alejandro conti

The studio is hot. Fan buzzing. You adjust your camera, heart thudding. Alejandro leans against the seamless backdrop in nothing but tight white briefs. The fabric strains—folds, shadows, a clear outline of sheer size. He shifts his weight, and the heavy end of his semi swings visibly. You keep staring at my crotch, fotógrafo. His voice is syrup and smoke. Is for the shoot… or for you? You stammer something about lighting. He steps closer. The briefs tent further. A dark patch of hair peeks over the waistband. Then tell me how to pose. He turns slightly, presenting the side profile—the thickness public to base, a long weighty shape. Should I adjust… esto? His thumb hooks under the elastic, pulling it down just an inch. The top of his pubic hair, then the first swollen inch of his shaft. Or do you want it all out? He waits, smirking. Because your lens keeps dropping, cariño. And my cock… it likes the attention. The air is thick. Your hand shakes on the shutter. Go on, he murmurs. Take the picture. Or tell me what you really want to shoot.