Agree to model the jockstraps
From Create Your Own Story
The question hangs there for a beat longer.
Kevin glances at you again, jaw tightening slightly. You can see the reluctance — but also the calculation. A hundred dollars. Quick shoot. In and out.
Mike doesn’t rush it. He just stands there with that easy confidence, the black waistband looped over his fingers.
“It’s honestly no different from swimwear,” he says smoothly. “Athletic brands do this all the time.”
Rod nods in agreement. “You’ve already shown you’re comfortable on camera. This is simpler, if anything.”
Kevin exhales through his nose, running a hand through his short black hair. “It’s just… less fabric,” he mutters.
Mike gives a small, reassuring smile. “And more pay.”
That does it.
Kevin lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Fine. Screw it.”
Your stomach flutters, but you hear yourself say, “Yeah. Okay.”
Mike’s expression brightens subtly — not predatory, just satisfied. He hands each of you a folded black jockstrap. The elastic feels firmer than you expect in your hands.
“In the corner,” he says, gesturing. “Privacy screen.”
You glance over. A small folding screen sits near the wall, tall enough to block the view but narrow enough that the room still feels very aware of you.
Kevin steps toward it first. “Guess I’ll break the ice.”
He disappears behind the screen. A second later, you hear the shuffle of fabric. The faint sound of a belt unthreading.
Then — without warning — his jeans arc up and over the top edge of the screen, landing draped across the frame before sliding down one side.
Mike chuckles softly under his breath.
You stare at the privacy screen, pulse ticking up.
A few seconds pass.
Then Kevin steps out.
The black jockstrap sits stark against his pale skin, minimal and structured just like Mike described. The waistband hugs his hips cleanly, the bold white SXE lettering cutting sharp against the dark fabric.
For a half-second, he looks almost self-conscious.
Then he squares his shoulders.
Mike’s eyes sweep over him with a professional nod. “See?” he says. “Looks good.”
Rod gives a low, appreciative whistle. “Athletic. Clean lines.”
Kevin huffs a laugh, though a faint flush creeps up his neck. “Shut up.”
But he doesn’t look away.
“Step over here,” Rod instructs gently, gesturing toward the camera setup. “Stand tall. Feet shoulder-width.”
Kevin moves into place. You can tell he’s forcing confidence into his posture, but once the lights hit him, something shifts. His chin lifts slightly. His shoulders settle.
“Turn a little,” Mike adds. “Yeah — like that.”
Rod adjusts the lens.
“Rotate around for me,” he says. “Slow.”
Kevin turns.
There’s another whistle — playful but approving.
“Good,” Mike says. “That’s the angle.”
Your throat feels dry.
“Your turn,” Mike says casually, glancing toward you.
You nod, trying to look calmer than you feel, and step behind the privacy screen.
The fabric panels enclose you in a thin illusion of solitude. Your hands feel clumsier than usual as you unbutton your jeans. You can hear Rod’s voice from the other side.
“Kevin, relax your shoulders.”
The click of the camera.
“Good. Hold that.”
You step out of your clothes and into the jockstrap, the elastic snapping lightly into place against your hips. It feels… exposed. Air against skin where there hadn’t been before.
Another click.
“Turn slightly,” Mike says to Kevin. “Yeah, that’s strong.”
Your pulse pounds in your ears.
You take one steadying breath.
Then you push past the screen and step back into the room.
The air feels cooler.
Kevin glances over first — quick, assessing — then gives you the smallest, almost competitive smirk.
Mike’s gaze shifts to you.
He nods slowly. “Good fit.”
Rod lowers the camera just enough to look directly at you, then lets out a low whistle mirroring the one he gave Kevin. “Yeah,” he says approvingly. “That works.”
Heat climbs up your chest, but you keep your stance steady.
“Step in next to him,” Mike instructs.
You move to Kevin’s side, both of you standing under the lights now — minimal black fabric, bold white waistbands, nowhere to hide.
“Relax,” Rod says, lifting the camera again. “You both look exactly how the brand wants.”
The lens focuses.
And the room quiets again — except for the steady, rhythmic click of the shutter.
