When I was 20, I fled the suffocating dust of my tiny Texas town—a closeted boy who’d never so much as brushed another guy’s skin—and landed in Austin hungry, reckless, and desperate to be ruined.

Larry found me first. Early sixties, heavy silver-dusted chest, a proud belly that hung just right over his belt, and a thick, perfectly cut six-inch cock that looked like it had broken dozens of boys before me. We traded pics for days. I sent him shots of my smooth, hairless body, thick thighs squeezed into pink lace panties, my round ass arched like an offering. He sent back one of his big hand wrapped around that daddy dick, captioned “This is going to own you.” I nearly came on the spot.

The night we picked, I shaved every inch twice, just to be baby-soft for him. I slid into those same pink panties, the ones so sheer you could see my little pink hole through the lace if the light hit right, then tugged on denim shorts so tiny the bottom curve of my cheeks peeked out with every step. My heart was slamming against my ribs the whole drive south.

I knocked. The door swung open, and Larry filled the frame, eyes dark with lust. “Hey, Matty,” he growled, low and filthy. He took my trembling hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed my knuckles like a gentleman—then yanked me inside and kicked the door shut. His palm immediately dropped to my ass, squeezing hard enough that I gasped.

That’s when the voice came from the couch. “Welcome, sweetheart.”

My stomach flipped. A second man—Dave—lounged there in a robe, legs spread, already half-hard.

I whipped around to Larry. “What the fuck is—”

A rumble behind me cut me off. “Easy, baby boy. That’s Greg.”

I turned slowly. Greg was a mountain. 6'7" at least, thick beard, tree-trunk arms, and when his robe shifted, I saw the heaviest, longest cock I’d ever laid eyes on swinging between his thighs like it had its own gravity. Even soft, it was obscene.

“Don’t look so scared,” Greg chuckled, voice like gravel dragged over velvet. “I’ll open you slow… eventually.”

Larry’s hand never left my ass as he steered me into the center of the living room. Two more men rose from the shadows—five daddies total, all robe-clad, all starving. The air smelled like musk, lube, and anticipation.

Larry grabbed my wrist, spun me in a slow circle. “Feast your eyes, boys. Fresh Austin slut, barely legal, smooth as silk.”

Whistles, low groans, someone actually licked their lips. My cock throbbed so hard it hurt.

Larry leaned in, breath hot against my ear. “We’re a gangbang crew, baby. Ever been the center of one?”

I shook my head, throat dry.

His teeth grazed my earlobe. “Want to be?”

I nodded so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.

“Good fucking boy.”

“Hi, guys,” I managed, voice cracking. “I’m Matty.”

Five voices answered in perfect, hungry unison: “Hi, Matty.”

Then they descended.

Ten rough hands claimed me at once. Fingers shoved into my mouth, forcing me to taste salt and skin. My shorts were ripped down to my ankles; the cool air hit my pantied ass a split-second before a dozen palms cracked across it, turning the cheeks cherry-red. Someone yanked the lace aside and spat directly on my hole. Another pair of hands wrapped around my throat from behind, squeezing just enough to make me dizzy while a wet tongue forced its way between my lips.

I was spinning, drunk on it already—moaning like a whore before a single cock was out.

“Down,” someone snarled.

Pressure on my shoulders dropped me to my knees on the carpet. Cocks sprang free all around me—thick, veiny, drooling. I grabbed the two closest and started stroking, but my face was seized, and the first dick speared straight into my throat. I gagged, eyes watering, mascara already running (yeah, I’d put on a little just for them).

I rotated like a good slut, thirty seconds each, worshipping every inch. Slobber ran down my chin, mixing with pre-cum. Then I reached Greg.

His cock was a goddamn weapon—angry, veiny, easily ten fat inches and thicker than my wrist. He dragged the slick head across my cheek, smearing me like territory.

“Open wide, princess.”

I whimpered, “It’s too big—”

He pushed anyway. My jaw creaked; tears streamed. He fed me half before my throat locked up, then started a slow, merciless face-fuck while the others whooped and stroked themselves to the sight. When he finally let me breathe, strings of spit connected my swollen lips to his shining crown.

I barely caught my breath before the next cock slid in—this one gentle, loving. I looked up through wet lashes and met James: silver beard trimmed neat, kind eyes, warm smile, even while his cock nudged the back of my throat. I fell a little in love right there.

They lifted me like I was weightless and flipped me onto the couch, head hanging off the edge, mouth open and ready. Larry straddled my face with a bottle of lube the size of my forearm.

“We drew straws,” he said, drizzling cold slick down my crack. “Greg’s last—he’d split you in half first otherwise.”

Fingers breached me—two, then three—while Greg’s monster slid between my lips again. Then Larry’s familiar cockhead pressed against my fluttering hole and sank in to the root in one slow, possessive thrust.

The sound that ripped out of me was pure porn. He pulled almost all the way out—just the fat crown stretching my rim—then slammed back in. Again. Again. Someone milked my cock like a cow, forcing thick strands of pre-cum onto waiting tongues.

They rotated endlessly. Every hole filled, every inch of skin groped or slapped or bitten. A thick cock band snapped around my base so I couldn’t come yet. I was sobbing with need.

James sat down. “Ride me, baby boy.”

I straddled him, panties long gone, and sank down inch by inch while we made out, sloppy and desperate. His tongue tasted like whiskey and sin. I bounced hard, his cock kissing my prostate on every downstroke. The others took turns feeding me their dicks; one grabbed my hair and erupted straight down my throat, hot pulses I swallowed greedily.

James groaned into my mouth, hips stuttering. “Fuck—Matty—” and flooded me with heat. Cum leaked out around his shaft the second he lifted me off.

Larry’s eyes glittered. “Double?”

I was so far gone, I just nodded.

A smaller guy lay back. I impaled myself with a moan. Larry knelt behind me, lined up, and started pushing in alongside the cock already inside me.

The stretch burned like fire. I screamed, nails digging into the chest beneath me, but I pushed back because I needed it. Needed to be wrecked beyond repair. When Larry’s head popped past my ring, the pain flipped into the filthiest pleasure imaginable. They found a rhythm—alternating strokes, then matching thrusts that made my eyes roll white.

Larry came first, roaring as he painted the other cock inside me. The guy under me followed seconds later, pumping another load deep.

Then Greg stepped up.

I flopped onto my back, legs lolling open, hole gaping and glistening with five loads. He ripped the cock band off; cum poured out of me like a faucet. He rubbed that monstrous head through the mess, coating himself, then started feeding it in.

Inch by brutal inch, he claimed what was left of me. When he finally bottomed out—balls deep, ten thick inches owning every millimeter of my guts—someone started jerking me in time with his punishing thrusts.

I lasted less than two minutes. My back arched off the couch as I screamed, cock exploding untouched, rope after thick rope splattering my chest and face while Greg kept reaming me through it.

He pulled out with a wet pop, shoved that filthy cock down my throat so I could taste the cocktail of cum inside me, then stroked himself twice and baptized my face with the heaviest load of the night—thick, hot stripes across my eyes, lips, tongue.

I lay there ruined, dripping from both ends, grinning like an idiot.

They cleaned me up gently after—warm washcloths, soft kisses on my forehead. One by one, they pressed stacks of bills into my shaking hands. I hadn’t even known it was paid; the money felt like a bonus cherry on top of the greatest night of my life.

James was last to leave. He cupped my cum-smeared face and kissed me slowly, tasting Greg on my tongue.

I pressed a folded scrap of paper into his palm—my number scrawled in eyeliner.

“Call me,” I whispered. “Just us next time?”

He smiled, tucked it into his pocket, and said, “Count on it, baby boy.”