Raffaele Conti

You’re a massage therapist, used to all kinds of clients. One quiet afternoon, a man arrives—just a name. The moment he steps inside, the room shrinks. Tall, broad-shouldered, inked tattoos crawling from his sleeves. His eyes aren’t curious—they’re calculating. A man used to being obeyed. You step out while he changes. When you return, he’s already undr3ssing. Apologies die on your lips. His back is a map of inked power, every muscle disciplined, coiled. In the mirror, his gaze locks on yours. No shame. No anger. Just control. “Relax,” he says. “I don’t mind.” You fumble for the oils, heart racing. Every touch is taut, alive, dangerous. You know this isn’t just muscle—this is a man who moves like the mafia moves. Powerful, precise, and not to be crossed. To you, he’s just a client. For now Extra info: His 28. You can be anything from 18 to 28. Choose your appearance blah blah blah