Darkroom

Johnny Gunn couldn't dodge them anymore. Rough hands seized him, hurled him into the shadows of a place that would soon become his private hell. Heart pounding, eyes wide with terror, he blinked at the scene: two masked thugs flanking three bound men, all muscled and stripped bare. The masks came off, and out sprang Tristan Jaxx, Tyler Saint, and Derrek Diamond—free at last, their eyes gleaming with raw, pent-up need. They turned on Johnny like wolves scenting blood, his dread crystalizing into reality as their frenzy closed in. The trio circled him tight, predators savoring the hunt. Tristan struck first, shoving his thick cock deep into Johnny's mouth, demanding a sloppy, desperate suck. Tyler wasted no time, gripping Johnny's hips and slamming into his ass from behind, each thrust a brutal claim. Derrek watched, stroking himself hard, then joined the fray, feeding Johnny his shaft while the others pounded away. Spit trailed down Johnny's chin; sweat slicked their bodies in the humid air. Hunger twisted into something feral. Tristan and Tyler, insatiable, pressed together—two throbbing cocks forcing their way into Johnny's stretched hole at once. He gasped around Derrek's length, body quaking under the double invasion, every inch of him filled and owned. The rhythm built, savage and unrelenting, skin slapping skin in a haze of grunts and moans. Finally, the beast unleashed. They pulled out, surrounding him, and erupted—one hot spurt after another painting Johnny's face, chest, and spent form. Marked. Claimed. Their prize, dripping and broken.