Lorelei, 912, Moonshine Turkey Shoot - Insex

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He invents them as turkeys.To him these damsels are nothing more than meat. He observes himself as a hunter, a stud who enjoys new meat. And so it begins. They are naked, his girls. There are 3 of them. He has them in his hunting cabin. Their mitts are roped behind their backs, their mitts taped. They are ball-gagged with tubing restricted in place with strap ties. Several soles of chain run from neck to neck, so that they are tethered to one another. He sits. He tells them about a turkey shoot. As he talks, he assembles his gun. Their lil' sobs 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 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 starts 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 towheaded is the very first to drop. He takes the others down too, the black-haired and the black-haired girl. The marks of paintball dribble down their sensitized flesh in red trails. It is peaceful 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 bounce of the truck. They make a flurry of terrified chirps. He stops the car and opens the back gate. To each pair of ankles, he fastens a rope. Then he moves the car forth so that they are dragged out of the back by the ankles. He raises each of them up, their bodies suspending upside down in the middle of the woods. He slaps asses. He plays with their tits and nipples, tight from the cold. His tough thumbs twist and knead, doing with them whatever he wants. Evening comes. A fire burns beside a pond. All 3 damsels are standing, roped rigidly together at the neck, hobbled this way, moaning, whinging in the cold. They shuffle close to the fire. But shortly it is too hot. They jostle back and forth, funbag 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 towheaded is chosen. She is locked into the rungs of the frame, her gams spread, mitts locked behind her back, and a iron club shovel into her cunt. It keeps her very still, so that the fire can do its work. She breathes rigid as the fever grows, baking, her pecs heaving. The other 2 damsels are given the task of making sure she’s roasted nice and even. Her flesh goes red. Sate hurry, she says, please, Sate hurry. And so they turn her so she can cook the other side and beg to be revved again. An apple is pushed 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 lush tits wiped with sauce, dribbling down into the fire. Splooge drips from her knees. The flush of her body may remind him of the pink inward glisten of pussy. When the lips are stretched and wet, just before the plunge, and now the aroma can occasionally be smoky.