Ritual

Jason Ridge crashes through the tangled underbrush, heart pounding, eyes darting in the dim forest light. Sweat stings his face as he stumbles upon a ramshackle hut, its door ajar. Inside, the air hangs thick with musk and grunts. There, Jake Dakota and Steve Trevor—two burly rednecks, rough as splintered wood—rut like beasts in heat. Jake pins Steve against the sagging wall, his callused hands gripping those narrow hips, thrusting deep with a savage rhythm that shakes the flimsy boards. Steve arches back, his thick cock bobbing untouched, veins pulsing as sweat slicks their tangled limbs. They don't notice Jason at first, lost in their raw frenzy. He bursts in, voice cracking. 'Please, help me!' But mercy flees their eyes. They lunge, grabbing him by the collar, their bodies still heaving from the fuck. No words, just rough shoves. They drag him across the clearing and hurl him into a foul shack, the door slamming shut like a trap's jaw. Darkness swallows him, but then—a familiar shape stirs in the gloom. Tim Towers, bruised and wide-eyed, reaches out. They collide in a desperate clasp, piecing together the horror. This isn't rescue. It's the start of something twisted: a bizarre sex ritual, hungry for their surrender, bodies and souls alike.