My name is Blaze.
I am twenty-one.
I live naked on a 50,000-acre high-desert cattle ranch in Nevada owned by a private women’s collective.
The nearest fence is thirty miles away.
The nearest man who isn’t me is even farther.
100 % consensual high-desert diary – 21-year-old permanent ranch slave – 50,000 acres, no fences, no shade – dust-fucked, horse-pissed, rope-burned, starlit gangbangs under endless sky – 18+
I flew in on the ranch Cessna. Thirty cowgirls in chaps and nothing else met me on the dirt strip, stripped me, bent me over a hay bale, and branded their collective mark just above my ass. Still have the scar. Owner Valentina (47, ex-rodeo queen) pissed on the fresh burn to cool it and said, “You’re livestock now, sweetheart.”
Center of the ranch: a round pen with one hitching post in the middle. I’m tied there naked every sunrise. Riders come in from night watch, still sweaty, and use me to dismount—some ride my face, some my cock, some just piss on me while unsaddling. By noon the post is slick with mixed fluids and the sand is dark for ten feet around.
August haboob season. 60 mph wind, zero visibility, grit in every crease. They staked me spread-eagle in the open and rode out the storm on top of me. Sand-blasted skin, mouths full of dirt and pussy, eyes crusted shut. When it finally cleared I was coated head-to-toe in red dust and cum like terra-cotta. They hosed me off with the livestock trough and started again.
Old Aermotor windmill pumps the only water for twenty miles. I’m chained beneath it naked. The squeak of the blades times the thrusts. Riders fill their canteens, then fill me. One week the bearing seized—forty women rotated keeping me wet so I wouldn’t chafe while they fixed it.
Spring branding: 200 cows, 45 riders, seven straight days in the saddle. I ride bareback behind whoever claims me that day, naked, cock tied to the saddle horn with baling twine. At night they rope me to the chuck-wagon wheel and take turns while the campfire crackles. I’ve been fucked under more stars than most people ever see.
August 12–13, meteor shower peak. They laid me on my back in the dry lake bed, oiled and spread-eagle. Seventy-two women over two nights. Every time a meteor streaked overhead someone came on me. By dawn I was glazed like a desert varnish petroglyph.
December–February most hands leave for town. Only eight women winter over. I live in the barn loft, naked, on a bed of hay and horse blankets. They ride out in −15 °C, come back frostbitten, and thaw their pussies on my tongue while the wind howls through the cracks.
I’m twenty-six now. My skin is leather, my hair sun-bleached silver, my body rope-scarred and sun-branded. New cowgirls arrive every season; no one ever takes me to town. The ranch is bigger than some countries and I’ve never seen the gate.
The sky goes on forever.
So does my contract.
And I wouldn’t trade one dusty, cum-soaked sunrise
for all the cities in the world.