My name is Drift.
I am twenty-one.
I live naked on the Bonneville Salt Flats, 40,000 acres of pure white nothing in northwest Utah.
Every summer, hundreds of all-female land-speed teams descend for Speed Week.
And for one week every August, I am the only man on the entire blinding white planet.
They never let me leave when the week ends.
40,000 acres of pure white crust.
130 °F by day, freezing by night.
No shade, no water, no escape.
Just me, naked, and every woman who comes to break the land-speed record.
100 % consensual salt-flat diary – 21-year-old permanent Speed Week slave – 40,000 acres of blinding white – salt-burned, jet-blasted, piss-cooled, 300 mph gangbanged under the desert sun – 18+
I stepped off the support plane with nothing but a duffel. Two hundred women in fire suits and aviators were waiting. They stripped me on the cracked salt, pissed a perfect 50-foot circle around me, and the plane took off with my clothes and passport still on board. Lead driver “Rocket” Renee (39, multiple land-speed records) spat on the fresh salt crust and said, “You’re the only soft thing on this entire playa, baby. We’re gonna fix that.”
They chained me spread-eagle to the black-line start marker—ten miles of perfectly straight, perfectly white salt. Every morning the first car to fire up uses me as the push-start: driver sits on my face while the crew pushes the car. By noon the salt is 140 °F and my back is one giant blister. They cool me down the only way they have—pissing in perfect synchronized streams while revving engines drown out my screams.
The top layer turns razor-sharp in the heat. I’m forced to crawl everywhere or the crust slices my knees to bone. After a week my skin is pickled white and every hole is packed with salt that burns like acid. They hose me down with warm piss from the chase truck and fuck the raw wounds until I cry crystal tears.
Thursday midnight: the jet-dragsters run. 4,000 horsepower, 600 mph in four seconds. They stake me face-up fifty feet from the track. The flame and shockwave alone make me come without touching myself. After each pass the drivers climb out of their cockpits dripping sweat and adrenaline and take turns riding my face while the salt still vibrates.
Heat mirages turn the horizon into liquid silver. One 118 °F afternoon they left me staked in the middle of the five-mile course for six hours. I hallucinated oceans of pussy floating above me. When the first real women finally arrived I was speaking in tongues and came just from the vibration of their boots on the salt.
Final three days: 312 cars, 1,400 women. They turned the entire starting grid into a non-stop orgy. I was passed from pit to pit like a trophy. Final tally on the scoreboard: 2,187 documented orgasms given, 319 world records set, and one human salt-statue who never stopped smiling.
September–July the flats are empty except for me and the caretakers—twelve women who live in shipping containers. I’m kept in a salt-crusted shipping container of my own, chained to the floor, fed only what they spit or piss into my mouth. The silence is so complete I can hear my own heartbeat echoing off the white void.
I’m twenty-six now. My skin is bleached bone-white, my eyes permanently sun-damaged, my cock raw from salt and friction. Every August the population explodes again and I’m used like the starting line itself—necessary, sacred, and never allowed to leave the grid.
The salt never melts.
The sun never sets on my contract.
And every summer
they come back faster,
hotter,
and thirstier
than the year before.