A Gift For My Father

He crafts beauty. With light and shadow, a rainbow of color, and an eye for composition, he produces art. He is a master of photography; and he’s my father.

My mother died when I was twelve. I took it really hard. My twin brother, Dusty, kept a lot in. My father grieved for a long time. My mother had been his muse, his true love. Loneliness emptied his heart.

But Dusty and I felt safe with him, even when life was cruel. Dad prepared us to discover ourselves like a sculptor finds a shape in stone. In fact, I found that art was my passion too. It’s what I wanted to study in college and to do in life.

I love the sensual and erotic themes in the paintings and photos and sculpture I look at. I love the vibrant colors and the moody pastels, the smooth metal and the rough stone. I crave the immersion in the world of creation.

And so I got ready to leave for the university, full of excitement and ideas. Dad was cheerful, even though Dusty and I were about to go far away from him. I was so grateful that I wanted to give him something to let him know and understand the young woman I had become.

I found him in his studio, a large converted barn, behind our rambling house. He was drying some black and white prints. All around were examples of the renowned artist he is. Dad can capture the essence of anything, be it a landscape, an animal, an object, or a nude. Now, I wanted him to capture me.

“Hi.”

“Well, hi yourself, Jana,” he said, greeting me with a smile.

“These look great, Dad!”

“They’re not bad. But they could be better.” He always sought perfection. “What are you up to?”

“Oh, a little more packing, a little more tossing things away,” I said. I should be ready in a couple more days.” He seemed in a good mood and I gave him a hug. No one lacked for affection in our family.

“Dad,” I said, looking him straight in the eyes. “I’ve been thinking that I’d like to give you something.”

“What for?”

“For being the greatest Dad in the world.”

“Oh, is that all,” he said.

Most of Dad’s models were older than I. Also, he preferred dark-haired women and men. My pure blond hair and pale blue eyes, like Dusty’s, rarely showed up in his portraits or nudes. He also liked a little fat on his models for, he said, the ripple and crease effect. I was about twelve pounds overweight with a little extra poundage on my hips and ass and thighs. There, I met Dad’s model criteria.

Dusty was bigger, a bit more cut, and in great shape. Like many twins, we were very close. We could talk about anything. When we were younger, we even did a little mutual groping as we first discovered the tactile pleasures of the body. I told Dusty that I wanted to give Dad a special present and he thought it was pretty cool.

“So, what’s the gift?” Dad asked.

“Me!” I smiled. “Blond hair, blue eyes, the works!”

“What? I don’t get it,” he said.

“Dad,” I said, “you are a great artist. You create beautiful things. Now, I’m not beautiful but you did create me—with Mom’s help. I just thought that, since I’m going away to school, I wanted to give you something as a remembrance of your creation, in gratitude for all that you’ve done to help me become a woman.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“Dad, I want you to photograph me for you. I want to be your muse for once. I want to model for you for a whole day. So, no matter what happens to me, you’ll have me forever on film, just as I am now.”

He stood there silently, looking at me, trying to figure out what was going on. He was really puzzled.

“It’s simple, Dad. I want you to make me part of your art; some art that you can keep.”

“Jana,” he said, “I’ve taken photos of you your whole life.”

“Yes, but they’re just candids, you know, family photos and stuff. I want you to use me like your other models.”

“You want me to take nudes of you?”

“Yes,” I said, looking right into his eyes. He didn’t look away.

“Jana, when things go right, there’s a special rapport that develops between artist and model. It becomes very intimate. What I mean is that the model opens herself up, lays herself bare, so that the artist can render an idea. There’s…”

“I can do that, Dad.”

“But, honey, you’re my daughter.”

“All the better,” I said, insistently. “Dad, I’m a woman now. I’m still a virgin, but I have feelings and longings and urges. I want to give you something that other models can’t. I’ll feel safe doing it. It’s my way of thanking you for making me and raising me. It’s my way of giving you a theme to explore. It’s my way of showing you how much I love you.”

He stood there silently, thinking. I stood there smiling, waiting for his response.

“The history of art is filled with examples of artists using lovers as models. But fathers using daughters, well…,” he hesitated. I could see the artist intrigued by the idea; the father troubled by its portent.

“Dad, I’m an adult. I have free will. I’m going to be an artist myself. I want to do this. If it was anyone else, I know you’d say ‘yes.’ But it’s me, just me; a daughter giving her father a present of love.”

I saw his face soften. Then he smiled and said ‘okay.’

“But, Jana, I want you to know that you can stop at anytime. I’m an artist. I get lost in my work. I can forget who you are. If the rapport occurs, we’ll both be vulnerable, we’ll both reveal ourselves. And when the day is over, we’ll be daughter and dad again; hopefully, with no remorse.”

I hugged him hard. “Thank you, Daddy, thank you.” I kissed him on the cheek. “When do we begin?” I asked eagerly.

“Whoa,” he said. “Let’s slow down. Give me an hour or so to arrange some things here and think about how I want to proceed. You come back at eleven.”

“I’ll be here,” I said, a broad smile on my face as I left the studio.

Dusty was gone when I got back to the house. I was so excited and filled with love for my father. I took a hot shower and put on a loose denim dress. My wavy blond hair dried quickly in the warm August morning. I drank some cold grape juice and sat in the kitchen watching the clock move in its own time. Then I tried a little meditation to center myself for the session ahead.

At 10:55 a.m., I was standing outside the studio door. What lay ahead was unknown, but my mind was clear and my heart was full. I walked in quietly.

“I’m back, Dad.”

“So you are, Jana. Are you ready to be a model?”

“You bet.”

“Great,” he said. “We’ll start with a few Polaroid test shots to check the lighting. Stand over there by that chair.” Dad was all business, very professional. After he took the shots, he told me to relax while he made some adjustments to various lights. Then he called me back.

“Okay, I usually don’t know what I’m looking for exactly; things just seem to work out after a while. I’ll give you some direction and then let you go with it. Remember, there’s no rush. We have all afternoon.”

I nodded and suddenly felt uncoordinated. I just stood there waiting for his commands.

“Ok, Jana. See that chair? I want you to use it, play with it, hang your body on it, flay your dress around it.” I did that, getting more used to the click of the shutter and the pop of the lights.

“Work to the camera, Jana. It likes what it sees.” Dad sounded funny, personalizing his camera like that. But his tone and humor helped me relax and soon I started striking poses that I knew looked pretty good. He kept encouraging me and I felt a true collaboration between artist and model.

“Slip your dress off, Jana, and put it on the chair.”

That broke the spell. Dad, the artist, had just told his daughter, the model, to strip. No warning, no hesitation, no nonsense. The artist was very much into his work; more so than his first-time model.

I paused just long enough for Dad to ask, “Do you want to stop, honey? It’s ok if you do, really it is.”

“No, I… I… no, it’s alright.” He photographed me as I unbuttoned my denim dress. He kept shooting as I took it off and draped it in the chair. My bra and panties shown brilliantly under the lights.

“Good,” he said, “now put one foot up on the seat of the chair.” I did as he asked. “I’m concentrating on the curves of your calf and the bend in your leg. Just stand like that for a bit.”

He moved in real close, changed his lens, and shot some more. “Ok, throw the dress over there and sit in the chair facing the back. That’s it. Move your shoulders forward and round your spine. Good. Hold that position.”

Dad backed away from me and stared silently. Then he walked around, softened a light, and took a few more pictures. “That doesn’t work,” he mumbled to himself. “Relax, Jana,” he said.

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

“Nothing, kiddo, I just don’t like the composition.”

He walked around some more as I sat there in my underwear. “Let’s try something different,” he said. “Get up from the chair and go over to that post.” I stepped over to the 8 x 8 that held up part of what used to be the barn loft. Dad moved the lights so that the post and my body cast shadows on the light gray scrim behind me.

“Ok, Jana, take off your bra and panties.” He seemed distracted as he said that. I acted cool but, in spite of my desire to do this for my Dad, I must confess that I had a million butterflies as I removed the rest of my clothes.

Dad looked at me standing there naked in front of him. He looked at every part of me.

“Jana,” he said with a smile, “your gift is wonderful.” I started laughing. He did too.

Whatever tension there was broke with our laughter. For a moment, we were father and daughter, not artist and model. Clothed father and naked daughter laughed and embraced. Then, it was back to creation.

Dad had me use the post as a prop. I hugged it, pushed it, and leaned against it. My curves met its straight lines; my smooth skin, its rough surface.

The artist got more than he asked for. I felt free to express myself through my body. I started flirting with the camera, acting more boldly, more energetically, more sensually. Dad pushed me to explore my wilder side as again he became the artist and I became the model.

I was getting turned on and he knew it. He could see it. He encouraged it. He photographed it.

And then he stopped it. “Let’s take a break,” he said. There’s a robe over there.” We sat in some old chairs by his antique desk, sipping raspberry iced tea. Dad talked about technique and themes, giving me a glimpse of the master’s mind at work. Then he got more personal.

“Honey, I pushed you a bit just now and I want to make sure you’re ok with it.”

“Would you have pushed another model, Dad?”

“I would have, yes. What I saw and photographed was a young woman unself-consciously abandoning herself to her sexuality, to her desires. I think the shots will be good but I am aware that you are my daughter and that I’m observing something daughters don’t share with their fathers.”

“But I want to, Dad. That’s my gift to you and I’m really happy that it’s working out. Right now, I’m your model and you’re an artist and we’re creating art. We can be father and daughter afterward.”

I smiled at him reassuringly and touched his hand with my own. “Thank you, Jana,” he said.

“Thank you, Dad, for letting me work with you.” We were still talking and drinking tea when there was a knock on the door. It was my brother.

“Hi,” he said.

“Mr. Dusty,” Dad said. “What brings you round here?” Dad drawled.

“Jana told me about working with you. I wanted to see how things were going.”

“They’re going great!” I said. “Dad’s a task master, but he gives me breaks and tea once in a while.”

“And Jana’s an expressive model. She takes to it naturally,” Dad said.

“Mind if I stay and watch? Maybe help out?”

“Uh, I don’t think so, son. I want Jana to be able to lose herself in the work and I’m afraid you’d be a distraction. No offense, but I think things would go more smoothly if no one else was here.”

“Dad, wait a minute,” I said. “I don’t mind if Dusty stays. I’ll be able to get back into it. He can help you with the lights and stuff.”

“Let’s talk over there for a moment,” my father said. “Please excuse us, Dusty.” We walked over to the other end of the studio where Dad spoke to me in a low voice. “Jana, I think Dusty staying is a bad idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I know from experience that a model exploring her sexuality in front of the camera is very vulnerable. She has to trust the photographer. What we’re doing here is unusual to say the least. It’s gone this far because you trust me to act professionally. And I do, always. But Dusty’s not a professional and he is your brother, don’t forget.”

“So?”

“So, the point is I don’t know what will happen next. What I mean is that you may want to open yourself more to the camera and I don’t think having your brother here to see it is good for you or him.”

“It’s okay, Dad, really. You know Dusty and I are very close. I guess most twins are like that. I don’t mind him seeing me pose naked.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Look, I know you know I got turned on back there earlier. I was able to because I felt safe. I’m so grateful that you’re letting me do this, that you’re letting me help you capture an intimate moment for a woman. Dusty’s my best friend. I want to share this with him too. But you’re the artist. It’s your call.”

Dad searched my face. He looked over at Dusty and then back at me. I wondered who would decide: my father or the artist.

“Alright, he can stay. But I reserve the right to stop the session or have him leave. Understand?”

“Of course, Dad. You’re the artist. I’m just the model,” I said, trying hard to sound very serious. We walked back to my brother.

“I’ve decided you can stay for now, Dusty. We’ll just see how it goes.”

“Thanks, Dad. What can I do to help out?”

“Nothing for now. Let’s see how things develop. Are you ready to get back to work, Jana?” The artist had resumed control.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. Let’s try some static poses on the platform. I’ll do some full shots and some closer torso shots. We’ll vary the angles and lights to get some abstract compositions.”

Dusty was watching intently. I was very relaxed even though I was about to take my robe off. Dad positioned some lights and put the large-format camera on a sturdy tripod. “I’m ready, Jana,” he said.

“Okay, Dad.” I quickly loosened the waist tie and stripped off the robe. “Here, Dusty, hold this,” I said. He caught the robe I threw to him. “Good hands,” I said, smiling, as I stepped up on the platform. For the next ten minutes, Dad had me strike very specific poses, both abstract and classical, as he worked with the large-format camera. Often he would move my arm or my foot a little to get just the right shot. It wasn’t easy standing so still while he focused the camera and framed the image.

“Dusty, come over here a minute,” he said. “Take this reflector and stand about three feet on Jana’s right. I’ll tell you how to angle.” Dusty took the shiny board and stood next to the platform on my right side.

“Well, Dusty, what do you think?” I said, holding a difficult position.

“Awesome,” he said. “You look great!”

“Tilt the reflector up a bit,” said the artist. “A bit more. Good. Jana, stand very still.” He took one shot. “Now, tilt it down, Dusty. That’s it.” He took one more. “Okay, enough of these,” he said, sounding pleased with the results.

I jumped off the platform. Dad said he needed a few minutes, so Dusty and I walked back to get some more tea. He handed me my robe. “That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t need it. I’m too not right now.”

“I’ll say!” he joked, and we both laughed.

I liked being naked. I liked it more and more. It felt so natural being in front of the camera and I must say that it turned me on even more than before. I wanted to express that to the artist. I wanted him to use that in his art. I wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed at all. And I told Dusty what I was feeling.

“So that’s why Dad didn’t want me here. He thinks I’ll inhibit you.”

“Yeah, but I told him you were cool about it. I think I surprised him with that but he accepted it. I told him he’s the boss and we’ll do what he says.”

“Well, are you really comfortable with me being here?”

“Of course I am. Doesn’t it show?” I laughed. “It’s a bit kinky but it’ll make a good story for our grandchildren.”

“Yeah, right,” he said with a smile.

“What are you two giggling about?” the artist asked.

“You,” I said, and nothing more.

“Me? How dare you mock the photographer,” he said. It was a special moment I’ll always remember.

“Dad,” I said, “I’d like to try some stuff, if you don’t mind.”

“Like what?” he said.

“Oh, I’d like to use that curvy modern chair and I’d like some music and I’d like you to shoot me in black and white.”

“You’re a demanding model, Jana, but I’ll give you a chance. What about Dusty?”

“He can stay. I told him about how I wanted to express a young woman’s sexuality. He’s cool about it. Maybe he can help with the reflector again.”

“Dusty,” the artist said in his professional voice. “Your sister seems to know what she wants and she’s been an excellent model so far. Can you handle this?”

“I think so, Dad. It’s pretty cool, you know.”

“Yes, it is,” the artist said. “Okay, let’s get back to work. Roll that chair over here, Dusty. Jana, you choose the music you want.” I walked over to the CD player and picked out some bluesy rock and roll. I turned up the volume and danced over to Dusty and Dad.

“Dad,” I whispered, as I moved by him. “I feel really free, brazen even. I want to see what I look like when I go over the edge. I want you to apply your artist’s touch to the images. Will you do it?”

“I’ll do what I can, Jana. But, right now, I’m not your Dad. I’m your photographer and I’ll do what feels right. Don’t stray too far from the chair. And forget about Dusty and me. If it’s not working, I’ll stop the shoot. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. The artist had regained control. I moved to the chair and danced around it. Dusty hung back in the shadows and swayed to the music. A few shutter clicks and light pops broke the rhythm of the song.

After a minute or so, I was lost in the sound and my sexy feelings. I began to touch myself a little on my face. I traced the contours of my shoulders and sides and hips. I grabbed my ass. Then, I slid a hand around to my crotch, held it there for only a second before moving up to my belly. Then, I brought my other hand around from my ass. Slowly, I raised my hands to my breasts and began to squeeze them and push them together. Most of the time, I boldly looked right into the camera.

The photographer gave me a few directions but generally let me do what I wanted. I sat down on the chair and reclined against the back. Now, I was openly fondling myself. I tweaked my nipples and pulled on my blond pubic hair. I stroked the insides of my thighs but I didn’t touch my mound. A few soft moans escaped my lips. As I kept playing with myself, I could see Dusty moving some lights.

“Grab the reflector,” the artist said to Dusty. “Bounce the light from below her face.” Dusty moved closer, about three feet from me, and the reflected light obscured my vision. But I didn’t care. I wanted one thing. I wanted to cum.

I brushed my blond hair back from my face. I sucked on my index finger, pushing it in and out of my mouth. I’d never given a blow job but I pretended my finger was a thin cock and I licked it lasciviously.

“Easy, Jana,” the artist said. “Feel more, do less.”

“What should I do?” I asked breathlessly.

“Let you passion grow naturally. Don’t rush it. Enjoy the moment…and turn this way a little.”

That direction brought me back to the chair, to the realization of what was happening. I was masturbating in front of my father and my brother. I was being photographed doing it. And I loved it.

I repositioned my self in the chair. My skin glistened with sweat as I slowed down. Each touch was electric; each caress lubricious. This was the gift I imagined for my Dad and I was so happy that he was taking it.