My name is Summit.
I am twenty-one.
I live naked at 4,200 meters in a stone hut with no door.
Every woman who climbs past 4,000 m owns me until she descends.
100 % consensual high-altitude diary – 21-year-old permanent hut slave – 4,200 m, −20 °C nights – ice-fucked, snow-pissed, altitude-gangbanged, no escape below the death zone – 18+
I helicoptered in with 60 kg of food. The all-female Swiss guide team met me at the pad, stripped me in the rotor wash, chained my clothes to the skid, and watched the chopper fly away with everything I owned. Head guide Amalia (45, ice-blue eyes) pissed a yellow arc across the fresh snow onto my chest and said, “Welcome to the mountain, boy. Oxygen is optional. Cock is mandatory.”
Outside the hut door: a waist-high granite boulder worn smooth by generations of asses. I’m bolted to it by a short chain every morning. Climbers coming off the glacier use me to warm their frozen hands and pussies. My balls turn blue, then someone sits on my face and thaws me with piss and cum until I can feel my toes again.
They drag me onto the ice naked, tie me to a crevasse anchor, and practice rescue techniques, using my cock as the “fixed point.” One team of eight lowered a climber directly onto my face while another fisted my ass for “warmth.” I came so hard at 4,000 m I nearly blacked out from lack of oxygen.
Seven days of zero visibility, 80 km/h winds, −25 °C. The hut filled with forty stranded women from five expeditions. They took turns keeping me warm the only way possible: constant body heat. I was never not inside someone. We melted snow with body fluid alone. I still taste pussy and piss when I breathe hard.
Full moon on the Khumbu-style icefall. They short-roped me naked through seracs at 3 a.m., tied me bent over a mushroom ice pillar, and gangbanged me while the glacier groaned around us. Every thrust echoed like thunder. I left a frozen cum puddle that’s probably still there.
August 15, perfect weather. Twenty-four women summited a virgin 6,200 m peak. They radioed base: “Bring the toy.” Helicopter dropped me on the summit ridge naked. They fucked me at 6,200 m with the entire Alps below us, then pissed off the summit in golden arcs that froze mid-air. Highest recorded orgasm on the continent (mine and theirs).
November–April the hut is officially closed. They still send one guide every two weeks by ski. She arrives, uses me for three days straight in −30 °C, then leaves. I live on melted snow and frozen cum. Frostbite on my cock is now permanent purple rings they call “altitude hickeys.”
I’m twenty-five. My lungs are shot, my skin is wind-burned leather, my cock is frost-scarred and still hard 24/7 from chronic hypoxia. Every new season brings fresh expeditions. They tattooed the hut coordinates on my ass so helicopters know exactly where to drop new users. Descent is not an option; the chain is now welded shut.
The mountain doesn’t allow retreat.
Only surrender.
And I surrendered everything
at 4,200 meters
forever.