My name is Tide.
I am twenty-one.
I live naked on a private coral atoll in the middle of the Indian Ocean.
Every woman who lands on this sand owns me until the tide takes her away.
100 % consensual private-island diary – 21-year-old permanent resident slave – turquoise water, white sand, 34 °C sun – reef-fucked, tide-pissed, sand-fisted, coconut-oiled gangbangs – 18+
The seaplane touched down, the pilot threw my duffel into the lagoon, and twelve women in bikinis dragged me onto the sand. Owner Isla (40, billionaire, sun-bleached hair) cut my clothes off with a dive knife, pissed a perfect circle around me in the sand, and said, “Everything inside this ring belongs to us now.”
Center of the island: a waist-deep natural pool that fills and empties with every tide. I’m chained to a coral head in the middle 18 hours a day. When the water rises, women float over and ride me weightless. When it falls, I’m left baking on the reef until someone decides to piss on me for sunscreen.
Full-moon low tide turns the lagoon into a mirror. They oil me head-to-toe with coconut and fuck me on the wet sand while bioluminescent plankton light up every thrust. I’ve come so hard the plankton glowed brighter around my cock.
Thirty-one days of horizontal rain. They staked me spread-eagle on the beach and took shelter under my body. Warm tropical rain + cold ocean piss + hot pussy = I still don’t know which liquid was which. I drank so much mixed fluid I stopped tasting salt.
At dead-low tide a mile-long sandbar appears. They walk me out naked on a leash, bend me over a piece of driftwood, and gangbang me while the ocean tries to reclaim the bar. One tide I was still being fucked when the water reached my knees—didn’t stop until I was floating.
Once a month six superyachts raft up in the lagoon. 120 women, seven straight days. They turned the tide pool into a non-stop orgy pit. Final night they counted 1,087 orgasms given. I stopped counting mine at 43.
March 20 – sun directly overhead, no shadow at noon. They buried me to the neck in hot sand for six hours, only cock above the surface. Every woman who walked past used it like a sundial. At exact solar noon they dug me out and sixty women pissed in perfect synchrony—golden shower waterfall.
I’m twenty-five now. My skin is mahogany, my hair sun-bleached white, my cock permanently half-hard from constant use and coconut oil. New guests arrive every week; no one ever takes me home. The mainland is 400 nautical miles away and my passport is fish food.
The tide comes in.
The tide goes out.
I stay exactly where they want me.
Forever.