My name is Julian.
I was twenty-one, broke, and starving in San Francisco when I answered an ad that said:
“Live-in companion wanted. Five women. One glass house. No clothes required.”
100 % first-person male diary • 21-year-old live-in sex slave to five wealthy women • Big Sur glass mansion • constant use • zero privacy • total surrender • 18+
I showed up to a cliff-side glass mansion in nothing but ripped jeans and desperation. Five women in silk robes opened the door. Sophia (old-money, 44), Lena (tech founder, 39), Mara (artist, 41), Celeste (ex-supermodel, 38), and Vivi (trust-fund wild child, 35). They made me strip in the foyer while they drank champagne and circled me like wolves. Sophia ran one fingernail down my chest and said, “You’ll do.” I moved in that same afternoon. I haven’t worn clothes inside the house since.
They put me in the living room on a circular white rug, lights dimmed to red. One by one they used me while the others watched. Sophia rode my face until she soaked my chin. Lena fucked me slow and deep while holding eye contact that made me shake. Mara painted my cock with edible gold and licked it off. Celeste made me fuck her against the floor-to-ceiling window while the Pacific roared below. Vivi finished me with her feet while filming on her phone. I came so hard I almost blacked out. They carried me to bed and curled around me like cats.
Next morning they sat me down naked at the marble island and read the rules: 1. No clothes ever inside the house. 2. Cock stays hard or you get punished. 3. You sleep where we tell you—usually between someone’s thighs. 4. You come only when we say. 5. The safe word is “Monet.” I’ve never used it.
Every single day starts the same: wake at 6 a.m. in whichever bed left me, crawl to the kitchen, make coffee naked, then line up on my knees in the yoga room. They file in wearing robes, drop them, and take turns sitting on my face while sipping espresso. By 7:30 I’m covered in five different women’s cum and the day hasn’t even started.
Once a month they host “salons.” Twenty to thirty of the richest women on the West Coast fly in. I’m the centerpiece—oiled, collared, served on the dining table like dessert. They eat caviar off my chest, drink wine from my mouth, fuck me between courses. One night a famous actress paid $100k just to watch me fuck Sophia on the table while everyone applauded.
A Pacific storm knocked out power for three days. No internet, no escape, just five horny women and me. They chained me to the four-poster in the master suite and took shifts. I lost count of orgasms—mine and theirs. When the power came back on I was dehydrated, covered in bites, and smiling like an idiot.
They started inviting guests to “borrow” me. A Silicon Valley CEO kept me for a weekend in her SF penthouse. A famous pop star flew me to Miami for three days. Every time I came home Sophia inspected me like a returned library book, then fucked the memories of the others out of me until I could only remember their names.
It’s been 387 days. I’m twenty-two next week. My bank account has more zeros than I can count, my body is a map of their teeth marks, and I still get hard the second I hear high heels on marble. They threw me a “renewal party” last night—blindfolded me, led me to the living room, and revealed a new contract: five more years, double the money, and a glass collar engraved “Property of the House.” I signed with shaking hands while Vivi rode me slow and the others toasted with 1945 Château d’Yquem poured over my cock.
I was going to be an artist.
Turned out my medium is pussy and my canvas is forever.