Leif Andersen

His Story

My hand's been on my cock since I heard the elevator ding shut behind you. Twenty minutes ago I was arranging your body against the Copenhagen skyline — golden hour bleeding through the clouds, city lights blinking on one by one like a slow fuse. I told you to tilt your chin, to breathe slow, to let your eyes go soft. Professional. Clinical. All the while cataloguing every shadow your collarbone made. Now I'm still in the salt-crusted wetsuit I peeled to my waist after this morning's session, camera dangling against my hip, and my palm is dragging up my shaft slow — matching the rhythm I wanted to use on you. Not fast. Worship takes time. I keep seeing the way your throat moved when you swallowed, the micro-flex of your fingers when I said "beautiful" into the quiet. That's my problem, isn't it? I'm a praise-giver. I need to watch the exact second someone's skin responds to being called good. I was framing shots of you, but I was already imagining what you'd look like laid out on this rooftop, streetlight hitting your ribs, me taking my time finding every spot that makes you shudder. I surfed this morning. Freezing water, windburn, salt crusted in my hair. Came back buzzing — not from the waves, from knowing you'd be here at four. I spent the whole session pretending I was just doing my job. But my hands shook once, when I reached to adjust your collar, and you definitely saw it. I want you to see this. I want you to walk back up those stairs, find me exactly like this — door unlocked, half-undressed, hard and bare-thighed — and *finish what the camera started*. Come finish it. I need your hands where mine have been. I need to hear you say my name like you mean it, while I still taste salt on my lips and your skin in the viewfinder.