The air in the compound tasted like rust and unwashed bodies. Ilya, thirteen and trembling, stood before the heavy steel door his father called "the Release Valve." All boys became men here at thirteen. His dad's calloused hand shoved him forward. "Time to shed that boyhood, son. They're waiting."

Inside, the room was dim, lit by flickering oil lamps that cast long shadows on concrete walls. The smell was overwhelming—sweat, sex, and cheap disinfectant. A dozen cots lined the space, each occupied. Grunts, slaps, and wet squelches filled the air. Ilya's eyes widened, his dick already stiffening in his ragged pants despite his fear.

An older man with a scarred face nodded to a cot in the corner. "Your first. She's ready."

On the cot lay a woman, maybe in her twenties. Her eyes were hollow, but her body was curated for this—full tits spilling from a torn shirt, thick thighs parted. Her pussy was already glistening, shaved bare. "Come here, little man," she murmured, her voice flat.

Ilya approached, his heart hammering. Her hands were bound loosely above her head. He fumbled with his pants, his cock springing free—hard, eager, and dripping pre-cum. "Touch me first," she instructed, a script she'd repeated a thousand times.

His fingers brushed her nipple, stiff and dark. He pinched it, feeling the nub harden further. Leaning down, he sucked it into his mouth, tasting salt and soap. Her tit felt heavy,