Turkey Shoot - Lorelei, 912, Moonshine

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He invents them as turkeys.To him these women are nothing more than meat. He sees himself as a hunter, a boy who loves fresh meat. And so it begins. They are naked, his girls. There are trio of them. He has them in his hunting cabin. Their palms are strapped behind their backs, their hands taped. They are ball-gagged with tubing restricted in place with cord 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 little sobs and whinges escalate. Who could have known? One minute you are just ambling your or supping coffee in your home. And the next thing you know, you are naked. And he has a gun. And there is truly 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 gushing pellets, scaring them up good. After all, he wants to be challenged. He’s looking for sport, just a little fun. They run thru the forest all in a flurry, screaming, squawking. Open season on girl. The blond is the first to drop. He takes the others down too, the black-haired and the black-haired girl. The marks of paintball dribble down their mushy 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 strapped breasts, juggling with the juggle of the truck. They make a flurry of terrified 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 raises each of them up, their bods draping 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 harsh fingers twist and knead, doing with them whatever he wants. Evening comes. A fire burns beside a pond. All trio women are standing, strapped rigidly together at the neck, hobbled this way, moaning, sniveling in the cold. They shuffle close to the fire. But briefly it is too hot. They jostle back and forth, breast 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 blond is chosen. She is locked into the rungs of the frame, her gams spread, palms locked behind her back, and a iron pub shovel into her cunt. It keeps her highly still, so that the fire can do its work. She breathes rock hard as the fever grows, baking, her pecs heaving. The other 2 women are given the task of making sure she’s roasted ultra-cute and even. Her flesh heads red. Satiate hurry, she says, please, Satiate hurry. And so they turn her so she can cook the other side and pray to be revved 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 round fun bags wiped with sauce, dripping down into the fire. Cream dribbles from her knees. The flush of her body may remind him of the pinkish inward sparkle of pussy. When the lips are stretched and wet, just before the plunge, and now the smell can from time to time be smoky.