My name is Rowan.
I am twenty-one.
I live naked on 400 acres of wilderness.
And every woman who hikes in owns me until she hikes out.
100 % consensual outdoor diary • 21-year-old permanent camp slave • 400 acres, zero walls • piss in rivers, gangbangs on stumps, tied to trees, mud, rain, sun • 18+
They met me at the trailhead in nothing but hiking boots and smirks. Thirty women, all ex-military, survival instructors, park rangers—ages 25–50. Stripped me on the spot, burned my clothes in the fire pit, and marched me five miles barefoot with a pack full of toys. My new uniform: steel collar, cock cage unlocked only when someone wants to use me.
Center of camp: a six-foot redwood stump worn smooth by decades of asses. I’m chained to it every dawn. First woman of the day gets to piss on my face while the coffee boils. By noon I’m usually bent over it getting railed while the others cook breakfast around me. By night it’s soaked in cum and pine sap.
Every new arrival gets to “baptize” me in the ice-cold river. They hold me under until I’m gasping, then drag me onto the rocks and take turns riding my face while the current freezes my balls. One group of eight made me lie in the shallows while they pissed upstream—drank the river the rest of the day.
Seven straight days of Pacific Northwest downpour. No tents for me—just tied spread-eagle to four trees in the clearing. They took shifts using me between thunderclaps. Mud fucked, rain pissed, lightning flashing on every thrust. I came so hard during one storm I shot into the mud and they made me eat it mixed with dirt.
Once a month they hunt me naked through the forest with headlamps and paintball guns. When they catch me (always), they stake me to the ground and gangbang me under the moon until sunrise. Last time twenty-three women—record. I still have the bruises shaped like boot prints on my back.
They dug a ten-foot pit that fills with rain and piss. I live in it during “Mud Week.” Women wrestle naked, then drag me under and use me as the prize. I’ve been fisted so deep in mud I couldn’t tell where I ended and the earth began. When they hose me off at the end I’m still filthy inside.
Summer solstice: 48 straight hours, 120 women flown in by helicopter. Bonfires, drums, me staked in the center of a clearing with every hole open. They kept count on a whiteboard: 387 documented orgasms given, 112 received by me. I passed out tied to a fallen log with cum dripping out of every orifice and woke up still being fucked.
I’m twenty-four now. My skin is permanently tanned except where ropes and straps keep white lines. I eat berries, pussy, and whatever they feed me off the ground. I sleep chained to whichever tree they choose. The trailhead gate is locked from the outside. My new name is just a whistle command.
Civilization is five miles that way.
I haven’t walked upright in two years.
And I never will again.