My name is Reef.
I am twenty-one.
I live naked on a racing
trimaran in the middle of the Pacific.
There is no land for 3,000
miles in any direction.
And eighteen women own every inch of me.
100 % consensual open-ocean diary – 21-year-old permanent boat slave – 70 ft trimaran, 18 women crew – salt-crusted, sun-fried, piss-drinking, wave-fucked, net-gangbanged – 18+
We left Panama with champagne and a ceremony: they stripped me on the dock, shaved every hair below my eyes, locked a titanium collar that reads “SHIP’S BITCH,” and threw my passport overboard. Captain Zara (38, ex-navy, built like a weapon) pissed on my face in front of the harbor master and said, “You’re cargo now.”
Forward trampoline net = my permanent bed and fuck-station. I’m lashed spread-eagle to it 20 hours a day. The remaining four are spent being used while on watch. Salt crusts my skin like icing; when someone wants me they just climb on and ride. The net sags so low my ass drags in the water at 20 knots. Flying fish slap my balls on night runs.
Traditional line-crossing gone feral. They tied me to the bow sprit naked while we punched through the doldrums at 25 knots. Every woman lined up with a bucket of collected piss and fish guts. I was baptized King Neptune’s cum-rag while the boat surfed 30-foot swells. Came hands-free when the bow buried and a wave blasted straight up my ass.
40-foot seas, 70-knot winds, no one week. I was lashed to the mast naked while the boat pitchpoled twice. They took turns riding my face between reefing sails, pissing down my throat to keep me hydrated because fresh water was rationed. When we finally outran it I was raw, salt-burned, and still hard.
They hung a second cargo net under the bridge deck like a hammock. That’s the gangbang spot. Ten women at once can fit—some on my cock, some on my face, some fisting, some just grinding on my thighs while the boat slams through waves. The motion does half the work. I’ve come just from the ocean fucking me through their bodies.
Hundreds of dolphins surf our bow wave. The crew’s tradition: whoever spots them first gets to fuck me on the bow while the pod watches. One dawn we had a super-pod of 500+. I spent six straight hours on my back getting railed while dolphins leaped over us. Came so many times I dry-heaved seawater.
Perfect 15-knot trades, flat seas, middle of nowhere. They declared a 72-hour “free-use festival.” I was passed around the deck like a bottle of rum. Final tally: 314 documented orgasms given, zero hours of sleep, one permanent salt rash shaped like handprints on my hips.
We’re on year three. The race ended; the women just kept sailing. New crew fly in by rendezvous yacht every few months, old crew fly out, I stay. My skin is bronze and scarred from ropes, I piss over the rail like everyone else, and the only fresh water I taste comes from their bodies. The horizon is the same 360° every morning.
Land is a rumor now.
The ocean is my owner.
And I am
happily, permanently lost at sea.