People think being a total body photographer is just technical work—lighting, angles, file management. They’re wrong. It’s about authority. It’s about control. And honestly? I live for it.

I work for a local dermatology practice, and my job is to capture the baseline images of every new patient’s skin. Full body. Head to toe. It sounds clinical, sterile even, but there’s this electric undercurrent that runs through the room the second the patient walks in. I love seeing them nervous. I feed on that tension. You can see their shoulders hunch, their eyes dart around, and when I finally snap my fingers and tell them to strip, the way they hesitate before complying? That’s the best part.

Especially the young men. God, the young men. There’s something so satisfying about watching a cute, confident guy walk in, only to have his world shrink down to just him, me, and the white backdrop. I always make them take it all off, sure, but I like to play with them a little first. I’ll let them keep their underwear on for the initial shots. It gives them a false sense of security. A tiny island of dignity in a sea of exposure. But that island is always temporary.

I actually started bringing my best friend, Tiffany, in to watch. Officially, she’s the “chaperone,” which is a lovely, polite word for “witness.” Unofficially? She’s my co-conspirator. We’d sit in the photography room, sipping coffee, watching the patients squirm. It became our little game. Who would be the most hesitant? Who would blush the hardest? We’d giggle and point out the beautiful details of their bodies while they stood there, trying to cover up, looking so vulnerable. It was always such a fun experience for the two of us.

But one session in particular sticks out. His name was Brian.

Brian was a classic case. Early twenties, fit, but radiating pure anxiety the second he stepped into the studio. He was so cute, really, with his flushed cheeks and the way he kept adjusting his jacket. I delighted in his intimidation. I didn’t even look up from my tablet at first. I just pointed to the changing screen and said, “Go ahead, get undressed for us. Let’s get going.”

We could see his outline through the thin veil of the screen. He started stripping, moving slowly, like every piece of fabric was heavy. When he got down to his shorts, he hesitated. He looked out and at me, then at Tiffany, then back at me. “Can… can I keep my underwear on?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

I smiled, a slow, predatory thing. “Sure, Brian. Go ahead.”

He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for ten minutes and slowly emerged from behind the screen. But then, disaster. He was wearing these bright-colored, baggy boxer shorts. Neon green, with little cartoon sharks on them. They were bulky, wrinkled, and completely ruined the line of his hips. For a baseline derm photo, they were an abomination.

“Those won’t work,” I said, standing up and walking over to my supply cabinet. I pulled out a pair of low-rise, neutral-colored, tight-fitting briefs I kept specifically for situations like this. “Here. Put these on instead.”

Brian looked at the briefs like they were made of fire. He looked appalled. But he looked at my face, saw the unspoken command in my eyes, and realized he didn’t have a choice. He shuffled back to the changing screen and put them on. When he came out, those tight briefs clung to his beautiful body, outlining his ass and his crotch with brutal clarity. He tried to stand tall, but he looked ridiculous. Exposed.

As the session progressed, I started taking the close-ups of his torso and legs. That’s when I saw it. A distinct bulge growing in the front of the briefs. The fabric was stretched tight. He was getting hard. Right there, in the cool studio lights, with me and Tiffany watching.

I stopped the camera. I looked right at the bulge. Then I looked up at Brian’s face. He was staring at the floor, his ears turning bright red.

“Okay, it’s time to see everything,” I said calmly. “Take the briefs off, Brian. For the remainder of the shots.”

He pleaded. “Do I have to? I mean, can’t we just… leave them?”

“No,” I said, clicking the shutter on a test shot to emphasize the point. “We need a clear view of the pelvic region. Off. Now.”

His hands trembled as he reached down. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of the briefs and pushed them down his legs. And there it was. His erect penis, fully exposed, standing at attention despite his obvious humiliation. His balls were drawn up tight. He tried to cover himself with his hands, but I gestured for him to hold still.

“Perfect,” I purred.

He was so humiliated. I could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes squeezed shut. And I? I was thrilled. This was the power I loved. I didn’t just take the necessary photos. I made him turn. I made him lift his leg. I made him bend over. I got low-angle shots of his dick, close-ups of his naked ass. I prolonged his embarrassed exposure, making him stand there, naked and hard, while I clicked away, capturing every inch of his vulnerability. Tiffany was whispering jokes behind me, which made it even worse for him.

Finally, after I had more than enough, I let him get dressed. But not before the review.

“Stand by the monitor, Brian,” I instructed.

I pulled up the images on the large screen. We looked at his back, his chest, and then I scrolled down. There it was. High-resolution, undeniable proof of his naked, erect penis. His bare ass. Every detail.

Brian stared at the screen, his face burning. He looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. He saw exactly what I was seeing. He saw how exposed he was.

“Beautiful composition,” I said, tapping the screen near his dick. “Very clear, you did great, Brian.”

He mumbled a thank you, grabbed his clothes, and practically ran out of the room. I watched him go, sharing a knowing smile with Tiffany. It was just another day at the office, but moments like that? They make the job so much more fun.

-Allison Simmons

Certified TPB Photographer