A Realtor's Surprise

Preface:

Written at the suggestion of a friend, this tiny story employs simple vocabulary and sentences to convey the life-changing event in a virgin's life. It happened into existence almost the way my "The Knight's Visit" did. May it amuse you as it has us. 

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Cousins Realtors was a formidable organization which held sway in its community’s upper scale echelons. Presiding over the profitable operation was mastiff-size Casey Cousins, with matching demeanor and face. Her associates often didn’t last long, frequently decamping for less stressful employment.

Fresh to its ranks was newly licensed Harve Dixon. ‘Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed’ as was smirked by Casey’s secretary, he was keen to make his mark. And his chance was a property pressed on the agency by estate lawyers who threw a lot of business Casey Cousins’ way.

“Everybody else is busy with clients,” Casey said as she handed novice Harve a set of keys and a slip of paper with an address on it. “Get yourself some experience. I want you to inspect the place outside and in, every nook and cranny. Make note of work that needs to be done, especially whether to make it salable the estate will need an electrician or a plumber or painters, plasterers – do I make myself clear? Oh, and look for signs of rats or other vermin in case an exterminator is to be engaged.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Anxious to show his enthusiasm, the young man left swiftly.

Casey’s secretary said within her boss’s hearing, “A bit of a swishtail, isn’t he?”

“He’s a male realtor. What did you expect?”

* * *

The ninety-three-year-old Federal style two-story, vacant for months, stood on a side street in a good-enough neighborhood. Its grass had gone to seed. Needed mowing. Walkway okay. Shutters not sagging. Exterior paint peeling in places. Windows intact, if dirty.

Jiggling the key worked. Front door hinges needed oil. Oak floor, solid. Sounded hollow under Harve’s leather heels. Empty. In major need of cleaning. Fifties kitchen. Same period bathrooms on both floors. Unusually reasonable closets in the upstairs bedrooms, one with a trap door in its ceiling.

That beckoned.

How to gain access?

A short ladder from the run-down garage was carried from its spider-webbed location up the house stairs and propped in place. Harve climbed. A hard push banged the trap door to one side.  Sent clouds of dust in three directions. Harve hoisted himself higher.

By golly, he’d have a look around.

Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that the house had no real attic but a stale-air crawl space of unfinished timbers. There were, it appeared in the gloom, two corrugated boxes sealed with long-dried masking tape. By hoisting himself several rungs up, he reached the nearer and was able to drag it his way. Tried to pull open its flaps. Glue, it seemed, had them sealed tight.

There was nothing to do but shift as far as he could safely out of the way and tug the heavy box through the opening, letting it crash to the floor. Made quite a thud.

Until he found out the contents, he would not risk further filth from the second box.

He lowered himself, took from his pocket the Swiss Army knife he had been given but had used only to clean his fingernails, and sawed around the box’s top. Once off and tossed aside, there was a crumpled piece of yellowed newspaper covering – hundreds of Polaroids.

Fingers groped with curiosity, then dropped with a start the first few.

Boys.

Naked boys in lewd poses. Most obviously teens, but not all!

Harve was shocked. What do these represent – perversity?

Peeling apart some that stuck together, he saw that one or more men were included, partially clothed or nude and equally lewd. They were… He choked back revulsion. They were… He peeked between fingers covering his vision. They were…being sucked by boys. Another was sitting an aroused boy on his upright member. Both were grinning. Grinning! One photo was of a face-down boy being covered by the body of a hairy guy who might have been his grandpa’s age.

Dared he look further?

A blond kid, cute as that TV star whose name he never remembered, had one man’s part in his mouth while another man had his part crammed in the boy’s behind.

Too fuckin’ much, it threw some switch in Harve’s midway. His own part was stretching. Not supposed to do that.

Down boy!

A hand’s press only affirmed the firmness. Wait. What’s going on in that picture? A boy, hands held flat on the bed by a man on top of him, screwing him like a woman, the boy’s feet out of focus close to the camera.

Harve’s predicament worsened.

He had to open his belt. Had to free his…cock. There! – he thought the crude word, cock. Yes, so it was cocky. And in hand. So what? He couldn’t control it. Not when, under a couple of other shots, there was one of a teen, wrists roped tight, being raped by a black thing like a policeman’s nightstick.

Unconsciously, Harve sought his rear. Frustrated by the barrier of pants material, he pushed at said article and freed his bottom of all clothing. That little soft spot was where a nightstick could go! He shivered. Dared a touch. Not in his behind. But that boy, that boy in the photo couldn’t be more than – what – fifteen. And he wasn’t crying.

Harve’s cock was. Had tears of its own seeping, his thumb discovered. Oh lordy, his hand couldn’t stop what it was doing. The way it was sliding skin around and back and forth felt so shamefully good. Looked good, too. Made him smile like those boys. Except…

Except they had a man or men to show them just what was expected. How neat was that?

Memories of his upbringing kicked in. He shouldn’t be doing this – on his back now on the floor jerking at himself and enjoying what was on its way.

“NO!” he shouted. It wasn’t too late. A distraction was what he needed.

The ladder! The other cardboard box! Quick, cock at full stand, Harve scaled the rungs, put his arms within reach of box number two, and was surprised that it rattled. Wasn’t heavy. Could be carried back down rung by rung.

His Swiss Army knife did its job. The box surrendered its top. Inside, more crumpled newspaper and – Holy shit! – all sorts of black things, metal things (handcuffs?), small chains with tweezers or whatever, skin-pink things of plastic, some blue cork-like objects – Wait! – one of those must be what’s being pushed into a boy in one of the pictures!

Rummaging, he found it.

Didn’t look uncomfortable.

One minute later, the box’s blue plug was where it was designed to be. Harve’s cock had spewed. Blood sang in his ears, guilt swarmed his face, satisfaction tingled his balls, and his butt – well, it couldn’t stop hugging what was there.

Harve Dixon just had to have both boxes and their contents. Dressing himself, he replaced contents, regretted having cut away the boxes’ tops, scurried to his car, locked everything in the trunk, found his laptop, took a few deep breaths, began batting out a memo to Casey Cousins about the house’s condition, and concluded, before sending it via e-mail, that the property – as a fixer-upper – should be accepted for listing.

“I will be happy to show the house and garage to any and all prospects. No one knows it as I do.”

It was the best excuse he could come up with in order to retain access. A double-door closet in the garage had been screwed shut. What might he find there if, legitimately, he had the time?

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With gratitude for all who read, rate, and comment so positively, I welcome your reaction below.