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And The Waters Ran Red

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8.​

Laughter and conversation under the tent pavilion. Old companions, hearty back-slapping reunions, joking, excited remembrances of last year's hunt.

Along with more than 50 others, I stand naked save for the Keds on my feet, gagged, arms pulled back and bound tightly behind a tall post. I listen to their chatter. What kind of people are they? How can something as horrific as this take place without the world knowing about it?

The breakfast reunion slowly breaks up. Some of the hunters and huntresses saunter over to inspect the prey. They wander leisurely up and down the four rows of victims bound naked and helpless to their posts, pausing to examine, touch, comment and appraise.

I endure the indignity of their inspections silently, tensing when they fondle, cup or probe intimately, sometimes glaring fiercely at them and other times looking away as though they simply don't exist … but the inspection goes on incessantly … humiliation now adds to my fear.

Most unnerving is the dapper gentleman, dressed in tweeds and riding boots, leather patches on the elbows of his sporting coat, who looks down low at me, brushes my mound with the back of his hand, and remarks on how much he hopes to hang my pelt on his trophy wall when this is over.

I feel revolted and nauseous. This can't be happening. It has to be a bad dream. Up and down the line and behind me, I hear gagged whimpers, sobs and muffled protests.

A clearing of a throat; everyone turns toward a very commanding-looking, bearded man dressed in tall polished riding boots, jodhpurs, and a bright red jacket. He addresses, in full Scottish brogue, the gathered hunters as well as the intended prey, recounting the history of the annual hunt and boasting of his longstanding personal patronage of the event.

Polite applause follows. I note that someone among the hunting party refers to him, in an offhand remark, as the "Laird". He continues on with a recitation of the ground rules.

The "girls of prey" are to be released precisely at 10 am and given a full hour's head start before the hunt commences. They will then be hunted throughout the day by members of the hunting party, assisted by hounds and by the "coveralls" working as "beaters".

The weapon of the day will be the crossbow, firing steel shafts with colored markings for the purpose of identifying the marksman or woman to be credited with the "kill". Kills will be tallied for prizes and honors at this evening's grand dinner following the hunt.

Any girl of prey, the Laird solemnly declares, as he paces slowly up and down in front of us hands clasped behind his back, who survives until 6 pm will be granted her freedom and paid handsomely, provided that she agrees to keep forever silent about what happens here this day.

The formalities concluded, the Laird glances at his wristwatch, notes that the time is now 9:15, and recommends that the assembled be treated to a pleasant little demonstration of the power and effectiveness of the modern machine-tooled crossbow.

I watch in dread fascination as one by one the members of the hunting party fetch their weapons from behind the tent pavilion, take their place on the firing line, and proceed to riddle the plastic target sheets strapped to hay bales and printed with female silhouettes.

Time passes. I look nervously up and down my row, trying to catch the eye of each of my new friends. Messaline nods at everyone, reminding us one again by her body language that we are to stick together and follow her lead.

Target practice comes to a close. The hunting party assembles in front of the tent pavilion to watch the "release". Fluted glasses of amber-colored liquid are passed around. A photographer snaps a group picture.

Meanwhile, the men in coveralls fan out, taking up positions behind us, ready on cue to untie our wrists.

I move my legs nervously, shifting my weight from one to the other. The tension is almost unbearable. The thought of being shot with one of those steel shafts is to horrible to contemplate, the possibility of survival incalculable. I try desperately to clear my mind.

The Laird, resplendent in his red coat, raises a starting pistol into the air. A horse whinnies. I feel the cord on my wrists tighten as the coverall behind me prepares to cut me free. I feel his hot breath on my neck as he leans forward and whispers "good luck to ye lassie!"

A long excruciating silence ... I suck in my breath ... and jump at the sharp report of the starter gun ...

TO BE CONTINUED
 
Last edited:
thehangingtree said:
Good build-up Barb. The 'girls of prey' better pray...

Joan Tree wants to know if there is a limit on how many each hunter can 'take' and of she could use a regular bow instead?
Click to expand...

She better speak to the Laird about that....I am just a victim here....how should I know? :confused:
 
Barbaria1 said:
...The breakfast reunion slowly breaks up. Some of the hunters and huntresses saunter over to inspect the prey. They wander leisurely up and down the four rows of victims bound naked and helpless to their posts, pausing to examine, touch, comment and appraise...
Click to expand...

One of the woman tell me : "I'm Judith and it would be interesting that you could be alive at 18:00 ! I should like very much to keep you for some BDSM'plays, later ... "
What a curious proposition ; but you know me, I always like to experiment new things, do you agree Barb ?:D

ACH_7672.jpg :devil:
 
messaline said:
One of the woman tell me : "I'm Judith and it would be interesting that you could be alive at 18:00 ! I should like very much to keep you for some BDSM'plays, later ... "
What a curious proposition ; but you know me, I always like to experiment new things, do you agree Barb ?:D

View attachment 295207 :devil:
Click to expand...

I always agree with my French sister.... who wouldn't :p:D
 
Barbaria1 said:
8.​

Laughter and conversation under the tent pavilion. Old companions, hearty back-slapping reunions, joking, excited remembrances of last year's hunt.

Along with more than 50 others, I stand naked save for the Keds on my feet, gagged, arms pulled back and bound tightly behind a tall post. I listen to their chatter. What kind of people are they? How can something as horrific as this take place without the world knowing about it?

The breakfast reunion slowly breaks up. Some of the hunters and huntresses saunter over to inspect the prey. They wander leisurely up and down the four rows of victims bound naked and helpless to their posts, pausing to examine, touch, comment and appraise.

I endure the indignity of their inspections silently, tensing when they fondle, cup or probe intimately, sometimes glaring fiercely at them and other times looking away as though they simply don't exist … but the inspection goes on incessantly … humiliation now adds to my fear.

Most unnerving is the dapper gentleman, dressed in tweeds and riding boots, leather patches on the elbows of his sporting coat, who looks down low at me, brushes my mound with the back of his hand, and remarks on how much he hopes to hang my pelt on his trophy wall when this is over.

I feel revolted and nauseous. This can't be happening. It has to be a bad dream. Up and down the line and behind me, I hear gagged whimpers, sobs and muffled protests.

A clearing of a throat; everyone turns toward a very commanding-looking, bearded man dressed in tall polished riding boots, jodhpurs, and a bright red jacket. He addresses, in full Scottish brogue, the gathered hunters as well as the intended prey, recounting the history of the annual hunt and boasting of his longstanding personal patronage of the event.

Polite applause follows. I note that someone among the hunting party refers to him, in an offhand remark, as the "Laird". He continues on with a recitation of the ground rules.

The "girls of prey" are to be released precisely at 10 am and given a full hour's head start before the hunt commences. They will then be hunted throughout the day by members of the hunting party, assisted by hounds and by the "coveralls" working as "beaters".

The weapon of the day will be the crossbow, firing steel shafts with colored markings for the purpose of identifying the marksman or woman to be credited with the "kill". Kills will be tallied for prizes and honors at this evening's grand dinner following the hunt.

Any girl of prey, the Laird solemnly declares, as he paces slowly up and down in front of us hands clasped behind his back, who survives until 6 pm will be granted her freedom and paid handsomely, provided that she agrees to keep forever silent about what happens here this day.

The formalities concluded, the Laird glances at his wristwatch, notes that the time is now 9:15, and recommends that the assembled be treated to a pleasant little demonstration of the power and effectiveness of the modern machine-tooled crossbow.

I watch in dread fascination as one by one the members of the hunting party fetch their weapons from behind the tent pavilion, take their place on the firing line, and proceed to riddle the plastic target sheets strapped to hay bales and printed with female silhouettes.

Time passes. I look nervously up and down my row, trying to catch the eye of each of my new friends. Messaline nods at everyone, reminding us one again by her body language that we are to stick together and follow her lead.

Target practice comes to a close. The hunting party assembles in front of the tent pavilion to watch the "release". Fluted glasses of amber-colored liquid are passed around. A photographer snaps a group picture.

Meanwhile, the men in coveralls fan out, taking up positions behind us, ready on cue to untie our wrists.

I move my legs nervously, shifting my weight from one to the other. The tension is almost unbearable. The thought of being shot with one of those steel shafts is to horrible to contemplate, the possibility of survival incalculable. I try desperately to clear my mind.

The Laird, resplendent in his red coat, raises a starting pistol into the air. A horse whinnies. I feel the cord on my wrists tighten as the coverall behind me prepares to cut me free. I feel his hot breath on my neck as he leans forward and whispers "good luck to ye lassie!"

A long excruciating silence ... I suck in my breath ... and jump at the sharp report of the starter gun ...

TO BE CONTINUED
Click to expand...

Great story, Barb! :)

Though, being able to wear an itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny bikini in England lacks.....verisimilitude :confused:

But, you'll need to be unencumbered to last till 6pm! :rolleyes: You'll be fine,don't worry, we can't even see straight, let alone shoot straight over here. If you get hit it'll be by accident, unless you let one of those bastards close to within six feet of you! :cool:

And everyone in Scotland is a perfect sport, never think of cheating, no, no, never! :devil:
 
Wragg134 said:
Great story, Barb! :)

Though, being able to wear an itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny bikini in England lacks.....verisimilitude :confused:

But, you'll need to be unencumbered to last till 6pm! :rolleyes: You'll be fine,don't worry, we can't even see straight, let alone shoot straight over here. If you get hit it'll be by accident, unless you let one of those bastards close to within six feet of you! :cool:

And everyone in Scotland is a perfect sport, never think of cheating, no, no, never! :devil:
Click to expand...

Very reassuring....gee thanks Wragg :confused:
 
Wragg134 said:
Great story, Barb! :)

Though, being able to wear an itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny bikini in England lacks....
Click to expand...

No matter how old you are ... every girl knows that song! Am I right?

But red is the colour that will make me blue, in spite of you ... it's true ... yes it is ... it's true .........................

But that's another thing all together. ;)
 
LittleSiss said:
No matter how old you are ... every girl knows that song! Am I right?

But red is the colour that will make me blue, in spite of you ... it's true ... yes it is ... it's true .........................

But that's another thing all together. ;)
Click to expand...

Right Siss ... and for those that don't ....;)

 
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