Hard-core Turkey's Bondage & discipline Bevy

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He invents them as turkeys.To him these nymphs are nothing more than meat. He witnesses himself as a hunter, a boy who likes fresh meat. And so it begins. They are naked, his girls. There are 3 of them. He has them in his hunting cabin. Their forearms are tied behind their backs, their arms taped. They are ball-gagged with tubing confined in place with cable ties. Several soles of chain run from neck to neck, so that they are leashed to one another. He sits. He tells them about a turkey shoot. As he talks, he assembles his gun. Their tiny cries and whines escalate. Who could have known? One min you are just ambling your mutt or sipping coffee in your home. And the next thing you know, you are naked. And he has a gun. And there is truly nothing else to do, is there? When he tells you to run. You run like hell. He drags them outside and unchains them and commences exploding pellets, intimidating them up good. After all, he wants to be challenged. He’s looking for sport, just a tiny fun. They run through the forest all in a flurry, screaming, squawking. Open season on girl. The light-haired is the highly first to drop. He takes the others down too, the dark haired and the black-haired girl. The marks of paintball drip down their mild flesh in crimson trails. It is peaceful in the woods. Their figures lie still, white, silent. They are side by side in the back of his truck, all on their stomachs, all in hogties, all gagged. They rock back and forth on tied breasts, juggling with the bounce of the truck. They make a flurry of appalled chirps. He stops the camper and opens the back gate. To each pair of ankles, he fastens a rope. Then he moves the camper forth so that they are dragged out of the back by the ankles. He hoists each of them up, their figures hanging upside down in the middle of the woods. He spanks asses. He plays with their melons and nipples, taut from the cold. His rough thumbs twist and knead, doing with them whatever he wants. Evening comes. A fire burns beside a pond. All 3 nymphs are standing, tied tightly together at the neck, hobbled this way, moaning, sniveling in the cold. They shuffle close to the fire. But soon it is too hot. They jostle back and forth, jug to breast, their flesh luminous in the dark. He arrives with a iron grill that he sets on 2 posts. It is in the form of a body. He tells them they have to determine who is going to be cooked tonight. It is for them to decide. They moan. They cry, moving backward, clustered together, the human cook basket waiting. The light-haired is chosen. She is locked into the rungs of the frame, her gams spread, forearms locked behind her back, and a iron club shovel into her cunt. It keeps her highly still, so that the fire can do its work. She sighs hard as the warmth grows, baking, her torso heaving. The other 2 nymphs are given the task of making sure she’s roasted ultra-cute and even. Her flesh heads red. Satisfy hurry, she says, please, Satisfy hurry. And so they turn her so she can cook the other side and beg to be revved again. An apple is shoveled into the blond’s mouth. She is quieter now. As though she is giving up, letting go. As though she can leave behind her body. She is basted and barbecued, her obese melons wiped with sauce, dribbling down into the fire. Cream runs in rivulets from her knees. The flush of her bod may remind him of the pink inward sparkle of pussy. When the lips are stretched and wet, just before the plunge, and now the smell can sometimes be smoky.