But deep down, Pierre’s frozen eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief. Fans snapped photos, the statue becoming the GP’s hottest attraction. Alpine scrambled for a cure, but for now, Pierre Gasly was Austin’s marble cowboy god, naughty, eternal, and oh so tempting. (9/9

Mechanics rushed over, but Pierre stood immobile, his “perfect polished French body” on full display, every ridge and curve immortalized in stone, shirtless and seductive. The male fan blushed, whispering, “You’re even hotter this way.” Rumors flew: was it sabotage? A prank? (8/9)

The cowboy hat, cursed by some ancient Texan voodoo or fan’s naughty wish, had transformed him into a living statue. The paddock gasped. (7/9)

Pierre laughed at first, flexing teasingly. “Whoa, what the—?” But then the tingle deepened, his skin hardening, veins turning to marble veins. Gray stone crept up his arms, freezing him mid-pose fingers pointed like guns, a smirk etched eternally on his face. (6/9)

His shirt shimmered and vanished into thin air, revealing his chiseled torso, perfectly sculpted abs, broad shoulders, and that smooth, polished French skin glistening under the sun. The fan’s jaw dropped, his gaze devouring the sight like forbidden fruit. (5/9)

Pierre chuckled, accepting the gift with a wink. “Merci, mon ami. Let’s see if it brings luck.” He plopped the hat on his head, adjusting it with a playful tip. But as soon as the brim settled, a strange tingle shot through him. (4/9)

Among them was a tall, rugged male fan, clad in a Stetson and boots, holding out a black cowboy hat. “For you, Pierre! To channel that Texas spirit!” the man shouted, his eyes lingering a bit too long on Gasly’s athletic frame. (3/9)

It was qualifying day for the American Grand Prix, and the French driver was feeling the heat, both from the Texas weather and the adoring fans swarming the barriers. Dressed in his Alpine team shirt and jeans, he flashed his signature grin, waving to the crowd. (2/9)

There, he stands sentinel, a handsome relic admired in secret exhibits. Tour guides whisper: some selfies capture more than memories, they trap you forever. (7/7)

Legs rooted in place, jeans now a denim sheath over petrified thighs. His face froze his eyes wide in shock, mouth parted in a silent scream. By morning, the maid screamed at the "sculpture" blocking the tub. Authorities dismissed it as prank art, shipping Connor to a museum warehouse. (6/7)

"What the hell?" he gasped, watching in horror as his arm solidified, muscles bulging eternally in stone. The transformation raced downward: chest hardening into layered slabs, abs etched like masonry, the hairy trail down his navel fossilizing mid-ripple. (5/7)

"Make me immortal," he joked aloud, hitting the shutter. A subtle vibration hummed from the talisman, warmth spreading like wildfire through his veins. His fingers stiffened around the phone, skin cracking into segmented gray bricks from the tips upward. (4/7)

But earlier that day, at a quirky roadside curio shop, he'd bought a peculiar stone talisman on a whim, an ancient artifact the old shopkeeper claimed "froze moments in time." Laughing it off as tourist junk, Connor hung it around his neck for the photo. (3/7)

His broad shoulders and defined abs peeked from under an open shirt, a bracelet glinting on his wrist as he snapped selfies to send to his girlfriend back home. "Last stop before Vegas," he texted, flexing casually in the mirror, jeans slung low to show off his Calvin Klein waistband. (2/7)

They switched, Ryan topping aggressively, then bottoming submissively, cum splashing in waves of release. The hypnosis locked it in: Ryan now bi-curious forever, texting Alex for more "sessions." Straight lines blurred into gay delight. (5/5)

Hands roamed, Ryan's calloused fingers on Alex's ass, then dropping to stroke and suck with surprising skill. "Fuck me," Ryan droned, bending over. Alex obliged, pounding rhythmically as Ryan moaned, ass clenching in ecstasy. (4/5)