Turkeys

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He thinks of them as turkeys.To him these nymphs are nothing more than meat. He watches himself as a hunter, a fellow 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 forearms are tied behind their backs, their forearms taped. They are ball-gagged with tubing held in place with strap 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 little sobs and whinges escalate. Who could have known? One minute you are just walking your dog or sipping 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 commences erupting pellets, frightening them up good. After all, he wants to be challenged. He’s looking for sport, just a little fun. They run through the forest all in a flurry, screaming, squawking. Open river on girl. The blonde 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 delicate flesh in crimson trails. It is silent 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 tied breasts, juggling with the juggle of the truck. They make a flurry of horrified 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 elevates each of them up, their bods draping upside down in the middle of the woods. He slaps asses. He plays with their globes and nipples, cock-squeezing from the cold. His harsh thumbs twist and knead, doing with them whatever he wants. Evening comes. A fire burns beside a pond. All trio nymphs are standing, tied rigidly together at the neck, hobbled this way, moaning, sniveling in the cold. They shuffle close to the fire. But soon 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 blonde is chosen. She is locked into the rungs of the frame, her gams spread, forearms locked behind her back, and a iron bar push into her cunt. It keeps her highly still, so that the fire can do its work. She sighs rock hard as the heat grows, baking, her pecs heaving. The other 2 nymphs are given the task of making sure she’s roasted adorable and even. Her flesh goes red. Please hurry, she says, please, satiate hurry. And so they turn her so she can cook the other side and plead to be turned again. An apple is pushed into the blond’s mouth. She is quieter now. As however she is providing up, letting go. As however she can leave behind her body. She is basted and barbecued, her round globes wiped with sauce, cascading down into the fire. Cream drips from her knees. The flush of her bod may remind him of the pink inward glisten of pussy. When the lips are spread and wet, just before the plunge, and now the aroma can occasionally be smoky.