(Author's note: This story is an official entry in the 2013 Literotica Nude Day Contest. Gay male stories are not normally my forte, but the idea for this one was just too powerful to resist. As this is a contest entry, I encourage you to read all of the submissions and place your votes as honestly as possible. Enjoy the tale.)
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When the store was busy, it was a madhouse, with impatient and/or ignorant customers and their ridiculous "the-customer-is-always-right" demands. When it was slow, it was a ghost town replete with bad muzak and stale air. That particular Saturday was one of the latter. The only things missing were the tumbleweeds.
Michael perched above the counter with an elbow on the glossy fake marble and his chin in the palm of his hand. He watched the customers as they wandered through the isles of "America's corner store," amusing himself through speculation of what their lives were like.
For instance, upon seeing the very overweight woman in the daisy-print top and obscenely stretched blue cotton shorts, he envisioned her sitting upon a sofa handed down from grandma, eating cheese balls while watching an episode of
Lizard Lick Towing
. She just looked the type to him. Maybe she had a mechanic husband who obsessed over NASCAR. Or maybe her husband was the complete opposite of the stereotype and worked for the Geek Squad.
People watching had become an almost inevitable part of the job. With so much down time between orders, Michael had found diversion through speculation. Sometimes, he would see the smartly-dressed business types grabbing their favorite energy drink before heading to work and imagine them as being closet freaks with latex fetishes.
Maybe the tall, severe-looking redhead with the horn-rimmed glasses picking up a bottle of cheap wine was having an affair with her boss, while mister redhead was at home with their two kids. Maybe the pudgy little fake blonde with the pierced lip and tribal tattoo on the side of her neck sometimes gave it up on the Southside to whoever had the money.
In truth, he was sure the people he watched were just as mundane and unexciting as he was, living average lives and doing average things. But the speculation was fun. It kept his mind occupied.
"Um . . . 'scuse me."
Michael started at the sound of the voice. He had not realized he had zoned out, staring without seeing at the end cap display of "buy one, get one free" bags of potato chips. With an embarrassed smile, he straightened and smoothed down his shirt in an attempt to reclaim a sense of professionalism.
"How can I, uh . . ." he trailed off briefly as he took in the site of the young man before him. He was, simply put, gorgeous. Slender but not twink-skinny, with just enough obvious muscle definition to indicate an active life, the kid was beautiful. Chiseled features, a uniformly rich tan, glittering light green eyes beneath sandy hair, and soft, lush lips that could undoubtedly do amazing things to certain body parts, he was a terrestrial angel.
The young man waited, an innocently quizzical expression upon his face, for Michael to finish. With a self-admonishing clearing of his throat, Michael made the Herculean effort to banish the arousal that was already stirring in his groin.
"Sorry," he said, a little too firmly. "What can I do for you?"
The young man blushed slightly as he realized the older, stocky gentleman behind the counter had been checking him out. A slightly sly smile stretched his sexy lips. "Um, well, I have some pictures that I'd kind'a like made into a photo album," he said. "Like, professional quality."
"You mean, a portfolio?" Michael suggested.
The kid brightened. "Yeah, something like that," he confirmed, even as his cheeks began to blush. He leaned closer as he continued. "Except, um . . . well, what are your policies about, uh . . . ." he trailed off, leaning in closer still, and whispered something.
"What was that?" Michael asked.
The kid glanced around, then spoke a bit louder. "Nudity."
Michael smiled. "I'm all for it, personally," he answered flippantly.
The young man chuckled. "No I mean, in the pictures."
Michael laughed. "I know what you meant," he said. "Officially, unless they are very tastefully done, and there's no objectionable content, we can't handle anything that might be considered pornographic in nature."
"Well, they're not, like, sex pictures or anything," he said. "I'm just not wearing any clothes in them, that's all. Well, not much."
The lift of one of Michael's brows coincided with something much further south that was also rising up. "I think I'd have to see them, first, in order to make a, uh, professional decision."
The young man shrugged. "Sure," he said, producing a digital camera. He turned it on and waited for the small screen on the back to warm up.
"First things first," Michael said. "You are at least eighteen years old, aren't you?"
The kid frowned with a smirk. "Yeah, dude, I'm twenty."
Michael's smile returned quickly. "Nice."
"Okay. Here, look," prompted the kid, handing the camera over. Michael took it, leaning forward with it so they could both see the pictures.
The first showed the young man clad in a pair of long, loose-fitting nylon shorts and a simple white muscle shirt that clung to his slender yet well-defined frame. The background was a fenced-in yard. Subsequent shots had him pulling up the shirt, then taking it off completely, revealing ripped abdominals and a tapered waist.
"Very nice," Michael commented. "Who took them?"
The kid shrugged. "A friend."
Michael paged to the next one. The shorts were pushed down, showing just the base of the young man's penis. There was a complete and arousing lack of pubic hair. Michael shifted on his feet, feeling a bit of constrained discomfort in his work slacks.
The following picture showed the young man in all his glory, standing and grinning with hands on his hips. The shorts were gone. His penis, flaccid yet impressive, hung down between well-toned thighs. It was nearly as tanned as the rest of his body, and smooth and sleek within its fleshy hood.
Michael breathed in deeply to calm his arousal.
Damn, this guy's fucking hot
, he thought.
Look at that cock . . . .
After that, however, the pictures were from canted and awkward angles, consisting mainly of various close-ups that did not show as much as was intended. Many were blurry to varying degrees. Michael cycled through them quickly, pursing his lips in contemplation. Slowly, a wonderfully devious plan formed.
"So, uh, can you do what I want?" the young man asked at last.
Michael gazed upon him, glad for the height of the counter that concealed his raging erection.
Oh, I could do so many things to you . . . .
Maintaining a professional demeanor, Michael said, "See, here's the thing. My impression is that you want to turn these pictures into a more or less professional-looking portfolio, right?"
