I got out, she motioning him to join her as I peeled my tee shirt and shorts off, tossing them into the passenger-side footwell.
When Carlo didn’t move, Kaitlyn joined me arm-in-arm sauntering casually up the front walk, knowing there weren’t likely to be any onlookers that could see us.
Now away from the car’s interference, we delved through Gaia and found no human presences outdoors near enough to concern us. With only Ann Johannsen’s house in direct view and she likely already inside, as bare as we two, we’d almost certainly not been seen.
Carlo couldn’t know any of that, so he remained behind in the car, clearly psyching himself up until he darted around us and up to the top of the farmhouse’s front steps, wanting to get inside.
As Kaitlyn was reaching around him for the doorknob, this being her family home, the door opened to reveal Mary Gutierrez wearing nothing but random powderings and spatters from cooking.
“Come in, come in, we’re almost ready.”
Carlo scooted inside at this invitation as if goosed, visibly bending around Mama Mary to avoid colliding with her in his haste to get out of public view.
Kaitlyn followed him inside languidly, then held a hand out palm up toward him, saying, “Mom, this is Carlo Dellai, our new therapy business’s contracted graphic designer.”
“Also your latest convert to nudism, I see,” she answered with a smirk. “Well, you’re welcome here, Mr. Dellai.”
“Carlo, please,” he replied, shaking her proffered hand nervously until pupil dilation and saccades brought the scene behind her to his conscious attention, widening his eyes for the third time this morning: the nudists were winning the day in a four-fifths majority, only Miguel and Carmen still in their Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, the rest in the buff.
“I suppose we’d best go get sociable,” Carmen said, eyeing the scene and then towing Miguel off to the room they normally shared when back home, his old bedroom.
By the time we’d introduced Carlo around to the big and expanding Gutierrez family, the couple returned in their skin, their bearing just as dignified as before. Carmen’s baby bump was prominent, extending almost as far as her gorgeous capacious breasts, probably a full size bigger by now than they had been prior to her pregnancy.
Kaitlyn and I said nothing, just walked over and put a hand on each side of her belly to magically probe the health of the fetus and its mother. Since Carmen’s last magical checkup, we’d read up on pregnancy-induced embolisms, so we concentrated on scanning for those, checking the fetus’ health purely as a backstop for her ob/gyn checkups. We found nothing wrong, but we couldn’t speak of it in front of Carlo, so we just nodded our okay at her.
She put an arm around each of us and pulled us into a three-way hug, a grateful look on her face.
“Well, dinner’s about ready,” Mary said on re-entering from the kitchen. “Kaitlyn, come help me get this show on the road.”
Observing a developing faux pas, I grabbed a pair of sitting towels and told Carlo, “How about we have a seat at the dining table while they get things ready?”
I didn’t blame him for erecting with five nude women running around, three beautiful by any modern standard, the other two as well in my own estimation. I was used to it now, but the first few times I’d been party to a social situation like this, I’d had to lean hard into my meditation skills.
Lunch complete, we all trekked out to the retreat area, finding the pool just barely capable of holding ten adults, so that two of us chose to sun on the chaise longues instead, rotating into the pool as couples would get out and shower the Colorado off.
Carlo was most complimentary, so Kaitlyn told him, “We’re thinking of adding this to our massage practice as well. You know, like maybe when we’ve got a client on the South side of town, they don’t want us to work at their place, and they don’t want to go out to our place, either.”
“Ah,” he said, “I was wondering why you wanted to pack the camera gear out here.”
We three schlepped his stuff around the house, setting it up inside the retreat area while the others soaked, sunned, and spectated. As we finished, the others began to make noises about clearing out for us, but Carlo demurred, “I’m gonna need some models. I can reuse Kaitlyn and Davie, but is anyone else here willing? It’d be good for variety.”
“Oooh, pick me, pick me!” piped Allison, bouncing up off her seat in the pool, sending both the water surface and her breasts into delightfully wobbly patterns.
“Happy to,” he replied. “How about your boyfriend?”
“Yes, he’s modeling, too,” she replied, not even glancing at him to confirm it first.
Joss just raised his eyebrow at this, showing no other sign that he wanted to back out.
I couldn’t guess whether he was submissive to Ali in particular or temperamentally so in general, only observing that he didn’t seem upset by her volunteering him, so I decided this was just how their relationship worked and let them be about it.
Carlo explained, “We’re using these photos commercially, so we’ll be doing tasteful implied nudes only, nothing overtly sexy.”
Ali replied cheekily, “You can direct us as sexy as you like, long’s you give us copies!”
“Of course, of course. Now if you’ll just sign this model release here…” he replied, pulling a tablet and stylus from his camera bag, the tablet already running an app to take his new models’ signatures.
“We didn’t sign one of those,” my wife pointed out.
“You’re the client, so you’re the recipient of the finished materials. I don’t need a model release from you any more than you need one from Davie,” he explained. “Well, that is, not unless you want me to try and use these photos elsewhere. I hadn’t planned on it.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, studio exhibitions, artsy photo magazines, possibly even online media.”
“I’m open to the idea,” my wife said, “but I don’t think we’ve shot anything worth doing any of that, do you?”
“No, I tend to go pretty high-concept when I’m not doing commercial work, kind of an amuse-bouche to feed my creative spirit. Maybe later in the week we could try to make some fine art, if you want.”
My wife looked at me, and after thinking some on his proposal, I observed, “You got a lot of mileage out of those photos the newspaper photographer took last year.”
“What’s this?” Carlo asked, so Allison invited him into the house where there was enough shade for a photo show on her phablet, last year’s curated photos passed out to the whole family at their unanimous insistence.
“I love these cornfield ones,” he told us, standing around the pair, sitting at the kitchen table. “Shame the stalks’re too short yet to conceal all-nude massages. Come to say it, though, your corn’s a lot taller than in the fields we passed getting here.”
Not wanting to explain the reason for these fields’ greater fecundity, I deflected, “We’ve done such massages out there before, but yeah, it was mid-summer. I think we could easily sell cornfield massages, in-season.”
“Ali, I’m trying to break that 12-day nude streak Dave-O set,” my wife said, using the nickname Allison gave me, aiming a challenging grin at me. “So,” she went on when I didn’t rise to her bait, “I can’t be a masseuse in these shots, only a client. How about you go get that homespun outfit we gave you for Christmas so you can fill in for me, Ali? For variety, as Carlo said.”
Ali chirped, “Happy to rack up credits for future massages!”
Kaitlyn sent, «Horse hockey. She’s a little exhibitionist, is what she is!»
«Pot, meet kettle,» I returned.
She spiked me with mage-sex level 6 for that, just long enough for my knees to wobble and my cock to leap into a semi before I managed to lock it down.
«Point, Kaitlyn,» I sent.
She gave a slight bow that perhaps only I caught.