Beach shoot

by BRK

Part-time social media hunk Xavier has a weird feeling about this tropical beach shoot, and it only gets stranger as the shoot goes on.

2,817 words Added Feb 2023 3,836 views 4.5 stars (10 votes)

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“All right, let’s do this!” I said. The sun was climbing, we had the beach to ourselves, and I’d already spent half an hour getting buffed, bronzed, and coiffed so I’d look adorably “natural” for the resort-sponsored social media shoot on remote and lovely St. Hermosa Beach. It was time to earn my tuition money. Cautiously, I slipped my big right foot out of its flip-flop and planted it firmly on the sun-drenched sand in front of me—then immediately pulled it back in alarm, hissing like a butthurt rattler. “All right, let’s not do this,” I amended, rubbing the insta-toasted sole of my poor foot against the side of my other leg to try to smooth out the shock somehow. Seriously, these sprawling white sandy tropical beaches are picturesque and all, but no one thinks about how they do nothing but gleefully soak up the nuclear power of the sun all day. Not until your foot actually hits the silicon, and all at once you have a sudden and newfound empathy for your morning bacon.

“Go on, ya big baby,” laughed Bruno, giving me a playful shove between the shoulder-blades—which was about as high as he could reach on me. I was not exactly the tallest model on the agency’s payroll, maybe 5’11 tops, but next to me Bruno—the photographer-manager I ended up with on most of these shoots—was, shall we say, more likely to remind you of Buzz than Woody.

Physics being what they are, the push propelled me forward, kicking up my pulse rate and forcing me to instinctively shoot out my middle foot to catch my balance—and, as luck would have it, that was the one I’d already freed from the protective pink-foam insulation my other two feet still enjoyed and given an introductory scalding on the sandy barbecue pit they perversely called a beach. “Fuuuuuck,” I rasped.

Reluctantly I forced myself to lean forward more on my middle leg, hoping for acclimation, or the numbness of fully seared flesh, or something. It wasn’t exactly like diving into a chilly pool and treading water until it seemed warm—no, this was just fucking baking my feet. Fuck tropical resorts anyway! Crystal blue-green waters and sugar-white beaches could go take a running jump. “Bruno,” I said seriously, wiggling my foot into the sand to see if it helped force a tolerable temperature equilibrium (it didn’t), “if our next shoot isn’t in a nice, cool, grassy meadow somewhere I’m finding you one of those ten-foot-wide Far Side desert islands with the palm tree, and marooning you on it.”

Bruno was still chuckling. “Come on, Xander,” he sing-songed, a little too amused. Well, sure, it was easy for him to goad me out onto this open-air oven—he got to keep his sockless tennies on. “Two more feet to go,” he nudged.

I let out a long sigh. “I should be writing a paper right now,” I grumbled. Funny how this shit I did for extra cash ended up dominating all my time and pushing everything else to the side instead. Oh well, there were worse side jobs. At least pushing myself at the gym had conditioned me to exert, and obey, my own internal willpower voice. (I called him “Will” for obvious reasons.) With a conscious effort, and a bit of assertive pressure from Will, I made myself free first my right foot from its thong, then my left. I held my breath as I pressed each foot gingerly into the hot sand, then let it out slowly in relief—it wasn’t so bad the second and third time somehow.

“There you go,” Bruno teased—he was enjoying this a little too much. “Now place one in front of the other…”

“Shut up,” I tossed back over my shoulder. I started walking, consciously monitoring the soles of my three feet and their current levels of complaint. Hopefully we’d shoot along the surf first; water sloshing over my dogs sounded nice. A balmy bit of ocean breeze played with the gauzy white top I was wearing, unbuttoned all the way to show off my decently developed chest and the pleasingly-carved six-pack abs I had worked so hard for. I grabbed at it with both hands near the waist to keep the wind from pulling off my shoulders, not that it would be staying on me long anyway.

“All right, I’m going to start filming,” I heard Bruno say from behind me after a while. He’d hung back to get a bit of distance, that and the empty strand making me feel like the only beachgoer in the world. “Keep walking and look relaxed and natural.”

That meant letting go of the shirt. I dropped my upper set of arms to hang loosely at my sides, and shoved the lower pair—the ones inside the shirt, ‘cause it looked (in Bruno’s words) “damn hot” that way—into the loose pockets of my baggy, knee-length hunter green board shorts. Internally I checked in on my feet, but the front three and the back three were all surprisingly copacetic despite registering the broiler-level temp of the sand with every step. Maybe it really was like getting used to the water in a pool after all.

The cocoa-butter smell of my light-tint high-SPF sunscreen wafted into my nostrils as it warmed with the rippling air around me, and I realized I was feeling a little turned on from the heady aroma combined with the feel of my hard, sun-heated sculpted arms shifting naturally against each through the soft fabric of my shirt, not to mention the brush of my close-set, smooth swimmer’s thighs as I walked. My legs weren’t that wide, despite being long and thick, but they were tightly-packed—giving me a pretty narrow waist (all things considered) as well as, in situations like this, pretty constant stimulation.

I felt another breeze flicker around me, dancing with my longish, meticulously highlighted blond curls. “Okay, stand there for a sec,” I heard Bruno say. I didn’t look directly at him, as my shoots tended to be mostly candids except for the tight close-ups that leveraged my killer smile, my peekaboo dimples, and my famous whiskey-brown eyes; but I could half-see, half-sense him about ten feet away in my peripheral vision, switching out cameras from his shoulder bag. He was circling back by a few feet as he did so to get a side-shot that would show off my pecs jutting out, the weight of the top tier close-nuzzling the hard-won upper-pec bulk of the lower tier crammed up against it looking especially nice in profile. I’d known this was likely up next—those side-boob shots always got lots of likes.

“That’s it, let the wind feel your junk up a little,” Bruno added impishly as he worked.

I grinned slightly bashfully, as he’d known I would, and he took a few snaps of my smile. Even after five months of this part-time social media modeling gig I was self-conscious about my endowment. Not because I was huge, but because that close-packed leg thing I was talking about tended to push my front packages out a bit. That, and I was a bit of a grower, much to my chagrin. I was thickly hung and slightly above average in length even soft, but if I actually started getting turned on we might have an awkward situation.

I let the breeze whip around me and tried not to think about sexy things. This was just an ordinary day. A photo shoot, then back to the hotel to rack up a few online library hours researching that paper. Maybe tacos later at the hotel beach bar while I Facetimed with my roomie and biggest supporter, Beau, back home. Nothing wild going on here at all. I was just standing around, getting a few pictures taken on a beautiful sun-drenched equatorial beach under a cerulean sky… pictures that would go on Insta and PicThread for guys to admire, and drool over, and probably jerk off to…

Fuck. My two back cocks twitched and started to swell against my fat, sweat-dampened balls and the compression undies I had to wear. They were usually the ones jumped the gun and started getting hard first—maybe from the extra heat of being surrounded by all six legs, I dunno. They were especially susceptible if I started myself thinking about what happened to my pics out in the world, what with lusty hot guys wanking over me in their bedrooms and dorm rooms… maybe in high-rise junior exec corner offices with the doors closed… warehouse back aisles with a couple of brawny young easy-bone bros gathered around a phone, getting hard, helping each other out…

Shit. Now my front cocks were thickening too, because of course it was always a chain reaction with these fuckers. At least it was going slow this time. My hands in my big board short pockets would minimize the two front bulges for a little while, but not forever. I always had on loose bottoms with big pockets on these shoots, partly to accommodate my extra-fingered fists but also to help hide any, er, visible stimulation I got on during the gig. I was a pretty sensual guy, so… it could occasionally be a problem.

“Tell me a unsmutty story,” I called to Bruno, over the gentle, no-stress shoosh of the waves behind me.

Bruno looked up at me over the top of his high-end digital camera and grinned. “You in trouble, X?”

“Not yet…” I warned him. I could tell I was sliding toward danger. I was very aware of my pulse, for one thing, which had been loud in my ears pretty much since I’d set foot on the sand. This shoot was not feeling like the others somehow, and I was more and more anxious to get through it.

Bruno snorted a laugh as he crouched for a nice angle of me against the cloudless blue sky, which I knew would make me look even taller than my actual six-foot height. “Well, let’s see. I dunno, X, I never have this problem where I have to think about not getting hard,” he taunted as he continued shooting, because the fucker loved nothing more than to egg me on, apparently. “Grandparents always works, right? You’re supposed to think of your grandparents doing it? Of course, my grandad was a big, hardbodied Navy Seal, so maybe not. Thick muscles, tattoos on his shoulders, recruitment-poster face, the whole nine yards. Always shirtless, too, in every pic from back then. It’s kind of eerie, actually, no one’s quite sure how he got away with never wearing—”

“Not helping,” I growled, interrupting him. Didn’t he understand I had two of these footlong soda-can-thick wangs in each of my carefully packed, tastefully bulging crotches? “Tastefully” at the moment, anyway. I mean, my fans knew I was packing, obviously, but we couldn’t actually show them the full monty on fucking Insta. And we would be soon, if this kept up.

Bruno laughed and dutifully started telling me a story as he moved around me. It was about his brother’s dog, an Alsatian who’d bonded with their infant daughter by very carefully biting her arm a few times, which the tot seemed to love so much she giggled and thrust out her arm every time she saw him. I laughed, calming down a bit; though I still felt a little strange, and my heartbeat kept up its steady, persistent drumbeat.

“Okay, let’s lose the shirt,” Bruno said after a while, approaching me from behind. I sighed and let him pull the gauzy top off me, exposing all six of my exquisitely corded, subtly tanned arms and the associated triple-tier of crowded, aesthetically perfect pec-meat. I never did flex-poses for these shoots—I wasn’t competitive so I didn’t know the moves, and anyway my image was all about casual hard-carved muscle. Like you could run into me anywhere and see me like this. Which you pretty much could.

Bruno pulled back and got me moving again, this time in video, and I made a point of easing toward the damper sand where the cool surf might slosh over my big, smooth feet every now and again as I ambled along the empty shore.

I still felt on edge. Something about the situation seemed to be steadily getting more intense, and I couldn’t grasp why. I was feeling both uneasy and unaccountably horny, and my own scent in the air around me was creating a weird sexual feedback. I was even picking up on Bruno’s smell, which was muskier than mine but oddly like… an orchard? “Why do you smell like apples?” I asked Bruno.

“No idea, X,” Bruno said, humoring me as he flowed his steps to keep the video smooth. He was used to weird questions from me when I was bored on a shoot, though it wasn’t boredom exactly that was causing problems for me at the moment. “Hey, can you stand and sort of turn your head toward the sun for me?” he directed.

“Which one?” I asked patiently, because he was never good about being specific about these things. He was an artist, after all, it was all about his vision, even if he did joke around the whole way through every gig. The sun, already climbing towards noon, was on my right, so I figured he’d have that head turn toward the light while the other looked straight ahead as if pondering deep mysteries of the universe, but he surprised me.

“Uh, left one,” he said. “So you’re looking past the other one.”

I did as he asked, and he started taking stills as he hummed little happy noises. “You’re not going to make me kiss or anything, right?” I asked him pointedly as I kept the pose. “Because then we will have problems.”

I could hear the grin in his voice. “Naw,” he said. “I’m saving that for the shots we do later, for the paywall site.”

Ugh. My dicks strained hard at their prisons, wanting to grow. My heart was hammering, too—this shoot was getting out of hand somehow. “Can we at least call it quits after this?” I said. “I’m… hungry.” For a few serious orgasms, if I were being honest, but Bruno didn’t need to know that.

Not that I was that tough to figure out, because Bruno laughed, clearly seeing right through me. “Sure,” he said easily as he rounded in front of me to get a few more direct shots of my pretty-boy faces as the wind riffled my shoulder-length waves. “We have the volleyball shoot on the public beach later, but on the way I’ll drive you down the shore to that tropical-fruit waffle shack you liked last time.”

I hummed in approval, then reconsidered. The waffles sounded good, but I wasn’t feeling too keen on climbing back into the SUV right then. Not that anyone would blame me not wanting to get into a vehicle, no matter how customized—after all, I was a long, lanky 7’5” stretch of a man, and it was all in the legs. Well, the legs and the abs. And the tightly-stacked pecs, I guess.

He made one last move to his left and took a few final shots. “Okay, we’re good!”

Finally. I immediately turned around started back to where I’d left my little pile of flip-flops, and as soon as we left the sand for the sturdy wooden planks of the boardwalk I felt a strange, inexplicable flicker of relief. I pulled on my flip-flops, easily balancing on my other feet as I did so, and eyed the wooden walkway that stretched before us, lining the whole expanse of the public and private beaches. I thought about the SUV and winced. “Mind if we walk it?” I said, looking at him as I peered down the length of the beach. “It’s a beautiful day.”

Bruno was checking the shots on his camera. “It sure is,” Bruno said. He grinned up at me, and I knew from his expression we had just made both of us a very tidy a paycheck. We started walking in companionable silence, the slaps of my many flip-flops on the boards making an oddly pleasing rhythm.

Beautiful day, easy job, hot guys whenever I liked… I could do with a few more days like this in my life, I thought pleasantly. Maybe this didn’t need to be a side gig after all.

2,817 words Added Feb 2023 3,836 views 4.5 stars (10 votes)

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