Polaroid Family Portraiture, Voyeur Tips.

voyeur russian

subscribe to news

Enter your email address in order to Subscribe to our news:
E-Mail:
Subscribe:
UnSubscribe:

winners' prizes

The best galleries that took 1st place by the monthly voting results would receive our main year prize of US $5000.
You also can win money prizes on monthly basis for three best galleries in each category! Besides, according to the results of voting that takes place every month you can get a free monthly access to our members zone! See more...

voyeur Tips

Welcome to our "smut" library. Here you will find various information articles and exciting stories dedicated to voyeurism. We welcome erotic fiction from our visitors. Notice that we add points to authors for every story we publish.

Polaroid Family Portraiture (19 May 2005)

The silvery gray cloud of emulsion misted in and out of focus, as lines formed and the story of a chalky white garden statue slowly came into frame, hemmed in by the thin white lines of the Polaroid at the edges, and the leafy green layers of foliage in the picture. My mother only ever bought the broken ones. This is a fact that I recently discovered while on a joint venture to the local nursery. You see, I pay attention to the details: I believe this to be the locus of fascination. In the details, the story is constantly being told.

It could be said that this tiny version of a photograph is a kind of detail. In a Polaroid, the information is limited in scale to around three inches square. For as small an area as this is, in most cases, that is all one needs to get an idea of the story being told. My mother doesn't know that I know about the broken statues. Or if she does know, at least we never talk about it.

She rifled through the little piles of gray animals on the ground, shaded by the ferns overhead and the gridded mesh pattern of the screen on the patio at the nursery. They looked sad, sitting there: frozen in time, tiny victims of an invisible Medusa, only not really anxious to escape their stillness. Just calm. She never paid attention to the nice ones. The doggy with the broken tail looks better to her: I could tell she was eyeing it. She scooped it up, much like a person would scoop up a real puppy, tenderly. That was the one that she would buy.

When we got home that day, we unloaded the car quietly. My mother seemed intently focused as I lifted the heavy bags of gravel out of the trunk of the car. Dust and dry silt sifted out of a tiny rip in the seam of the bag, making a dusty trail along the gray slate of the garage floor and out to the backyard. I watched to see what she would do with the little doggy, how she would go about mending this broken lump of cement, where she would retire this sad little animal. The new junipers angled out of the back seat windows, too tall and proud to fit inside completely, and I had to lean into the car, fit my hands around the black plastic pot, and straight- back the whole thing up and out of the window. I could see her out of the corner of my eye just then, picking up the yellow plastic bag which covered the doggy statue. I don't think she noticed I was watching her, but I was.

The line of things from the nursery extended along the edge of the patio, which bordered the grassy area and separated the barbecue from everything else. Twelve bags of gravel in two piles of six each, three new California junipers now standing military style straight with feathery hard green plumes extending upward all in one motion, two one gallon jugs of Vitamin B-12 for added strength in new plant growth, some tiny blue Lobelia flowers to edge the garden in with a thin cobalt line of color, a new rose bush in a five gallon pot to complement the rest of the roses, and a flat of some alien looking ground cover, the kind that takes over while you're planting it in the ground, eclipsing most everything else around it in seconds flat. And then there was the doggy statue, sans tail, lying there at the end of the line, still in the yellow plastic bag.

She was careful to acknowledge that it was indeed a part of the loot from the nursery adventure, yet she placed it in the row at the end, off by itself, looking quite regal there in its golden yellow bag. The edges of the bag were tightly turned over several times, and formed what looked like a soft velvety cushion underneath the doggy statue, if you looked quickly and maybe just out of the corner of your eye.

I told her I had to go to the bathroom, hoping she would believe me and get to work placing the statue somewhere out in the yard. I ran into the house, slamming the back door behind me. From the window in my bedroom, I could see out over the backyard, and sure enough, there she was, hunched over and bent at the knees, resting in a little pile at the edge of the lawn. My mother. She had the statue in her hands, if only for another few seconds before she found a resting place beneath the drooping trees along the border of the property. I saw her dig out a little mound with her right hand somewhere next to the rose garden and behind the rocks at the very edge of the lawn. She held the doggy in her left hand as she scratched out the dirt with the other in curving motions imitating a capital "C," moving the dirt towards her and then off to her right. She patted down the newly exposed section, and slowly placed the doggy in its new bed. I had caught her in the act. I would keep quiet about it, though, and returned out to the backyard minutes later, pretending as if nothing had happened. She was no longer out by the doggy. She was standing next to the junipers, asking me to go ahead and plant them in a row of three at the corner of the yard. They would make a nice little shield from the neighbors behind us, and I started to dig the three holes in the place she had selected.

Days later I notice that the flat of ground cover was entirely planted in the three feet of space around the statue. Everyone knows this is too much. Everyone knows that an entire flat of any kind of ground cover could be planted over ten times as much area as that. Especially this kind of ground cover, the kind which had practically surrounded the little doggy statue in just the three days since it came to lay there. I knelt down in front of it. Leaning over slightly, I looked at it like an altar boy might look at the tabernacle behind the heavy marble bench the priests always sat on. It was weird. The ground cover creeped in around it on all four sides, approaching the place near its rear where the tail once was, prepared to heal over the wound like a gauze wrap or a band-aid made only of organic matter. I turned it a little to the left, moving it backwards towards the ground cover that was the most promising, encouraging the healing process to begin. I felt like Neosporin ointment, helping out like that.

I took the Polaroid camera from where it rested on both my legs. The cord around my neck kept the thing from falling over into the dirt or the plants. I opened her up and waited patiently for the green ready light to come on. Looking cautiously around me one more time, I leaned in to the statue again, even closer this time, and snapped the portrait of the little doggy. I begged him to smile secretly for the camera, but nothing. I watched the grays shifting in and out, different lines roughing out the contours in the picture, eagerly awaiting the details. That's what I'm always watching for.

Powered by VOYEUR-RUSSIAN.
Copyright © 2003-2016 VOYEUR-RUSSIAN

Join Voyeur-Russian
This content is available for members only.
To become our member, please click to 'Join',
otherwise click to 'Cancel'