Turkey Shoot

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He thinks of them as turkeys.To him these damsels are nothing more than meat. He sees himself as a hunter, a guy who loves new 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 bound behind their backs, their forearms taped. They are ball-gagged with tubing confined in place with rope ties. A few 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 nipping coffee in your home. And the next thing you know, you are naked. And he has a gun. And there is really nothing else to do, is there? When he tells you to run. You run like hell. He hauls them outside and unchains them and commences gushing 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 forest all in a flurry, screaming, squawking. Open season on girl. The blondie is the first-ever to drop. He takes the others down too, the black-haired and the black-haired girl. The marks of paintball run in rivulets down their gentle flesh in crimson trails. It is calm in the woods. Their bods 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 camper and opens the back gate. To each pair of ankles, he links a rope. Then he moves the camper forth so that they are dragged out of the back by the ankles. He raises each of them up, their bods stringing up upside down in the middle of the woods. He spanks asses. He plays with their titties 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 three damsels are standing, bound firmly together at the neck, hobbled this way, moaning, whining 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 iron grill that he sets on two 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 blondie is chosen. She is locked into the rungs of the frame, her gams spread, palms locked behind her back, and a iron bar thrust into her cunt. It keeps her highly still, so that the fire can do its work. She sighs hard as the warmth grows, baking, her pecs heaving. The other two damsels are given the task of making sure she’s roasted super-cute and even. Her flesh goes 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 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 lush titties wiped with sauce, cascading down into the fire. Testicle tonic drips from her knees. The flush of her bod 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 aroma can sometimes be smoky.