My name is Sage.
I am twenty-one.
I am chained naked to a rock spire in the middle of the Utah desert.
And every woman on this dig owns me until the sun burns out.
100 % consensual desert diary – 21-year-old permanent site slave – 10,000 acres of red rock, zero shade – sun-fucked, sand-fisted, piss-cooled, cum-baked – 18+
They picked me up in Moab, drove me three hours into the backcountry, stripped me at the trailhead, and made me hike the last mile with my clothes burning in the Jeep behind me. By the time we reached base camp I was sunburned, hard, and terrified. The lead archaeologist, Dr. Vega (42, tanned, terrifying), chained my wrists to a sun-bleached juniper and said, “Welcome to the dig, pet. You’re the only artifact that gets used daily.”
Centerpiece of camp: a 25-foot freestanding sandstone tower. I’m chained spread-eagle against it from sunrise to sunset. The rock burns at 140 °F. They piss on me to cool me down, then fuck the wet spots. By noon I’m baked pink and dripping. By dusk I’m raw and begging. They leave me overnight with just coyotes for company and a floodlight so the night shift can still find my holes.
One flash flood in July. The dry wash became a river in minutes. They dragged me into the torrent, held me under until I swallowed silt and piss, then bent me over a boulder while the storm raged. Lightning lit up forty naked bodies using me at once. I came so hard I passed out face-down in the mud. Woke up with sand in my lungs and cum in my hair matted like clay.
They invented a new game: mix fine red sand with collected piss until it’s slurry, then funnel it into my ass with a 2-liter camelbak tube. I have to hold it while they excavate a new trench. When I finally lose control I spray a ten-foot arc of red mud while they time it for science. Current record: 43 minutes.
Narrowest part of the canyon is six inches wider than my shoulders. They wedge me in naked, arms pinned, and take turns rappelling down to fuck my mouth or ass mid-climb. The walls echo every moan for miles. One grad student left me there overnight—came back at dawn to find me sunburned inside the slot and still hard from the exposure.
Full-moon nights they paint themselves with clay and hunt me across the mesas barefoot. When they catch me they stake me spread-eagle on an anthill, cover my cock in honey, and ride me while the moon watches. Last month fifty-two women rotated until sunrise. I lost three pounds in fluids and gained a permanent sunbrand on my chest shaped like boot prints.
June 21, 118 °F. They buried me to the neck in hot sand for twelve hours, only my cock sticking up like a sundial. Every woman who walked past used it—some pissed, some fucked, some just slapped it raw. When they dug me out at midnight I was delirious and came the second the air hit my skin.
I’m twenty-four. My skin is leather, my hair sun-bleached white, my holes permanently dilated by heat and use. The expedition ended two years ago, but the women kept coming—new grants, new crews, same chains. I eat prickly-pear pulp off their fingers and drink whatever they pour down my throat. The nearest road is forty miles. I haven’t worn clothes since day one.
The desert doesn’t give anything back.
It only takes.
And it took everything I had to give.
Forever.