My name is Frost.
I am twenty-one.
I live naked inside an abandoned Soviet polar research station at 82° N.
The sun disappeared four months ago.
Forty female glaciologists, aurora scientists, and ice-core specialists rotate through every season.
None of them have ever taken me south.
100 % consensual polar diary – 21-year-old permanent station pet – six months of darkness, −50 °C outside, body heat only inside – ice-fucked, snow-pissed, aurora-gangbanged, frozen cum sculptures – 18+
The Twin Otter landed on skis in October twilight. Twenty women in bunny boots and Carhartts dragged me out, cut every stitch of clothing off with a heated knife, and locked the door before the plane even turned around. Station commander Dr. Astrid Lind (44, Norwegian, ice in her veins) pissed a steaming yellow line across the blue snow onto my chest and said in perfect English, “Welcome to polar night, little one. You are now the station’s only renewable heat source.”
The only heated room is a 3×4 m lab lined with reindeer hides. I am chained naked in the center on a raised platform so every woman can reach me without removing her boots. Body heat discipline is strict: if the thermometer drops below 25 °C inside, someone has to be actively fucking me. It has never dropped below 32 °C since I arrived.
November 15 the sun set for the last time. We will not see it again until February. They celebrated by tying me to the flagpole outside at −47 °C for exactly seven minutes (the record before frostbite). When they dragged me back in I was a human icicle; they thawed my cock in rotating mouths until I came frozen ropes that shattered on the floor like glass.
The glaciologists needed a living calibration tool. They drilled a 3-meter ice core, then used my body temperature to verify the data—shoving the −30 °C core sleeve up my ass while timing how fast I warmed it to 37 °C. Then they replaced the sleeve with their fists, one after another, until the lab smelled like pussy and ancient air bubbles.
One February night the sky exploded green and purple. Forty women suited up, dragged me outside naked, and fucked me on the snow while the aurora rippled overhead. Every orgasm made the lights flare brighter—or maybe that was the blood leaving my brain. I passed out with cum freezing in my hair like fiber-optic strands.
December 21, darkest day. They declared a 72-hour “heat emergency.” I was never not inside someone. They kept tally on the whiteboard: 1,337 documented orgasms given, zero minutes below 30 °C room temp. At the end they poured a bucket of mixed fluids over my head and declared me “Honorary Midwinter Sun.”
January–February the station is down to eight overwintering women. I sleep in a pile of bodies every night. My beard is iced solid every morning. They piss in a shared bucket; I drink what’s left after coffee is brewed. The darkness is so complete I forget what my own skin looks like.
I am twenty-seven now. My body is pale as the snow outside, covered in bite marks that never quite heal in the cold. Every March a new rotation of forty women arrives by icebreaker. Every October the sun sets and they forget to take me home. The station log now lists me as “Permanent Biological Heater – non-expendable.”
The sun will rise again in three weeks.
I will still be here when it sets again.
And again.
And again.
There is no south anymore.
Only north,
and the women who keep me warm
in the endless polar night.