Lorelei, 912, moonshine turkey shoot insexlove

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He thinks of them as turkeys.To him these ladies are nothing more than meat. He witnesses himself as a hunter, a boy who enjoys fresh meat. And so it begins. They are naked, his girls. There are three of them. He has them in his hunting cabin. Their palms are roped behind their backs, their palms taped. They are gagged with tubing restricted 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 lil cries and whinges escalate. Who could have known? One min you are just ambling your or sipping 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, frightening them up good. After all, he wants to be challenged. He’s looking for sport, just a lil fun. They run thru the woods 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 mild skin in crimson trails. It is noiseless 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 forward on roped 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 forward 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 hooters 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 three ladies are standing, roped rigidly together at the neck, hobbled this way, moaning, sniveling in the cold. They shuffle close to the fire. But shortly it is too hot. They jostle back and forth, breast 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 towheaded is chosen. She is locked into the rungs of the frame, her gams spread, palms locked behind her back, and a iron club shove into her cunt. It keeps her very still, so that the fire can do its work. She sighs rigid as the warmth grows, baking, her chest heaving. The other 2 ladies are given the task of making sure she’s roasted super-cute and even. Her skin heads red. Satiate hurry, she says, please, Satiate hurry. And so they turn her so she can cook the other side and beg to be revved again. An apple is shoved 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 plump hooters wiped with sauce, cascading down into the fire. Splooge runs in rivulets from her knees. The flush of her assets may remind him of the rosy internal glisten of pussy. When the lips are stretched and wet, just before the plunge, and now the aroma can occasionally be smoky.