I Take Naked Pictures Of My Straight Friend For A Class Project

All characters engaged in sexual activity are 18 or older.

The lecture hall smelled like coffee and dry-erase markers. I slouched in my usual seat near the back, doodling in the margin of my notebook while Professor Harlan paced at the front, his voice rising with that theatrical flair he always pulled out for big assignments.

“This portfolio,” he said, pausing for effect, “must capture the human spirit.”

He let the words hang there, like we were supposed to feel enlightened. I just stared at him. The human spirit? What the hell did that even mean? I scratched at my scalp, feeling my hair fall forward over my eyes. Around me, a few people nodded thoughtfully, but most of us looked as lost as I felt.

I hated when professors did this, threw out some vague, poetic bullshit instead of just telling us what they wanted. Give me lighting ratios or composition rules any day. At least those made sense.

When class finally ended, I shoved my stuff into my backpack and stepped into the hallway. The air outside was crisp, especially for late September, but I barely noticed. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to Omar’s contact before I could overthink it.

He picked up on the second ring. “Yo, Nic. What’s good?”

“Hey. So, uh, I just got this photography project dumped on me. I need a human subject. You in?”

A beat of silence, then his low laugh. “Hell yeah. I could use some fresh shots for Tinder anyway. When?”

Relief washed over me. “Does today work?”

“I’m just chilling at the apartment. Come on over.”

“Cool. Be there soon.”

I jogged back to my dorm first, grabbed my spare lenses and the tripod, just in case. Ten minutes later I was buzzing the intercom at Omar and Ivan’s building. The door clicked open, and I took the stairs two at a time.

Omar greeted me with that easy grin of his, barefoot in grey sweatpants and an old Metallica tee that clung to his chest. “What’s up, Mr. Photographer?” He stepped aside to let me in.

Their apartment always made me feel some kind of way—too big, too nice for two college sophomores. It had high ceilings, actual art on the walls, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the street. I still had no idea how they afforded it. Omar’s parents, probably. They’d always seemed loaded.

“Where do you wanna set up?” he asked.

My gaze snagged on the long couch by the windows. Late-afternoon light poured in, striping the cushions with gold and shadow. Perfect.

“There,” I said, already unfolding the tripod.

I glanced at him as I adjusted the camera. “That's what you’re wearing?”

He looked down at himself, eyebrows raised. “This is literally my default outfit.”

I shook my head. “The assignment is supposed to capture the human spirit. Not sure Metallica and sweatpants scream ‘profound essence of humanity.’”

Omar shrugged, unbothered. “Metallica is my personality, man.”

I threw my hands up. “Fine. Whatever. We’ll start with this.”

He flashed that cocky grin and dropped onto the couch. I directed him through a bunch of poses: leaning back, arms spread along the cushions; standing by the window with hands in pockets; and profile shots with the light cutting across his face. Thirty minutes in, I scrolled through the previews on the screen and felt my stomach sink.

They were fine. Technically solid. But they felt… empty.

I let out a frustrated grunt. “These aren’t it.”

Omar clutched his chest in mock offense. “You saying I'm not pretty enough?”

I shoved his shoulder lightly. “It’s not you. It’s me. I don’t even know what the hell Harlan wants.”

He studied me for a second, head tilted. Then he grabbed the hem of his shirt. “How about this?” He peeled it off in one smooth motion and tossed it aside.

My breath caught. The light traced the lines of his chest, the definition of his abs, the smooth tan skin. I swallowed hard and tried to play it cool.

“Smooth,” I said, forcing a smirk. “Just trying to get thirst traps for Tinder, huh?”

He grinned wider. “Two birds, one stone.”

I lifted the camera again, directing him into new poses, arms crossed, then relaxed at his sides, one hand raking through his curls. The shots were better. Warmer. More alive. But still not there.

I sighed and started digging through my backpack. “Hold on, I’m gonna find the rubric. Maybe it’ll—”

I turned around and froze.

Omar stood completely naked, hands on his hips, looking at me like this was the most natural thing in the world.

I slapped a hand over my eyes. “Jesus, Omar! What are you doing?”

“Vulnerability,” he said in a calm voice. “Naked is pretty damn vulnerable, right?”

Slowly, I peeked through my fingers. He hadn’t moved. Sunlight slid over his shoulders, down the taper of his waist, across neatly trimmed pubes and smooth, heavy balls. His cock hung soft between his thighs, completely flaccid, as if he did this on the regular.

I dropped my hand. My throat felt like sandpaper. “You seriously want nude shots?”

“Why not?” He shrugged. “You only live once.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic, or maybe I just didn’t want to. My gaze traveled over him again, lingering longer than it should have. He was beautiful. Confident. Unashamed.

He gave himself a lazy couple of slow strokes. “Sorry, man. Grower, not a shower.”

I laughed, the sound shaky. “Just… don’t grow too much, okay?”

He smirked but didn’t answer.

I started shooting again, my voice steadier than I felt. “Stand by the window and look outside, but angle your body toward me.” Click. Click.

“Sit on the back of the couch, legs open.” I crouched low, framing the shot from below, heart hammering.

“Lie on your side and prop your head up on one hand.” The light caught the curve of his hip perfectly.

I frowned at the preview. Something was off. Without thinking, I stepped closer and reached to adjust his free arm. My fingers brushed warm skin. I almost kept going—almost reached lower—then caught myself inches from his cock.

Omar’s eyes met mine. His voice dropped, lower. “You can move it if you need to.”

I whispered, “Okay.”

My hand trembled as I wrapped my fingers around him. He was warm, velvet-soft. I shifted him gently, angling for the composition I wanted, but I felt him thicken under my touch, lengthening, hardening. A rush of heat flooded me, panic and want all tangled together.

I pulled back fast and lifted the camera again. Shot after shot. By the end, he was fully erect, flushed and heavy in the frame. A bead of precum glistened at the tip. I adjusted him once more, careful, deliberate, zooming in tight.

I scrolled through the new images. My voice came out quiet. “These… these might actually work.”

When I looked up, Omar had his fist wrapped around his cock. He stroked slowly at first, long, deliberate pulls from base to crown, his thumb sweeping over the slick head each time to spread the precum that was already leaking freely. His breath deepened, chest rising and falling as he twisted his wrist on the upstroke, veins standing out along the shaft.

“Keep shooting,” he murmured, eyes locked on mine, dark and hungry.

I nodded, barely able to think. The camera clicked in rapid bursts as his pace quickened. His hips rocked forward into his fist, abs flexing with each thrust. More precum welled up, dripping in thin strands over his knuckles. He groaned low in his throat, spreading his legs wider on the couch, giving me the perfect view of his smooth balls drawing up tight.

His free hand roamed, pinching a nipple, sliding down to cup his balls and tug gently, then back to brace against the cushion as his strokes turned frantic. The wet sound of skin on skin filled the room, mingling with his ragged breaths and the occasional muttered “fuck” under his breath.

I zoomed in close, the flared head glistening, the way his cut, smooth, shiny crown pulsed with every pass of his palm. Then pulled back for the full frame—his body arched, neck thrown back, curls damp with sweat against his forehead.

He was close. I could see it in the tremor of his thighs, the way his toes curled against the fabric. “Nicolas—” he gasped, my name needy on his tongue.

Then he came hard, thick ropes shooting across his stomach, splattering up to his chest, one stripe catching the light as it landed on his collarbone. His cock jerked in his grip with every pulse, milking out the last drops until he shuddered and slowed, smearing the mess lazily over his skin.

He collapsed back against the cushions, chest heaving, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. I stood there, camera hanging loose in my hands, cock straining painfully against my jeans, pulse thundering in my ears.

We stared at each other, the air electric.

Then the front door swung open.

Ivan stepped inside, keys in hand, and stopped dead. His eyes went wide as he took in the scene—Omar sprawled naked and glistening with his own cum on the couch, me standing over him with the camera.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

Then Ivan’s gaze flicked from Omar to me and back again, one brow slowly arching.

“Well,” he said with an amused voice. “This is new.”

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