I'm feeling a little nostalgic today, so I thought I'd share a never before posted excerpt from Surveillance, my M/M short with Phaze Books. Hope you enjoy it!
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The elevator doors slid open to opulence and charm, a study in black and white. It seemed to stretch for a mile—the white carpets and walls, black furniture and trim, a few personal knickknacks, but nothing to indicate that an obscenely wealthy rock legend lived here. Bobbie Blair's Atlanta digs represented the antithesis of the singer's public persona. If the man owned anything flamboyant or colorful, it was probably in storage or nailed to the wall of another residence. Or maybe encased in acrylic, next to Jim Morrison's Cub Scout uniform, at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum.
He knew to go to the first closet on the right, which housed the vacuum and other cleaning appliances. It was an unpronounceable brand dressed in umlauts—the latest in Scandinavian dirt-sucking technology, so Darlene had informed him. Heaven forbid an outside cleaning machine come into contact with Bobbie Blair's carpets and distribute dust from a lesser home, spreading it throughout the apartment like a virus.
Troy snorted as Darlene's expressions of mock horror surfaced in his memory. Judging from what the tabloids reported, Mr. Blair didn't seem so fastidious where his love life was concerned. He fought the temptation to check the medicine cabinets for a completely different style of dirt, the kind he could sell to the Enquirer.
In the end, he resisted. I like to think I have some morals. Besides, he probably has cameras hidden in the Jacuzzi jets.
Extracting Darlene's list from his back jeans pocket, he studied the drawn-out itinerary—an anal retentive ordering of what got cleaned and when. Living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathrooms. No shoes to be worn except in the foyer—Shit! Troy slipped off his loafers and kicked them toward the elevator doors—and no clothes at all while in view of the security cameras.
Troy sighed and looked around the room. They could be anywhere, the little buggers. Darlene had said the micro lenses were hidden in various points around the apartment, perhaps as the glass eye of a staid figurine, or else a secret two-way mirror that recorded as well as reflected. Troy didn't want to look too obvious searching for them, lest he somehow piss off the mighty Mr. Blair and forfeit his pay.
Okay, bubba. Shed the shorts and shine the countertops.
He took a deep breath. He could do this. Technically nobody was here to watch him, and if Bobbie Blair valued his privacy and marketability to younger audiences, Troy's buff housecleaning exploits wouldn't see a large audience. So little for so much money…Troy straightened and steeled his nerves.
Then he removed every stitch of clothing he wore. Shirt, jeans, and briefs puddled by the elevator, and Troy took a tentative step into the living room with the cleaning equipment. All was still and quiet, and suddenly he felt silly for being apprehensive. What was he expecting, anyway? A false wall wasn't going to tip over and reveal a studio audience.
Bobbie Blair, however, was expecting his apartment to be spotless. Troy set to work polishing and dusting furniture.
After about twenty minutes of hard work, Troy was grateful for the lack of clothing. Running through the list of chores left Troy's skin with a fine sheen of sweat, despite the air conditioning. He liked, too, that he didn't have his tight jeans to constrict movement when he had to bend underneath a table or high-legged chair to get at a stubborn clump of dust. If only Bobbie Blair would at least concede to him wearing a thong or something. Having his cock swaying free was a bit of an annoyance.
Then again, he was likely better off without one. He could only imagine that thin string slicing him in two with one wrong turn.
He finished ahead of schedule, but wasn't quite ready to dress. Troy put up the cleaning supplies and ambled back into the living room, hands clutching the small of his back as he walked. He hadn't realized how out of shape he was—so much bending and stretching to clean curtain rods and baseboards truly gave his muscles a workout. He hoped the voyeuristic singer appreciated Troy's growing masochism.
"Okay, first paycheck goes to yoga lessons," he grumbled and rolled his shoulders, trying to work some blood back into the weary joints. His own practice of the hatha discipline was spotty at best, since he only went to classes when he could afford it. As a solitary practitioner he was terrible, as he always made an excuse to do something more fun. Definitely time to rethink that, he mused with a chuckle.
He looked around the living room. A painting—it looked like a Picasso for the lopsided eyes and superfluous nostrils on the being portrayed—gaped worriedly back at him, and a series of pointed, crystal obelisks lined one mantle. Music awards, Troy had noted as he gingerly dusted them. Any one of them could be a conduit to Bobbie Blair's cinematic fantasies.
Ah, well. He paid for a clean home, and he paid for a naked stud to do the work, so why not leave the man with something extra? Troy could afford to be generous now. Stretching his arms over his head, he arched his back and took a deep breath, then slowly bent forward as far as he could go. Back when he was religiously into yoga, he could touch the floor without bending his knees. Now, the best he could manage was a perpendicular pose. He had to wonder what vantage point the camera in this room had.
Bobbie Blair would either think Troy was worshipping him or mooning him.
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Copyright 2007 Leigh Ellwood