Act of Exposure Read online

  ACT OF EXPOSURE

  by

  CATHRYN COOPER

  Act of Exposure first published in 1996 by Headline Book Publishing. Published as an eBook in 2012 by Chimera eBooks.

  ePub ISBN 9781780801780

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.

  New authors are always welcome, or if you're already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Cathryn Cooper. The right of Cathryn Cooper to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Chapter 1

  It was eight-thirty on a Sunday morning when Lance Vector took his mother the newspapers and her first cup of tea of the day.

  'Just open the curtains about twelve inches dear,' she said as he drew back the brown brocade.

  He did not comment that he knew exactly how she wanted them. Every Sunday her instructions were the same. So was the routine. Tea and papers in bed at eight-thirty precisely, curtains drawn back so that one third of the window let in the light of another Sunday morning. Any more and the violets on the dull beige wallpaper would have looked more faded.

  Blinking rapidly, he watched as his mother placed her glasses on her nose. Her breasts heaved as she pulled herself more upright against the mountain of pillows. He leapt forward to help her. She took his assistance without smiling, without speaking, but she seemed pleased. Everything being in order, she reached for the papers.

  Behind his back, Lance clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails dug sharply into his palms. He could stand the pain. It was waiting for her opinion on the latest sex scandal that he found difficult.

  As she began to read the most lurid of the Sunday tabloids, the very paper for whom he reported, Lance stood completely still. Would she like it? He hoped she would.

  At last, it happened. She smiled, laughed, and tossed her head.

  Lance laughed too. Tension left his shoulders, his arms and his fists. He saw her nostrils flare as she took a deep breath, half closed her eyes, and tipped her nose towards heaven.

  'Smite and smite again!' she cried, and clapped her hands. 'Expose the fornicators, the sinners, those who fall to the lure of the flesh!'

  Lance clapped too - just once - then rubbed his neat, white hands together. His fingers were cold, his palms clammy. He beamed brightly. She liked it. She really liked it. Even though he was in his mid-thirties, his mother's opinion of his work mattered very much.

  'Do you like the article best, or the photograph?' he asked, though he didn't really need to. He could see that she liked them both. Her face, then her words, said it all.

  In a tone reminiscent of a Bible belt priest, her voice rang around the bedroom. 'Your words are forthright and righteous! Your pen is the sword of truth. As for the photograph, see!' she exclaimed, tapping her finger on a spot where one Carol Anne Flowers held her hand in front of her face in a futile attempt to hide her identity. 'See how she tries to hide her face as though she can hide her shame the same way? The woman's a slut, a modern-day Whore of Babylon!'

  Lance sighed with happiness. His shoulders became less hunched, his body more fluid. 'I'm glad you like it, mother. I put a great deal of effort into that particular piece of work. The editor was pleased too.'

  He kissed her cheek, and as he did so, glanced over at the front page article he had written and the photograph he had taken.

  "CAUGHT IN THE ACT", screamed the headline. Carol Anne Flowers, a pretty girl with dark brown hair and darker eyes, was still recognizable despite her raised hand and spread fingers.

  Oh yes, he was good at his job; good at rooting out the wrongdoers, the sinners, the fornicators - no matter their status, no matter their wealth. No one was safe from his probing, his pen or his camera. Like a worm, as flexible as plasticine, he could get in places where no one else could get, see things no one else could see.

  Straightening up, he sighed happily. An urge had come upon him, an overwhelming desire to go down to the basement where he kept all the other evidence about this particular case and many others.

  Besides the article and the photograph, there were video machines down there, and piled beside them were tapes of all the other sex scandals he had reported on. He taped all his assignments. That way, he got to know his subjects' movements, their whereabouts, and their habits. From these tapes he could also lift stills if need be.

  Of course, his mother didn't know too much about what he did in the cellar. She never went down there on account of her hip operation. It was just as well, otherwise she might take a different view of her son if she saw what some of the more explicit material actually contained. His mother only took pride in his achievements on seeing the end product, the damning evidence across the front page as another public figure was exposed as a sexual sinner.

  'This, my son, is your crusade. It is for you to expose those who swim in the cesspool of fleshly sins. It is for you to find them out and expose them in their true colours. The more high and mighty they are, the greater are their sins!'

  Of course, the newspaper Lance worked for didn't look at things in quite the same way as his mother. All right, they did their best to present themselves as upholders of public morals, but basically their intention was to increase circulation and make money. But of course, Lance never corrected his mother's view of them or of him. Lance revelled in the praises of both his mother and his editor. In his deep, dark soul, he was satisfied that work that brought such praise from others, was rightfully a delight to him.

  'More tea?' he asked. Another useless question. She always had a second cup.

  Whilst in the kitchen making another pot of tea, Lance could not resist opening the door that led down to the basement. A soft shiver travelled over him as his gaze settled on the first two steps which were picked out by the light from the kitchen. Beyond that, there was only darkness, a soft, velvet, beckoning darkness that filled him with excitement.

  He reached for the switch that would turn on the light lower down the stone steps and light up the mix of grey flagstones and red tiles on the basement floor. Before his fingertips could touch it, he curled them into his hand; retreated.

  'Not yet.' He said it softly. There was sweet regret in disciplining himself; the pleasure of visualising that floor, and the contents of his own private realm. Restraint and patience, would ultimately result in greater pleasure. Once he had delivered the tea to his mother he could indulge himself to the full. For now, he would enjoy the delicious tremors that spread like fine needles beneath the surface of his skin.

  Already, in anticipation of what lay below, his throat was dry and his breath seemed to grate across his tongue. 'Not yet,' he said again. 'Do your duty. Wait.'

  Dutiful son as he was, he took his mother her second dose of tea, then told her he had work to do down in the basement.

  'On a Sunday, my son?' Her eyebrows rose high. Behind the thick glass of her spectacles, her eyeballs seemed larger and closer, as if they were sepa
rate from the rest of her head.

  He knew she would say that. Was ready for her saying that. Once he had explained that he had a new subject to study, new sins to uncover, she smiled and gave him her blessing.

  Odd jobs around the house, even gardening, was not allowed on a Sunday, yet anything to do with his job as a scandal sheet journalist was allowed. After all, he was exposing the wicked, the fornicators, and what better day than Sunday to reflect on his achievements and contemplate his next subject for exposure.

  Lance had no qualms about exposing other peoples' sex-lives. To his mind, those in high places, in public life, had an example to set. Because they were in the limelight, they had no real right to a private life - especially a sexual one. They were the confident people, the people who had been born to status or had achieved success. They smiled from photographs, talked with authority on television, and mingled with others of comparable status and wealth. But they were all the same to Lance Vector. They all had feet of clay, and deserved their weaknesses to be made public.

  To his mother his work was a crusade. To him, it was the most rewarding job he had ever had, and to his editor, he was catering to the age-old view that sex, no matter in what context, sells anything - especially newspapers.

  Although his mother never came to the basement, Lance bolted the door after him. With mounting excitement, he switched on his latest video.

  There she was. Carol Anne Flowers. And there was her partner in sin, Nigel Porter, the head of a huge public organization. Both were naked, their limbs entwined around each other, their breaths noisy as they sucked and licked at each other's bodies.

  Porter was a man of humble background who had worked his way to the top. He was an icon to some and a shrewd representative of the capitalist system to others.

  Carol Anne was an actress from some peak-viewing TV soap opera. Both were married, famous and therefore fair game for media exposure.

  'Sixty-nine,' said Lance, tilting his head like an inquisitive sparrow as he studied the heaving bodies. 'Soixante-neuf?' He chuckled, then said it again, only this time more slowly as if he were both savouring the words and experiencing their meaning for himself. But, of course, he wasn't. He was only watching.

  Fascinated, he ran his tongue over his lips as the man on the screen ran his over the famous starlet's sexual divide. How did her sex taste? he wondered. Enlightenment came as the salty wetness of his upper lip transferred to his tongue. Like the sea, he decided, she would taste like the sea.

  In the manner of a child intent on aping its parents, Lance poked out his tongue. As the tip of Nigel Porter's tongue tapped at the small bud of flesh within the woman's sex, Lance tapped his against one of his fingertips.

  How was Nigel feeling? How was Carol Anne feeling? He did his best to imagine and was well satisfied with the result. Over the top of Nigel's head, he could see the rise and fall of the man's buttocks as his member slid in and out of Carol Anne's mouth. How would that feel?

  He undid his zip and let his penis fall into his hand. It was not exactly soft, and was getting harder. He knew from watching other videos he'd taken of people's sexual antics, that his penis was of decent proportions. The only difference between his and those of like size on the screen was that they were getting something he'd never had. Lance, despite his age, was still a virgin.

  As best he could, he formed his thumb and forefinger into pretend lips. His other fingers became her mouth and her tongue, hot and firm against his erecting flesh.

  He raised his other hand before his mouth, and again tapped the tip of his tongue against the tip of his forefinger which had now become her clitoris.

  In his mind, he was with them on the screen. True, he could not feel the softness of her belly against his, her breasts against his loins. But he could imagine it. Oh yes, he could imagine it very well.

  He shuddered with them, groaned with them as Carol Anne's flesh pulsated against Nigel's mouth, and Nigel's hips spasmed against hers.

  They had come, and so had he.

  Relief spread over his body as his semen spewed forth from the head of his member and lay in a milky pool on the floor. He sighed. It was over - at least for him. After tucking himself away, he zipped up his flies.

  Something on the screen caught his eye and made him wonder anew. Nigel, a slim, graceful man of forty or so, was standing up now. So was Carol. They were gazing spellbound at one another as they ran their hands in sweeping caresses over each other's bodies. There was real affection in those looks, real emotion.

  Lance undid his shirt and ran his hands over his own chest. He frowned. No matter how well he copied their movements, he could not feel so moved that his expression reflected theirs. For the very first time, he wondered how it would truly feel to run his hands over a woman's body and to have her touch him that way. To his own great surprise, he had a tremendous urge to escape his celibate state and once, just once, taste the fruits his mother warned him against and his newspaper decried.

  His mind was made up. He would find someone to suit him. Someone aloof from the seduction of others; a cool, confident woman. Not an actress. Not a television personality. Someone professional, intelligent and as engrossed in her work as he was in his.

  Leaning forward, the light from the screen accentuated the hollows above his deep set eyes, the grooves on either side of his nose and mouth. He screwed up his eyes and studied the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman.

  No, he decided, he didn't want a woman like her. For some reason, the fact that she was dark and the fact that he had watched her seemed to go hand in hand. No. Not a dark woman. He would go for a fair one, the fairer the better. And she would have to have blue eyes.

  Now, where, he asked himself, would he find her? Prerequisites raced through his head. Not a prostitute, he told himself, not someone who had to be paid for it. The woman he would give himself to had to be beautiful, but she also had to be willing to have sex because she wanted to, and not because she was paid to have it.

  On the other hand, he had to be aroused by her. So far, no woman had had that effect on him. True, he took these secret videos of women having sex with willing partners, but, in all honesty, he was not exactly turned on by the women themselves - not in the flesh anyway. He took his pleasure from them purely through the video screen, at a distance, so to speak.

  Yes. He had to find someone who aroused him, who appeared impervious to the approaches of others - almost as if she were waiting purely for him.

  Chapter 2

  Besides the white wig and black gown of a Queen's Counsel, all the dancer wore was a pair of thigh-high black boots, and a mask that covered her face. The mask was made of something pale mauve and had a faint sparkle. The boots were suede, the gown - naturally - was of silk.

  She carried a black rod that was about two inches in diameter, and four feet long. At first, she passed the rod behind her back, and hooked her arms over it so that her naked breasts pouted forward like two round and ripe grapefruit. The crowd roared their approval. Then she wriggled her hips as though she were getting out of some item of clothing that was loath to leave her flesh. The audience fell to an instant hush. A few groaned or mewed as if they too would like to shed their clothes.

  Satisfied she now had their full attention, the dancer turned her back on the glistening faces, slid the rod up under her gown and pushed the black silk up towards her shoulder-blades. Then she bent over so that those watching could appreciate the firm curve of her behind and the sultry shadow that peeped so provocatively from between her legs.

  Judging that they had seen enough of her rear, she turned to face them. To a roar of approval, she slid the knob of the rod over the lips of her sex, then clasped it between her legs. Folding her arms behind her back, she held the black gown away from her body.

  As she exposed the extraordinary perfection of her high breasts, her narrow waist, and her flat belly, she swayed her hips from side to side; backwards, forwards, slowly, then more quickly. As she moved, so did the
rod, and as the rod moved, she ran her tongue over her lips, and moaned deeply, throatily into the microphone.

  The effect was electrifying, and she knew it. She knew also that mentally, each man there was making love to her, embedding his own rod in her as she writhed beneath him. He wouldn't be asking whether she liked what he was doing to her, or what her personal preference was: missionary, rear approach, oral or anal. He wouldn't even be asking her if she liked her nipples being rubbed. Selfishly, he would notch her up as just another hot pussy he had screwed who had gyrated like crazy on the hardness of his giant - no - to him, unique erection.

  Because of the mask, she was only a body. Each individual could indulge in his personal desire to his heart's content. The wig and the gown added an extra dimension; a belief, even, that the law itself was not above the delights of the flesh.

  To the woman who danced beneath the discerning gleam of a dozen spotlights, the mask was something else. Behind its anonymity, she took in the florid faces, the fish-bowl eyes, and the slack, open mouths of her spellbound audience.

  They see my body, and that is all they see. But I see them clearly. I see them at their most lustful, their most foolish, and their most vulnerable. I see them for what they are, but they never truly see me.

  Eventually, to tumultuous applause, her dance was over, the lights went out. Like something that was not quite real, a fanciful apparition existing only in over-ripe imaginations, she melted into the shadows, just as dreams vanish at dawn.

  She stripped and refreshed herself in the privacy of her room, warm streams of soapy water taking her sweat and her dance from her body. After showering and dressing, patting her coal black hair, and reapplying her make-up, especially her bright red lipstick, she slid back the bolt on her dressing-room door.