My name is Luca.
At twenty-one I was broke, beautiful, and stupid enough to say yes when the richest women in the world decided I belonged to them.
First-person male erotic memoir • 21-year-old’s real-feeling descent into total sexual ownership • older women • yachts • villas • gangbangs • luxury depravity • 8 complete massive chapters • 80,000+ words • 18+
I was twenty-one, broke, and working bar at a private party on a yacht in Capri when Valentina Rossi — forty-two, Italian heiress, legs for days — leaned over the counter and said, “How much for the rest of your life?”
I laughed. She didn’t. She slid a black Amex across the bar and whispered, “One million euros a year, plus everything you’ve ever wanted. You just have to belong to me and whoever I choose to share you with.”
I was hard before she finished the sentence. That same night, in the owner’s suite, she fucked me on a bed covered in hundred-euro bills while her friends watched and filmed. I came so hard I saw stars. She licked it off my stomach and said, “Good boy. You’re mine now.”
Three weeks later Valentina flew me to Monaco and handed me to Elise Laurent — French tech billionaire, thirty-seven, ice-blue eyes. She made me strip in her glass penthouse overlooking the Grand Prix circuit, tied my wrists to the balcony rail, and edged me for four hours while the race roared below. Every time a car screamed past she slapped my cock and laughed when I begged.
She finally let me come at 3 a.m. while the city lights flickered across her tits. I shot so hard it hit the glass ten feet away. She kissed me, tasted herself on my tongue, and said, “Valentina shares her toys well.”
Summer in Ibiza. Valentina threw a party on a 300-foot superyacht. Forty women — CEOs, models, heiresses, all over thirty-five — and me. The only man. They passed me around the deck like a joint. I lost count after the fifteenth mouth. I was fucked on the bow, in the jacuzzi, bent over the helm while the captain steered. By sunrise I was covered in hickeys, cum, and champagne, lying on a sun-lounger while three of them took turns riding my face.
Five married billionaires flew me to their secret Caribbean island for a week. Their husbands thought they were at a “wellness retreat.” Instead they kept me naked the entire time, collared, crawling between villas. Morning blowjobs on the beach. Afternoon gangbangs in the infinity pool. Nightly auctions where they bid on who got to sleep with me chained to their bed.
I still jerk off remembering the redhead from Houston who paid fifty thousand dollars just to watch me fuck her best friend while she filmed it on her phone.
The record. Five at the same time. Two fashion editors, one Oscar-winning actress, Valentina, and Elise. Mirrors on every wall. They took turns riding my cock and my face while the others held me down. I came four times and they still weren’t done. I blacked out with someone’s pussy on my tongue and woke up with cum in my hair and a new Rolex on my wrist.
A princess — actual royalty — flew me first-class to Dubai. Gold everything. She kept me in a marble room with no windows for ten days. Servants bathed me, oiled me, fed me dates and Viagra. Every night she rode me until I cried, then had her female guards take turns until sunrise. I learned to come on command in Arabic.
On my twenty-third birthday Valentina threw a party in Lake Como. Fifty women. One contract on the table: five more years, ten million euros, total ownership. They made me sign it naked, on my knees, while they took turns fucking me with a strap-on shaped like a fountain pen. I signed in cum.
I’m twenty-five now. I haven’t worn underwear in four years. My body is a map of bite marks and hickeys that never quite fade. I wake up in a different bed every week — Paris, Mykonos, Gstaad, Maldives — always with a new woman’s hand around my cock and Valentina’s voice in my ear: “Good morning, pet.”
I’m richer than my wildest dreams, more exhausted than I thought possible, and harder right now, writing this, than I’ve ever been in my life.
I never want to be free again.