Falcon Crest

George Vidanov and Fernando Lizalde stumbled upon a band of gypsies in the sun-dappled field, their bodies twisting in wild, rhythmic dance. George's gaze locked on Sandor Lenart, a lithe figure with fire in his eyes and sinew in his limbs. Intrigued, George extended an invitation to the estate, drawing Sandor away from the revelry. Inside the dim stables, shadows playing over hay-strewn floors, George and Sandor surrendered to mutual worship. Hands roamed firm muscles, lips traced heated skin. George sank to his knees before Sandor's thick cock, veins pulsing with promise. He took it deep, throat stretching to claim every inch, sucking with hungry rhythm. Fernando slipped in then, pausing to savor the erotic tableau—George's devotion, Sandor's arched pleasure. Desire ignited, Fernando joined the fray, his eagerness a spark to their fire. Sandor and Fernando traded turns, pounding into George with feverish thrusts, hips slamming in relentless cadence. Sweat slicked their bodies. Gasps echoed. Finally, release crashed over them—all three spilling their loads in shuddering ecstasy, the air thick with spent passion.