Sasha was just a kid when the curiosity bit him. That night, he'd had too much cheap booze at a party in Derek's garage, his head swimming as he watched his four best friends—Derek, Mikey, Tom, and Jay—whipping out their hard cocks, laughing about some girl they'd scored.

"Dare you?" Tom slurred, shaking his thick, veiny tool in Sasha's face. The tip was pink and glistening, a bead of precum already pearling.

Something primal clicked in Sasha's gut. He shrugged, then dropped to his knees. The first taste was salty, musky—a stranger's cock sliding past his lips. He gagged, but Tom held his head, and soon saliva was running down Sasha's chin as he bobbed, taking it deeper. Mikey went next, his fat purple knob slapping Sasha's stretched lips, then Derek's long, curved one that hit the back of his throat. Jay finished, his teenage spunk splashing warm against Sasha's tongue.

Word spread like wildfire through the hallways and locker rooms. "Sasha's the whore," they'd say, hissing the nickname like a curse that felt like a praise. Boys he barely knew—Derek's cousin, Chuck from the basketball team, old Mr. Benson's teenage son—all heard the legend: a hungry mouth that wanted it rough.

Sasha found himself dragged into basements and sheds, passed around like a toy. The guys would grab him by the hair, shove their cocks deep, making him gag on their nuts while others waited their turn. Their dicks smelled of sweat and speed, and Sasha's lips got chaf