Duck for Cover

By Darrell Lloyd Mackenzie

Repeated contemplation on the paradox of her liberty in voluntary sexual captivity have her appreciating ways she's free from the many trifling responsibilities and duties of worldly existence. Free from holding a mundane job and paying the rent. Free from the anxieties of dating or of sustaining relationships, apart from her obligations to her master and mistress. Free to devote herself fully, even sacrificially, to extreme lustful sensations and secret knowledge. Free to connect intimately with everyone in her presence when she's cloistered. Free from any identity other than her sexual availability. Yet she isn't free, not after having freely chosen to subject herself to her master and his stiff agents and his spiraling requirements.
In truth, she’s no longer like what would be considered a normal woman, torn between their innermost sexuality and the wider world. This sex-slave has been liberated from common concerns, allowing her to be focused solely on erotic immoderation at her master's indiscretion.
There's no doubt regarding her vassalage or devotion. She belongs unquestionably to him, to the point he raises no objections to whatever is arising with the Japanese rope genius or the celebrated cartoonist. The only thing her master cannot control is her manic swings through the day and evening or her surreal nightmares in the darkest hours. Not that he won't punish her for their content.
Beyond that, he, too, is a prodigy of roping and knotting. He admires the indentations the braids leave impressed on her flesh. There's no way she could ever become complacent with him, not with all the fresh ways he twists her in his demands and expectations or stretches her even when he's elsewhere. All her appointments are designed to keep her on edge, reflecting his grand desires regarding her usage.
She's no longer the impetuous and often fearful young woman who had surrendered herself to a secluded life on the hoity-toity horse farm barely a year ago. These days, she moves like one of the thoroughbred steeds, even when she's being ridden bareback.
In less than two years since first meeting the man she still knows only as Primo or, more intimately, as Tatty, she's undergone a thorough conversion. No longer an innocent or inexperienced college student, she's embraced a sexual identity and spent the last year voluntarily incarcerated within his country estate and travels. Subjected to his rigorous and ongoing tutoring, she's left even happiness far behind in her obsession to yield fully to his dangerous and illicit transgressions.
Rich and powerful as he is — and having turned over to him her body and soul — his existence apart from her remains largely a mystery. She knows next to nothing of his background, his sources of income, his career or education, or even his real name. What she understands is the magnetism of his engulfing presence, physically and feverishly, and her feelings of being awash in his essence and knowledge.
By the time she enters her second summer of captivity at the farm, she's accompanied by a comforting sense of familiarity and esoteric triumph. Few women have explored the range of sexual opportunities she has. She's become voluptuous rather than frumpy, poised rather than timid, skillful rather than clumsy. Traveled in exclusive circles and seen powerful men in their naked and often pathetic reality. Pushed through emotional, spiritual, and physical limits that have compressed her into a kind of diamond. All because of her derring-do master and his wife.
How could life get any better than this? Why should she possibly be concerned? What else could there be beyond this?
But then cracks appear and start spreading. Oh, my.
When the breaking point erupts, its fissures will crackle everywhere. You remember way long ago, step on one, break your mamma’s back? Watch your head, too. For our poor gurl, will it already be too late? Or just maybe not?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darrell Lloyd Mackenzie
• Release date: Apr 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215643402

Darrell Lloyd Mackenzie

This series isn’t about me but rather her. It’s been one way to tie up some loose ends in my past. At the time, I didn’t even know her that well. More of a friend of a friend sort of thing.We tried to warn him she was trouble — something in her eyes rubbed us wrong — but he hadn't been with anyone for ages. So what if she was gonzo? She was stacked like you wouldn't believe. Quite simply, he was open, even open for a hit. Besides, she knew how to make music. The kind of jazz he enjoyed.She came into his life like a tornado in the depth of winter, and for maybe one month they were exclusive. She was squirrelly but va-va-voom. Got it?And then things turned weird, really weird. Her former boyfriend, if you can call him that, swept her up for a weekend visit. After that, well, she was living two lives, one quite secretive, and gone most weekends.At the end of the semester, she disappeared, to everyone’s relief.He wound up filing her as one of those whatever-happened-to question marks in his past, a lover on his casualty list, a near-miss on the heartbreak lane.More recently, some materials fell into my hands — I won’t say what or how — but they were shocking revelations of what she had been up to and how her life had turned in another direction.Quite simply, they were eye-opening, so here they are. Maybe you’ve seen her porn videos or met her at a party. Make of them what you will.

Book preview

PART ONE

Boom Vava Boom

………………….

The only way to a woman's heart is along the path of torment. … Only by way of pain one arrives at pleasure. … Sex without pain is like food without taste.

― Marquis de Sade

(o)(o)

To begin, one big wild party

Zooming way up in an elevator with Goddess in a modern hotel overlooking much of the metropolis, Nuda expected to be on her way to another round with Choo Choo. She would clean up and prep in their hotel room for the next show, wherever, and be off.

It was late afternoon, happy hour at the bar they passed beside the lobby.

Her very short leather dress was a scooped front with a zipper running all the way down the front to a slight notch delta cut toward her honey pot. Her arms remained bare, like her legs and feet, attired as they were in open-toed, open-heel ho cleats that echoed along the hallway, each step an advertisement, even if she was an off-duty escort and erotic model rather than a streetwalker.

As usual, she carried only a slim pocket book with little more than a toothbrush, a bottle of liquid lipstick, a comb, the case for her contact lenses overnight, a half-dozen packs of condoms — no wallet, identification, keys, hairbrush, cigarettes or lighter, eyeglasses, pen, protective , paperback novel.

Goddess handled all the mundane details, even supplying the tissue.

We've booked a bridal suite.

Nuda was bewildered. Not by the suite part but the bridal.

You'll see why.

A party was well in progress when she was pushed through the door to applause, hooting, and whistling, but before getting a better look, she was whisked into a small bedroom and told to undress. No problem. A leash was attached to the ring of gold around her neck, and she was led slowly walking back into the living area. She knew the drill: lower her eyes and her head, clasp her arms behind her, watch her step. Even so, she saw enough at the corners of her to know the guests were now all naked, all twenty of them once she was permitted to look, all gorgeous males in their prime. On queue they broke into Surprise! and Happy Birthday!

She reddened all over. She had no idea.

We could have given you candles to blow out, Goddess said. But we decided we'd rather offer you some fine chaps to blow. Yup, a score of them.

Then she noticed a cameraman in the corner.

So it's being filmed?

Yes, dear, you turn twenty only once. Now come along, introduce yourself.

Goddess didn't mean names. On your kness, bitch.

Nuda went around the circle and lightly touched each penis with her hands and lips. Each one was impressive, even when still at ease. Their faces were stern of jaw, straight of back, six continents in all. This would be more than a gang-bang. A whorgy, team cream, slam-a-rama, manage a vingt multiplied duex or trois, slaughterparty — for petite busty her.

The import of what was about to happen dawned on her with a numbing thud. She was free to run, of course, but what then? A naked young woman who had come in looking like a hooker on what must have been perceived as a lesbian’s arm? Nuda had become accustomed to degradation in Tatty’s service. If this is what he had arranged for her, so be it. It might even be exciting.

There would be more, uh, subs here, right? Three or four, at least? She gulped, in a flash of fear as she sensed the alternative. So be it, whatever.

She was good.

They led her on all fours to the big bridal bed itself for the real action. The headboard was a sparkling three-sided mirror; the mattress, draped in luxurious deep burgundy linens, was otherwise free and projected into the room without hindrance.

The rest of the film crew was waiting.

Make yourself comfortable. Fat chance. They’d soon be making her quite discomfortable.

While the oversized pillows were adjusted, each participant drew a number from a hat passed around the circle. They would ride her in order from lowest to highest, five at a time in the matrimonial chamber.

Numero Uno approached and straddled her face for a blow job. He then took a flaming candlestick from a bedside table and dripped liquid wax on her moobs. You have to have a birthday candle, baby, he chortled, handing the stem to Numero Dos, who brought his shaft to her lips. Eventually, they got down to Cinco, who dipped the remaining end in her coin-slot.

Guess she’s warmed up, mates, Uno announced, prompting them to go to work as a team. Two even lifted her by her shins to give Numero One a better angle of attack.

The rules of engagement allowed each guy to squirt once and then leave the chamber until all had a chance to spurt into her — or on, depending — cum shots were popular. Then she was open for second servings, if anyone was still interested. They were all young and fit, no question they’d be back and then some.

This could take weeks.

While Numero Uno whipped her up vanilla style, the third and fourth were taking advantage of her mouth. She reached out for their snakes. The fifth stood above and pounded his own pud.

Her mouth, coffers, and flytrap were soon drenched, and they were just getting started. She left her eyes open and stared at their flight of monstrous grins. She closed her eyes tight and concentrated on what her mouth and hands were doing. Her bottom just had to take care of itself.

She rolled on her side and was taken in front and back simultaneously while her mouth got a fresh popsicle, thicker than the last. Maybe this would be grape. She liked grape.

Her vavooms were sucked, squeezed, and slapped, sometimes all actions at once. Then they were pressed together and a piston drove hard between them until popping all over her face.

The event was supposed to be her party, but nobody had eaten her peach yet, and it was unlikely anyone would, unless they wanted to use a straw by this point. If the rules had limited her to one orgasm, the game would have been long over. Score!

Hers didn’t count.

There was nothing subtle about the assault. These were young studs, short on refinement and prone to premature ejaculation. She could only hope.

Thus far, they all had long sideburns and enough stubble to leave her with a rash. Already she was running out of energy to continue with the Kegel. Not that it mattered. She doubted that this was advertised as a Kegel party.

They knew each other and talked exclusively to their teammates, not her, in competing with each other for the finish line.

She wasn’t used to being ignored in the middle of the act.

Rape me, she finally gasped.

Too wrung out to continue as an active receptacle, apart from the obligatory BJ and finger up their stinky asshole coming each one’s turn, she was reduced to a passive fuckdoll along for the ride. She was totally at their mercy — or its absence.

Hands rolled her onto her stomach, keeping her mouth over the edge of the bed, where it was dutifully plowed. Her bum was lifted and rimmed before being explored by a finger and then a second. She anticipated what was next, without lube. This was about as anonymous as it gets. She couldn't do much with her hands, either, but they were in need of a break. She stretched her fingers and wiggled them.

The thought hit her, none of these blokes wore raincoats. The little ones that matched those Chinese parasols in fancy cocktails. Oh, sweet. Skin on skin, no wonder she was sopping. Doctor Adonis would need to be alerted. Nothing to do about it now. Just lay back and endure it, best she could.

These were guys her age who never would have asked her out in high school, and now they were lined up eagerly claiming boasting rights to her body. It wasn’t all because of the contact lenses, either.

She was on her back again, penetrated by three new drivers. She looked up at one standing over her face and saw nothing but freckles and a shark grin. She shut her eyes again, sparing her eyes of the inevitable sting of the splurge.

The next one had short curly black hair and a British accent. He preferred probing her throat.

By now she was quite rubbery. Someone brought her water to sip. She gulped it and asked for more. They didn’t know she meant water.

Instead, they sent the next quintet in to get swallowed and shag her anew.

She wished she had a few more orifices. The three she had working were feeling quite raw.

The current basketball lineup stepped back to give her some air. She nodded gratefully before suggesting they resume the game where they’d left off, hoping to get this over with more quickly.

At last she was down to four players and then three and two more.

With the last contestant, she mumbled, Slow down, please, be gentle, I want to enjoy this.

He did and got an extra squeeze when he came.

As for the encore performances? Most of the guys had already left.

If she thought the remainder had decided to be gentlemen and take pity on her, she was mistaken. When offered a second round, they backed off.

No, man, she’s destroyed. We fucking destroyed her!

Nuda was too fatigued to get out of bed. It's where she spent the rest of the night.

(o)(o)

Somewhere after midnight, she was holding a client's penis when it fell off. She turned it around and looked inside, where it had three stained glass windows in a tiny chapel and smelled musty like a damp dungeon. When she crawled in, she faced a flight of stairs and started climbing to what turned out to be a bell tower. An orange monster was holding court and stopped to glare at her. A flock of pigeons fly in her face.

(o)(o)

When she came to the next morning, a vase of twenty bloody roses sat in front of the big window overlooking the skyline.

Her orifices were swollen. Her back and tatas, scratched. She was sticky.

When she told Goddess her worries, Nuda was informed that each participant had to submit a blood test before being accepted.

Some relief.

Nuda got that day and the next off as compensation, not that she was in any shape to do anything.

(o)(o)

When they returned to the farm surrounded by pasturing horses, the found the Society of Sir Richard already convened and ready to have Nuda larking. Oh nadi! What a contrast, being awash in mature men who knew how to admire her and share pleasure.

Fortunately, not all of them were as big as her birthday well-wishers, either.

It was rainy when she got back to her stable-hand’s chamber, where she took comfort in the sound of the downfall drumming the roof.

(o)(o)

There was a swoosh and then she was chilly. She tried to grab her covers but couldn't. The chain yanked her arms back. Then she heard that evil chuckle, Mama's Boy, her new handler.

Maybe he was really a spider?

Good morning. And back to the routine.

Over brunch, Goddess had a surprise for Nuda, who hoped it would be better than the last one, or at least not as bad.

No, it was good, the last page of her big book of a letter to the boy she had left behind, all beautifully typed. All she had to do was sign it. Her fingers were shaking. Couldn't help it. She was finally saying farewell to him in a way she never did in real life. He meant more to her than she had appreciated at the time, even if their togetherness was doomed. I hope you're doing beautifully, I really do, she whispered to herself. And if you aren't, I can still dream of the best for you. Well, I hope you get your copy and read every word.

The original was being placed in her portfolio, wherever that was.

(o)(o)

She had another busy day ahead and was still achy from that birthday party. Leading to …

(o)(o)

Springing with disquietude

Nuda had to wonder just what happened to Grunt. There wasn’t even a confirmation the zookeeper of herself was actually gone. She hoped it was some kind of promotion. Strangely, she missed him, annoyance that he had been.

She was allowed to spend most of the day out in the sun. The day was, actually, finally, warm, once she found a corner sheltered from the breeze. Wearing nothing more than her corset and constraining jewelry had some drawbacks. In the fresh air and goosebumps, she even indulged in a pulp sci-fi novel Grunt had left behind. Was she living on another planet, abducted by aliens? Especially considering her birthday party? Please, don't anybody touch her quite yet.

At least she had her weekly jaunt into the village, especially her medical inspection, along with the usual photo session and those unpredictable dice. She really could use that massage. She was still sore all over. Having fragrant healing ointments and oils rubbed in must feel especially therapeutic. She could do without the nasty game, though.

(o)(o)

Her primary direction remained unclear. Was her master training her for his own physical satisfaction or something more disturbing? Was he really going to redeem her with a more exclusive relationship once she matriculated from this course of instruction? Was she the voluptuous rat lab in some set of pseudo-scientific experiments? Just how far could she go before breaking, anyway? The very nature of her whoredom seemed in flux. On one hand, she toiled as a very high-priced escort spending the night with the elite, but on the other, she had also experienced the fugly reality of being a common streetwalker banging away in fleabag hotels. She was also slogging away as a nude model in movies, magazines and on stage, a young wench, a sexual athlete, a courtesan, a party favor, a temple prostitute, a geisha of sorts, or, increasingly, a artist partnering with a machine and a rope specialist. Above all, though, she was Tatty's kept woman and dervish. Quite possibility, he was testing all of his options.

Her thinking on her situation kept evolving. He had brought her to a point where she was no longer passive in her service anymore, even in the act of total surrender, but then he shattered that with the uber-gangbang shebang. It was a paradox, she realized, as she explored ways to blend her screwball intuition and intrinsic resources, continually readfjusting the balance as necessary. As long as what she was doing was what Tatty or Goddess expected — no, demanded — she did not dare deem herself a sporca puttana, a ragga muffin, the embodiment of dirty troll sex, a hootbag. Others might judge her as skeezy, degenerate, damned to Hell, but what nothing could surpass the admiration she received from Tatty and Goddess in the aftermath. Her aspirations and boundaries were entirely in their hands. Her limitations were mostly in her physical body and mind.

Diametrically opposed sensations were stirred up within her. Her life could go downhill very quickly. She desperately wanted her Tatty to know she was with him all the way, wherever they were headed together. Or without him, if he so directed.

Or even with Taisho, if that was her destiny.

(o)(o)

Exposed to such usage, her body was bound to ache and resist. Orgasmic ecstasy wouldn’t last forever. It faded all too quickly. What was demanded from her was ultimately exhausting, with little time for recharge and recovery.

There was no escaping the nagging feeling that there must be a breaking point. Somewhere, sometime, ahead. She had been an emotional yo-yo for how many months now. At least it wasn’t the blah static she endured before Tatty entered her life.

What would happen if she starts screaming at one of her patrons — or unintentionally clamming up, down below? Would she be discarded? Out on the trash heap? Dismissed? Where would she even go, much less do? She couldn't bear that, but still felt within herelf a resistance to the active role of welcoming strangers to enter her body. So far, her whippings and canings were restricted to Tatty and Goddess and a few select others. But what if they decided to sell that delectation, too, to a wider clientele? Beyond that, if she isn’t fully obedient, why wouldn't they be entitled to merely destroy her?

Nothing had yet happened to spoil this misery. She was open for more.

Goddess told Nuda the patrons were remarking what a boner her sorrowful countenance aroused in them. Or should that be on them?

At least she wasn’t catatonic.

Goddess advised her to anticipate a catharsis, which is not the elimination of the source of pain but its transformation. Nuda was ready, wasn’t she?

She hated to admit looking forward to their weekly dice game, just for that reason.

Here she was, working harder than she'd ever worked before at anything. Tatty's requirements had become her night and her day.

But that work itself had become the overwhelming focus of her attention and energy, leaving little margin for anything else. Was she in danger of losing all track with the human race or even herself? Understand? She was being measured by her output, rather than her relationships. If she lost Tatty through some unforeseen consequence in becoming his workaholic, she’d lose everything. Her patrons were a haze, like those figures in the de Kooning paintings she discovered in the one interlude when she was severed from Tatty. These days, she could also be seen as one of the models in Picasso’s erotic Minotaur etchings.

The swirl of her daily life had become mechanically methodical. Almost every day featured One, Two, Three, Four, and finally Five before she was ceremonially put away for the night. She could say she’d been exiled to a penile colony. Even her breaks, the trips to perform with Choo Choo, compacted her under their mechanical overload.

According to Goddess, Nuda was looking through the wrong end of the telescope. Doing that turns the tube into a microscope. Instead of seeing stars, Nuda saw squiggling germs.

Oh.

She couldn't exactly apologize to everyone for being distant and preoccupied, rather than concentrating her energy and projecting herself forward through the tunnel of her meat sleeve.

Once the smoke cleared, she supposed she'll always be unhappy about some technicality and aggravated by some flaw or another. She even suspected that's the way Tatty wanted it. No way did she ever dare becoming complacent.

But then she was underwater in falling leaves and screaming. The light and sound became ever and ever murkier. She kept waiting for the credits to roll.

For once, she was afraid to wake up and get going. It wasn’t laziness but apprehension that enveloped her.

Not that she had a choice. Their training kept teaching her she couldn’t control her emotions, that she needed to accept them. Denying them or burying them would only lead to complications and distortions, such as depression rather than anger.

On the way to the shed, she noticed the ground was covered in polly noses. She picked up a few and tossed them in the air and watched them spin away. A gust came along and blew more from the maple trees, like a whole bunch of birds taking flight.

Just where was she being blown, dear Tatty? Not who she was blowing, but where she was bound.

Oh, she was bound, all right. Maybe only to let go like this.

This time last year, she was flunking out of college. She would now say it was Tatty's fault.

Once more, she would get through the day and the night.

(o)(o)

As if life was but her dreams

Even when she stayed with her master in a hotel, she was forbidden to watch the news or even flip through a newspaper. When it came to her clientele, she could't tell who was famous or not. It added to her value.

At the farm, all five in a day would get the VIP treatment. It was lovely when they responded in kind.

She got down to it. All the particulars, starting with carabiner clips and bungee cords.

On one trip homeward from a Choo Choo performance, they stopped for dinner party with