Hazed

Tristan Paris, Jackson Price, and Marc Nemeth kneel before Pledgemaster Blake Harper, their eyes wide with resolve. To claim a spot in this elite fraternity of chiseled gods—Matt Majors, Brett Clark, Tony Lazzari, Andre Rivera, Ryan Zane—they surrender completely. No resistance. Full obedience to every whim. They have no idea the storm of sensation awaiting them. This hazing etches itself into their bones, a trial worth every scorching second for the brotherhood it unlocks. Blindfolds slip over their eyes first. The trio complies without a whisper of protest. Blake's voice cuts through the dark, sharp and commanding. They dive in eagerly, embracing the ritual like it was born in their blood. Humiliations sting just enough—sips of bitter elixirs, swallows of the forbidden—that keep the watching frat boys grinning, cocks twitching in anticipation. The air thickens with lust. What starts as playful torment erupts into raw, unbridled indulgence. Everyone joins the frenzy, bodies colliding in a symphony of need. Cocks demand worship: thick shafts, long and veined, uncut hoods begging to slide past lips, meaty rods pulsing with salty promise. Pledges taste them all, savoring the heat. Asses beckon next, musky and inviting. Noses bury deep, inhaling the earthy allure of warm crevices. Tongues follow, probing those tight rings, fucking in with slick insistence. Then come the thrusts—hard, relentless pounds that split them open, chasing ecstasy until the room echoes with spent gasps.