Act of Exposure

by

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.

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
separate 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.