Sasha’s first taste was a dare wrapped in cheap vodka. Four of his best buds, dicks swaying in the dim light of a basement, laughing at his sober stare. “Suck it, Sash, just once,” they coaxed. He dropped to his knees, a smirk hiding the flutter in his gut. Wrapping his lips around the first thick shaft, he tasted salt and musk, felt a heady power in the moan he pulled from his friend’s throat.

They didn't keep the secret. The story spread like wildfire: Sasha’s filthy mouth, his eager tongue. Soon, it wasn't his friends' dicks but the cocks of their friends, then acquaintances. He'd be pulled into garages and garden sheds, not by force of muscle but by an unspoken pull he couldn't resist. The nickname “whore” wasn't an insult to him; it was a title. It meant he was wanted.

He learned each cock like a fingerprint. The fat, veiny one that stretched his jaws; the lean, cut one that hit the back of his throat with practiced precision. He’d kneel in the cold dirt of a shed, hands behind his back, the way they demanded, and open wide. Their urgency was his gospel. The grunt as they came, the bitter flood down his throat—he swallowed it all, craving the validation it brought.

One afternoon, in a cobwebbed cellar, he was surrounded by six. They took turns, his mouth a wet, slick altar. He wasn't dragged; he crawled forward, looking up with watery eyes, his lips already parted for the next hard-headed cock. The pleasure wasn't in