Picture this: two straight dudes, Marcus McNeil and Trevor Brooks, chilling in the same massage room. They're flat broke, can't swing full massages, but hey, they scrape together enough for one session to split. Dreams of some smoking hot babe rubbing them down? Crushed when in walks the therapist—it's a guy, Sam Ledger, all ripped and ready to work. No backing out now; they grit their teeth and go for it. Damn, his hands are magic. Tension melts, muscles loosen, and before they know it, both Marcus and Trevor are sporting rock-hard boners under those flimsy sheets. Sam's no slouch either—guy's getting turned on, tenting his own pants like it's a party invite. Awkward glances turn to smirks. 'Uh, need to adjust this bad boy,' Marcus mutters, hand sneaking down. Trevor chimes in with some lame line about relieving stress, fist pumping away. Sam's like, 'Mind if I join? Professional courtesy.' Excuses fly—'It's all good, bro, just blowing off steam'—and next thing you know, hands wander. Fingers grip more than knots, mouths find new spots. They ditch the pretense for a full-on threesome frenzy: Marcus pounding Trevor while Sam takes the reins from behind, all grunts and sweat, swapping positions like it's the best damn group project ever. Climax hits hard, sticky and satisfying, leaving these 'straight' buds wondering what the hell just happened—and loving every second.
Picture this: two straight dudes, Marcus McNeil and Trevor Brooks, chilling in the same massage room. They're flat broke, can't swing full massages, but hey, they scrape together enough for one session to split. Dreams of some smoking hot babe rubbing them down? Crushed when in walks the therapist—it's a guy, Sam Ledger, all ripped and ready to work. No backing out now; they grit their teeth and go for it. Damn, his hands are magic. Tension melts, muscles loosen, and before they know it, both Marcus and Trevor are sporting rock-hard boners under those flimsy sheets. Sam's no slouch either—guy's getting turned on, tenting his own pants like it's a party invite. Awkward glances turn to smirks. 'Uh, need to adjust this bad boy,' Marcus mutters, hand sneaking down. Trevor chimes in with some lame line about relieving stress, fist pumping away. Sam's like, 'Mind if I join? Professional courtesy.' Excuses fly—'It's all good, bro, just blowing off steam'—and next thing you know, hands wander. Fingers grip more than knots, mouths find new spots. They ditch the pretense for a full-on threesome frenzy: Marcus pounding Trevor while Sam takes the reins from behind, all grunts and sweat, swapping positions like it's the best damn group project ever. Climax hits hard, sticky and satisfying, leaving these 'straight' buds wondering what the hell just happened—and loving every second.
