Lorelei, 912, Moonshine - Turkey Shoot

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He devises them as turkeys.To him these women are nothing more than meat. He observes himself as a hunter, a stud who loves new meat. And so it begins. They are naked, his girls. There are 3 of them. He has them in his hunting cabin. Their arms are roped behind their backs, their forearms taped. They are ball-gagged with tubing limited in place with cord ties. Several feet 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 lil' cries and whimpers escalate. Who could have known? One min you are just ambling your mutt or quaffing 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 hauls them outside and unchains them and embarks exploding pellets, panicking them up good. After all, he wants to be challenged. He’s looking for sport, just a lil' fun. They run thru the forest all in a flurry, screaming, squawking. Open season on girl. The platinum-blonde is the highly first to drop. He takes the others down too, the dark-haired and the black-haired girl. The marks of paintball cascade down their mushy flesh in crimson trails. It is quiet in the woods. Their bodies 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 roped breasts, juggling with the juggle of the truck. They make a flurry of horrified chirps. He stops the van and opens the back gate. To each pair of ankles, he links a rope. Then he moves the van forth so that they are dragged out of the back by the ankles. He lifts each of them up, their bodies dangling upside down in the middle of the woods. He slaps asses. He plays with their tits and nipples, tight from the cold. His tough fingers twist and knead, doing with them whatever he wants. Evening comes. A fire burns beside a pond. All 3 women are standing, roped firmly together at the neck, hobbled this way, moaning, sniveling in the cold. They shuffle close to the fire. But briefly it is too hot. They jostle back and forth, melon to breast, their flesh luminous in the dark. He arrives with a metal grill that he sets on two posts. It is in the shape 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 platinum-blonde is chosen. She is locked into the rungs of the frame, her gams spread, arms locked behind her back, and a metal pub shovel into her cunt. It keeps her highly still, so that the fire can do its work. She breathes rock-hard as the heat grows, baking, her pecs heaving. The other two women are given the task of making sure she’s roasted super-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 tho' she is providing up, letting go. As tho' she can leave behind her body. She is basted and barbecued, her chubby tits wiped with sauce, dribbling down into the fire. Fluid runs in rivulets from her knees. The flush of her bod may remind him of the rosy internal sparkle of pussy. When the lips are stretched and wet, just before the plunge, and now the odor can at times be smoky.