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Objectified – a M/M Romance | C.E. Kilgore
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Objectified – a M/M Romance


Objectified-400Tyler knows all about what goes on behind a great photo shoot. He’s been working behind the scenes for years as a lighting tech, and he’s never had the desire to find out what it was like to be on the other side of the camera – to be objectified as a male model. But, when openly gay Major League heavy hitter Zane Anderson shows up on set, Tyler finds out just how far he’s willing to go for an autograph.



“Hey,” Zane speaks softly, his fingers brushing along my chin to draw my focus back to those damn beautiful blue eyes. “Ignore them. Pretend it’s just you and me. No lights. No camera. No bystanders.”

A hard swallow has my throat struggling to find my voice. Looking down to where his hand continues holding my pale, bony wrist, I blurt out a nervous laugh at the contrast. “I told you I’m not model material.”

“Exactly,” he winks and lets my wrist go. The hot ring around my skin burns with an ache to have his hand back there, but the touch doesn’t seem to affect him in the same way. “If I wanted some model, I’d get some model. I want to show that any guy can wear my briefs and be comfortable.”

Any guy. Great. There’s a real confidence booster. Also, the idea of wearing his briefs… And, my brain rolls right into the gutter with that.

“How do they feel?”

How does… His briefs? Oh! Fuck, right. “Uh, really comfortable actually. I like how the seams go around everything instead…of…”

I lose the thought as I follow his gaze, which is now locked on my crotch. Oh God! Think about Nana’s muumuu. The sound of Nancy Grace’s voice. The fact that I’m going to go crawl into a hole after this and never be seen publicly again!

But, I am. I’m going to be seen publicly. In my underwear.
This shoot is for a nationally syndicated queer magazine. My pasty, scarecrow body will be seen across North America, and possibly the world thanks to the internet. I… I’m going to vomit.

“Tyler?” Zane’s question barely registers, but I feel his fingertips back on my jaw. “Breathe, man.”

Breathe? Oh, right. Breathing: required for all things living that don’t want to die. Wait, do I want to die? Dying would mean getting out of this shoot.

“Tyler,” he says again, this time as a deep-toned command for attention.

All my deflated-dick progress brought on by floral muumuus and stage freight vanishes as his voice does crazy things to my whole body. I feel my cock stirring against the light green cotton, and I wish to God that Brenda had given me a damn sock.

Triple pay. West Sheridan. Zane Anderson’s autograph.

I chant the words over and over in my head. I can do this. It’s just a photograph. “Okay.”

His million-watt smile gives my lighting setup a run for its money. “Okay?”

Exhaling all the air in my lungs, and hopefully a good chunk of my nerves, I nod. “Let’s do this.”

“I knew you were the one,” he says with a wink, then his hands turn my shoulders a bit as he nods to Brent to begin.


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