Destroyed By Ducks
Passion in the Pond
I had always fantasised about ducks. Their glistening beaks, the slap of their webbed feet against the concrete; their moist plumage aroused me. My daily walk to the pond was never leisurely… it was a necessity.
It all began early in my childhood. I walked with my mother and father to the local pond, once or twice a week, a bag of stale bread in hand. Little did I know, this would turn out to be the origins of my hunger; the first page in the chapter of 'my desires.'
I saw him waddling from the pond - wet all over, majestic as ever. Gerald, we came to call him. Gerald… how I lusted for him.
"Deidre," my parents would call, "we need to go now!"
They never did catch me playing with myself in public, near the pond. I used to imagine, that on one journey there I would trip on a stone and he would mount me, thrusting wildly, like the feral beast he is. I would scream in pleasure as he fucked my tight, virgin pussy.
"Quack!" I would yell as I creamed on his salty rod.
But, sadly, years have passed now and I am old and Gerald has died - I still visit the pond in the slight hope that Gerald would return and fuck me gently.
It was a Sunday.
I had chosen today because I knew the park would be quiet around 12 - midday mass was popular in our area and the majority of regular pond-goers attended. I had been planning for months now, an idea that might finally indulge my sexual desire; might quench the thirst I had for salty duck sperm.
I took up my usual spot by the memorial bench, checking the space around me for passers-by that might catch a glimpse of my dirty sin.
The ducks approached, eagerly - but unaware of the absolute pleasure they were about to receive. I knew it was the bread they wanted, but they were to get so much more.
"Come on little duckies…" I purred, "I have a special surprise for you today…"
I lifted myself slowly from the seat, my emphysema restricting my pace. My weathered hands clutched fistfuls of bread, offering it to the crowd behind me. I led them round to a thick bush nearer the shore of the pond - certain from weeks of research that it obstructed the view of any bystanders. I then proceeded to lie down on slightly sodden grass, a fiery passion building up between my legs.
"Come on, boys," I whispered, mustering all my desire, "dinner time."
I hoisted the hem of my skirt, up over my pruned legs - hoping the slight, distinctly-aquatic smell would entice them further. Slowly and seductively, I took my final slice of Hovis and let it rest in the crusty canyon between my legs.
My passion was overcoming my senses now, I had already started to cream.
Breaking from the crowd, the dominant duck stood before my quivering legs, staring into my bleak abyss. Proud and erect, he ruffled his feathers and shuffled forward, preparing to dive in. I noticed atop his head a short, red feather, outright and extravagant, standing as stiff as a hair in the depths of winter. 'Plucky', I thought, 'that's your name…'
His back leg pointed behind him as he prepared to sprint, a runner ready to race. My breathing increased; I was surely moments away from experiencing the pleasure of my most intense fantasy. I'd waited for this moment… since the first time I'd met Gerald.
"This is for you Gerald", I whispered into the wind.
Plucky preceded with absolute purpose.
I felt the smooth tip of his bill catching my aging clit as he pecked at the bread nestled between my lips; I'd made it too easy for him and the moment ceased before I'd had time to fully indulge my passions. To make this work, the bread certainly had to be further in. I reached to the bag of stale bread, slipped my hand inside and tore off a moulding crust. Forcefully, I buried the wad of bread deep within me - this time I knew this pleasure would last. I let my fingers linger near his bill hoping he might smell the blend of stale-sweetness and feminine juices. His eyes widened; round two began.
This time his beak entered me fully and I let out a moan of ecstasy, giggling to myself. As I laughed, I could still feel the clump of bread clogging my insides. It was then I realised…he wasn't going for the bread, he wanted me.
Retracting his beak, my heart sunk, was this it? Was that all I was allowed? Would I ever have this chance again? But then a noise distracted me from my thoughts, a noise I'd only ever dreamt about - like a slug sliming up the garden path or wet saliva frothing in the mouth - I heard the sound of his soft, coiled 'ankle spanker'; his 'beaver cleaver'; his slimy poultry cock releasing itself from Pandora's Box.
It was too much - knowing the pleasure that was about to befall me; a tear of happiness dribbled from the corner of my sagging eyes. One thought led to another and my insides began to quiver. White, creamy fluids seeped from my pussy like a leaking yogurt pot.
Plucky (and his anal impaler) saw my pussy-juice as an invitation to commence in the act we'd both been waiting for. I sat up and saw what was about to enter me…
My first impression was that of pure delight as the massive duck phallus hung from his belly like a precious pendant, holding the key to my heart. Pink and fleshy, like an earthworm, I could see the veins pulsing as the blood pumped into his penis, engorging it to a firm, avian love-stick. Waddling towards me, his dick pointed forwards like a lance as we began our joust of desire.
His dip-stick plunged into the depths of my body. I quivered with delight. My hands, beside me, clutched clumps of grass and debris as I felt dark pleasure coarse through my veins. In, out, in, out… I could hear the squish and squelch of my love-bucket in the distance - my ear's main concerns were the stifled moans escaping from my dry, cracked lips.
"Qua… qua…" my muted voice whined, unable to finish each word.
This was perfect. I wanted to stay in this moment forever.
A jealous squabbling erupted from the crowd of beasts at my feet, as they began to grow restless with what little action they were getting. I felt the mood in the air change from sweet and erotic to suddenly dark and aggressive. I was scared. My vagina naturally tensed, crushing Plucky's pleasure-coil. He squawked in pain and then fury. That's when he started to bite.
Nipping sharply at the inside of my mutton chop legs, Plucky flapped his wings violently. The others followed swiftly, acting on predatory instinct, snapping at my hands, feet and tearing my clothes. My sagging, left breast flopped out from beneath my now-torn clothes; I yelped in fright and went to cover it with my right hand but I was too late… the ducks were upon me. Ripping, biting, slicing; they were all over my breast. Amongst the absolute pain, I managed to catch a downward glance at my tattered body. They had mutilated me. Blood poured from my wounded flesh; I tried to scream but the pain overcame my wish, I merely had to be gang-raped in silence.
More slimy drills began to appear around me, cobras waiting to strike. But where could they even enter me? Plucky was still busy ravaging my love-sponge, there surely wasn't room for any more? How wrong I was. With brittle beaks, the beasts tore off my soaked minge flaps to accommodate for another four bush beaters - they shared the elasticated fanny flaps between them, acting as if it were the last na'an in a curry house. I could feel more cocks attempting to enter my already-torn vagina but there was no space for more. Instinctively, the ducks began search for other points of entry.
My mouth, ears, nose, belly-button, breasts - and several other holes that weren't there before the encounter - were being solidly fucked. The pain was excruciating.
"Deidre Miller, sixty-seven, lives on her own - a widow - on the corner of Times Street."
Yellow tape surrounded the old woman, or rather what was left of her, in Chelton Park. The police had found her thirty-six hours after the incident, they announced in their statement. They hadn't released the details of what exactly had happened.
I stood by the bush, notebook and pen in hand. I had to look away from the mutilated body, the smell was horrific. This was the big scoop of the year; people talked of another 'Jack the Ripper' or 'Black Dahlia', the press was on the edge. I was sure that this would secure my promotion, if I got this story, I needed to find the truth.
"Is there anything specific you can tell me, Officer?" I tentatively asked the crooked man in the night black overcoat. He looked at me, shady eyed, peering over his stubby nose and neatly combed moustache.
"We're not entirely sure of the cause of death quite yet, ma'am."
I looked at him with pleading eyes. I could see the guilt wash across his face as he considered what to tell me.
"Well… what they say is… I mean, what the rumour is…"
"Yes?" I pleaded, impatient.
"They say it was ducks."