Hungarian Graffiti

Isidore Nadas leans into the glow of his phone, sketching out wild ideas with Andras Molnar, his fellow graffiti rebel. Their latest project crackles with promise—bold strokes on urban canvas. But George Vidanov, Isidore's lover, simmers nearby, eyes sharp with neglect. Isidore feels the pull, the guilt twisting like a fresh tag on concrete. He sets the phone aside. No more distractions. They crash together, bodies hungry to reclaim stolen moments. Lips meet in a fierce kiss, hands roam with urgent need. George's fingers trace Isidore's hardening cock, stroking it to full, throbbing life. Isidore groans, pushing George back onto the bed. He spreads those strong legs wide, teasing the tight entrance with slick fingers before sliding his rigid length inside, inch by pulsing inch. They move as one, thrusts deep and rhythmic, sweat-slick skin slapping in the heat. George's moans build, his own erection leaking against his belly. Just as ecstasy crests, Andras bursts in, eyes widening at the sight. Isidore locks gazes with him, voice husky: 'Join us.' Andras strips fast, his cock springing free, thick and ready. He kneels behind Isidore, lubing up and pressing in smooth, filling him completely. The three lock into a chain of raw desire—Andras pounding Isidore, who drives into George with renewed fire. Grunts echo, bodies slick and straining. Pleasure coils tight, unbreakable. They erupt together, hot seed spilling in waves—George first, clenching around Isidore; Isidore pulsing deep inside him; Andras flooding Isidore's core. Satisfaction crashes over them like a fresh mural, vivid and unyielding.