Part Six - The Hunt Ball
It had been a couple of weeks since the incident at Sam & Nic’s warehouse, where I had nearly ended up being sold, to be cooked and eaten at a festival by the crowds. It had only been Nic’s keen eye that she had spotted me hanging there in the storeroom and saved me from my ultimate fate. I was pissed off with Ollie leaving me like that after promising a weekend away where we could reconnect after my recent workload.
After we returned home, I retreated to the spare bedroom, but found that I couldn’t sleep, so I took myself down to the storeroom and bound myself, placing the nipple tag and then the bag over my head and then joining the other meatgirls that were stored there and spent a blissful night among them. It was Matt who found me the next morning; Ollie had thought that I was sleeping in and had decided to leave me alone. He grabbed me to prepare for a delivery order, but then realised that it was me lying there, but he still trussed me up like I had been sold and prepared me like he had done countless times to many other meatgirls.
I thought that these were my last moments, that I had made a mistake in binding myself last night, and I tried to communicate through my gag that I wasn’t really a meatgirl, but all that came out were muffled grunts; the gag was too effective in silencing the meatgirls. It was only when he’d finished preparing me and slapped my butt, that I began to relax and that Matt had been teasing me all along.
But if I thought that I’d be free soon, Matt had other ideas, he said that he loved seeing me trussed up and that I had brightened his day, so I would remain bound as I was and put on display, just like I have been in the past, and that he could watch me squirming in the cabinet. I would hope that I would have been given a reason to ‘squirm’ as he called it, maybe his fingers finding certain parts of this delicious meatgirl for his, and my own, entertainment. But as Matt had stipulated before, he didn’t mind keeping me as a meatgirl, tying me up and treating me like I wanted, he drew the line, reluctantly, he had said, at taking advantage of my naked, bound body.
After that day, things got hectic at my work again, so the chances of being bound and stored away, even by Matt’s hands, were now put on the back burner. I was still slightly annoyed with Ollie for the trick at Sam and Nic’s place, but eventually allowed him to bind me to the bed one night for his fun and my pleasure. Other than that, each day was a mundane chore of working late, coming home and heading for bed, and then repeating the next day.
It was only when I received a phone call from Marjorie, the owner of the meatgirl processing facility, that things brightened up for me.
“I’m organising a charity meatgirl event that you might just be interested in,” she said, “It’ll be good if you could join in the weekend's festivities.”
“Sounds like it might be fun, any chance to become a meatgirl again is good in my books, sign me up,” I replied, even without knowing the details, I trusted Marjorie and had helped out at the facility many times, and the fact that it would annoy Ollie that I wouldn’t be around next weekend, just as payback for what he’d done to me.
“That’s fantastic, I’m sure that it’ll be to your liking,” she responded, “I was hoping that you’d say yes.”
“Of course, how could I say no, you know me too well,” I laughed. “Give me the details, if you can.”
“Of course darling, the weekend will be held by a very good friend of mine, he had a large manor house with an extensive wooded area, just right for privacy and our little event,” she continued, ”There has been a great response, not only from the meatgirls, but also from the invitations that have been sent out to select people who would be interested. There had already been so many replies and acceptances that the event would now be spread out the entire weekend and broken up into two sessions per day, making five in total, one on Friday afternoon, two on Saturday and again two on Sunday.”
“That’s amazing, so what’s involved with the meatgirls then?” I asked.
“Well, the meatgirls would be stored away overnight in the basement of the mansion, the owner has a large storeroom kitted out just for meatgirls, and that once all of the meatgirls have been delivered, you will all remain naked, and be treated like you are all just meatgirls, though I stipulate, not the edible part of that.” she joked, “Though some of you girls might like that.”
Marjorie continued, “There’s a large wooded area where the meatgirls would be set free to run and hide, and then the charity participants would begin to hunt them down. Once captured, they would bind them and carry them to a drop-off point.”
“What will they be using to hunt the meatgirls with, not arrows, I hope,” I asked.
“Oh no, nothing like that, it would just be paintball guns, it might sting a little when they hit, but with the distance that the meatgirls would be from the hunter, it shouldn’t be too much to bear, got to keep you girls safe, you know,” she said.
I was really intrigued by what she was telling me, and once all the details were worked out, I told her I was looking forward to the weekend. Of course, Ollie was so disappointed that I wouldn’t be around this weekend, but I’m sure that he’d already made some plans for golf or fishing, and I would have spent the weekend alone or in the company of the other meatgirls in the storeroom, not that it was bad, just it wouldn’t have been as much fun as what I was expecting from the sound of the charity event.
‘And Ollie can go play with his mates.’ I thought, ‘While I have a fun weekend without him.’
I turned up at the meatgirl processing facility on Thursday afternoon, just as had been arranged by Marjorie with all the other participants, or meatgirls as we would soon become again. I knew many of them from my previous times here; some I had been bound with, while others had been run through their time here by one of the sessions that I had run while Marjorie was either away or running another batch through the facility. We chatted while we waited for everyone to show up, and once they were all here and accounted for, Marjorie welcomed and thanked us all for coming.
Someone then asked why we were all here a day early, to which Marjorie explained that we would all be processed along the line again before being stored overnight for delivery early the next morning, to which everyone was pleased about. “I thought that you’d all enjoy that.” she said.
She then again ran through the final details of the weekend. Once delivered to the manor, we would be stored in the basement storeroom until it was time for the first session of the hunt. All of our time there, we would be treated as if we were just meatgirls.
“Just a few things to point out before we start, I know that some of you may be willing or enjoy the thought of being hunted like wild animals, and I’m sure that some may even be turned on by these events, though some may not, it’s entirely up to you if you want to submit yourself to the person hunting you, I’m not one to judge,” she told everyone, “So in the interest of keeping everyone safe, you’ll all be able to choose a coloured collar to indicate your willingness or not to participate in other activities once hunted down.”
Madge then removed the cover from the table that displayed the collars.
“Green is for those willing, yellow for those who are open but not sure, and red for those who don’t wish to be the reward of the hunter. Choose your collar and place it around your neck, but once you do, there is no going back. Once you head through the door to the facility, you’ll be treated like the livestock that you truly are, and love becoming.” Marjorie stated.
Each girl chose their collar, I hesitated on the red one, could I cheat on Ollie, he certainly deserved it after that weekend, he would never know of course, and I had been desperate for Matt to use me in the store, but denied by him and his voice of reason. For you see, once I’m tied up and gagged, I’m no longer the woman you see, I become the meatgirl, an object to be used, admired, and possessed. I get highly aroused at the thought of being kept, used and treated like I’m just a product to be dealt with.
Then Marjorie interrupted my thoughts and told me to hurry up and choose; everyone was now wearing theirs, so I shut my eyes and grabbed one, not looking at what I grabbed. I asked Madge to fit it around my neck, which she willingly obliged, she snapped in on me like I was about to become her slave. The leather kissed my skin as she fastened it, my knees feeling weak at the touch of her strong hands, it felt like a promise of what was to come.
“Now that everyone is collared, it’s time to move on to processing. You’ve all been through this before, so you’ll know what to expect, so once you're through the door, strip off what you’re wearing, and Madge and Lexi will start to process you,” Marjorie said as she directed everyone.
Once past the door, the familiarity of the processing line was like a welcome homecoming. I’d been through here so many times that my hair refused to grow back, and I now wore a wig when out in public. It was a small price to pay for my fantasies and desires, and I’d do it all again in a heartbeat to experience the joys of being a meatgirl.
When it came to my turn to be fastened to the metal frame, Madge took great delight in lifting me in place and securing my wrists and ankles to the frame, her hands running over my naked body, as she had done so many times in the past. It felt great to be back in her care again. But once she'd finished, then making sure that I was secured, she pressed the button and sent me on my way down the processing line. The lingering touch of her hands was still present on my body.
Once the machines had done their work I was met at the end by the two other burly women that Marjorie employed, their rough hands grabbing me, unfastening the metal cuffs from the frame and then clipping them together, binding me again at both wrists and ankles, I was then thrown over the shoulder of one of them and carried to one of the holding pens where I joined the others who had been processed before me.
When all of the meatgirls had been run through the line, it was time to get us all ready for storage, each one was then bound hands and feet by rope and then gagged, once completed we were carried over to the storeroom where we would be spending the night, finally a bag was placed over our heads and the feeding tube applied to the gag, each one was pressed up tightly against the next. Once everyone was settled, the door was closed and locked from the outside, with Marjorie keeping the key, knowing of things happening in the past with meatgirls and their handlers.
The next morning, we were all a bit tired and worn out from the night’s events in the storeroom, and quite enjoyable it was too. We awoke to the feeding tubes giving us our first taste of the meatgirl fluid that was used to sustain them. This would be our only food for the weekend, while others in the manor house above us dined on roasted meatgirls and other fine foods. Shortly after our feeding, the door was opened, and they started carrying out the hot and sweaty meatgirls to the waiting truck for delivery.
Once each one had been secured, their wrist bindings attached to the overhead hooks, the rear doors were closed and the truck moved off with its load. The journey over was like any other that I’d experienced, just a few bumps and curves that shifted the meatgirls in the back, but other than that nothing to write home about, other than the thought of being delivered as just meatgirls to some shop, where we would be sold for our flesh and that this had all been a trick of Marjorie’s part to earn some extra cash. Well, one can fantasise about that happening...
The truck finally stopped, and the rear doors opened to reveal its cargo. Several hands started grabbing the closest meatgirls and carrying them to the basement storeroom. It was hard to see anything with the bag over my head; it cut out all but the shadowed outlines of the people around me. I then felt hands grabbing me, lifting me off of the hook and then throwing me over their shoulder. There was no real finesse; it was just grab, carry and then dump in the storeroom, and then repeat. They carried me like I was just a lump of meat, which I guess I was at that point. Though my arse was slapped once, and whoever was carrying me slipped their finger where it didn’t belong, finding it very warm and wet inside of me.
Once the final meatgirl had been unloaded, the door to the storeroom was closed, sealing us all inside. What I didn’t know was the fact that we were being stored among the real meatgirls delivered from the local supplier; we looked identical to them in every way, except for the collars around our necks, but those were currently hidden under the bags covering our heads. We settled down in our new storage location. It was the life of a meatgirl to experience the many hands that touched them, the different storerooms that they found themselves hanging in by their wrists, until the final day that they were sold or eventually roasted or spitted.
After a while, the door opened again, but it was only to grab two of the meatgirls for tonight’s feast; we were left to enjoy our time in the storeroom in our usual fashion. But eventually it was time for the first session of the meatgirl hunt, we were all carried out, and finally the bags were removed from our heads so that we could see where we were. Marjorie was standing there watching as the ropes binding our limbs were also removed, and then finally the gags.
“Welcome meatgirls to our first ever hunt, I’m sure that you’ll be delighted to say hello to our host Lord Reginald, whose property we’re using for this event,” Marjorie stated, and then gestured to the well-dressed gentleman standing beside her wearing a tweed hunting jacket and britches, flat cap on his head, all unmistakably traditional shooting-party attire for a pheasant hunt, I guess that we were the pheasants.
“Thank you, ladies, for allowing this event to take place. I hope that you enjoy your experience here at the manor,” Lord Reginald spoke, “I look forward to some fine hunting over the weekend.”
“Thank you Lord Reginald, now ladies, or should I say meatgirls, the plan for this afternoon is for you to go into those woods behind you, you’ll have thirty minutes to run and disappear into the forest, but don’t try to hide, it’s not in the spirit of the hunt, you’re all wild animals after all, so behave like one, well to a point.” She joked, and then continued.
“But then we’ll release the hunters, who will start to track you down, the paintballs that we’re using have different colours to signify who shot the meatgirl, and they may sting a little, but once shot you’ll be expected to be captured and trussed up by the hunter, who may or may not wish to take advantage of his prey, hence the collars that you’re now wearing. Enjoy the hunt, I’ll see you all later once everyone is captured.”
“Okay, Ladies, it's time for the hunt. Good luck,” Lord Reginald said, “So go, be free, and enjoy.”
A few hesitated, but then everyone ran to the forest, naked and free. It felt liberating to frolic in the woods without a stitch of clothing on. Several ran one way, others separated and went their own way, like me. My heart was hammering at the prospect of being caught. But I was enjoying the feel of the sunshine on my skin and the touch of the dirt under my feet. I should get out and do this more often, I thought, but where would I go? I would have to investigate that, but for now, my plan was to get deeper into the woods before the hunters were released.
The sound of a horn blearing let me know that the hunters were now on their way. By now, I had found a glade with a stream running through it. To me, it was beautiful, and I stopped to admire my surroundings, even dipping my toes into the cool water. This would be a perfect place for me to stay until a hunter eventually found me. It was a while until I heard the first sounds of nearby hunters; another meatgirl had been caught and captured close by, the hunter sounding his horn to signify the successful hunt.
I had just bent down to take a sip of water when I felt the sting of the paintball as it hit me on my rear, followed shortly by another, and I fell over in the grass, wondering who it was that had found me and bagged my body. I wasn’t disappointed when he came into my view, though I pretended to keep my eyes shut. I was supposed to be dead, I guessed, now that I had been shot, but I couldn’t resist seeing who it was, curiosity killed the cat, as they say, or meatgirl in my case.
The hunter got closer; he was quite handsome in a hunter sort of way. It looked like he was delighted to have finally bagged his first meatgirl. “Got you, little doe.” he said.
His hands felt firm on my flesh, he certainly seemed to know what he was doing, there was nothing off limits to him, his hands explored my body as I lay there not moving, I was his prey, his to own and saviour to the proceeds of his successful hunting. His hands tilted my head, checking the collar that I was wearing.
Then he brought out the ropes to start binding my limbs. He just flipped me over on the ground, my face was pressed into the dirt. His touch was commanding, more like Matt back in the store, and it sent delightful feelings throughout my body as he fastened the ropes firmly around my ankles and wrists.
My ankles were secured together under his strong hands, and then my wrists were bound behind my back. As I lay there as he bound me, the rope biting my flesh deliciously, the first flushes of my arousal ran themselves through my body, his firm touch caused my nipples to became hard, my breast felt very tender and wanting, no needing to be touched, my muscles tensioned, my chest became flushed with redness, and I could not recall ever being this wet or aroused before.
But then he pressed the gag into my mouth, which I willingly opened for him like a good meatgirl, so used to wearing a gag as I was, but I did wonder why he needed it.
I was picked up bodily by him and carried a short distance over to a fallen log, he pressed me face down over it and then added more rope to secure me to the log. I began to suspect where this was now going, but now helplessly tied, gagged and alone in the woods with this man there was very little that I could do to stop anything that he wanted to do with me, I would have to accept my fate. Though it did make me now wonder just what colour collar I had picked up back at the facility, I guessed that it was green, judging by what came next, and why Madge was grinning like a Cheshire cat when she fastened it around my neck.
The silence of the clearing was interrupted by the slow dragging sound of a zipper undoing, followed shortly after by his trousers lowering. He took his time, his hands moved down to that now very tender and needy spot between my thighs, he found that I was now very wet and ready, and wasted no time with foreplay. He drove in to the hilt in a single thrust. No mercy. Just the thick heat of him splitting me open while birds sang overhead and the log scraped my belly with every stroke. I was the hunted beast after all, and soon he had plundered into the depths of my hot and wanting pussy. I let out a moan from behind the gag as he pressed himself deeper into me. I know that I should have remained quiet, being dead and such, but I just couldn’t help it.
He grunted too as he plunged himself deep inside me, grabbing my bound wrists like a handle and pressing me against the rough log, he hammered into my soft flesh, taking me, claiming me as his, it felt wonderful, although I knew that I would later have maybe some regrets for my choices, but not at this moment, I was too lost in the throes of my passion to worry about that. He growled his approval, as he continued sawing into me, the wetness building between my thighs as he took me from behind, I then felt my muscles tensioning, my back arching as it always does when I am about to cum, the beads of sweat running down my back, and then I felt the explosion happen as he released himself inside of me, I shook and spasmed around his solid member, I think that I forgot to breath at that moment, the rush of endorphins ran through me as I orgasmed in time with his own climax.
He held himself inside of me as his seed splashed against my own internal walls, they were now contracting around his firm penis, my insides feeling as if they had been thoroughly stuffed and made ready for the oven. The aftershocks caused me to shake and shiver, my body slowly recovering from the intensity of my orgasm, but he remained firm inside of me, and began again for his second shot at using me.
Once he had finished, he carried me over to the stream where he washed away the outward signs of his abuse of my body, and then once he was ready, simply threw me over his shoulder and carried me out to the drop-off point. He never once spoke to me; I was treated like I was just prey to him, which again set off my inner arousal again. This always pressed the right buttons in me. Once finished he tossed me over his shoulder like a fresh-killed deer, and then carried me to the drop-off point, his spending running down my thighs.
Once at the drop-off point, they attached some rope to my bound ankles, and I was then hoisted up to hang there upside down like the trophy that I was. Then he lined up next to me with his rifle in hand, and several photos were taken of him and his recently hunted meatgirl. Most of them showed my naked rear with the marks of where he had shot me, the paint splatter bright against pale skin.
I truly felt like I was just a piece of meat at this point, they certainly treated me like that, I heard them congratulate him on getting such a fine specimen of meatgirl, and then they spoke about how I would be roasted or spitted, to burn over the hot coals, it was the hunter's choice apparently, on how the meatgirl was prepared. “I think this one would be fine spitted,” I heard him say, the thought driving my arousal higher, could I be spitted, would I be more to the point? It seemed to me at that moment that we were really just meat in their eyes.
It was a relief to be taken down and then carted over to the open tray of a vehicle. There, I joined several other meatgirls who had all been shot and captured this afternoon. We lay there with the sun warming our bodies until the last meatgirl was captured and treated like I was with the photo session, and then she was dumped on top of me like we were all just dead meat, which I guessed again that we all were, that was the point of the hunt after all.
We were driven back to the manor house, where we were stood in a line, and then washed before being carried back down to the storeroom where we would spend the night, our gags changed for the feeding tubes, the bags pulled over our heads again, but not before I got a good look around and spotted the other meatgirls hanging there. It did make me wonder if they would make a mistake and end up preparing and cooking one of the voluntary meatgirls here for the hunt. And that, of course, fed my fantasy that night, taken and stuffed, placed inside a hot oven and roasted, then served to the waiting guests to enjoy my tender flesh.
The next morning we awoke early to the feeding tubes, this would be a busy day ahead for us, with two hunts planned, I wondered who would get me this time, and would they do the same as my previous hunter, I could only hope so, after all, this was my weekend to enjoy myself, and I certainly meant to for every last moment. There was a last minute change in plans, we would no longer be carried to the drop-off point but collected by the groundsmen.
The air was still crisp with the night’s chill as I darted through the mist-shrouded underbrush, but she was faster— a lithe huntress in fitted olive breeks and a quilted vest, her markers stung me like a predator's claw. Thwack-thwack: twin violet bursts on my hip and shoulder dropped me in mid-stride.
She circled slowly, appraising, her boots silent on the leaves. “I’ve bagged you clean,” she murmured, her voice sounding like silk over steel. She checked the collar—green—and her lips curved in a knowing smile. “Oh, my darling, we're going to have so much fun.”
She staked me out spread-eagle to the soft earth, my wrists and ankles pegged wide with tent spikes from her belt, my body arched and exposed to the morning sun. No gag this time; as she wanted to hear me cry out. She shed her gloves, then her fingers danced across my body, light at first—tracing the welts, and then circling my nipples until they pebbled hard—then she became bolder, dipping between my thighs to find me already slick and wanting.
I whimpered as she wormed a finger inside of me, then two, delving deeper between the soft folds of my lips, she stroked and teased me, her thumb began to play with my little clit, who was excited to join in and I let out a satisfied groan. She continued to play with me as she drove me on, and she knew exactly where to press my buttons, and soon I was arching my back, muscles straining against the ropes that held me in place, my pussy spasming hard against her fingers as I convulsed in the wonderful climax that overcame my body.
“So eager, so wet,” she whispered, leaning close, her breath hot on my skin.
But she wasn't done, she then knelt down between my legs, and lowered her mouth, her tongue flicking precise, teasing circles that again built the fire deep in my core. I gasped, bucked against the bonds; but she pinned my hips down with her firm hands, her tongue delving deeper, while sucking and lapping, tasting my essence and eventually drawing out a second, shuddering peak until I shattered again with a cry that echoed through the trees.
Only then did she pull back, wiping her mouth with a satisfied grin, she then took out her camera and began snapping her trophies of her successful hunt, including close-ups of the paint splatters now blooming like bruises on my skin, the ropes that were tightly biting into flesh from the sheer intensity of what she had done to me, and finally, my slick folds still glistening in the dappled forest light.
She left me staked there aching for more, untouched beyond her skilled torment, until the handlers she’d called for came to collect me. While I waited something inside of me changed, I was no longer solely the wife of Ollie, or the meatgirl, I had become more of a wanton slut, craving the touch, the abuse of my body, the ownership of being used and abused by the many hands that have used me. Would I, or could I go back to my old life now.
The afternoon light had turned honey-gold, the air thick with the smell of warm earth and crushed ferns when the second hunt of the day happened. But I’d only lasted nearly twenty minutes this time, weaving my naked body through bramble thickets that clawed red lines across my thighs and breasts. I was panting, sweat-slick, half-drunk on adrenaline when the first paintball cracked past my ear.
Three more shots then hissed through the leaves—one clipped my shoulder blade in a hot violet bloom, the next painted a stinging stripe across my ribs. I stumbled into a small clearing ringed by low oaks and crashed straight into him.
He was built like a prop forward gone slightly to seed: thick beard, his forearms like hams, with a faded regimental tattoo peeking beneath a rolled shirtsleeve. His hand already held a short length of rope.
“End of the line, girl.”
Before I could do anything he had my wrists snatched behind me and looped to a low, thick branch just above head height. The position forced me down onto my knees, arms yanked high, back arched, my breasts thrust forward like an offering to him. He checked the green collar, gave a low approving grunt, and stepped in close enough that I smelled his sweat, and something faintly medicinal (vet’s antiseptic, maybe).
He didn’t seem to be in a rush. First he walked a slow circle around me, admiring my body, his boot soles crunching leaves, studying every scratch, every welt, every bead of sweat tracing down my stomach. When he stopped in front of me again he cupped my jaw, his rough thumb brushing my lower lip.
“Open.” I did. Instantly. Shamelessly.
Expecting something else, I was stunned when he fed me two thick fingers instead, pressing down on my tongue until I gagged softly, then he withdrew them shiny with saliva. Those same fingers then slid between my legs—no warning, no warm-up—and he found me already absolutely drenched. A rough chuckle rumbled out of him.
“Christ, you’re ready to go off like a hair trigger.”
He proved it immediately: slow, deliberate strokes along my folds, circling my clit once, twice, then sinking deep and curling just right inside of me. My hips jerked; a desperate noise escaped from my mouth. He pulled out the instant my thighs started trembling.
He did it again—though faster this time, three fingers stretching me, his thumb grinding me hard—until I was whining, my head thrown back, on the absolute brink. Then nothing. Cool air where heat had previously been.
By the third round I was begging—actual words, broken and filthy—tears of frustration mixing with sweat. He just smiled, wiped his fingers across my cheek like war paint, and started the fourth. This time he kept me hanging there longer, merciless, varying the pressure until my legs shook so badly the branch creaked above me.
“Please—fuck—please—”
He finally relented, but only to free his cock: thick, heavy, already leaking. He gripped my hair, tilted my head back, and pushed past my lips in one slow, possessive slide. I took him greedily, hollowing my cheeks, desperate for any friction after the torment. He let me work for a minute—tongue swirling, throat opening—then took control, fucking my mouth with short, measured thrusts that bumped the back of my throat and made my eyes water.
When he came it was sudden and copious—hot pulses I swallowed frantically, milking him with lips and tongue until he groaned and held me flush against him, cock twitching against my palate.
Only then did he ease out, tuck himself away, and give my cheek a patronising little pat.
“Good girl. Stay just like that for pickup.”
He left me kneeling in the dirt—arms still wrenched high, lips swollen, chin slick, my cunt still throbbing with four stolen almost-orgasms and the taste of him coating my tongue. The handlers found me ten minutes later exactly as advertised: wrecked, dripping, and beautifully denied.
I could get quite used to being hunted like this.
Sunday morning, I was running on fumes, my body now felt heavy with rope-bruises and the previous night’s storeroom games, every muscle aching but in the sweetest way. The dawn was pale and misty, the woods quiet except for distant birds and the soft thud of my bare feet on damp earth. I told myself I’d make it at least thirty minutes this time, but exhaustion betrayed me.
I never even heard the shot. A single paintball exploded dead-centre between my shoulder blades, a sharp, shocking thud, like a slap from an invisible hand. My legs folded under me before my brain caught up. And I hit the leaf-litter hard, the wind knocked out of me, tasting dirt.
I heard their boots as they crunched close. Two sets this time. The first hunter was older, maybe late fifties, salt-and-pepper beard, tweed britches stretched tight over thick thighs. The second was younger, his son maybe, leaner, but with the same cruel mouth. Both wore the same satisfied smirk when they rolled me over and saw the green collar.
“Morning’s gift,” the older one said, voice gravelly with anticipation.
They didn’t bother with fancy knots. The father simply looped a length of rough hemp twice around my neck like a leash, and then yanked my wrists together in front of me, and tied them off to the rope at my throat so that every tug choked me. The son grabbed my ankles, and forced my knees up and apart, and then lashed them wide to two young saplings on either side of the path, until I was helplessly spread, exposed, and utterly available.
I was still catching my breath when the father stepped between my thighs. He didn’t undress fully, just unbuttoned enough to free himself, thick and half-hard already. He rubbed the head through my folds once, twice, he found me already soaked, of course I was, the slut that I was, I enjoyed being treated like this, and he pushed himself in with a single, brutal thrust that punched a strangled moan out of me.
The rope around my neck tightened every time he bottomed out; and the world started to blur at the edges. The son watched nearby, stroking himself lazily, then he crouched beside my head and fed me his cock in the same heartbeat. I now had the father in my cunt, and the son down my throat, both moving in slow, deliberate counter-rhythm, one withdrawing as the other buried deep. I couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t move, could only take it while the forest spun around me.
They used me like that for what felt like forever, they were rough, unhurried, and possessive, all the things that pressed my buttons. The father’s fingers dug bruises into my hips; the son’s hand fisted in my hair, holding me exactly where he wanted me. When the father came he stayed deep, grinding against me, flooding me with his heat. The son followed seconds later, but pulled out at the last moment to paint thick stripes across my face and breasts marking me as his territory.
They left me tied exactly as I was: my legs still splayed to the trees, the rope leash knotted to my bound wrists, with their cum cooling on my skin and leaking from between my thighs. The father gave the rope one last tug that made me see stars, then tipped an imaginary cap.
“See you at breakfast, darling.”
I lay there gasping, wrecked and trembling, until the handlers’ cart rumbled up twenty minutes later. They had to cut the saplings to free my ankles; the neck rope stayed on all the way back to the collection point, a souvenir, apparently. By the time they hosed me down I was half-delirious, covered in dirt, dried cum, and spectacular new bruises shaped exactly like fingerprints. But it was worth every second of missed sleep.
Sunday afternoon and the final chase. I didn’t run this time. I had seen that one of the hunters was the same guy who shot me on Friday, so I simply walked straight back to the glade like a girl returning to confession, barefoot, sun-dappled, every bruise and bite from the weekend on proud display. My thighs were still sticky from the morning hunt, the paint still flaking from my skin. I felt raw, open, perfectly used, and still starving for more.
I knelt in the exact spot he’d first taken me, moss soft under my knees, and waited. He stepped from the trees less than five minutes later, but now his tweed jacket was gone, his sleeves rolled high, shirt half-unbuttoned and clinging to him with sweat. The paintball gun hung loose at his side; he clearly hadn’t needed it. When he saw me kneeling, something dark and pleasing flashed across his face.
“Back again,” he said, voice low. “You’re a greedy little thing.”
He didn’t speak after that. He dropped the gun, and shrugged out of his braces, and let his trousers fall just far enough. Then he hauled me up by the collar, still locked on since Thursday and pushed me face-down across the same fallen log. The rough bark scraped yesterday’s welts awake. As I spread my legs without being told.
He bound me differently this time, slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial. Wrists together behind my back, then my elbows cinched until my shoulders sang. Ankles crossed and lashed, a short line between them and my wrists so I was bowed into a tight, helpless arch. A fresh gag, his own handkerchief, still carrying the scent of cedar, knotted brutally deep. Finally, he threaded rope through the ring on my collar and tied it off to a root so my head was forced up, my throat exposed.
Then he stood back and looked. I heard the click of a phone camera, once, twice, a dozen times, capturing every angle: the way my back curved, my breasts crushed against rough wood, thighs trembling, my pussy glistening and swollen from the weekend’s abuse. He circled me like a sculptor admiring his work.
Only then did he touch. He started with the flat of his hand, hard, measured spanks across the freshest paint bruises until I sobbed into the gag and fresh tears cut tracks through the dirt on my cheeks. When my arse was glowing crimson he traced the heat with his tongue, biting down on the marks he’d already left days ago. I felt his teeth sink into the soft curve where thigh meets cheek and I screamed behind the cloth, hips jerking uselessly.
He gave me his fingers first, three, no warm-up, stretching me open while his thumb tormented my clit in slow, merciless circles. I came almost instantly, shamefully fast, body clamping around him as the orgasm ripped through me like a riptide. He didn’t stop. He kept stroking, crooking his fingers, drawing out aftershock after aftershock until I was shaking so hard the log creaked beneath us.
Then he replaced fingers with cock. He entered me in one long, claiming slide, no pause, no mercy, he just buried himself to the root and held there while I spasmed around him. When he finally moved it was slow, grinding, every stroke dragging across that spot inside that made my vision white out. He wrapped one hand in the rope at my elbows for leverage, the other fisting my hair, arching me further until breathing was a luxury.
I lost count of how many times I came, three, four, maybe more, each one torn from me with a muffled wail that echoed through the trees. At some point he pulled out, flipped me onto my back across the log, retied my ankles wide to stakes again, and took me face-to-face, his eyes locked, watching every broken expression. When he finally spent himself he stayed deep, pulsing, forehead pressed to mine, both of us shaking.
Afterward he didn’t wash me in the stream this time. He untied the stakes, re-bound my wrists in front, slung me over his shoulder like the very first day, and carried me out through the woods with his come running down my thighs and his bite freshly branded into my collarbone.
At the collection point he set me on my knees in the cart beside the other spent girls, brushed a thumb across my swollen lower lip, and murmured so low only I could hear:
“Next year, little doe. Same glade. Same collar.”
Then he walked away.
Sunday evening and the final wrap-up. The last horn had sounded an hour ago. The woods were empty of running prey, only the low murmur of satisfied hunters and the clatter of gear being stowed away. One by one we were carted back to the manor’s stable yard: five hunts’ worth of girls, paint-splattered, rope-burned, glistening with sweat and cum and forest dirt. The air smelled of paint, crushed leaves, and sex.
They lined us up on our knees in the fading light, hands still bound behind us, ankles hobbled so we couldn’t stand. A long hose on a reel hung from the wall; two grooms in rolled shirtsleeves took their time spraying us down with cold water that made us gasp and shiver. The paint ran in a many coloured river down our breasts and bellies, swirling into the cobbles at our knees. Every sting, every bruise, every bite flared awake under the pressure of the cold water. I knelt third from the end, trembling, my thighs slick, the faint taste of cum on my tongue and feeling the slow drip of my favourite hunter’s last load sliding out of me with every shudder.
When the water stopped, Lord Reginald himself walked the line, hip flask in hand, offering a swallow of sloe gin to any girl who opened her mouth obediently. Most of us did. The burn down my raw throat was perfect.
Marjorie appeared with a ring of keys. One by one she unlocked our collars. When the green band fell from my neck I felt suddenly, strangely naked, more naked than I’d been all weekend. She met my eyes and smiled like she knew exactly what that strip of leather had done to me.
The hunters mingled, comparing trophies on their phones: close-ups of welts, spread thighs, tear-streaked faces, mouths stretched around cocks. My grey-eyed hunter stood a little apart, when he glanced up, our eyes locked for a long second across the yard. He gave the smallest nod, next year, and turned away.
Then the real ritual began. They herded us, still wet, still bound, down the stone steps into the basement storeroom for one final time. The air was colder now, thick with the scent of ice and meat. Dozens of genuine meatgirls hung in neat rows, pale and silent, waiting for tomorrow’s orders. We were slotted in among them, hooks through our wrist ropes, feeding tubes pushed past swollen lips, fresh bags pulled down until the world vanished.
I felt myself lifted, the familiar bite of rope, the swing as I was hung high. My shoulder brushed the cold flank of the girl beside me, real or volunteer, I no longer cared. The tube began its slow drip of nutrient slurry; the taste was metallic and sweet. Somewhere in the dark another girl whimpered softly, then moaned as hands adjusted her position, spreading her wider for the night.
I hung there, swaying, every ache of my abused body singing in harmony. The weekend’s bruises throbbed in time with my pulse. My cunt felt swollen shut and gloriously ruined. I could still taste dirt, sloe gin, and cum. In that perfect, suffocating dark I came one last time, silent, helpless, clenching around nothing but memory and rope, while overhead the hunters toasted with whisky and the manor settled eventually into the quiet of the night.
Tomorrow the truck would take us home. But tonight I was just meat again, hanging in the chill, dreaming of next year’s horn.
Once the hunt was over, we were taken back to the storeroom to await our transport back to the facility where we had started from. I was reluctant to leave, but knew that I had to return back to my normal life, if you can call what I enjoy as normal. I was carried out of the storeroom and placed in the truck with the other meatgirls; the last look of the wooded area was denied to me by the bag over my head; I was just another anonymous meatgirl again, being transported to my next location.
As the truck rumbled away from the manor on Monday morning, carrying its tired cargo back to the facility, I slumped in my bonds, my still body humming like a live wire even after the final hose-down. Every bump in the road jolted fresh reminders: the rope-burn welts circling my wrists and ankles like bracelets, the fingerprint bruises blooming purple on my hips and thighs from the burly vet's grip, the deeper ache between my legs from being stretched and filled by hunter after hunter—sometimes rough and quick, sometimes slow and tormenting. My nipples were raw from bark scrapes and bites, my arse still smarted from paintball stings layered over spanks, and there was a faint, persistent throb from the collar's absence, like I'd lost a limb.
I should have felt violated, broken, maybe even ashamed. Ollie would flip if he knew—though part of me was thrilled at the secret, the payback for his warehouse prank. But as I recalled the events of this weekend, all I felt was... transformed. Alive in a way my mundane desk job and vanilla nights with Ollie never touched. The weekend had stripped me bare—not just naked in the woods, but down to the core of what I craved: being hunted, captured, reduced to an object for their pleasure. Those many hands—callused, commanding, sometimes tender in their cruelty—hadn't abused me; they'd awakened me. I'd come harder, more times than I ever thought possible, each orgasm ripping away another layer of my "normal" self until I was just meat, quivering and grateful.
By the time the truck pulled into the facility, I was dripping again, mind replaying flashes: the huntress's tongue coaxing screams from me, the father-son duo using me like a shared toy, the denial that left me begging. I'd changed—more addicted, more shameless, hungrier for the helplessness. No regrets, only anticipation. That's why I got home. I didn't even think about Ollie, I headed straight to the storeroom, and bound myself tight, texting Matt. If this was the new me, I wanted more.
Matt found me in the storeroom exactly as I’d staged myself: kneeling, hooded, wrists and elbows cinched behind my back in the exact rope pattern my grey-eyed hunter had used on me on Sunday afternoon, my ankles crossed and lashed, with a tight crotch-rope knotted so every tiny shift ground against my swollen clit. The ball gag was seated deep, drool already shining on my chin and breasts. The only light came from the single bulb overhead, throwing long shadows across the curves of my naked body.
His footsteps stopped in the doorway. Silence stretched, thick and electric. Then the slow exhale I’d been waiting for.
“Jesus Christ, Amy.” Matt exclaimed.
Not shock. Not anger. Something darker, rougher, almost reverent.
I heard the soft clop of his boots as he circled me once, twice, taking in every detail: the overlapping bruises shaped like fingerprints and teeth, the faint lattice of rope burn across my ribs, the dried paint flecks still clinging to my skin like obscene confetti, the unmistakable evidence of how many times and how thoroughly I’d been used. His fingers brushed the fresh bite on my collarbone, the one that still throbbed every time my heart beat, and I shivered hard enough that the crotch-rope dragged a muffled moan out of me.
He crouched in front of me, close enough that I smelled coffee and sawdust on him. One gentle tug on the hood lifted it just enough for me to see his face in the dim light. His pupils were blown wide.
“You look…” His voice cracked; he cleared his throat and tried again. “You look like someone spent an entire weekend proving you’re nothing but meat. And you’re proud of it.”
I couldn’t nod with the gag, but my eyes must have said everything, because his breath hitched.
He traced a thumb over the welts on my wrists, then down the rope that disappeared between my thighs. When he found how wet I was, still, again, always, he let out a low, broken laugh.
“I always stopped,” he said, almost to himself. “Every time you begged me to cross the line, I stopped. Thought I was being decent.”
His hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers curling possessively around the place the collar had lived for four days. “Never again.”
Then he kissed me around the gag, hard, claiming, tasting my drool and the faint ghost of other men and whispered against my swollen lips.
“From now on, when you tie yourself up for me, you stay exactly like this until I decide you’ve had enough. And Amy?” His grip tightened. “You’re never going to have enough.”
I came right there on my knees, untouched except for his words and the rope and the absolute certainty in his voice. He left the hood half-on, stood, and walked behind me. I heard the clink of his belt, the rustle of denim, the soft thud of boots being kicked aside. Then his hands settled on my hips, thumbs fitting perfectly into the bruises someone else had put there, and he finally (finally) took what I’d been offering him for years. The weekend had changed me. Matt’s reaction told me it had just changed us both.
I came upstairs late that night, freshly showered but still moving carefully, every step reminded me of the weekend. The bite on my collarbone was hidden under a high-necked T-shirt, but nothing could hide the way I walked: my thighs pressed together, hips rolling a little too slow, like someone who’d been opened and refilled too many times to count.
Ollie was on the sofa, half-watching some match replay, beer in hand. He glanced up, did a double-take, and the remote froze mid-air. “Christ, Amy. You look…” He couldn’t finish. His eyes tracked over me like he was seeing a stranger wearing my skin. The faint rope shadows circled my wrists when the sleeve rode up. The way I kept touching my throat, searching for the ghost of the collar. The soft, involuntary hitch in my breathing every time I shifted weight.
He stood slowly, beer forgotten. “Where the hell have you been?”
I met his stare and didn’t flinch. “Marjorie’s charity hunt. You knew that.”
“Not what I’m asking.” He stepped closer, close enough to smell the clean soap on my skin and something deeper underneath, sex and forest and rope oil that no shower could completely erase. His fingers brushed the hem of my sleeve, pushed it higher. The ligature marks were livid, perfect bracelets of purple and red.
His jaw flexed. “You let them do this to you?” His voice cracked somewhere between anger and awe. “All weekend?”
I didn’t answer with words. I just reached up, took the neck of my T-shirt, and pulled it aside. The bite mark, deep, unmistakable, still tender, sat right over my collarbone like a brand.
Ollie’s pupils blew wide. His hand rose, hovered, then settled over the bruise as if testing whether it was real. His thumb pressed just hard enough to make me inhale sharply.
“Jesus,” he whispered. “You’re… different.”
He wasn’t wrong. The old Amy would have apologised, made excuses, hidden the marks. This Amy tilted her head into his touch and let him feel the heat still radiating off my skin.
His breathing changed. The anger drained out of him, replaced by something hungrier, almost frightened. “You’re not just pretending anymore, are you?” he asked, voice rough. “You went out there and you let them turn you into… exactly what you always said you wanted.”
I finally spoke, soft but steady. “They didn’t turn me into anything, Ollie. They just stopped pretending I wasn’t already meat.”
His hand slid from the bite mark to the hollow of my throat, fingers curling the way the rope had, testing. I didn’t pull away. My pulse hammered against his palm. For a long moment we stood there, the television flickering forgotten in the background. Then he swallowed hard, eyes dark. “Show me,” he said at last. “Show me what they did. All of it.”
I took his hand, led him downstairs to the storeroom, and closed the door behind us. That night he discovered the new rules: I no longer asked. I simply knelt, offered the rope, and waited to be used exactly like the weekend had taught me I needed. By morning he understood the changes weren’t temporary. And for the first time in years, he looked at me like he was the one who’d been caught.