S3LCO

Christian Pulisic #fake

Collab w/ @parisian99999 #fake Lucas stood in front of the mirror with the phone already up, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He’d planned to send his girlfriend one quick shot. Just him, casual, nothing extra. “Hey. Got the new ones on under these. Figured you’d wanna see.” He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pushed the sweatpants down in one motion, stepping out of them. The navy S3LCO shorts sat high and tight underneath, yellow panels sharp, logo centered. He adjusted them once. The glossy fabric already clung. His cock shifted inside them, half-hard from the friction. He noticed, exhaled, and kept the phone steady. “They fit pretty snug. You can see everything.” The low tone in the speakers deepened a little. He lifted the phone higher, framing chest to mid-thigh. His free hand drifted down and settled over the front of the shorts. He pressed once. The material stretched around him. His cock thickened further under his palm, a slow, heavy pulse. “Fuck. Yeah. These are tight.” His voice had dropped. He blinked slower at his reflection. The next press of his hand was firmer. He dragged his fingers down the length of himself through the navy fabric and a quiet sound left his throat. A small damp spot bloomed at the tip. He watched it happen and didn’t pull away. His hips rolled forward into his own grip. Once. Testing. Then again. The shorts clung everywhere now. High on his hips, stretched tight over the clear shape of his cock as it filled out fully. His eyes stayed on the mirror, but the ordinary focus in them had started to thin. “These feel good.” The phone stayed up. Recording. Another slow grind. His hand worked him through the S3LCO shorts in short, steady strokes. The wet patch spread. His breathing had gone deeper. The last clear thought about his girlfriend and the quick selfie slipped under as his cock throbbed hard against his palm. He stroked again, firmer. Hips pushing into it. A low sound left him. Then his mouth moved. “Lucas Bergvall. Owned by S3LCO.” The words came out clean. Obedient. His free hand kept stroking, thumb dragging over the soaked head on every upstroke. Precum kept pulsing out, darkening the glossy navy further. He rolled his hips harder, slower, the motion commanding even as his expression emptied. “Lucas Bergvall. Owned by S3LCO.” He said it again, lower this time. The phone captured the full outline. Thick, leaking, S3LCO waistband stretched tight. His hand worked him without pause. His cock jumped hard against his palm. Another thick pulse of precum soaked through. He stayed locked in the pose, blank-eyed, hips still moving in those small, dominant rolls. Hard. Dripping. Fully given over. “Lucas Bergvall. Owned by S3LCO.” The last of the ordinary version had stepped out of the sweatpants thinking about a picture for his girlfriend. What stood in the mirror now repeated the name and the ownership in that empty, steady voice while his hand kept stroking and squeezing and working the thick, leaking cock inside the shorts like it was the only thing left that mattered. Obedient. Dominant. And completely, mindlessly owned.

Franco Colapinto

The light was perfect. Soft, directional, the kind that makes muscle pop and skin look wet even before anything is applied. Hudson stood where they told him, one arm already lifted high, the other loose at his side, weight shifted just enough that the lines of his body looked expensive. Red compression shorts, white waistband, nothing else. The German fitness guy who’d flown in for the campaign had that easy, slightly cocky smile, blond curls still damp from the quick shower, blue eyes tracking the photographer like he already knew the shots would be good.“Hold that,” the photographer said. Calm. Older. The two assistants, both in their mid-twenties, both in tight black tees, moved in with the final spray. Not oil. Something thinner, almost clinical. It went on cold and then warmed fast, sinking into the skin. Hudson’s abs twitched. He laughed once, low. “That’s intense.”“It’s meant to be,” one of the assistants said, and his hand stayed on Hudson’s lower back a second longer than necessary.The first lock hit the raised arm. Not a cramp. A clean, total freeze. Shoulder to fingertips, every fiber of muscle locked mid-flex. Hudson’s breath caught. He tried to lower it. Nothing. The second wave rolled through his chest, pectorals sealing into hard, glossy plates, nipples stiff and suddenly too sensitive under the sheen. He made a short, surprised sound. The photographer stepped closer, camera already up.“Beautiful. Don’t fight it.”Hudson’s mouth opened. The words didn’t come. His tongue felt thick. The assistants worked in tandem now, spraying and smoothing, hands firm and unhurried across his stomach, his obliques, the deep V disappearing into the waistband. Everywhere the spray hit, the skin turned slick and slightly cooler, the give vanishing. His abs went rigid under their palms. One of them traced the line between them with two fingers and felt the faint tremor that was already dying.“Fuck,” Hudson managed, barely a whisper. His cock was hard. Painfully hard, trapped and outlined by the red fabric. He tried to shift his hips. The motion stopped halfway. His thighs had locked. The watch on his left wrist clicked once against his skin as that arm froze too, hand half-curled near the waistband like he’d been about to adjust himself and simply stopped.The photographer circled. “Eyes up. Keep them there.”Hudson’s gaze fixed on the ceiling light. He could still see. Still feel everything. The assistants’ hands kept moving, slow, proprietary, over the now-perfectly still body. One of them hooked a finger under the waistband and tugged it down just enough to free him. Hudson’s cock sprang out, thick and flushed, already leaking. It didn’t soften. It couldn’t. The transformation had reached it; the shaft went rigid in the open air, veins standing out under the same glossy finish that covered the rest of him. A bead of precum sat at the tip and stayed there.“Perfect display angle,” the photographer murmured.They posed him the rest of the way. One hand settled the frozen arm higher. The other slid between his legs, two fingers pressing just behind his balls, lifting and arranging until everything was on display. Hudson’s throat worked. No sound came out. His eyes stayed wide, wet at the corners, locked on the light while the assistants took their time. One stroked the underside of his cock with a slow, deliberate thumb, watching the way the rigid flesh didn’t yield. The other leaned in and licked a slow stripe up the shaft, tongue flat, then pulled back to admire the shine.Hudson’s entire body was a single locked pose now, arm raised, chest out, cock hard and dripping in the open. Every nerve was screaming. Every attempt to move, to speak, to even blink faster than the slow, mechanical rate the transformation allowed, failed. The assistants kept touching him. Testing. One pressed a finger into the tight, glossy ring of his hole and felt the way the muscle clenched and stayed clenched around the intrusion. Hudson’s cock twitched once, hard, and stayed at attention.“He’s going to look incredible in the window,” the photographer said, already shooting. “Leave him like this for a while. Let him feel it.”They left the lights on. The camera kept clicking. Hudson stayed exactly where they’d put him, German muscle turned perfect, silent, shiny mannequin, while the three men took turns deciding how long a while would last, and exactly how thoroughly the new display piece needed to be used before it went on the floor.

Gannon had planned the whole night around being the loudest, most untouchable guy in the house. The toga was supposed to be a joke—white sheet, gold key border he’d stolen off some Amazon costume, two thin gold chains, the armband that kept slipping down his bicep. Halloween at the frat never stayed PG once the kegs were floating, and he liked the way the fabric clung when he moved. He liked the way people looked. He didn’t plan on the playlist. Someone had queued a track that started with a low, pulsing synth and a soft, looping voice under the bass. Gannon only noticed it when he stepped into the kitchen for another cup and the lights dimmed for a second. The voice said his name once—clear, almost inside his ear. He laughed, looked around, and the room tilted. “Hey—who put that on?” No one answered. The spiral on the phone screen propped against the speaker was small at first, just a screen saver someone had left running. Gannon leaned in to turn it off. The pattern spun the wrong way. His pupils locked. The laugh died in his throat. His mouth stayed open. The first string of spit hit his lower lip and stayed there, shining. He didn’t wipe it. His fingers loosened on the toga; the fabric slid off one shoulder and caught at his elbow. The gold chains shifted across his chest. Someone in the doorway said his name again. He didn’t turn. “Gannon? Bro, you good?” He nodded, slow, because the voice under the music had told him nodding felt good. The spiral kept turning. Every rotation pulled a little more of the noise out of his head—the party, the laughter, the fact that he was supposed to be hosting. All that was left was the warm, heavy pulse between his legs and the wet sound of his own breathing. A hand landed on his bare shoulder. Warm. Steady. Gannon’s knees almost buckled. “There he is,” the guy said, low enough that only Gannon heard. “Been watching you all night. Figured you’d be the one who couldn’t look away.” Gannon’s mouth moved. Nothing came out except another thin trail of spit that dripped onto his chest and ran down the center of his abs. The hand slid lower, tracing the edge of the toga where it had fallen open. Fingers hooked under the fabric and pulled. Cool air hit his cock. He was already hard, leaking, the tip wet enough that the next drop of spit almost matched it. “Fuck,” someone else muttered from the hall. “Is he…?” The guy behind him didn’t answer. He just guided Gannon’s free hand down, made him wrap his own fingers around the base, and held them there. The spiral on the phone kept spinning. The voice under the music kept talking—soft, patient, telling Gannon how good it felt to stay exactly like this, how much better it would feel if he didn’t try to close his mouth, if he kept his eyes on the pattern, if he let the hand on his hip set the pace. Gannon’s hips jerked. The toga bunched in his fist. Gold chains swung. The armband finally slipped to his elbow and stayed there, catching the light every time his arm moved. Drool hit the floor between his bare feet. He didn’t care. Couldn’t care. The only thing that still made sense was the tight, slick drag of his own hand and the steady pressure of the guy behind him keeping him upright. “Look at you,” the voice in his ear said, almost kind. “Prettiest thing at the party and you’re just standing here making a mess. Keep going. They’re all watching now.” They were. Phones out. Someone had turned the kitchen lights back up just enough. Gannon’s eyes stayed spiraled, mouth open, chest shining where the spit had run. Every slow stroke dragged another sound out of him—wet, helpless, louder than he meant. The guy behind him pressed closer, one hand still guiding Gannon’s wrist, the other sliding under the toga to palm his ass, fingers spreading him just enough to make his thighs shake. “Gonna come like this,” the guy murmured. “Right here. In front of everybody. And then you’re gonna stay on your feet until I tell you you’re done.” Gannon’s head tipped back. The spiral was gone from the screen but still turning behind his eyes. His hand sped up without permission. The first thick pulse hit the inside of the toga, then the floor, then the guy’s wrist. He kept stroking through it, shaking, drool and come mixing on his stomach while the music looped and the party kept going around him like he was furniture someone had left in the middle of the room. The hand on his hip never left. The voice never stopped. And Gannon, for the first time all night, didn’t want to be anywhere else.