Lorelei, 912, Moonshine - Turkey Shoot

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He thinks of them as turkeys.To him these dolls are nothing more than meat. He observes himself as a hunter, a dude who enjoys new meat. And so it begins. They are naked, his girls. There are trio of them. He has them in his hunting cabin. Their forearms are bound behind their backs, their hands taped. They are gagged with tubing held in place with strap 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 lil sobs and snivels escalate. Who could have known? One min you are just ambling your or nipping coffee in your home. And the next thing you know, you are naked. And he has a gun. And there is indeed 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, scaring 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 blond is the highly first to drop. He takes the others down too, the brunette and the black-haired girl. The marks of paintball run in rivulets down their sensitized skin in crimson trails. It is tranquil 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 bound breasts, juggling with the juggle of the truck. They make a flurry of appalled chirps. He stops the van and opens the back gate. To each pair of ankles, he fastens 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 figures hanging upside down in the middle of the woods. He smacks asses. He plays with their funbags and nipples, tight from the cold. His harsh fingers twist and knead, doing with them whatever he wants. Evening comes. A fire burns beside a pond. All trio dolls are standing, bound rigidly together at the neck, hobbled this way, moaning, whining in the cold. They shuffle close to the fire. But shortly it is too hot. They jostle back and forth, knocker to breast, their skin 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 blond is chosen. She is locked into the rungs of the frame, her gams spread, forearms locked behind her back, and a iron pub thrust into her cunt. It keeps her highly still, so that the fire can do its work. She sighs firm as the fever grows, baking, her pecs heaving. The other 2 dolls are given the task of making sure she’s roasted nice and even. Her skin heads red. Sate hurry, she says, please, Sate hurry. And so they turn her so she can cook the other side and plead to be revved again. An apple is shoveled into the blond’s mouth. She is quieter now. As though she is providing up, letting go. As though she can forget her body. She is basted and barbecued, her obese funbags wiped with sauce, running in rivulets down into the fire. Juices cascades from her knees. The flush of her figure may remind him of the rosy inward sparkle of pussy. When the lips are opened up and wet, just before the plunge, and now the odor can from time to time be smoky.