Shooting Matt

All characters in this short tale of exhibitionism and voyeurism are over the age of 18. It's more of a May-August, okay maybe September, than a May-December tale.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle for editing.

Enjoy.

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The doorbell chimes and my stomach does a series of back flips. How did I let myself get dragged into this? I mentally kick myself in the ass and tell myself to get a grip. The next hour or so can be fun, if I just relax and stay focused on my 'job'. I'm not getting paid, thus the quotes. I've been volunteered. I enjoy photography. It's a hobby, an expensive hobby, but a hobby nonetheless. I'm not a serious enough amateur to claim a genre. I gravitate toward quirky. There must be a few million pictures of the Empire State Building taken every year. I can buy a postcard with a picture as good as I can hope to get with my middle-of-the-road DSLR. Why do I need a picture of that? A discarded admission ticket, half buried in a handful of autumn leaves (leaves that came from where exactly?) at the curb in front of the Empire State building, however, that might be worth a picture.

I wasn't asked by the team or any of the coaches to photograph the team but I never miss one of my son's meets, I'm lucky that way and I know it. I always bring my camera. I've learned to get there early, to allow it to acclimate to the temperature, otherwise all I get is a picture of the steam condensing on the lens. I make a point to not embarrass Liam, my son, by only taking shots of him. Halfway through the swim season, the coach got me jersey and allowed me to poolside access, as long as I stayed out of the way. Many, if not most, of the shots were shit but I managed a few decent ones. They used them, plus a few from the other parents, at the end-of-the-year dinner.

I haven't taken any photos of the team since Liam graduated. Having sailed through his first year of college, Liam is spending the summer with his mom, Mary Beth. I tried not to bitch about his decision. I had him to myself through middle school and high school. If his mom has her shit together enough to try to have some sort of a relationship, I won't get in the way. From his emails and our FaceTime chats, the summer hasn't been exactly a bed of roses but he's trying. Good for him.

Matt's call surprised me. He and Liam were friends, not best buddies, but friends. They swam together. That's primarily how I know him. Matt is the best swimmer our relatively small school has ever produced. He isn't swimming for a powerhouse college and he won't make it to the Olympics but he's good enough to get a scholarship. And he's good enough to place second in the 200-meter individual medley in his college's state division. That's why he called. He wants me to take some pictures of him with his medal. He can't afford a professional photographer but he can pay me a little, or maybe swap some yardwork, etc for the photos. I tried to get out of it. I've never really done portraits. I don't have a serious studio. I mean I can throw some sheets over a couple lamps to make some light boxes but I have no way to sync them. I don't have any backgrounds, either. He assured me it was no problem. He just wanted some halfway decent shoots for his folks. In the end, I said yes.

We set a time. I found some colorful sheets at the thrift store, sprayed very dilute bleach randomly and tried to make a backdrop. I tacked the resulting, almost passable, effort on the wall facing the small room's one window. I went to the library and read a little on portrait photography, did the same on the internet. My research only served to make me less confident. I really didn't have the equipment to pull this off. I'd basically be taking snapshots. Well, Matt said anything was better than nothing. Now, we're about to see if that's true.

I open the door before he rings the bell a second time but not so quickly as to make it clear I've been sitting here for the last thirty minutes waiting for him to arrive. I hope I mostly succeed in not looking stunned as I open the door. Matt is an unbelievably good looking kid. It's been more than a year since I've seen him, other than to say 'hi' at graduation. The extra year suits him well. He's still fucking irritatingly good looking but now he looks like a hot young man, not a hot teenager. I may have been able to swallow my gasp of awe but I can't do a damn thing about my pulse rate kicking up a notch or the gastrointestinal gymnastics that are tying my guts into knots.

"Hey, Mr. Bigland. How you been? Is Liam around?"

"Good, Matt. I've been good. No, Liam is spending the summer with his mom."

"Really?"

He doesn't bother to keep the surprise out of his voice. I nod. "Yup, she's been clean over three years now, has a decent job, and was able to get a two-bedroom apartment last year. He wanted to give it a try. I couldn't see why not. She is his mom."

Matt shook his head. "Yeah, but wow. Not to be rude or anything but she really messed Liam up."

"Yeah," I admit with a sigh, "that she did. But, like I said, she's trying." I shake my head and lead him down the short hallway of our 60's era ranch house. "Matt, I need to warn you son, I'm not a professional photographer." We enter the smallest of the three bedrooms where I've tacked the more splotchy than swirly sheet to the wall for a backdrop. A couple of pole lamps stand in the middle of the floor, pillow cases over them to soften the light. I gesture at the set up. "I mean, look. I don't have real lighting, real backgrounds, nothing."

"The pictures you took of the team were great, Mr. B. I don't have a few hundred bucks to spend on this." He snorts. "Plus, you know my folks. You think they'll appreciate the difference between what you can do, or worse WallyMart out on the highway can do, versus a real pro? Shoot, if they still made Polaroid cameras I'd have you take a Polaroid and be done with it."

The kid has a point. His parents can, most politely, be termed "down to earth". It wasn't that they were poor, no more than most of us in the neighborhood anyway, but they were either misers or really didn't give a shit what people thought. They wore clothes until they fell apart. Matt's school lunch bag was an old bread bag he was expected to use over and over again. To be fair, however, they never seemed to balk at making sure Matt had the money for his swimming.

I give him a nod. "Okay then, if you're sure. Did you bring the medal?"

"Duh, wouldn't be much of picture without it," he tells me with a smile. His teeth are something else they spent money on, I think to myself. His parents made sure their boy's teeth were straightened and taken care of. Dentistry and swimming: the two things they'll spend money on.

"Okay, put it on."

"Like this?" He looks down at the sweat pants and tee shirt he's wearing. "No way, dude. I brought my trunks. I want to totally "Mark Spitz" this baby."

He sets the gym bag he's carrying down on the floor, unzips it, stands, pulls his tee shirt over his head, and drops it on the floor. Without pausing, he hooks his thumbs in the top of his sweats and pulls them down. He steps out of them and drops them with one foot atop his tee shirt.

He's naked. I try not to stare but his body is as gorgeous as his goddamn face. He's totally shaved, pits, chest, crotch, legs, everything. The only hair is on the top of his head and the stubble on his face. Damn.

I had always limited myself to the pool area because I wasn't a coach. There would have been no reason for me to be in the locker room or shower area. It's never been clear to me if Liam knows I'm bi. His mom does and I have little doubt she'll find occasion to bring it up this summer. I should have done it first but I never could figure out a way to broach the subject.

Don't misunderstand me. I'm bi, but not a pedo. I wasn't lusting after my son's swim mates. Sure, I noticed, and frankly resented, their youthful toned bodies. I envied the fact that worrying about getting a gut or love handles was another decade or more in their future. Struggling to raise a kid, either on my own or with the handicap of an addicted mother and trying to keep a roof over our heads by grabbing every extra shift that came up, left exactly zero time for relationships. If I was going to sacrifice work hours, it would be to see my son swim.

I wanted to watch Liam swim; I was there for my son, period, full stop, end of story. Consequently, I was super careful. If he knew, or suspected, I was not totally straight, I didn't want him to worry that I was hanging out around the team because I was a fucking pervert. Even if I had been so inclined, I wouldn't have risked being banned from the meets, either by my son or a suspicious coach. It wasn't difficult. I was jealous of their youth, not lusting after their bodies.

I'd seen naked men before, mostly my age, some a few years younger, some a few years older. I hadn't seen a nineteen or twenty year-old naked since I was in high school and college. Back then I'd been too terrified someone would tumble to the fact I was a fucking queer to take a chance enjoying the view. The instinctive caution of my youth resurfaces in a flash. I turn my attention to getting the camera mounted on the tripod. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Matt reach into the bag and pull out a white Speedo. I scrutinize the back of my camera, or pretend to. I look past it and watch him get into the suit. He pulls it up and tucks his impressive cock inside the suit, adjusting it until he's comfortable and then looks up.

I quickly look back at my camera. I make a meaningless adjustment and then step over to the pole lamps. I click the first one on, position it, then do the same with the second.

"Step in front of the sheet, Matt. Let me see how the light looks."

He does so without speaking. The light from the window is way too harsh. I close the shade. Too dark. I tell Matt to hang on and retrieve a faded yellow sheet from the laundry room and some thumbtacks. I tack the sheet over the window. I check the effect and decide that's the best I can do.

"Okay, Matt, you ready?"

"Sure. What do you want me to do?"

Remembering the Spitz pose he'd mentioned earlier, I tell him to put his hands on his hips. He does. Smiles. I click off a few shots and motion him to come over to take a look. I don't have the camera slaved to a laptop. He presses in beside me to peer at the back of the camera. It's hard for me to concentrate on the images. His hand feels very warm on my shoulder. I swear the heat has somehow passed through my shirt to my bare skin. I'm wearing shorts. His bare leg brushes mine. I desperately focus on the images but I feel a stir between my legs.

We delete the obviously bad shots, eyes closed or half closed. That leaves four or five that would make a decent photo. Face, smile, bare torso down to the medal, hands on hips, the very essence of confident youth is on display.

"Will one of these work for you, Matt?"

"Yeah, totally. They're awesome." He turns his face toward me, without moving back. He's uncomfortably close. I keep my eyes on the camera. "They're awesome but would you mind taking a few more?"

I shrug, not trusting my voice.

"Right on. Cool." Matt walks back to the tacky sheet serving as a background. "Are you too close for a full body shot?" He asks as he assumes the hands on hips pose again.

I don't speak. I still don't trust my voice. I move the tripod back, check the viewfinder, and move it back a little more. "On three then," I managed to croak. He smiles before I start counting.

I press the shutter release a few times. He assumes the classic body-builder pose, legs bent, biceps flexed. I click away.

"Hang on," Matt says after a few minutes. "I want to get a few for my girlfriend." Without further ado he pulls the front of the suit down and pulls his cock free. He strokes it a few times and then tucks it back, but now it lies across the top of his right leg. The suit is so tight I can see the outline of the head of his cock.

"I think she'll like the pics, don't you?"

I don't answer. I take a few pictures. Matt begins to rub his finger over the shaft of his cock. His eyes never leave the camera. I'm grateful I put a new SD card in this morning. I can take over 400 shoots before the card is full. I suppose part of me fantasized about something like this, otherwise why would I have a put in a new, empty, card?

His cock lengthens under the suit. The white material at the tip of his cock sports a widening circle of darkness, which makes it, paradoxically, more see-through. His cock grows until the top of the suit pulls away from his belly but his meat remains trapped. Eyes still on the camera, he hooks one thumb under the top of the Speedo and pulls.

His cock springs free. I swallow a gasp and the urge to free my own cock. He lets his cock rest flat against his belly. The base and his balls are still inside the suit. He rubs one fingertip up the shaft. He presses hard enough to force a large drop of cock dew from the slit. He wipes it off with the same fingertip and slowly brings it to his mouth. I realize he is doing everything slowly, whether to tease, to give me a chance to capture the moments with the camera, or a combination of both, is unclear. He sucks on his finger, exaggerating the sucking motion of his cheeks. He holds the finger in his mouth and smiles broadly around it. He repeats the action several times, each a perfect repetition of the last.

I feel my cock push its way out of the leg of my boxers. I can't tell if it's visible below the leg of my shorts or not. Probably not, short shorts went out of style when I was Matt's age. Through the camera I see him reach for the waist of his trunks. I widen the angle, full body, and click away as he pulls his trunks off. His cock stands out straight from his body.

"Can I borrow that chair?"

His voice is so normal sounding I find it shocking. I nod.

"Would you hand it to me? I don't want to end up out of frame."

The reason for the request is nonsensical. We both know it. The idea of calling this small bedroom an office is either hilarious or pretentious, depending on my mood. I walk over to the old wooden captain's chair that serves as my "office" chair. Despite the chaos and fire engulfing my mind, I mentally add the quotes as I think it. I carry the chair over to Matt. He takes it with a smile.

I hesitate. I want to drop to my knees and suck his cock. I want to bend him over the chair and fuck his ass. He smiles, reading my mind. Is the smile an invitation or a taunt?

I walk back to my camera. Matt turns. He puts one foot on the seat of the chair and leans forward. One hand pushes his cock down so that it is visible between his legs. The other kneads his ass, pulling, exposing. His asshole is brown but the skin around it is as pale as the rest of the skimpy band of white that tells me he sunbathes in the Speedo. If he's a bottom, hell, if he's gay or bi at all, he's an inexperienced one. It's not a very flattering pose, more silly than erotic but my body pays no attention to the rational part of my mind.

"Your girlfriend likes your ass?" I croak.

"Loves it. Chick's fucking out there, dude." He leans lower over the chair, stroking his cock as he pulls at the side of his ass. "Dude, she wants to put a dildo in my ass. Crazy shit, huh?"

"Crazy," I muttered. Every so often I click the shutter release.

"You ever let Liam's mom do something like that? Put something in your ass?"

"No."

"Really? Fuck, I was hoping you could give me your opinion on whether it was something I should try. Too bad."

For the first time, he strikes me as less than certain. The smile no longer quite makes it to his eyes. I take a slow breath.

"I think we've got enough of this pose, Matt. Did you want anything else?"

He hesitates. That's a first for the morning. "Uh, I was thinking I might jerk off for her. Or is that too whacked?"

"Matt, she's your girlfriend. I can't answer that for you."

"Does your camera have video?"

I nod.

"Can we video it for her?"

"Sure," I shrug. "If that's what you want." I've corralled the fire in my brain. My voice is steady. I'm not a twenty-something anymore. While I hate the fact at times, maturity has its advantages. The primary one being...maturity.

I set the camera to the video mode. Matt sits in the chair. He drapes his right leg over the arm, demonstrating another advantage of youth. If I did that, my leg would be asleep and useless in two minutes. He stretches out. I haven't started the video.

"I can mute the sound if you want or leave it on. If you want it on, I won't say anything. She'll assume you set it up yourself."

"Okay," his voice is much softer now. He looks embarrassed, another first. "Uh, if I tell you I'm about to cum can you zoom in. She likes to watch me cum."

"Sure. She'll know someone else is running the camera though. Is that a problem?"

"No."

"Okay then. Action." I press the REC button.

He may be an inexperienced bottom but he knows how to jerk a cock. He slowly relaxes. He keeps his eyes on the camera. He uses both hands, alternating. He flips his right hand over and uses an upside down stroke with his palm on the top of his shaft instead of the underside.

He squeezes out more and more dew. His cock is shiny and slick and utterly beautiful. I enjoy it as a work of art. I've put it out of my mind as an object of lust.

Matt wraps his fingertips around the head, as if he were plucking a grape, and pulls. He tips his head back and holds his fingers over his mouth, as if about to eat a grape. He presses his tongue to his fingers. He pulls it back slowly and a sparkling strand stretches from his fingertips to his tongue.

Maybe I've not mastered my lust to the extent I've given myself credit for.

He returns his hand to his cock. He strokes the entire shaft, long slow strokes. At the end of the stroke, he rotates the palm over the head, lubing it, before sliding it down the shaft.

His left hand circles the top of his sack. His fist tightens. His sack turns dark red. He pulls. I hear a soft groan. His strokes quicken.

The hand on his balls moves. He encircles the base of his cock and his balls, making his hand into a cock ring. His balls are pushed upward. The heel of his stroking hand bounces into them and I see his body tense. His groans are louder now. The sound his hand makes slapping into his balls adds a bass line to his activities; I wish I had left the audio on. The groans turn into soft grunts of effort and, I assume, pain from his bouncing balls.

I zoom in but not much. I still want to see his face. His face is at the top of the frame. His dark red balls at the bottom, his long smooth tanned torso connects the two.

His hand is a blur. His hips jerk. He gives no warning, perhaps because he's incapable of speech. He freezes his hips at the top of an arc. Time holds still for a second and then his cock erupts.

His hips slam back into the chair, as if propelled there by the rocket force of his ejaculation. Cum flies high in the air, then falls back over his hair and cheek. His hips rebound upward and stay there, as streamer after streamer of cum covers his chest and body.

I am not an inexperienced youth. I'm not a Don Juan of either sex, but I've had plenty of lovers, male and female. I've never seen anyone, myself included, shoot a load like this. I'm not exaggerating when I say one whole side of his chest is covered in jizz. It's a month, two months, worth of cum in one enormous eruption. I've just witnessed the Krakatoa of ejaculations.

I long, desperately, to cross the room and embrace him. I want to lick his body clean and then I want to fuck that tight (cherry?) ass. Instead, I will my hand not to shake as I turn off the camera and remove the SD card.