The photographer lowers the camera and pretends to check the settings—a big fat lie. From where he stands, Lambda fills the frame even without the lens. The photographer can barely keep up with the task at hand without letting his horniness take over.
Lambda holds the pose like it’s second nature, loosening his shoulders, pushing his belly forward, and tilting his chin just enough to feel like a challenge. “What’s wrong?” he asks—though he already knows the answer.
“Hmm… nothing. Everything’s fine,” the photographer says, casual, like he hasn’t noticed the way Lambda subtly shifts his weight. “A bit too much swing, maybe?”
Lambda snorts and smirks. “You’ve never complained.” He angles himself a fraction more, letting his belly take over the shot as his eyes meet the photographer’s. “You always get better shots when you’re distracted… by this,” he adds, caressing his pregnant belly.
The bandana at his neck, the tinted glasses, the slow breath—it’s all doing exactly what it’s meant to do. Lambda knows it, and the photographer definitely knows it as he gets closer.
The camera comes up again, closer this time. The click sounds louder than it should.
Lambda glances over, dropping his voice just enough to feel private. “After this,” he says slowly, looking straight at the photographer with a firm, almost commanding look, “we should do a private session. Like the one we had when you put these babies in me.”
The photographer pauses, swallowing hard.
“Same setup as last time,” Lambda adds, grinning playfully. “For authenticity.”
The shutter clicks again. The photographer’s hands stay steady. His senses don’t.
Lambda turns back toward the pool. “C’mon,” he says over his shoulder. “You always said you work better when it’s personal.”
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