Shoot

The studio lights hummed low, casting a golden haze over the polished hardwood floor. Steve Gibson stood first, his broad shoulders flexing as he peeled off his crisp white shirt, revealing the taut lines of his chest, dusted with just enough hair to beg the touch. Chris Robbin watched from the sidelines, a sly grin curling his lips, before stepping in—his fingers tracing Steve's jaw, then lower, unbuckling the belt with deliberate slowness. Neil Erickson joined the fray, his lithe body pressing close, hands roaming over Chris's hips as the camera clicked forgotten in the corner. Clothes hit the floor in a hurried cascade: jeans shoved down, boxers kicked aside, cocks springing free—Steve's thick and veined, Chris's curving upward with promise, Neil's slender but insistent. They tangled then, a wild knot of limbs and heat. Steve claimed Chris's mouth in a bruising kiss, tongues battling while Neil dropped to his knees, lips wrapping around Steve's shaft, sucking with greedy pulls that drew guttural moans. Chris's hand fisted in Neil's hair, guiding the rhythm, his own erection grinding against Steve's thigh. Sweat slicked their skin as positions shifted—Neil bent over the velvet chaise, Steve thrusting deep into him with powerful snaps of his hips, each plunge eliciting sharp cries. Chris knelt behind Steve, tongue teasing his entrance before sliding in, filling him in turn, the three of them locked in a fevered chain of pleasure. Gasps filled the air, bodies slapping together, until release shattered them: Steve spilling inside Neil with a roar, Neil pulsing onto the cushions, Chris marking Steve's back in hot streaks. The shoot had veered gloriously off-script, capturing not poses, but raw, unbridled hunger.