Red Play on the Carpet

Red has always seemed like a cool color to me, especially on a pair of sports pants so tight they fit like a glove.

There was Marcos, a Latin stud I could spend all day with without getting tired, sitting on the carpet of his room, in those  pants that could barely contain his huge hose, an image that you can't easily forget.

His short hair, that mustache and beard perfectly defined, and those hairy armpits called to be sniffed, to be savored with the intensity of the moment. The pubic hair generously stretched up to his navel, like the perfect playground for fingers, while his pink bud poked out brazen and tempting, erect and veiny, promising inscrutable pleasures. Any pair of knees would tremble before the stiffness of such a pole, polished by nature for enjoyment and sin. His hands rested languidly behind his head, suggesting an invitation or perhaps a challenge.

'Relax, Marcos,' I said, but his dick did not understand breaks; it was harder than rock, ready for the feast. I kneeled down in front of him and took a picture, his dick was a work of art made flesh. In that moment, I understood that my passion for men, art, and photography had never been so ignited. From behind the camera, I watched as he slowly jerked off, enjoying every caress to his cock. That veiny cock had a life of its own, it stood firm, as if challenging the camera, screaming to be devoured. I couldn't help it, I felt my own dick getting hard, it was as if it had a magnet, and my pants started to feel the pressure.

His gaze said nothing and everything at the same time, that confidence of someone who doesn't need to speak to communicate 'here I am, and this is what you're looking for'. Damn, how I wished the session would end so I could put the camera aside, because with Marcos, the only important thing was body to body, and my body was more than ready.