Duck for Cover

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?

Dettagli