Turkey Shoot - Lorelei, 912, Moonshine

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He invents them as turkeys.To him these femmes are nothing more than meat. He observes himself as a hunter, a fellow who enjoys fresh meat. And so it begins. They are naked, his girls. There are 3 of them. He has them in his hunting cabin. Their arms are roped behind their backs, their arms taped. They are ball-gagged with tubing limited in place with string 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' 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 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 embarks gushing 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 first-ever to drop. He takes the others down too, the dark-haired and the black-haired girl. The marks of paintball cascade down their soft flesh in crimson trails. It is noiseless 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 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 attaches a rope. Then he moves the camper forth so that they are dragged out of the back by the ankles. He elevates each of them up, their bodies hanging upside down in the middle of the woods. He slaps asses. He plays with their funbags and nipples, cock-squeezing from the cold. His rough frigs twist and knead, doing with them whatever he wants. Evening comes. A fire burns beside a pond. All 3 femmes are standing, roped tightly 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, 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 towheaded is chosen. She is locked into the rungs of the frame, her gams spread, arms locked behind her back, and a iron club 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 torso heaving. The other 2 femmes are given the task of making sure she’s roasted adorable and even. Her flesh heads 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 chubby funbags wiped with sauce, running in rivulets down into the fire. Mayo drips from her knees. The flush of her body may remind him of the rosy inward glisten of pussy. When the lips are opened up and wet, just before the plunge, and now the odor can from time to time be smoky.