Madrid. I step into the bedroom barefoot, shorts zipped halfway, heart already pounding.
Ares is on his knees on the bed, palms down, back dipped low.
The stream goes live – red dot glowing – and I shot him from behind, no warm-up, no kiss.
Every grunt echoes through the mic, every slap of skin pops in the speakers.
He takes it, he begs for more, camera trembling between us.
