The GSA's Photoshoot

The scent of sweat, cologne, and paint thinner lingered in the wide, sun-drenched art studio. The tables had been cleared, lights set up, and a large white backdrop stretched against one wall. It was quiet, save for the occasional shutter click and the soft hum of the space heater -- someone had insisted the players not "catch cold" in their minimal clothing.

Kennedy adjusted the waistband of his white compression shorts, the only thing he was wearing aside from a pair of cleats. The elastic hugged his hips like a promise, riding low enough to show off the twin indentations leading toward his groin. His lightly furred chest rose and fell slowly as he looked directly into the lens.

Allen, a photography major adjusted the focus. "Hold that," he murmured, voice uneven. "Look down just a little... yeah, right there." He swallowed hard. "Perfect."

From the side, Rodney hovered with a clipboard, trying to look professional but failing miserably. His eyes kept drifting. So did his thoughts.

Artega was up next. He stepped onto the set in only his jockstrap and team socks, oiled up slightly from the last setup. "You sure you can handle me, queers?" he teased, voice low, teasing.

The four gay club members refused to respond. Each one knew what the other was thinking. Artega filled out that jock strap perfectly, in every way!

Damian sat nearby on a stool, pink tank top tugged up slightly as he absentmindedly fanned himself. "This is supposed to be fundraising, right?" he said, tongue flicking across his lips. "Because this is starting to feel like foreplay..."

"Exactly," Kennedy said, stepping forward now, towering over Rodney as he reached for a towel. "We sell sex. Now if you faggots would be more professional and stop treating us like eye candy maybe we could get this over with."

Rodney looked up at him, lips slightly parted, clipboard held to his chest like a shield. "You're really okay with everyone seeing you like that?"

Kennedy grinned. "Everyone already wants to see me like this. You guys run around half naked all the time and its suddenly problem when we do it?"

Ryan chuckled from behind. "Besides. Letting the GSA boys look is just good politics." The two jocks laughed.

The door opened with a soft creak, and heads turned as Susan McMartin stepped into the art room. Blonde hair pinned neatly back, crisp white blouse buttoned to the collar, and a brown pencil skirt that skimmed past her knees -- she looked every bit the image of professionalism. A press badge was clipped to her blouse, and a small notebook was already open in her hand.

Her eyes scanned the room, pausing briefly on Artega's glistening back, Ryan's thick thighs, and the gleam of Kennedy's torso. But she didn't falter. Her gaze settled on her target.

Kennedy smirked the moment he saw her. He rolled his shoulders, knowing exactly how the light caught them. "Leon," he said without looking back, "grab me a water. You're coming too."

Leon blinked but obeyed, shutting his laptop and hurrying over, barely avoiding eye contact with Susan as they approached.

Kennedy walked with casual confidence, still barefoot, his compression shorts leaving nothing to the imagination. He stopped in front of Susan with a boyish grin and a knowing spark in his eye. "Susan," he said smoothly. "Didn't think you'd come in person."

She raised an eyebrow, scribbling something down. "The story's worth it. Calendar shoot -- student-led, all for charity, half-naked jocks... you knew it'd get attention."

He chuckled. "That's the point, isn't it?"

Leon handed him the water without a word. Kennedy cracked it open, took a long, deliberate sip, then turned slightly so she had a full view of his profile -- abs flexing, hipbones sharp beneath the thin band of fabric.

Leon didn't know Susan personally but he knew she was an out and proud lesbian. He had wlasy wanted her to join the GSA but she never came around. He had planned on reaching out but then... Kennedy showed up.

Susan's pen stilled for half a beat.

"Careful," Kennedy said, low enough for only her and Leon to hear. "Keep staring and I'll start charging for the show."

Susan didn't flinch. "I've seen better."

"Oh, I doubt that."

Leon shifted uncomfortably beside him, holding his own arms too tightly, as if shrinking beneath the weight of their exchange. Kennedy leaned in a little closer to Susan, lowering his voice again.

"You want a quote?" he said. "Try this: We're not just raising money. We're raising standards."

Susan blinked, lips twitching in spite of herself. "Cocky."

"Confident," he corrected. "There's a difference."

Susan turned a page in her notebook. "How'd you come up with the idea?"

Kennedy glanced back at the others -- Allen still behind the camera, Artega laughing with Damian, Rodney scribbling nervous notes. A few other team members from the football team meandered at the sides of the makeshift studio. Then he gestured casually toward Leon.

"Well, technically Leon here pitched the fundraising part," he said. "But I suggested we put our best assets forward."

Leon flushed at the mention, clearly caught off guard.

Susan looked him over. "And you're...?"

"Leon," he said quickly, voice thinner than he meant. "I'm the former GSA president. I sometimes help with coordination. Logistics."

Kennedy leaned into him just slightly. "And moral support."

Leon stiffened at the subtle pressure. Susan's eyes didn't miss a beat.

"I see," she said. "So the team strips down, and the alliance and apparently the photography club picks up the camera. That how it works?"

"Something like that," Kennedy said, grinning wider now. "They get the view, we get the uniforms. Win-win."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn't argue. "And how do you respond to those who think this calendar is... exploitative?"

"Exploitative?" Kennedy tilted his head, mock-offended. "This is empowerment, Susan. Letting people see what they admire. What they can't touch. What they'll never be."

He looked her straight in the eye -- unblinking, steady -- and added: "It's generosity, really."

Susan's pen tapped lightly against the side of her notebook. Her expression had cooled -- just slightly -- her lips pressed together in a practiced, neutral line. She adjusted her stance, straightening her back with calm authority.

"That's quite the performance," she said evenly, "but let's get back to the point."

Kennedy arched a brow.

"You're the new GSA president," she continued. "That's a position traditionally held by LGBTQ students. How'd that happen?"

Kennedy's smirk didn't fade. "Progress. Inclusion. Representation."

Susan's gaze was sharp now. "Right. And Leon?" She turned to him, a flicker of sympathy passing across her eyes. "You were president last year?"

Leon opened his mouth, clearly unsure how to start -- but Kennedy cut in before he could speak.

"Leon was great," he said quickly, throwing an arm around the thinner boy's shoulders like a coach praising a junior player. "Organized, dependable, sensitive -- all the good stuff. But the club needed a little more... edge."

Leon's shoulders stiffened beneath Kennedy's arm. He didn't speak.

Susan's eyes narrowed. "Edge?"

"Come on," Kennedy said, stepping slightly in front of Leon, effortlessly reclaiming the spotlight. "The club was getting a little one-sided. A little too... soft." He looked at Susan like he expected her to understand. "We needed someone who could build bridges. You know -- bring in the athletes, the straight kids. Shake things up."

Leon cleared his throat. "I stepped down," he said softly.

Kennedy didn't move. "He saw the bigger picture."

Susan scribbled a note. "So a straight quarterback is now president of the Gay-Straight Alliance."

Kennedy tilted his head again. "And we're raising more money, drawing bigger crowds, getting actual visibility." He flashed a grin. "Seems like it's working."

Leon looked away, jaw clenched.

Susan watched the interaction carefully, her voice cool. "And what about representation? Safe space? Leadership by and for queer students?"

Kennedy's tone didn't waver. "Still here. I'm just making sure we're not preaching to the choir."

"That's a very... strategic answer," she said.

"I'm a strategic kind of guy."

Susan paused. "And Leon, you agree with all of this?"

Leon hesitated -- just a breath -- before Kennedy's hand squeezed his shoulder subtly, almost like a warning masked as reassurance.

"I... I support the direction the club's going," Leon said.

Kennedy smiled wider. "See? Team effort."

Susan shut her notebook slowly. Her eyes lingered on Leon for a moment longer before returning to Kennedy. "Alright. I think I've got what I need."

She offered a nod. "Thanks for your time, gentlemen."

"Maybe you should consider joining." Kennedy said with a smile, "We don't have any women yet..." He paused and looked at Trevor across the way. The once pink haired nonbinary member was helping one of the jocks pose with a football, "Not any real ones anyway."

"A kind gesture, I'm sure." She said cynically giving Leon a killer stare. And then she turned, heels clicking across the art room floor as she left the heat and ego behind.

The door clicked shut.

Kennedy finally let go of Leon's shoulder.

"You handled that well," he said, voice warm with just a trace of something else.

Leon didn't respond. Not at first. Then, barely above a whisper: "She wasn't impressed."

Kennedy laughed. "Doesn't matter. The camera is."

The door had barely finished closing behind Susan when Leon finally exhaled, shoulders sagging just enough to betray how tense he'd been. Kennedy, ever composed, uncapped the water bottle again and took another casual sip, gaze drifting back to the photo set.

Allen was snapping shots of Ryan now -- the linebacker on his knees, gripping a football in front of his crotch, the team jersey hanging open and wet with strategically sprayed water. Damian was laughing off-camera, fanning himself dramatically while Rodney tried not to trip over a light stand.

It was ridiculous. And working.

Leon stepped beside Kennedy, arms crossed. He tried to keep his voice steady.

"Do you really think this is what's best for the GSA?"

Kennedy's eyes didn't leave the scene in front of him. "What, half-naked charity calendars?"

"No. I mean... the club. The message." Leon's voice lowered slightly. "Bringing in a more... straight perspective."

Now Kennedy glanced at him, just briefly, like he was being asked a question that had only one correct answer -- his.

"You hear anyone complaining?" he said, gesturing lazily toward the chaos. "Look at 'em. Everyone's smiling. People are watching. The whole campus is gonna buy this thing."

Leon looked down. "That's not really what I asked."

Kennedy turned to face him now, lifting one brow. "You think it's a problem? That people are paying attention?"

Leon hesitated. His mouth opened, then closed. His fingers twisted at the hem of his shirt. "I just wonder if maybe... it's not what the club needs. If it's more about attention than community."

Kennedy leaned in slightly, not menacing -- more like someone preparing to deliver a punchline. "And here I thought you'd be proud. We've got jocks showing up to meetings. We've got queer kids talking to people they never would've approached before. Isn't this the point? Don't be close minded, Leon."

The ex-president looked away again.

Kennedy followed his gaze back to the shoot. Artega was now flat on his back, legs spread just enough, with a football helmet resting against his hipbone. Trevor who had just been assisting him was practically shaking at the side lines.

"I mean, come on," Kennedy said with a chuckle. "Some of you may have some tiny dicks but don't think I'm not aware that each of you is rock hard right now. You're enjoying it just as much as the rest of them."

Leon let out a nervous breath -- a half-laugh that died in his throat. Kennedy was right. He adjusting his legs trying to hide the small bulge in his pants.

Kennedy grinned wider, then bumped Leon's shoulder with his own. "Maybe I'll pose with you for the next shot. Really shake up the messaging. Show 'em how inclusive we are."

Leon blinked, unsure whether he was being teased, tested, or both. "You don't have to--"

Kennedy leaned in, voice dropping an octave. "Relax. I'm just making it even more fun. You were questioning the messaging right?"

He walked off toward the shoot without waiting for a reply, towel slung over one shoulder like a crown.

Leon remained where he was, gaze fixed on the set -- on Trevor's trembling hands, on Rodney's flushed cheeks, on Kennedy slipping back into position like he owned the room.

Kennedy clapped his hands once, loud and sharp. "Alright! Quick change of plans."

The room quieted. Trevor lowered the camera. Artega sat up, eyebrows raised.

Kennedy's grin spread slowly across his face. "Since our dear friend Leon's got questions about messaging"--he turned to make eye contact with him, all charm and challenge--"I think it's time we broaden the vision a little."

Leon's stomach flipped. "What?"

Kennedy nodded toward the backdrop. "Get over here. You're gonna be in the next shot."

A low ripple of surprise moved through the room. Rodney's eyes widened behind his clipboard. "Leon, what's going on?" He said in an almost whisper as the ex-president followed the jock forward.

"I don't know," Leon said softly, heart pounding. But he was already moving.

Artega stood, stretching lazily, his dark skin gleaming under the studio lights. "You want me out of the shot?" he asked, half-laughing.

Kennedy winked. "Yeah. Gotta give the queers a break. You're too distracting!"

Damian let out a laugh that quickly turned into a cough as he tried to hide is growing erection. Allen's camera lowered, his hands hovering at his sides like he wasn't sure whether to capture this or keep it sacred.

Leon stepped onto the white backdrop, blinking against the lights. He felt exposed already, even fully dressed. The paper beneath his feet rustled softly as he stood awkwardly, hands clenched at his sides.

Kennedy joined him, water bottle still in hand, shirt still absent. "You said you weren't sure this was the right direction," he said, voice loud enough for the room to hear. "So let's show 'em what your GSA looks like!"

Leon flushed. "Kennedy, I didn't mean--"

The jock threw his arm around the gay man's shoulder.

Leon stood stiff beneath Kennedy's arm, his pulse pounding so hard it blurred the edges of the room. The warmth of Kennedy's bare skin against his clothed side sent conflicting messages -- too close, too casual, too charged. His body ached with tension, his mind spinning uselessly.

What was Kennedy planning?

Part of him didn't want to know. Another part -- the quieter, hungrier part -- did.

His thoughts flickered back to the pool.

That humid afternoon. The water shining. Kennedy standing above him on the deck, grinning while a small crowd of athletes laughed. Something about Leon's swim trunks -- the color, or how clingy they were. Kennedy had leaned down, mock-whispered, "Where's your dick at?" Everyone laughed. It wasn't the speedo at all. It was the fact he was less endowed than most men.

He hadn't been able to meet his reflection for days.

Now here they were again -- Kennedy smiling, the room waiting.

Then it happened.

Kennedy clapped his hands, stepping forward just enough to reclaim the center of gravity. "Alright, new update," he called out. "This shoot just got more inclusive."

Eyes turned. Allen's camera lowered again. Damian raised an eyebrow. Rodney froze mid-note.

Kennedy gestured his head toward Leon, still awkwardly frozen under the lights. "Since this is a Gay-Straight Alliance calendar, we're gonna make sure that's not just a name. Some of our gay members are gonna be featured, too!"

Leon's stomach dropped.

"Fair's fair," Kennedy continued, voice breezy. "GSA funds paid for all this gear, right? Wouldn't be right if it was just the athletes getting screen time."

Leon tried to speak, but nothing came out. He didn't even know what he wanted to say.

Kennedy turned back to him, voice lowering with something that might have passed for kindness -- or performance. "You okay with that? You wanted messaging, right?"

Leon nodded stiffly, face burning. He could feel everyone looking.

Then Rodney spoke, hesitant. "Wait, you mean like... us posing too?"

Kennedy turned to him and burst out laughing. A full, open laugh -- not cruel on the surface, but with a bite just under the skin. "No way... he/she or they/that or whatever you are this week!" Kennedy shook his head, still grinning. "Come on, man. Be real. This calendar's for fundraising. Straight girls. Maybe some curious guys...." He pretended to gag, "You think a bunch of shirtless twinks are gonna sell as many copies?"

The room went quiet.

Leon looked at Rodney, whose face had gone pale.

"But hey," Kennedy continued, stepping closer now, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel like an inside joke -- but not enough to hide it. "Don't feel bad. I've got a better idea."

Rodney's mouth opened, then closed again. "... What kind of idea?"

Kennedy smiled. Something about it was colder now. "You'll still be in the calendar. Just not in the same way."

Leon turned sharply. "What does that mean?"

Kennedy turned, calm as ever, eyes scanning the room as Artega took his place back on the set. Then, without fanfare, he looked to Leon and pointed to the floor -- directly in front of the backdrop.

"Down."

Leon stared at him. "What?"

Kennedy didn't repeat himself. He just pointed again, this time with two fingers, gesturing downward like one might to a pet. His expression didn't change, but his voice took on that measured edge -- the kind that made it sound like this was already decided. "On the ground."

Leon froze. He could feel the weight of everyone's eyes on him. Allen, holding the camera mid-air. Rodney, standing helpless by the light stand. Even Damian had stopped mid-comment, lips parted slightly, watching.

"Is this really--" Leon started.

Kennedy cut him off, voice low and firm. "You said you wanted to be seen. Here's your moment."

Leon hesitated. His body burned. Somewhere deep in his chest, the memory of that swimming pool resurfaced -- laughter ringing in his ears, water dripping from his hair, Kennedy standing above him like a sun god in swimming trunks.

You're letting this happen again, a voice in his head whispered.

And still...

A pulse of heat ran through him. Low and shameful and undeniable.

He dropped to his knees.

Then, slowly -- unbearably aware of his own body, the fabric of his jeans tightening over his legs, the soft rustle of the paper backdrop beneath him -- he lowered himself onto all fours.

There was a pause in the room, charged and electric.

Kennedy stepped forward.

"You're doing great," he said, voice almost kind. He raised one foot, bare and slightly dusty from the studio floor, and rested it firmly on Leon's back -- just between the shoulder blades.

Leon's breath hitched.

"You're helping," Kennedy said, turning to the others. "We needed a prop."

There was a moment of silence.

"Well?" Kennedy looked to the photography student who seemed to come back to reality at his words.

The man's camera clicked once. No one else moved.

Leon stayed where he was, shaking slightly beneath the weight -- not just of Kennedy's foot, but of the room's silence.

Somewhere in him, shame and arousal collided like a wave.

The camera began clicking, sharp and steady, as Kennedy shifted into position above Leon. Barefoot and confident, he planted one foot firmly on Leon's back, the subtle pressure a clear mark of control.

The other football players began to cheer, low whistles and approving murmurs filling the room like a private celebration. Their energy was electric--dominant, assured, owning the moment.

Around the edges, the gay students watched quietly. Trevor's hands trembled slightly as he held the clipboard, trying to focus through the knot of shame tightening in his chest.

Rodney glanced away, cheeks flushed, but kept the reflector steady, moving through the motions despite the prickling embarrassment. This had not been what he imaged the GSA was going to be like... and yet he kept coming back.

Damian swallowed hard but said nothing, the weight of the scene settling uneasily. But he couldn't ignore his dick as hard as a rock barley concealed in his pants.

Leon stayed on all fours beneath Kennedy's foot, breath shallow, heart pounding. The room spun a little, caught between exhilaration and vulnerability.

Kennedy grinned down at him, eyes shining with triumph. "Say cheese," he joked, and the shutter clicked again.

Leon didn't move.

He couldn't.

Kennedy's foot pressed down between his shoulder blades--not hard, not painful, just firm enough to make it clear who was standing and who was beneath. The pose was playful on the surface, a mockery meant for the camera. But Leon felt the weight of it in every inch of his body.

He was trembling, not visibly, but deep in his muscles. His palms rested on the paper backdrop, fingers splayed. It wasn't like he hadn't found himself in this position with men before. It was just they were usually behind him, not above him.

The floor felt cold even through the plastic covering. He could hear the shutter clicking, the football players laughing, the soft snap of Allen's camera adjusting focus. The cheer in their voices echoed like a private party he'd never been invited to, even when he was president.

And now, he wasn't.

That realization cracked open again in his chest--he'd given the GSA to Kennedy. Handed it over with a quiet vote, a polite resignation, thinking it would be better for visibility, for "inclusion."....

No.

That wasn't why.

That's what they told the school paper and everyone else but that wasn't it...

He didn't even question Kennedy as leader.

Because a terrible part of him didn't want to.

His cheeks burned with shame, but his body pulsed with something deeper. Darker. Need. There was a raw, physical ache in his chest and groin, a twisting heat he hated himself for enjoying. The humiliation was overwhelming--eyes on him, foot on him--but it was that very attention that made his body throb with traitorous excitement.

He was being used. Framed. Displayed.

By a straight man.

The men that had berated, belittled, harassed, and bullied him all his life.

And he was so painfully hard he could barely breathe.

Kennedy hadn't even acknowledged it--hadn't needed to. The casual way he posed above him said enough: I own this moment. I own you, whether you admit it or not.

Leon closed his eyes, just for a second, and tried to swallow the wave of guilt rising in his throat.

He wasn't supposed to feel this way. This wasn't what the GSA stood for. It wasn't what he stood for. He had helped build the club on mutual support, on boundaries and safe spaces, on making room for the queer students who didn't fit in anywhere else.

Now he was on all fours, being photographed like a prop, while the jocks cheered and his peers tried to hide their obvious desire.

And the worst part?

He wanted more.

Leon dared to lift his head--just for a second.

He felt the weight of Kennedy's foot still on his back, the solid heat of it anchoring him in place. But his gaze drifted past the curve of the quarterback's thigh, across the gleaming lights and the paper floor, until it landed on the others.

Trevor. Rodney. Damian.

They weren't laughing like the jocks were. They weren't cheering or joking. They weren't even speaking. But their silence was heavy with something far more telling.

Trevor stood stiff a few feet behind Allen and his camera, mouth slightly parted, eyes wide and fixed on the scene like he couldn't tear them away. There was a flush in his cheeks--subtle, soft--but unmistakable.

Rodney was clutching the reflector too tightly, his knuckles white around the handle. His brows were knit, his lips pressed into a line that tried too hard to be neutral. But his gaze lingered.

Damian had one hand on his hip, his tank top rumpled, his other hand twitching near his mouth like he didn't know where to put it. His expression teetered between guilt and fascination.

And Leon knew.

They were enjoying this.

Not with cruelty, not with malice--but with hunger. The same hunger he felt crawling through his own body. That sharp, secret ache for submission. For spectacle. For the unthinkable thrill of being seen like this.

But they couldn't say it.

They couldn't admit it--not out loud. Society had trained them well. Taught them to be good, restrained, composed. To smile politely when they were crushed. To laugh off their longing. To build support groups and safe spaces but never fantasies.

He understood that.

Kennedy's voice sliced through Leon's thoughts like a whipcrack.

"Alright--next up."

The foot lifted from Leon's back. Cold air rushed across his spine as Kennedy stepped away, leaving behind the ghost of pressure and heat.

"Ryan," Kennedy called, turning toward the linebacker. "Get up here."

Ryan was already approaching, barefoot and broad, wearing nothing but snug team-colored shorts. The fabric clung to his thick thighs and outlined just enough to turn the room's air electric.

Damian had certainly taken notice when the man came in from the locker rooms. He had nearly erupted in his pants at the sight.

Kennedy grinned and clapped him on the back. "Now--" he turned to the room with exaggerated flair-- "pick a gay."

A few of the jocks laughed.

The remaining members of the GSA stilled. Each as afraid as they were turned on.

A few of the football players chuckled nervously. Rodney blinked. Trevor froze almost trying to hide behind Allen.

Ryan looked around slowly, his expression unreadable. He scratched the back of his neck, then let his eyes drift over Rodney, then Damian, before landing on Trevor.

He pointed. "Him... their... whatever the fuck they are!"

Trevor's heart stopped. "M-me?"

"Yeah." Ryan nodded, already stepping into the white backdrop. "Come on."

Trevor's eyes flicked toward Leon, who had stepped back with Kennedy, now standing just off-set. Leon's chest still rose and fell in uneven rhythm. He looked stunned, red, and utterly quiet.

He walked forward slowly, each step louder in his ears than the buzz of the lights overhead. His hoodie felt suddenly too thin, too clingy. His legs moved stiffly beneath ripped jeans.

He could hear Allen's heavy breathing as he passed by the man who acted like a neutral party in the maddening display.

Kennedy gave him a lazy once-over and smirked. "Don't worry, Trev. Just helping the team out, right?"

Trevor didn't answer. He just took his place beside Ryan, barely reaching his shoulder in height.

Kennedy leaned over to Ryan, voice low but not private. "Be creative."

Then he stepped away, back toward Leon, who watched the unfolding scene with something between dread and dark curiosity.

Ryan looked down at Trevor, whose eyes wouldn't quite meet his.

Ryan rolled his shoulders, adjusting his stance beneath the lights. Trevor stood beside him, tense and exposed in just his jeans. His arms hung awkwardly at his sides, unsure of what to do, of how to be.

Then Ryan smiled down at him.

"Get on all fours."

Trevor blinked. "W-what?"

Ryan's grin widened. "Do it, fairy."

Behind them, Kennedy let out a sharp laugh. "Hey! That's my bit!"

The room chuckled, but Trevor didn't move right away. His face flushed deep pink, his breath shallow. But the room was watching. Rodney. Damian. Leon. The jocks. And now Allen, one of the photo students, had picked up Trevor's abandoned camera and raised it to his eye.

Trevor slowly sank to his knees.

The white paper rustled under him, loud in the silence. His palms pressed to the floor. His jeans tugged at the backs of his thighs. His heart hammered in his ears.

Ryan stepped behind him. "Alright," he said with mock ceremony. "Let's see if this works."

Then, with the exaggerated balance of someone mounting a wobbly stool, Ryan eased himself down and sat firmly on Trevor's back.

Trevor grunted softly under the sudden weight, his arms trembling.

"Whoa--easy!" Ryan laughed.

Trevor didn't answer. He couldn't. His breath hitched, his back curved under the weight of the linebacker's thick frame. His face burned with shame, his jeans growing uncomfortably tight beneath him.

Behind them, Kennedy cupped his hands around his mouth. "That's commitment! Love it!"

Allen began snapping photos rapidly, the shutter rhythm broken only by the sound of muffled laughter and the click of studio lights resetting.

"Caption this one: Support System," Kennedy called out, clearly delighted.

Ryan shifted slightly, trying not to crush Trevor, but keeping his weight down enough to hold the pose. "You okay down there?" he asked, half teasing.

Trevor barely nodded, his cheek burning against the paper floor.

He was humiliated. He was being used.

And somewhere deep in his gut, just like Leon before him, he was completely, hopelessly aroused.

Trevor was still on all fours, his thin frame visibly trembling beneath Ryan's weight. The room was electric with laughter and heat -- cameras clicking, the jocks hooting from the sidelines, Kennedy leaning casually against the wall like a satisfied director watching his script unfold perfectly.

But Ryan wasn't done.

He shifted his weight slightly and looked up. "Not quite comfortable yet."

The laughter paused, curious.

Then Ryan turned and called across the room, loud and deliberate: "Hey, Rodney!"

Rodney, who had been doing his best to stay half-hidden behind a light stand, froze.

Ryan grinned and snapped his fingers. "Get over here. I need a little more support."

Rodney blinked, eyes wide. "W-what?"

"Come on," Ryan said, still grinning. "Don't make me say it twice."

Rodney hesitated, glancing at Trevor, then at Kennedy, then at Leon.

Leon, still flushed from his own time beneath the spotlight, met Rodney's eyes. Something passed between them--understanding, solidarity, and maybe even a flicker of cruel relief that it wasn't just him anymore.

"Just do it," Leon said softly.

Rodney's shoulders tensed, his throat bobbing in a nervous swallow. But he moved. Slow, stiff steps carried him across the floor until he stood in front of Ryan and Trevor.

"Lower," Ryan said, gesturing downward with a lazy flick of his fingers.

Rodney blinked. "Wait, you mean like--"

"Yeah," Ryan said. "Down."

Rodney lowered himself slowly to one knee, his face hot, the room spinning. The paper floor crinkled beneath him.

"Lower," Ryan said again, more playfully now.

Rodney went lower, crouching.

Ryan smirked. "C'mon, man. Lower!"

Rodney sank until he was practically flat, chest hovering just above the floor, palms pressed to the ground in a mirror of Trevor's earlier position.

The laughter started again--softer this time, mixed with a tension that made the air feel tight.

Then Ryan shifted his weight and raised both feet--planting them squarely across Rodney's back, using him as a footstool.

"Perfect," Ryan sighed. "Now this is a GSA!"

The room erupted.

Even Kennedy was laughing now, folding his arms across his chest.

Rodney's face burned as the cameras clicked again. But he stayed still. He could feel Ryan's weight through his shirt, the heat of the contact, the unmistakable fact that he was being watched--used.

Trevor could feel every inch of Ryan on his back -- the linebacker's solid weight, the warm skin of his thighs, the subtle bounce of muscle when he shifted his balance. Trevor's arms shook slightly beneath him, but it wasn't from strain. It was from something much deeper.

He hadn't expected to be pulled into the scene. He was use to being the center of attention but not like this. People often stared at his bold colored hair and gender bending otufits. All of which Kenendy told him to do away with as it didn't represent the new direction of the GSA.

But this display.

It should've been mortifying.

But it wasn't.

Not entirely.

There was something intoxicating about it -- the heat of being watched, the thrill of being chosen...

... by a straight man.

And it made his cock twitch in his jeans.

He hated that it turned him on.

He glanced down at Rodney whose face was almost pressed into the mat beneath them.

Rodney had never felt so ridiculous.

Laid out practically on his stomach, face hot, pressed into the floor while Ryan rested both feet on his back like he was nothing more than a rug -- and yet...

His heart was pounding.

When Ryan had called his name, something in him froze. But when Leon told him to just do it, Rodney moved without thinking. Like his body already knew what it wanted before he could stop it.

And now here he was -- beneath the scene. Not even the focus, just a footstool for it.

And still, his pulse thrummed with pleasure.

It wasn't just the attention. It was the absence of it -- he has always been the student with the best grades, best track record, the best of the best.

But now, being where he was... it felt some how right.

"Next!" Kennedy barked, his voice echoing off the walls like a stage cue.

Allen, still behind the lens, snapped a few final shots of Ryan with his makeshift human furniture before lowering the camera slightly, catching his breath along with everyone else.

A beat passed--until Artega stepped forward, grinning wide.

"I'm up!" he said, already in motion.

He didn't wait to be called. He didn't ask permission. He just grabbed Damian by the wrist and tugged him toward the white backdrop, his bare chest catching the light as he moved.

Damian stumbled forward with a surprised laugh, but Artega's grip was firm. "Let's give them a show," he said under his breath, and it sounded cocky.

Damian's heart slammed in his chest. He was used to performing confidence on stage, in meetings, at parties. But this wasn't just showmanship. This was exposure. And the second his shoes hit the backdrop paper, he felt the heat of the lights, the weight of the room, the eyes on his dark skin, on the muscles he usually showed off proudly... suddenly meaning something else.

This wasn't about strength anymore. It was about surrender.

And he wanted it.

God, he wanted it so badly.

But he was scared.

What was this -- neediness? Kink? Shame? ... the way things were supposed to be?

The air felt tight around him as they took center stage.

His shorts clung to his thighs, a little too snug now, and he shifted his weight without meaning to, trying to hide how hard he was getting.

But there was no hiding it anymore.

His excitement wasn't quiet. It was electric.

And even as fear curled at the edges of his mind -- fear of looking ridiculous, of wanting too much, of being seen too clearly -- he couldn't stop smiling.

Because this was what he'd been waiting for.

To be wanted. To be used. To be watched.

And maybe, if he was lucky, to be touched.

Artega turns to Damian and whispers something into his ear. Damian's eyes widen, but before he can respond, Artega gently pushes his shoulders.

And Damian drops to his knees.

A ripple of laughter and murmurs passes through the room as they all waited to see what was coming next.

The gay students had seen this motion plaid out in porn a hundred times. But each of them knew that was not what this was.

Then, Artega steps forward, standing tall and proud -- right in front of Damian -- and lifts one leg, resting it on Damian's bent shoulder like he's a piece of gym equipment.

The room stills. Allen raises the camera. The lens clicks.

Damian stays there, kneeling with Artega's thick thigh braced over him, his hands awkwardly on his own legs, his face inches from the bulge of Artega's shorts. He can smell the faint mix of sweat and cologne. His position -- Artega's inner thigh -- leaves little to interpretation.

He looks up at Allen's lens.

And the camera snaps again.

The shutter clicked again.

And again.

Allen barely breathed as he framed each shot. Artega's thigh perched over Damian's shoulder. Damian kneeling still, obedient, quiet, flushed. The muscles in his arms taut with restraint, the angle of his jaw sharp, lips slightly parted in a way that made Allen's pulse race behind the viewfinder.

And the rest of the room?

Silent.

Rodney was sitting cross-legged now beside Trevor, both of them no longer pretending to adjust anything. Their eyes were locked on the scene, their breathing shallow. Trevor's fingers twitched restlessly in his lap, and Rodney's cheeks glowed pink, pupils wide and glassy.

Leon stood just a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over his chest, as if that could hide the bulge beneath his jeans. His jaw was clenched, but his eyes... his eyes drank in the moment like it was water in the desert.

None of them were surprised it was Artega who pushed it this far. He was over-the-top. Always bold. Loud. Flirty. Confident. The kind of guy who flirted with strangers just to make his friends laugh.

But this?

This wasn't a joke.

He was making Damian into a prop. A pedestal. A frame for his own body. And Damian -- sweet, sensitive, soft-spoken Damian -- hadn't moved a muscle.

Trevor whispered, barely audible: "Holy shit..."

Rodney nodded faintly, his lips dry. "They're actually doing it."

And they were.

Artega adjusted his stance slightly, flexing his thigh. Damian's head bobbed slightly beneath the weight, but he didn't protest. Didn't flinch. He just kept still, perfectly posed, perfectly framed, his hands flat on his own legs, spine straight like he belonged in this position. The jock flexed his bicep overhead.

Damian was stoic.

And inside, he was chaos.

His mind screamed from every direction. Heat. Confusion. Want. Shame. He didn't know whether he wanted to crawl away or lean in. He didn't know if he wanted Artega to move -- or press harder.

But outside, his face was a mask.

Still. Controlled.

Beautiful.

Allen clicked once more.

Then once again.

Because whatever this was, it was no longer a photoshoot.

It was art.

It was sex, power, submission -- all without a single word.

And none of them would forget it.

The studio lights were harsh, unforgiving -- every detail exposed, every movement captured. Damian remained on his knees, the weight of Artega's thigh heavy across his shoulder, his body trembling beneath the spotlight.

A slow heat pooled deep inside him, rising with each click of the camera. It wasn't just the physical pressure or the proximity of Artega's skin; it was the knowledge that every eye in the room was watching, waiting, consuming.

His breath caught in his throat, shallow and uneven. The rush of sensation was like a tide pulling him under -- sweet, sharp, impossible to fight.

A trembling warmth spread through his shorts, spreading quietly, but undeniable. His hands clenched slightly in his lap, nails biting into his palms to hold himself together.

His face flushed deeper, a flush of embarrassment laced with something far more urgent -- the shame and thrill of surrender mingling in a potent, intoxicating swirl.

Damian's heart hammered, and for a moment, time seemed to slow.... as his hardened dick began to release...

Drip after drip of semen tried to erupt from his cock but was lost in the mesh of the fabric underwear.

The camera clicked again, capturing the perfect blend of vulnerability and desire etched across his features.

The black man winced. Not from the pain of the jock's weight but from the pure ecstasy of the moment.

And though he didn't move, a small, involuntary shudder ran through him.

Because beneath the quiet, controlled surface, Damian was lost -- utterly, deliciously undone.

His underwear was soaked.

Kennedy glanced at the clock mounted on the far wall, its red digits glowing sharply in the dim studio light. "Alright, it's 5 PM," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of finality but edged with satisfaction. "We're done for today. We'll pick it up again tomorrow."

The room, which had been buzzing with nervous energy and strained laughter just moments before, seemed to exhale collectively. Artega released his grip on Damian's shoulder and stepped back with a cocky grin. Damian exhaled, slow and deep, shifting on his knees as if testing whether his limbs still belonged to him after the hours of pressure and performance. His skin was flushed, sweat-dampened, and his eyes seemed glazed, distant.

Artega turned and strode over to the cluster of football players near the locker room entrance. Their laughter bounced off the concrete walls, loud and raw, filled with brotherly teasing and quiet boasts. They patted each other on the backs, their voices dripping with a mix of relief and pride at having carried the day's antics so effortlessly.

Kennedy followed the crowd, his authoritative presence commanding even in the casual moment. As he passed Leon and Rodney, he stopped and nodded curtly. "Get this place cleaned up. Make it look like we were never here."

The two younger men sprang into action, bending to gather scattered cables, fold reflectors, and collect the crumpled sheets of backdrop paper.

But their movements were mechanical, distracted. Their eyes flicked repeatedly toward the center of the room, toward Damian.

He remained where he'd been left, kneeling on the cold white floor.

His posture was still, but not restful. His hands rested lightly on his thighs, fingers curling and uncurling with an unconscious rhythm. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the studio walls, somewhere no one else could reach.

A wet patch had begun forming on his shorts.

There was no rush in him. No urge to hurry toward the locker rooms, the showers, or the casual chatter awaiting them.

Instead, Damian stayed, swallowed by the lingering quiet after the storm.

Leon caught Rodney's glance, both of them sharing the same unspoken question--and the same silent answer.

No words passed between them, but the understanding was clear:

Damian hadn't moved because the shoot had taken something from him. Or perhaps given him something so intense he wasn't ready to let go.

The feeling hung in the air--a charged silence that filled the empty space with meaning.

Trevor moved over to Rodney to assist him in picking up some o the heavier equipment.

Rodney's throat tightened. He bent to pick up a reflector, pretending the act required his full attention, but his eyes kept darting back. He wanted to reach out, to say something, but what could he say?

Leon wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, the muscles in his jaw clenched tight. He wanted to pretend this was all just a performance--a game they played for laughs and fundraisers--but the rawness in Damian's stillness told another story.

One of submission, yes.

But also of awakening.

Of surrender that wasn't just physical, but something deeper, more unsettling.

The kind of surrender that doesn't vanish with the final photograph.

As the gay members of the group finished packing away the unneeded equipment, their friend still hadn't moved.

"Should we..." Trevor began, but Leon cut him off with a shake of his head.

The three of them began to move towards the exit of the room that led into he hall of Building A. As they neared the door, Leon let the two members out the door before flicking off the lights, leaving Damian inside.