Hungarian Graffiti

Isidore Nadas and Andras Molnar huddle in the dim studio, hastily packing paints and cans, hearts still racing from their latest tagging spree—word's out to the cops, time to vanish. Beni Laczko and Eric Hanner burst in, offering muscle for the haul, but their carved torsos gleam like forbidden invitations, pulling Isidore's gaze, igniting Andras's hunger. Distraction wins. Clothes hit the floor in a frenzy. Isidore drops to his knees first, lips wrapping Beni's thick shaft, tongue swirling with urgent greed while Andras claims Eric's mouth in a deep, devouring kiss. Hands roam, gripping ridges of abs, tracing veins that pulse with need. They shift—Beni bends Andras over a crate, thrusts deep and relentless, hips snapping like a storm, as Isidore rides Eric's lap, grinding down to swallow every inch, moans echoing off the walls. Pairings blur. Eric takes Isidore from behind, pounding with raw power, balls slapping skin, while Andras sucks Beni dry, cheeks hollowing around the swollen head. They swap again, a slick chain of bodies: Beni face-fucks Andras as Eric plows Isidore, then all four tangle on the paint-splattered floor—mouths on cocks, fingers probing tight entrances, a symphony of grunts and gasps. Sweat slicks their rippling frames. Cum erupts in hot spurts—first Beni's load flooding Andras's throat, then Eric's painting Isidore's chest, Isidore's spilling over Beni's fist, Andras's arcing across the chaos. They collapse, drenched and spent, breaths mingling in the afterglow, every stud sated in their lust-soaked rite.