Turkey Shoot

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He thinks of them as turkeys.To him these women are nothing more than meat. He observes himself as a hunter, a dude who likes 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 trussed behind their backs, their mitts taped. They are ball-gagged with tubing restricted in place with cord ties. A few 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 whines escalate. Who could have known? One min you are just ambling your mutt 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 begins spewing out 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 ash-blonde is the first-ever to drop. He takes the others down too, the brunette and the black-haired girl. The marks of paintball drip down their soft flesh in red trails. It is silent 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 trussed breasts, bouncing with the bounce 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 figures suspending upside down in the middle of the woods. He smacks asses. He plays with their fun bags and nipples, cock-squeezing from the cold. His tough frigs twist and knead, doing with them whatever he wants. Evening comes. A fire burns beside a pond. All trio women are standing, trussed 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, bap to breast, their flesh luminous in the dark. He arrives with a iron grill that he sets on 2 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 ash-blonde is chosen. She is locked into the rungs of the frame, her gams spread, forearms locked behind her back, and a iron club shove into her cunt. It keeps her highly still, so that the fire can do its work. She breathes hard as the fever grows, baking, her pecs heaving. The other 2 women are given the task of making sure she’s roasted uber-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 plead to be turned 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 forget her body. She is basted and barbecued, her lush fun bags wiped with sauce, dribbling down into the fire. Juices dribbles from her knees. The flush of her body may remind him of the pinkish inner glisten of pussy. When the lips are opened up and wet, just before the plunge, and now the odor can periodically be smoky.