My name is Rohan.
I am twenty-three years old.
I am the lifelong naked property of Aisha — the most desired woman in our secret desert village.
One thunder night in the dunes she claimed me forever.
Since then, every single woman here owns a piece of me, exactly as Aisha allows.
Extreme consensual diary ▪ permanent naked slave of Aisha and 200+ village women ▪ hidden Thar desert ▪ sand, henna, camel milk, endless female-led orgies, lifelong chastity & service ▪ 18+ only
Aisha (21, long black hair to her knees, golden nose ring, voice like velvet) caught me watching her bathe naked at the moonlit oasis. Lightning flashed. She smiled. Within an hour she and twelve of her closest friends had dragged me deep into the dunes. They tore my clothes to shreds, tied my wrists and ankles with her silk scarves, and laid me on my back in warm sand.
Aisha straddled my chest, lifted her ghagra, and pissed a long, hot stream straight into my open mouth while thunder crashing overhead. “Drink,” she ordered. I obeyed. Then she lowered herself onto my face and rode me slowly while the others held my legs apart and took turns slapping my cock until I cried. When she finally let me inside her, she whispered, “You will never wear clothes again. You will never say no. You are mine now, and I share what is mine.”
They used me until dawn. When the sun rose I was covered in sand, henna, and dozens of women’s pleasure. Aisha kissed my forehead and clipped a thin golden chain around my neck. “Welcome home, Rohan.
The very next evening Aisha walked me naked through the village lanes on that golden chain. Every woman we passed smiled knowingly. Word had already spread. By nightfall more than forty women had gathered under the massive neem tree. Aisha sat on a charpai like a queen and pointed to the sand in front of her.
“Kneel.”
They formed a circle. One by one they stepped forward — young brides, experienced widows, curious college girls home for holidays. Some sat on my face until they shook, some fed me warm camel milk from heavy breasts, some rode my cock while pinching my nipples raw. Aisha watched everything, touching herself slowly, occasionally leaning down to kiss me and taste whoever had just used me.
Hours later, when the last woman finished, Aisha pulled me into her lap, stroked my hair, and said softly, “Good boy. That was only the beginning.”
An unheard-of monsoon hit the desert. For forty continuous days and nights the sky poured. Aisha moved me into the large open courtyard of her haveli. The mud floor turned into a shallow lake. More than a hundred women took shelter under the wide eaves every single day.
They used me on soaked charpais, in ankle-deep water, against dripping walls. The rain mixed with piss, milk, and squirt until the entire courtyard smelled only of female desire. Some nights twenty women rode my face in a row while thunder masked their screams. Aisha floated beside me on a wooden plank, directing traffic with a lazy smile, occasionally pulling me under the surface to drink straight from her.
When the rain finally stopped, the village elders said the gods were pleased. Aisha laughed and said, “No. The women were thirsty.”
Every new moon Aisha leads me naked to the sacred oasis. The women arrive in silence, wearing only jewellery and henna. They lower me into the water with ropes, then take turns diving down to use my mouth underwater until they need air. When I’m pulled up gasping, they cover me in fresh camel milk and fuck me on the stone steps while stars fall overhead.
Aisha always goes last. She rides me facing the moon, fingers buried in my hair, and comes so hard the entire circle cheers.
Our village festival lasts nine days. On day one they paint my entire body with intricate henna — even my cock and balls. Then they bathe me in litres of warm camel milk mixed with rose water. For the next eight days and nights every lane becomes a hunting ground.
Women chase me laughing, tackle me in sand, and take whatever they want wherever they catch me — against mud walls, on rooftops, inside cattle sheds. Drums never stop. By the final night the henna has worn off and been replaced by layers of dried milk, pussy juice, and coloured powder. Aisha inspects me proudly and declares the festival a success.
On my first anniversary of surrender, Aisha replaced the thin chain with a heavy gold collar soldered shut. Only she knows how to open it. She led me naked through the village so every woman could touch it, kiss it, and understand: this man is permanently owned.
That night she locked me to the centre pillar of her bedroom and invited every woman who had ever used me to come say thank you. More than 180 women passed through before sunrise.
Some nights Aisha keeps me only for herself. She bathes me slowly with rose water, oils my skin, feeds me sweets from her fingers, then rides me for hours while telling me how beautiful I look wearing nothing but her collar and her marks. Those nights she lets me come inside her — the only time I’m ever allowed release — then plugs me so nothing is wasted. “My seed stays where it belongs,” she whispers.
Neighbouring villages began sending their own women to “borrow” me for festivals. Aisha always accompanies me, leash in hand. I have serviced women from five districts now. They call me “Aisha’s Golden Boy.” I have not worn a stitch of clothing in four years. My back carries permanent henna handprints from hundreds of women who wanted to leave their mark.
Aisha built a hidden underground room beneath her haveli. Soundproof, cool, lit only by lanterns. I live there now when I’m not needed above. The walls are covered in silk cushions stained with years of use. Aisha brings whoever she wants, whenever she wants — sometimes one shy newlywed at midnight, sometimes fifty laughing women on festival eve. The room remembers every moan ever made inside it.
I am thirty now. Aisha is twenty-eight and more radiant than ever. My family believes I died in a sandstorm years ago. The men of our village still have no idea I exist. Every woman over eighteen — and many from far beyond — knows exactly where to find me.
Each morning Aisha unlocks the collar just long enough to kiss the skin beneath, then locks it again. She presses her forehead to mine and repeats the words that have become my heartbeat:
“You are mine, Rohan.
Every grain of this desert is mine.
Every woman here is mine to command.
And you —
I share you whenever I feel like it,
with whoever I feel like it,
for as long as I feel like it.
Forever begins today
and it never ends.