Nude Male Modeling

by Small Penis


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This story contains adult sexual content and should not be read by those under 18, or considered minors in their country or locale. If you are under 18: CLICK HERE

These stories are the artistic expression of the authors who wrote them. The Small Dick Club strongly believes in freedom of speech, and the right of artists to be heard, especially if what they say pushes the boundaries of what is acceptable in society. If you think you won’t like the content of this post, then don’t read it. It’s that simple. The Small Dick Club wishes to advise readers that any similarities in these stories to actual or real people or events is purely coincidental and unintended. That any story marked as a ‘true story’ shouldn’t be taken literally, as we have no way to verify if stories submitted to us are true. The Small Dick Club takes no responsibility for the imaginations and literary creations of authors who post their stories here.
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By Jack993 (edited)

It was 1992, and I was a nineteen year old Literature student struggling to make my way through college. I had already had several jobs that year, but none that were too my liking, and none that paid enough to help me cover my bills, not to mention the student loan payments.

I was in the habit of looking through the classifieds on a daily basis, just in case there was something interesting there, and that’s where I found it. A small ad tucked away in the corner between a picture of a used car and some other rubbish. It reads: Male model needed. Age eighteen to twenty-five. Must be willing to pose nude. One hundred-dollar payment for a full photo shoot. Apply at four-thirty-seven Clinewood Lane. J. Anderson Photographer.

A hundred Dollars was more than what I make in an entire month at my regular job. I could pay all my sundry bills and still have a little left over for the load payments.

Now I had never considered myself attractive, much less a model, but I wasn’t too bad. I was about six feet tall, with an average build and a mop of shaggy hair that most people seemed to like. The nude part bothered me, but it was hard to say no to a hundred dollars. So I convinced myself that it was art, like romantic paintings or Greek statues; I would be taking part in an artistic endeavour.

As for the actual photo shoot, I imagined that it would be me, Mr. J. Anderson and maybe a few other people. It would be like being nude in the boys locker-room, not one of my favourite memories, but still better than waiting tables at four in the morning. I decided not to waste time and went that very afternoon. I was afraid that if I waited any longer, some other desperate opportunist might make it there before me and snag the job.

Clinewood Lane wasn’t very far from where I was, just about forty minutes by bus. It was a quiet suburban cul-de-sac, with small, quaint houses and a little park in the middle of everything. I liked it.

Number four-thirty-seven was toward the end of the street, a red and white cottage with primroses growing out front; it did not at all seem like the place where one would go for nude modelling. As I knocked on the door, I remember having this horrible feeling that I had come to the wrong address, and that I was going to make a fool of myself.

A thin woman with largish breasts answered the door. She must have been in her late thirties, with long dark hair – very straight, and a birdlike face that looked somewhat stern. The lady was dressed in a black below-knee skirt that hugged her figure, white long sleeve blouse, stocking and heels. The waft of expensive perfume suddenly filled my senses, thick, heavy, and cloying. Ms. Anderson looked like a woman who knew she was in charge. I immediately felt my stomach churn, my body tremble, and my dick shrivel at the site of her power.

“Um… I’m looking for a ‘J. Anderson’,” I asked, hoping I had come to the wrong address.

She looked me up and down as if sizing up her next meal. “Are you here about the modelling job?” she said.

“Yes,” I said rather nervously.

“I would’ve preferred you to ring and make an appointment first,” she said.

Her face remained pinched and cold, rattling my nerves like I was back in school being admonished by a matron-like teacher. “I’m sorry,” I said weakly.

“Well, it just so happens I have some free time so we can talk about the job.” For the first time I spotted a glimmer of a smile on her face. “I’m Ms. Joan Anderson,” she said, offering me her hand as if she wanted me to kiss it.

“Um… Are you the photographer?” I asked, shaking her limp hand weakly.
She nodded. “Why don’t you come in?”

Rather confused, I let her lead me into the living room. Looking back, I’m not sure why I did that, I should have just left right then and saved myself a whole lot of trouble. I still asked myself if she’s the J. Anderson, the photographer. The J. Anderson who took pictures of nude guys. How could that be?

The living room looked fairly ordinary, with a flower print soft set, a coffee table, and a few potted plants. There was no television, which I found odd, and a strong scent of perfume hung over everything. I remember wondering if Ms. Anderson lived by herself. The house felt very feminine to me. (I later learned that she did live alone.)

She gestured me to sit, and asked, “Would you like some coffee or lemonade?”

“No thank you.”

“Let’s get started then,” she said, sitting and leaning back in her chair. I sat opposite her on the sofa. “How old are you?”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Have you ever done any modelling before?”

“No,” I said truthfully.

“So why do you want to start now?”

“I-I need the money,” I said, feeling my face burn red suddenly.

She smiled, but her eyes stayed cold. “I understand. Usually this is the part of the interview where I’d want to look through your portfolio and discuss some of the things you have done in the past. Since you don’t have any of that, how about we just get started?”

“Okay,” I said, not being sure what she means.

“Why don’t you stand and get undressed for me,” she said, as if it was the most casual thing in the world. I hesitated, my body tensed suddenly as what she said sunk in. Noting my procrastination, she said in annoyed voice, “Surely you know this will be a nude photo shoot?”

I tried to answer and it came out squeaky so I cleared my throat. “I do,” I said, my face felt on fire.

What really troubled me wasn’t the nudity per se, but the fact that the photographer was a woman. However, I had come too far to back out. So I reminded myself of the hundred Dollars I would make if I got that job. I really did needed it. I felt I was already at a disadvantage, since I had no prior modelling experience, and so became determined to act as professionally as I could.

I started to undress, taking off my shirt and trousers, rather conscious of the fact that she was watching me. I wasn’t sure if that was how it was usually done, or, if perhaps, it was one of the perks of her job. Her gaze didn’t seem lustful, or sexual, but I was still very aware of the fact that she was watching me.

As I was about to take off my underpants I noticed that there was a woman in the next yard hanging up her washing. “There’s somebody outside…” I said, pointing out the window.

She looked. “Oh… That’s just old Mrs. Krimple,” Ms. Anderson said. “Don’t worry about her, she’s nearly blind.”

I wasn’t worried about Mrs. Krimple, I was worried about my privacy. Something which Ms. Anderson seemed to have no concern for at all. I suppose she was so used to having nude models around she didn’t really consider their modesty to be an issue. “You do realise if I proceed your nude pictures will be published for anyone to see,” Ms. Anderson suddenly said.

“Um… Yeah, spose so,” I said, feeling my face flush again.

Ms. Anderson chuckled softly. “So why do you care if Mrs. Krimple sees you or not?”

She had me there. So, despite my better judgment, I lowered my shorts and exposed myself to her. It was the first time as an adult I had ever been naked in front of a woman. It felt liberating, and awkward, and scary – all at the same time. I felt self-conscious of the fact that my ‘bits’ were hanging out for all to see.

At this point, I must admit that I’m not well-endowed. Something that I had sadly not realised back then. I had never compared myself to other men, even in the locker rooms I had never looked, and since I was still a virgin at the time I really had no way of knowing I’m small. I have fairly large testicles, but my penis when soft just sits on them like a mushroom rather than hanging.

I stood there with my hands by my sides, resisting the desperate urge to cover myself, and let Ms. Anderson survey my naked body. Her gaze seemed surprisingly explicit, and she made no attempt to hide the fact that she was looking at my cock. I have never known a woman to be so candid, especially a woman of her age. My high school science teacher couldn’t even sum up the courage to say the word penis during Biology class.

“Turn around,” Ms. Anderson said, after she had a good look at my front.

I turned, and unfortunately found myself in full view of the window. Outside, Mrs. Krimple had left, but there was now a young blonde girl roaming about the yard. She looked to be about the same age as me, and she was searching through the grass for something. Mortified, I covered myself up with my hands, praying that she would not see me. Thankfully, she went away a few minutes later without having seen me.

“You can turn back now, dear.” So I turned back feeling like a puppet on display. “We’re almost done, I just need to see you with an erection,” she said, as if it were absolutely normal for a middle-aged woman to ask to see a young man’s erection.

I blushed again. “Is that necessary?”

“For this shoot it is,” she said. “Do you think you can manage it?”

I nodded stupidly, even though I had not planned for this. I wondered if she had a spare room or something where I could go and arouse myself. I asked, “How shall I do it?”

She laughed coldly, her eyes flashing. “I would’ve thought you’d know how to do that by now,” she said rather dryly.

“Uh…” I said, feeling embarrassed, “I am just asking if I should do it here or…”

“By all means,” she said, waving her hand as if to say the floor is mine.

I took a deep breath, and started stroking myself. Minutes passed and nothing happened, absolutely nothing. I was as limp as a sock. That had never happened to be before. I had always been quick to get hard, as all young men are.

“Will you be much longer?”

I could tell that she was growing impatient, her fingers were drumming on the armrest of her seat. “Just a little bit,” I lied, having absolutely no idea what I was going to do.

“Well, let me know when you do,” she said, and she picked up a magazine and started to skim through it.

I felt both humiliated and relieved by that. Humiliated because her disinterest in me made me feel literally and figuratively impotent. I felt relieved because she was now no longer looking at me. I quickly realized that my main problem was that I needed something physical to look at to arouse myself. Fantasies and the likes had never worked for me, I always needed some sort of visual stimulation. So, in a moment of utter desperation, I turned my eyes toward her.

Despite her rather stern face, and commanding personality, she had an attractive body. Her long legs were outlined perfectly by the fabric of her see-through stockings and lead up to her curvy-waist. She had largish size breasts, which suited her form well, and I could make out a couple of bumps where her nipples were. As much as I regret what I did, it worked. I got hard, I cleared my throat to get her attention.

She looked at me, and then my dick. “Ah, good,” she said. “That took quite an effort, didn’t it?”

“Err… Sorry,” I said, blushing, still not sure whether she was mocking me or just making light conversation.

She looked me over once again, and I felt about hundred times more awkward than I had the last time. Now, not only were my genitals hanging out, but my penis were also pointing right at her.

“Turn to the right,” she said, and I turned.

This left me adjacent to the window, and from the corner of my eye, I saw that blonde girl again. She was sitting on the fence to Ms. Anderson’s yard, obviously watching me. She smiled and waved when she noticed I had caught her, but didn’t go away. I was just about to say something about it when Ms. Anderson spoke. “Can I measure your penis?”

“What?”

What she said, stunned me. “I want to measure it. Can I?”

“I guess,” was all I could manage.

“Keep it hard for me, keep stroking it,” she ordered, stood, and left the room.

I stroked my cock feeling some pre-cum on the tip and rubbing it over my dick. The blonde girl watched my every move, her eyes fixed on my cock and what I was doing. I wondered if Ms. Anderson knew she had a peeping Tomette for a neighbour. I guess if there’s lots of guys coming here to get nude shots taken, it’s the perfect house for a horny teen coed to perv into.

Suddenly Ms. Anderson stood in front of me and smacked my stroking hand away. She had a ruler in her hand and held it on the top of my dick. The base of the ruler pressing into my pubic mound. I looked down at the ruler and the number at the tip of my glans reads four-inches. I didn’t feel upset by that, because at the time I didn’t really know if that was good or bad.

Ms. Anderson looked me in the eyes, a smirk on her face. “I’m sorry, dear, but you’re not suitable for this shoot.”

I couldn’t believe it, my mouth hung agape and my eyes bulged. After everything I had gone through I wasn’t even going to get the job. “Did I do something wrong? I can do better. This was just my first time, as you know,” I said, hoping she’d change her mind.

“I’m after a certain type of guy and while you seem like a nice boy, you’re not what I’m looking for,” she said.

“I really need the job,” I pleaded.
Thinking back, I can only imagine how pathetic I must have looked. Standing there butt-naked with a four-inch erection, begging for the job.

“You have a nice face and body shape, but I don’t think you’re right for nude modelling. My customers like their men better…” she looked at me, and for the first time I saw her cool demeanour falter for just a moment. “Just take my word for it, OK?”

I nodded, not really understanding what she was implying. There wasn’t much to say after that. So I got dressed, with her still in the room, and left feeling embarrassed by the whole situation. On the street outside, perhaps to add insult to injury, I saw the blonde girl from next door again. She laughed and wiggled her little finger at me as I walked by.

*****

Many months passed, and I put this incident behind me. Then one evening, as I was taking a long way home from class, I walked by this little paper stall and one of the magazines there caught my eye. It had “J. Anderson” written on the cover and I immediately wondered if it was the same J. Anderson, whom I had visited. I bought the magazine, it was this quasi-erotic journal filled with artistic nudes, of both men and women, and articles related to the liberal arts. I flipped through to the section by J. Anderson, and found that it was indeed her.

There were ten pictures, featuring five different male models. They were about the same age as me and looked just like average college students, one of them was even rather chubby, and I couldn’t help but wonder why she had picked them over me. After studying the pictures for a while the difference, sadly, became obvious; they were all well-hung. Their penises were twice, and in some instances thrice, the size of mine.

That was when I first realized I had a small dick, it was a shocking revelation, and it shone a whole new perspective over my life. The words Ms. Anderson spoke to me that day came back to me and I now knew what the missing word was, “My customers like their men better… HUNG.”

I suddenly started wondering if this was why I’m still a virgin. If this was why Ms. Anderson had not chosen me. If the girl who was laughing at me, was not laughing because I was posing naked, but because I had a small penis. The mental picture of her wiggling her little finger at me had a similar effect of someone slapping me.

Out of the questions that plagued me, the ones about Ms. Anderson lingered with me the longest. Surely she must have known the moment she saw me that I wasn’t right for the part. Why had she made me masturbate myself? Why did she measure my penis? Had she secretly been laughing at me the whole time? After all, if those were the kinds of penises she was used to seeing, then mine was pitiably small by comparison.

I thought about calling her and asking if that was why she had not hired me, but that would have seemed crazy. In the end, I just tried to stop thinking about it and move on with my life as best as I could. Looking back though, I can say that was one of the worst and most embarrassing experiences I’ve ever had. I’d like to be positive and say that some good came of it, but the only thing I really learned was that I have a small penis.

The End.

 

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