Exposure Read online

  Exposure

  Todd Young

  Published by Mercurial Avenue.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Todd Young

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  Published in the United States of America

  1st Kindle Edition

  Cover Design by Justin Baxter

  Warning: This book is not suitable for readers aged under 18. It contains sexually explicit descriptions. All characters depicted in sexually explicit descriptions are aged 18 or over.

  1

  The boy was wearing an apron and white sneakers. Jack was outside, watching through the polished glass doors. The boy was naked but for the apron and the sneakers, and each and every time he turned around Jack got a fine look at his ass, at the cleft of it, which was shadowy, and at his firm, ripe cheeks.

  The boy, whose name was Rafe, Jack now guessed, had no idea Jack was outside, standing on the lawn, and thinking seriously of lighting a cigarette. It was a dark, cool night, summery, but not warm for this time of year. Jack hadn’t thought to bring a sweater, but then again, he didn’t really need one.

  The boy had just finished washing the wide glass doors. He was at the back of the house, in an area beside the kitchen, a family room. Jack only knew his name was Rafe because he’d chanced by the house earlier today and looked in the mail box. Rafe Carter, 18E Sebring Lane, Wendchester.

  The house at 18E was a long way from any other house on Sebring Lane, and Jack figured he had no chance of being seen by anyone in another house, or even by anyone coming down the lane, as he was at the back of the house at the moment. This was the second time he’d come. He’d come on Wednesday night and tonight was Friday, to watch the boy.

  The boy—Rafe, Jack guessed he should now call him—turned back to the glass doors with a handful of paper towels and began a final polish. The front of his apron read The Meat is Hot!, and Jack could see his meat, a little distended, tenting the front of the apron and bobbing up and down as he polished. He wasn’t a big boy.

  Jack gritted his teeth.

  If Franco could see him now he would be green with envy—Franco who had at first suggested to him to spy on someone. At least he had told a story—this was back in February—about how he’d watched a woman over in Leonsville, a woman with bright red hair.

  Jack didn’t believe it was a woman, if it had been anyone. He didn’t believe any man would actually spy on a woman, despite what films and television and books and the media in general suggested. He thought all men were gay—or homosexual, as he preferred to term it. He didn’t like the word gay, and if he had to, preferred to refer to himself as a fag or faggot, which at least to him suggested a strong man, a top, rather than a bottom. The boy was a queen, Jack guessed. He was blond and had a flush to his cheeks. Bright blue eyes. Creamy skin. He’d be sure to like it up the ass. A real queen.

  He stretched toward the bottom of the glass doors, turned his body slightly, and as he did, Jack turned his attention to the muscles in Rafe’s thighs, which flexed as he moved. Then he was on his haunches, squatting, and Jack had a perfect view of his inner thighs. It was all but dark between them, thanks to the apron, but there was the slightest suggestion of a bobbing cock, something pale and hidden.

  Jack considered pulling his phone out and filming what was going on, but he was too excited and didn’t want to wreck his view. Then again, he figured he really ought to film the boy one night, or even a few nights, and then take a look at what he had on his computer screen.

  Jack had been in a car wreck about a year ago, a wreck that had left a scar on his forehead and on his left cheek. There were other scars and marks over his body also, and since coming out of the hospital, he had lost a lot of confidence. His face, which had always been cheery and darkly handsome, was now marred by the scars, and he didn’t see how he could ever approach any boy like Rafe ever again. Not that he ever had. He’d been going out to gay clubs since he was twenty-three or so, not every weekend, but every now and then as he travelled all over the country, trying to find somewhere to settle down. Now he was twenty-eight, and he figured life was all but over for him—at least, he got in that sort of mood.

  The boy stood up and turned around, and for a moment, under the bright lights, Jack had a perfect view of his squodge of an ass. That would have been something to film. He closed his eyes for a moment as Rafe disappeared into the hall and played back over what he had seen: perfect creamy cheeks, hairless and tight, and with a real jounce to them as the boy moved.

  Rafe returned a few moments later with a dustpan and brush in hand, and then Jack had an even better view. The boy stalked all over the family room and kitchen looking for grit to sweep up, and every time he found some he had to bend forward, meaning his ass was right on show. At one point he backed right up to the glass doors, bent forward, and left a cheek pressed against the glass as he swept. When he stood again, the glass doors rattled, and the boy jumped. He turned in fright, stared at the glass doors and then beyond them, out over the back porch to where Jack was standing. Jack’s heart thumped, but the boy couldn’t see him. He was hidden by the porch railings and the glare on the glass doors. Given how brightly lit the family room was, they must have been mirror-like by now.

  This had all started on Wednesday, just two days ago now. Jack had seen the boy at the supermarket, or rather, in the parking lot. He’d finished shopping and had loaded up the car, but he paused for a moment before setting off, a moment in which he lit a cigarette. As he flipped the match through the air, he looked up to see the boy advancing with a cart. His bright, white-blond hair was brilliant in the sunshine, glaring, and his eyes were so blue.

  Jack sat so still the cigarette went out. When he lit it again, the boy was climbing into his car. Jack had spent what must have been five minutes watching him as he bent over the cart and hefted his bags through the hatch at the rear. He was wearing tight, pale blue jeans and a red T-shirt with the Coca Cola logo on it. He had white sneakers on, but if he was wearing socks, then they were the kind that was hidden. Even his ankles were a turn-on.

  The boy started his car, a small Volvo hatch, and Jack jumped like a man given a shock. He twisted the key in the ignition and then followed the boy out of the lot and all the way out to Sebring Lane, some fifteen miles into the countryside. If the boy thought anything of it—of how odd it might be to have a car follow him all that way—then all Jack could think was that he couldn’t possibly have seen him. It was late afternoon and the sun was glaring on the windshield as they travelled west all the way.

  Finally the boy turned into a drive, into the drive of 18E, which was clearly marked, and Jack roared ahead, as though he had been impatient all this time to get in front of Rafe. He tried to find another way back into town but got lost, and finally ended up driving past the house again just as the sun set. He made his way back to town, spent about fifteen minutes in his apartment, and then, in something of a frenzy, set out to watch the boy if he could. He imagined spying on him in an upstairs bedroom as he hung from a tree. It was a big house, a big old wooden house with verandas all the way around both floors. He guessed he could somehow get up onto the veranda outside the boy’s bedroom, and remembered just vaguely glimpsing a tree, maybe a big old mango. He imagined there’d be parents and a sister and even a maiden aunt—people who would get in the way—but it seemed the boy lived all the way out in the country on his own. The two times he’d been out there he hadn’t seen anybody else, no o
ther cars and not a soul, and all the mail had been addressed to Rafe.

  He figured the boy attended college in the town, or did something in the day, but in fact he had no way of knowing whether this was true or not. All he knew was that when he’d been out here earlier today, the boy’s small Volvo hadn’t been parked in the drive, and Jack had had time to get a look at his mail.

  Rafe Carter.

  It seemed like a dream come true.

  2

  The boy appeared again a few moments later, this time from a doorway at the end of the family room, which Jack figured was the laundry. He was carrying a bucket with a mop, a bucket full of steaming, soapy water. He began in the kitchen, where through the windows Jack could only see his chest. The apron didn’t quite cover his chest and they were pink and puckered against the cold. As he mopped, the apron slipped from side-to-side, revealing one nipple while it hid another. Jack rested the back of his hand against his cock for a moment. He was hard and was leaking.

  Again he considered lighting a cigarette. He prevaricated over it for a moment and then simply did it, lighting up while the boy had his back turned. He smoked a lot, and couldn’t quite bear standing for an hour without having a smoke. He figured he could hide the glowing end behind a porch railing. It was a risk, but then he’d always been a risk-taker.

  He drew on it heavily as the boy carried the mop and bucket from the kitchen to the family room, and then smoked in satisfaction as the boy walked backwards towards the doors, working his way over the floor so that his ass was on show all the time. He had a magnificent back, with lightly tanned skin and a deep depression between his shoulder blades. Jack imagined gripping him around the neck as he fucked him. The tight tie of the apron was cutting into the boy’s skin above his hips.

  Jack figured he was eighteen or nineteen. It was difficult to tell. He might be twenty-three. But if he was fifteen and his parents were simply away, then Jack didn’t want to know. He wasn’t going to get himself into that sort of trouble. It’d be a hard wrench to pull himself away from the boy, because already he knew that this was love.

  Rafe backed himself into the laundry with the mop and bucket and disappeared for a few minutes. Jack put the cigarette out, stamping on it with his boot and twisting it into the grass. It occurred to him that the boy might see it, so he bent down to look for it. All he could see was the shadowy darkness and the faint outline of this boots. He decided to leave it.

  The boy appeared in the laundry doorway and put his hands on his hips. He surveyed the floor for a few moments, letting his eyes fall here and there. Then he gingerly stepped across it and disappeared through the other door, into the hall and deeper into the house.

  Jack released a heavy breath. Was that it then? Was the boy going to go and get changed? When he’d come out here on Wednesday Rafe had been wearing a pair of boxers, shirtless, and Jack had counted himself lucky. He’d seen his chest and his legs and had got off on that. Now, tonight, he’d seen more, but even so, he hoped the boy would come back.

  An owl hooted.

  Jack jumped.

  He peered into the house and then was suddenly bathed in a dull glow from one of the upstairs rooms, from the bathroom by the look of it, a room with a frosted window. He figured there was no chance of him being seen through that, so he stared up at it, wondering what the boy was doing. Then the light went out.

  Rafe reappeared again a few moments later. He paused in the doorway and looked over the floor again. It couldn’t be dry, and it obviously wasn’t, Jack realized, as Rafe stepped onto it on his tip-toes and walked through to the laundry again. After a couple of minutes he reappeared with a bundle of brooms and mops with long handles. He walked a little more surely over the floor to the round dining table, where he’d left a tube of something on his way through. He stowed the bundle of brooms and mops in the corner by the door and then disappeared into the laundry again. When he came out he was carrying a step-ladder. This he unfolded and set on the dining table.

  Jack frowned, wondered if he was going to change a light bulb, but watched on in silence. The boy retrieved first one broom and then another from the corner, a soft broom and a straw broom. He laid the bristled ends of the brooms on the kitchen counter, and then threaded their handles onto the first step of the step-ladder. This made something more or less horizontal out of the handles of the brooms, a suspended bridge.

  How was this going to be useful? Jack wondered.

  The boy retrieved three mops from the corner, one clean and wet and the others very dirty. He laid the mop ends on the kitchen counter, and then threaded their handles onto the first step of the step-ladder.

  Now he had a real suspended bridge, composed of five wooden handles. He stood back for a moment and bit his bottom lip. Then he cast his eyes at the glossy polished doors, apparently afraid that someone might see him. He blushed, and again Jack frowned. Then he realized that the boy was hard. His cock was lifting the front of the apron and rising into the air.

  Rafe reached for the tube he’d left on the table and bent forward. He squirted a line of clear gel into his hand. Then he bent right forward and reached beneath the apron. He began lathering his inner thighs with the gel, then reached up for his cock and balls and began coating them.

  Jack realized what the gel was—the sort of lubricant you use for sex. So he figured the boy was doing something, though why he didn’t take the apron off and what the brooms and mops were for eluded him.

  But then Rafe climbed onto the kitchen counter and stood up. Jack changed position quickly, taking three rapid steps alongside the veranda so he could get a better view. With the boy’s cock tenting the apron and lifting into the air, Jack could see right up it, right up the length of his pale thighs and beyond the tan line, though he couldn’t quite see Rafe’s balls.

  He bit a corner of his lip, not quite sure what he was watching. But he did suppose it needed to be filmed. He could enjoy this later, and so he slipped his phone out of his pocket and tapped on the camera, then on video, and then lined up Rafe on the screen.

  The boy got down onto his hands and knees on the kitchen counter and then reached with both hands for the suspended handles. He began to crawl forward, crawling to the edge of the kitchen counter and then onto the suspension bridge. It was more than precarious. As he laid his right knee on the handles they slipped a little, rolling around one another. Then he had his left knee on them as well and was entirely suspended. The round bubble of his naked ass was poking backwards and his face was flushed. He was biting his bottom lip, but he didn’t have far to go.

  Then he slipped. He wobbled and slipped and fell hard on his cock and balls.

  “Ah! Help,” he cried.

  But the whole thing was an act. He’d fallen deliberately and was now crying out in mock distress.

  He struggled to rise, lifted his butt into the air, and then tried to get his knees up and onto the wooden handles. But the gel on his inner thighs defeated him. He slipped and fell again.

  “Ah! Help!”

  The handles rolled and one of his balls appeared between them, precariously trapped. He wobbled and his other ball appeared.

  “Oh, shit! Help. Help me,” he cried, but now he was serious.

  His body stilled until it was rigid. His mouth opened in an “O” of surprise, and then a few dollops of come dropped onto the family room floor. He closed his eyes, his face ecstatic. But he was obviously in trouble. Jack imagined bounding up the porch steps and opening the glass doors. The boy would get a surprise. He might really hurt himself. He wasn’t going to do it anyway.

  He checked his phone. It was filming.

  The boy opened his eyes again. With an impressive display of strength he reached between the handles and prized them apart. Then he lifted his butt and extricated his balls.

  3

  Jack walked back to his car, which he must have parked more than a mile away. He whistled silently. The boy sure was something, and it was all on his phone, the whole thing.<
br />
  He drove back to his apartment, which was not so much his apartment as an apartment he shared with Em, a friend of his. They each had their own living area, bathroom and bedroom, so he liked to think of it as his own.

  Em was in the kitchen, cooking a steak.

  “You want some of this?” she said as he came in.

  “What? Oh—no.”

  “I have another one in the fridge. I only just set this in the pan.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Okay.” He nodded. He hadn’t eaten since lunchtime.

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Not much.” He nodded his head definitively. “Driving. Listening to the radio.”

  “See anything interesting?”

  He turned away from her. “Oh—this boy.”

  “Boy?”

  “He mooned me from the back of a station wagon—bared his ass.”

  Em was a lesbian, so she took this sort of talk from him. He wanted to talk about Rafe, wanted to share it with someone, but he told this story instead.

  “Carol is coming over later. Thought I’d let you know.”

  He gripped his forehead and a darkness overwhelmed him.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Those headaches again?”

  He nodded. A hangover from the wreck. He wasn’t the same as he had been, had headaches from time to time and tended to lose his temper.

  They ate at the kitchen table. As he finished, it began to rain. He rinsed his plate and walked off to his bedroom. He closed the bedroom door and slipped his phone out. Once he had it connected, he sat back on his chair and zeroed in on Rafe’s face. He was surprisingly handsome, with pink lips, blue eyes and a winsome expression. Jack studied his features, and then nodded his head. He was aware of his heart, pulsing a little more steadily than it ordinarily did. What was this feeling? he wondered.

  He stood up and took his shoes and jeans and underwear off and then got into bed with his remote. Soon Rafe was crawling across the bridge. He watched it once and then paused it just before Rafe fell. Jack studied his movements frame by frame until Rafe’s testicle appeared, first one and then the other. He zeroed in on his face. There had been a mingling of pain and ecstasy, an expression of Rafe’s that was particularly beautiful. He came and then tossed his remote onto the desk. The film would finish in a few moments. He watched it with heavy eyes, drifting into sleep, and then realized that the film had looped. A few moments later he was asleep. He dreamed of Rafe, of Rafe’s face in a darkened room, shadows cutting across it.