Turkey Shoot With Bondage & Tantalizes

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He devises them as turkeys.To him these dolls are nothing more than meat. He sees himself as a hunter, a dude who luvs 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 strapped behind their backs, their hands taped. They are ball-gagged with tubing restrained in place with wire 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 tiny 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 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 erupting pellets, intimidating them up good. After all, he wants to be challenged. He’s looking for sport, just a tiny fun. They run through the forest all in a flurry, screaming, squawking. Open season on girl. The ash-blonde is the first to drop. He takes the others down too, the dark haired and the black-haired girl. The marks of paintball run in rivulets down their soft flesh in crimson trails. It is peaceful 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 strapped breasts, bouncing with the juggle of the truck. They make a flurry of appalled chirps. He stops the truck and opens the back gate. To each pair of ankles, he affixes a rope. Then he moves the truck forth so that they are dragged out of the back by the ankles. He raises each of them up, their figures stringing up upside down in the middle of the woods. He slaps asses. He plays with their melons and nipples, cock-squeezing from the cold. His tough thumbs twist and knead, doing with them whatever he wants. Evening comes. A fire burns beside a pond. All trio dolls are standing, strapped stiffly 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 ash-blonde is chosen. She is locked into the rungs of the frame, her gams spread, forearms locked behind her back, and a iron pub push into her cunt. It keeps her very still, so that the fire can do its work. She sighs stiff as the fever grows, baking, her chest heaving. The other 2 dolls are given the task of making sure she’s roasted nice 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 plead to be revved again. An apple is shoved into the blond’s mouth. She is quieter now. As however she is providing up, letting go. As however she can forget her body. She is basted and barbecued, her obese melons wiped with sauce, cascading down into the fire. Cream runs in rivulets from her knees. The flush of her assets may remind him of the pinkish inner glisten of pussy. When the lips are stretched and wet, just before the plunge, and now the aroma can occasionally be smoky.