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The industrial warehouse on the edge of the city loomed like a forgotten relic, its brick facade scarred by graffiti and years of neglect. Inside, Studio 7 buzzed with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the faint echo of moans from adjacent sets. Tyler, an 18-year-old fresh out of high school from a sleepy suburb, had answered the online ad on a lark. 'Entry-level adult film extras wanted—no experience necessary. Easy money, quick shoot.' He'd lied about his age in the application to make 18 sound more seasoned, but his boyish face and slim, untouched body screamed virgin. At 5'7" with messy blond hair, smooth pale skin, and wide hazel eyes full of naive hope, Tyler dreamed of escaping his dead-end life. He wore faded jeans that hugged his narrow hips and a plain gray hoodie, his sneakers squeaking on the concrete floor as he clutched a crumpled resume. The receptionist, a bored woman in her 40s with a cigarette dangling from her lips, barely glanced up. 'Tyler? Director's in back. Sign this waiver—standard stuff.' The paper blurred under his nervous fingers: releases for nudity, penetration, group scenes. He skimmed it, heart pounding, and scribbled his name. She buzzed him through a heavy door into a dimly lit space that smelled of stale sweat, lube, and industrial cleaner. Cameras on tripods flanked a raised platform with a stained mattress, flanked by folding chairs and scattered props—handcuffs, bottles of oil, a duffel of toys. Director Vance, a wiry man in his 50s with a ponytail and a perpetual smirk, waved him over. 'Kid, you look fresh. Virgin? Perfect for the 'innocent twink' vibe. We're shooting a daddy-dom scene today. You'll pair with Big Ron—our star bear. Lights, camera, action in ten. Strip to your undies and wait.' Two cameramen—burly guys named Mike and Luis—adjusted lenses, chuckling under their breath. A sound guy fiddled with mics, and in the corner, a producer typed on a laptop. Tyler's stomach flipped. 'Wait, like... full penetration? I thought it was just posing.' Vance laughed, clapping his shoulder too hard. 'Read the fine print, boy. This is pro porn. You back out now, no pay. But finish the scene, and you're walking with five hundred. Ron's hung like a horse—gonna make you a star.' Tyler swallowed, peeling off his hoodie and jeans, left in white briefs that did little to hide his soft cock. He sat on the edge of the mattress, knees bouncing, as the crew prepped. Then Big Ron lumbered in, a mountain of flesh at 6'5" and over 300 pounds. Late 40s, with a greasy beard streaked gray, rolls of fat cascading over his belt, and hairy arms like tree trunks. His gut hung heavy, straining a stained tank top, and sweat beaded on his forehead from the short walk. He reeked—unwashed body odor mixed with old cum and something sour, like days-old cheese. 'Fresh meat,' Ron grunted, eyeing Tyler like a meal. He stripped without ceremony, tank top hitting the floor to reveal sagging moobs dusted with coarse black hair, a belly that jiggled with each step. His cargo shorts dropped, unleashing thighs thick as Tyler's waist and, finally, his cock: a monster, twelve inches soft, thickening to fourteen erect, as girthy as a wrist. The foreskin clung tight, packed with yellow-white smegma that crusted the head and shaft, the stench hitting Tyler like a wall—cheesy, rancid, making his eyes water. 'Action!' Vance barked. Lights blazed hot on Tyler's skin. Ron grabbed him by the hair, yanking him to his knees on the hard platform. 'Suck it, boy. Clean daddy's dirty dick.' Tyler gaped, the cheesy cock slapping his cheek, leaving a sticky smear. 'I... I can't—it's filthy!' But Ron shoved forward, the bloated head forcing past his lips, smegma flaking onto his tongue—bitter, gritty, like spoiled milk. Tyler retched, but Ron held his head firm, thrusting shallowly to coat his mouth. 'Lick it clean, virgin slut. Taste what a real man's packing.' Tyler choked, saliva mixing with the cheese as he lapped tentatively, tongue scraping the folds under the foreskin. The flavor burned, acrid and overwhelming, but Ron's grip tightened, fucking his face deeper. Inches slid in, stretching Tyler's jaw until it ached, the girth bulging his throat. Gags wracked him, tears streaming as Ron's balls—hairy, sweat-slick—smacked his chin. 'Deeper, bitch. Gag on daddy's cheesy meat.' The crew filmed close-ups, Mike zooming on the drool bubbling out, Luis capturing Tyler's flushed face. Ron's hips bucked harder, the dirty shaft pistoning, smegma dissolving into a slimy froth that dripped down Tyler's chin onto his chest. After minutes of brutal face-fucking, Ron pulled out with a wet pop, his cock now slick and semi-hard, cheese residue clinging to Tyler's lips. 'Bend over the bed, ass up. Time to pop that cherry.' Tyler scrambled onto the mattress, trembling, briefs ripped down to expose his smooth, pink hole—virgin tight, untouched. Ron rummaged in the duffel, grabbing lube and the largest condom they had, extra-thick magnum size. He slathered his cock, the rubber straining as he rolled it on, the latex creaking over the veined length. But it barely fit, the tip peeking out, material taut. 'Please... be gentle. I'm scared,' Tyler whimpered, face buried in the sheets. Ron snorted, spitting on his hole before jamming two thick fingers in dry. Tyler yelped, the intrusion burning like fire, his ring clenching futilely. Ron twisted them roughly, scissoring to stretch, adding a third without warning—knuckles deep, probing the walls until Tyler sobbed. 'Tight as fuck. Gonna wreck this boypussy.' He yanked his fingers free, positioned the head at Tyler's pucker, and shoved. The breach was agony. The condom-sheathed cockhead popped past the rim, tearing a scream from Tyler as three inches sank in. 'Stop! It's ripping me!' But Ron gripped his hips, fat fingers digging bruises, and thrust harder—half his length burying in one go, the girth splitting Tyler's ass wide. Blood welled immediately, the virgin hole resisting the invasion, micro-tears forming from the sheer size. Ron pulled back slightly, the condom slick with red streaks, then rammed forward again, bottoming out with a grunt. Tyler's body jerked, ass clenching in pain, the burn radiating through his core. 'Fuck, you're bleeding already, kid. Take daddy's fat cock.' Ron set a merciless pace, hips slamming forward, his belly slapping Tyler's back with wet thuds. Each plunge dragged against the torn walls, blood lubricating the slide but amplifying the raw friction. Tyler clawed the mattress, crying out, 'It hurts too much! Pull out—please!' The condom stretched thinner with every thrust, latex groaning under the strain. Ron's cheesy cock—now buried deep—pounded Tyler's prostate, forcing unwanted sparks of pleasure amid the torment, his own dick leaking onto the sheets. Sweat poured off Ron, dripping onto Tyler's skin, mixing with the metallic scent of blood. The crew cheered softly, cameras rolling. Deeper in, Ron's rhythm turned feral, grunting like an animal. On a particularly vicious thrust—full force, balls-deep—the condom gave with a sharp snap. Tyler felt it: the sudden bare heat, the loss of barrier, Ron's raw skin grinding directly against his ravaged insides. 'What— the condom broke! Stop, you're bare!' Ron laughed, a deep belly rumble, not slowing. 'Oops. Guess you're getting daddy's load raw now.' He pinned Tyler's shoulders down, fucking harder, the broken latex shreds scraping inside. Blood squelched with each pump, Tyler's hole gaping wider, torn edges inflamed and bleeding freely down his thighs. 'No, no—cum outside! I don't want it!' Tyler begged, voice breaking into sobs, but Ron's weight crushed him, cock swelling thicker bare. The orgasm hit Ron like a freight train. He roared, slamming balls-deep, and unloaded—thick ropes of cum blasting into Tyler's guts, hot and forceful. Pulse after pulse, flooding the battered channel, overflowing to mix with blood in pinkish drips. Ron ground in, milking every drop, his cheesy seed marking the virgin deep. Tyler shuddered, his body betraying him with a weak spurt of his own cum, ass milking involuntarily around the invading shaft. Ron pulled out with a obscene slurp, a gush of cum and blood following, Tyler's hole twitching open, unable to close—puffy, wrecked, leaking steadily. He curled up, weeping, ass throbbing in fire. 'Cut? Nah, keep rolling,' Vance said, grinning. 'Crew, you earned a bonus. Gangbang the twink—bareback only. Poz that boy good.' Tyler froze, eyes widening in horror. 'What? No— I didn't sign up for this! Stop the cameras!' But Mike and Luis were already stripping, cocks hard and out—Mike's seven inches cut and veined, Luis's thicker with a curve. The sound guy, a lean twink named Alex, joined, his dick average but eager. Even Vance unzipped, revealing a modest shaft. Ron stepped back, stroking his spent cock, watching. They swarmed him. Mike grabbed Tyler's arms, pinning them behind his back, while Luis flipped him onto his stomach, knees shoved wide. 'Please... no more. It hurts so bad—I'm bleeding!' Tyler cried, thrashing weakly. Luis spat on his cock and rammed in bare, no prep—the cum-slick hole offering little resistance but reigniting the agony. 'Shut up and take it, slut. We're all poz—gonna load you up.' He fucked rough, hips pistoning, cock churning the mess inside, blood and cum frothing out. Tyler screamed, tears soaking the mattress, begging, 'Stop! I'll do anything—just stop!' But Mike forced his cock into Tyler's mouth, face-fucking him while Luis pounded his ass. The thrusts were brutal—Luis's balls slapping the torn rim, drawing fresh blood, each plunge tearing deeper. Alex knelt beside, jerking off onto Tyler's back, then swapped with Luis, his slimmer dick sliding in easier but no less vicious, hammering the prostate until Tyler's cries muffled around Mike's shaft. They rotated relentlessly. Vance took a turn in Tyler's ass, gripping his hair and yanking his head back as he thrust—short, angry jabs that made Tyler's body jolt. 'Cry all you want, kid. This is the industry.' Cum leaked from every load: Luis first, grunting as he bred deep, hot seed joining Ron's. Then Alex, whining as he unloaded, pulling out halfway to let some splatter Tyler's cheeks before shoving back in. Mike flipped Tyler over, legs hooked over shoulders, and drilled down—bare cock spearing the bloody hole, making Tyler arch and sob, 'Mercy... please, it burns! I'm gonna break!' Vance finished last, barebacking with clinical efficiency, flooding Tyler's guts while choking him lightly on the neck. 'One more for the road.' Cum overflowed, pooling under Tyler's ass, the ring swollen to twice its size, raw and lacerated, blood trickling in steady rivulets. The men were poz—viral loads high, intentional breeders in this underground scene—ensuring Tyler's infection with every bare thrust and deposit. Finally, they stepped back, zipping up, laughing as Tyler lay wrecked—body shaking, face streaked with tears and spit, ass a ruined, gaping wound leaking a cocktail of cum, blood, and shame. 'Good take. Kid, you're hired if you want round two,' Vance said, tossing a wad of cash that bounced off Tyler's thigh. The cameras stopped, lights dimmed, but the pain didn't. Tyler curled fetal, sobs wracking him, the warmth inside turning to dread. Days later, the test confirmed it: positive, poz from the raw gang load. Scars etched his hole—physical tears healing slow, psychological ones festering. In quiet moments, the memories replayed: the cheese, the break, the endless begging ignored. Broken, bred, forever changed.

Need to get my hole bred several times, I want to feel all that cum dripping from my hole. Hopefully it’ll look well used when they are done with it.