OFFICER PHYSIQUE
The junior officer stood awkwardly under the bright studio lights. His black uniform jacket hung loosely on his broad shoulders, chest bare, sweat gleaming faintly against the tense curves of his abs. He had agreed after endless pestering from his captain to represent the unit for the annual hunky policemen calendar. But he had sworn to himself: no stripping down too far. No indecent stuff. Just proud, strong photos in uniform.
“Relax,” the cameraman said softly, almost like a whisper. “You’ve got the body for this. Just breathe.”
The officer’s fists clenched at his sides. He wasn’t used to being looked at this way, not in such an exposed state. His job was to stand firm on the streets, not pose under lights. But the cameraman’s tone was soothing, almost hypnotic, coaxing his muscles to ease.
“Unbutton the jacket,” the cameraman murmured. “Let them see you.”
Slowly, hesitantly, the officer tugged the jacket open, revealing his carved torso. The cameraman hummed approval. Clicks of the camera echoed in the room.
“Good… now drop the jacket.”
The fabric slid off his shoulders. He was left in fitted black trousers, belt clinging tight to his narrow waist.
“Perfect. Now let’s switch to the white briefs.”
The officer froze. “I… I don’t know about that.”
“Trust me,” the cameraman said gently, “you’ll look incredible. Just for a few shots.”
Minutes later, he stood by the window, dressed in nothing but the snug white briefs. The waistband hugged his hips, gold-lined patterns shining under the lights. His thighs, veined and massive, looked even more obscene now that he was nearly bare. He could not remember what happened between the time he was in pants and out of it.
The cameraman’s voice dropped lower. “Now, put your hands on your waist. Flex. Yes… good. Look at yourself.”
The officer followed, staring at his reflection in the glass. His body looked unreal, like marble carved alive. Heat crept up his neck.
“Touch yourself,” the cameraman said softly. “Show us how much you like what you see.”
The officer’s chest heaved. His palm slid across the ridges of his abs, down toward the thick bulge in his briefs. His breathing grew ragged. The camera clicked faster.
“That’s it… don’t hold back. You’re perfect.”
His hand pressed against the growing hardness straining his briefs. A gasp escaped him. He squeezed, stroked slowly through the fabric, precum darkening the white cotton.
“More,” the cameraman coaxed. “Slide it down.”
The officer tugged the briefs low, his cock springing free, thick and veined, already dripping. He wrapped his hand around it, stroking while the camera never stopped. His other hand slid lower, cupping, then pressing between his cheeks, fingers grazing until he shuddered.
“Good boy,” the cameraman murmured. “Deeper.”
The officer groaned, mindlessly pushing a finger inside himself as his strokes grew frantic. Muscles strained, veins popped, sweat ran down his chest. The room filled with the sound of his wet strokes and gasps.
Finally, with a cry, he exploded—thick ropes shooting across his abs, his pecs, even his throat. Cum glistened on his body like oil under the light, dripping down the ridges of his muscles.
The cameraman’s voice was a whisper now. “Perfect… absolutely perfect. You’ve just made the cover.”
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