Rabbit Run

Posted by Kewpid on December 31, 2008 at 14:10:57:

Emma had to stop and take a breather. She smoked too many cigarettes, and her lungs weren’t in as good shape as her boobs. The summer day was hot and she felt sweaty. Her shorts had started chafing, and her tee-shirt clung between her shoulder blades.

She wished she hadn’t signed up for the fun run. Right now she should be sleeping in, not panting down an empty country road. Emma’s face, already tanned, had darkened with exertion; her fair hair framed it in a scruffy bob. She braced her hands against her thighs, and waited, gasping softly. Her large breasts swelled as she leaned forward, stretching the thin cotton of her top.

Behind her, Claire came jogging round the corner and was greeted by the sight of Emma’s arse. Her pale face was flushed with pink, eyes squinting through her glasses, but she managed a small smile as she approached. She kept her breathing steady and pushed onward. Emma heard her coming and looked round resentfully. Claire was always trying to be friendly, but the blonde girl thought she was a prissy cow. It didn’t help that Claire was tall and slender, while Emma was stocky and broad-shouldered, like a rather shapely rugby player.

“You shouldn’t stop …” Claire panted “… or you’ll never start again.” Her brown hair was tied primly back, and she flicked at a stray wisp as she went past. Emma eyed her sulkily and straightened up again. Her joints were feeling leaden, but she forced herself to set off after her.

Laura followed a few moments later, her haughty features clenched with effort, knowing she looked so unladylike. She was a poised, superior girl, and hated getting sweaty. The good cause didn’t matter; she was just relieved to be alone right now. She wore a baseball cap to keep the sun off her fine cheekbones, and her dark hair dangled in a ponytail. Her boobs were bobbing underneath her tee-shirt, despite the Nike sports bra she had on. Another reason to be glad that nobody was watching. She pushed on down the empty road, towards the promise of a long, hot shower.

Frances realised sullenly that she was coming last, but a stitch was gnawing at her side, and she could go no faster than a walk. Her mop of malt-brown hair had grown bedraggled and her impish face now wore a surly look. She trudged on, rubbing at her side, and came to the next marker, which directed her along another lane. WATER! THIS WAY! said a sign beneath the pointing arrow. She saw a house between the trees, and urged herself into a wheezy trot.

She found the others standing in the driveway of the mansion, gulping water from the bottles that a mousy-looking girl was giving out. Susie had got there first, of course, being the most athletic of them. She was petite but spunky, with a dimpled grin and blonde hair like a boy’s. Wiping her damp forehead with the sweatband on her wrist, she took another swig of water. Frances gave her a reproachful glance.

Still short of breath, she went to get a bottle. The girl wearing the steward’s vest smiled chummily at her. But Frances was in no mood to be friendly. She swallowed thirstily to clear the sour taste from her mouth. Tipping back her head, she squirted water on her face, and felt it spill onto her tee-shirt, pasting the damp cotton to her breasts.

“Everyone okay?” asked Susie brightly. Emma grunted, wishing she had brought her cigarettes. Claire was jogging on the spot to keep her long legs supple. Laura drank her tepid water, trying to maintain some well-bred poise.

“Can we go in for a pee?” asked Frances, glancing at the house. She didn’t know who owned the place, but it looked imposing and a bit run down. A banner draped over the door said FUN RUN – COMFORT STATION. The steward nodded. “Toilets at the far end of the hall.”

Frances went inside, still guzzling water. Her aching bladder seemed to mock the dryness of her throat. The hall was cool and dim, a welcome refuge from the sunlight. She wondered how the race was going, but didn’t really care. It was a women-only run to raise funds for breast cancer. Susie had talked them into it – perhaps to show them how unfit they were. Quite a crowd had started, but the field had soon strung out. She reckoned they were at the back. At least there was some water left for them.

Shutting herself inside the loo, she realised she felt woozy. Too much exercise, no doubt. She waited while the blood throbbed in her brow. After a few moments she felt better. Pulling down her shorts and briefs, she settled on the throne. Then the giddiness came back. She gripped the seat for balance, abruptly so befuddled that she scarcely realised she’d begun to pee. The spiral in her head grew vicious, making her feel queasy till her thoughts spun into darkness and her body sagged inertly on the seat. Her thighs splayed open as her bladder emptied, and her head lolled to one shoulder, dark hair hanging round her face.

As the squirt beneath her turned into a dribble, the toilet door was opened and the steward peered in. “Serves you right for not saying thanks, you little cow,” she muttered. And this was just the start, of course. Perhaps she should feel sorry for the girl. Outside, the other stragglers from the run had drooped and crumpled, but Susie was still conscious, trying in vain to raise herself. Laura had collapsed on top of Emma, while Claire lay with her knees together, prissy even now. Beyond them, a dark-windowed van was coming down the lane. The signs had been collected, and the detour to the house had disappeared.

Susie whimpered to herself, then flopped face down and stayed there. The van crunched to a standstill on the drive. The steward smiled and pulled her yellow vest off. Behind her, a last drop of pee plopped down into the bowl.

* * *

Frances stirred as something warm and wet splashed on her face. Her mind was still in shadow, and she vaguely thought it was her boyfriend’s cum. Even half asleep, she blushed, then mumbled an endearment and pushed her tongue out to explore the taste …

Another tepid spurt awoke her rudely. She blinked and realised it was water, squirted from a bottle overhead. She’d come to lying on the grass, which must mean she had fainted. Mortified, she struggled to sit upright. Then she froze.

Her tee-shirt and her bra were gone. She stared down at her cleavage, then raised herself a little more and realised that she’d lost her knickers too. Frances frowned, still piecing things together. Even if she’d fainted, this was taking loosened clothing way too far …

Belatedly she sensed the figure standing over her. Her head snapped up, eyes widening. The man gave her a hackle-raising smile. He had a water bottle like the one that she had drunk from, and now he squeezed its dregs at her. “Wake up, you dozy bitch.”

Frances gasped with fright and scrabbled backwards, then pulled her knees up to protect her groin. There was something on her head, some kind of hair band. She reached for it instinctively and found a pair of Playboy bunny ears. She made a squeaky sound and clutched her bosom. Despite the fear that filled her eyes, her peaky face looked almost scandalised.

The man tossed the bottle to one side, still smiling wolfishly. She saw the bow he carried, and the sheaf of arrows hanging at his hip. Despite the heat, her bare skin turned to gooseflesh. Frances closed her mouth again and bit her trembling lip.

“You’d better keep on running,” said the stranger. He glanced away, across the fields. “The first of you to reach that church will win.” She forced herself to look and saw a steeple in the distance. “The winner gets to stay alive,” he said.

As Frances gaped at him, he drew an arrow from the quiver and nocked it to the bowstring. “I would get my arse in gear if I was you.” Horrified, she clambered up, still trying to hide her pink bits, as if he hadn’t had a damn good look. The house was nowhere to be seen, and the countryside looked empty. Between her and the distant spire, a field of rape lay rippling in the sun.

She gave the man a pleading look, then realised he was serious and was going to shoot her if she didn’t shift. With a little sob, she plunged into the rape and started running, but the breast-high flowers impeded her. It felt like trying to flounder through a sea. Panicking, she glanced over her shoulder. The archer was still standing there. She felt his mocking gaze.

Her whimpers turned to wheezes as her stitch flared up again. Frances grimaced, limping on. The field was shimmering like golden spume. Then she heard a vicious hiss, so close it made her stumble, and an arrow sailed ahead of. Her wide eyes followed it with disbelief.

“Oh my God,” she bleated to herself and looked behind her. The man had changed position and was fitting a fresh arrow to his bow. “Omigod,” she squeaked again and blundered wildly onward, her bare back prickling with sweat, unbearably exposed. Another arrow skimmed the rape. She veered off at a tangent, then forced herself into a crouch below the rustling surface of the crop.

After the thrashing noise she’d made, the silence seemed enormous. She waited, gasping breathlessly. The dense stalks hemmed her in. Staying put, she quickly found, was even worse than running. The stitch kept gnawing at her side. She spat and wiped her lips.

What was the bastard doing now? Just watching for a movement? Or was he coming after her? Another spasm of panic clutched her throat. Cautiously she raised her head to see what he was up to, forgetting she was wearing bunny ears. The archer was no longer by the tree line. Frances snivelled fearfully, not sure where he had gone. She peered around, then glimpsed a figure fifty yards away and startled like a rabbit. But the shape was just a scarecrow standing guard.

As she let her shoulders slump, the man loosed from behind her and the arrow sped between her bunny ears. Frances squealed and scampered through the rape on hands and knees. In moments she had lost her bearings. Sick with fright, she paused and held her breath.

The archer scanned the rippling flowers. He nocked another arrow while the heedless crickets whirred nearby. The sun beat hot and heavy on his neck. A dozen yards away, unseen, his prey remained unmoving, her tender nipples brushing soil, her upturned buttocks mooning at the sky.

The scarecrow’s shape was drooping like an executed man. The archer turned away from it, still searching for those tell-tale velvet ears. Frances heard the sound of his slow progress. Still fighting tears, she crept the other way. After a few minutes she brought up her head again. The scarecrow’s shape was very close, but the man was on the far side of the field. She felt the sudden fizz of hope, and clambered to her feet. A last scared glance behind her, then she started pushing through the stalks again.

Relief and terror gave her tunnel vision, and she didn’t see the scarecrow move its head. Only when it turned on her did she realise what was happening, and by then the ragged shape had raised a bow. Cleavage-deep in rape, she gave a high-pitched gasp of horror, but before she had a chance to cower, the scarecrow’s arrow punched into her chest.

Frances squawked and spun around, her face like a shocked schoolgirl’s, but then her features twisted woefully. She stuck her tits out, clutching at the pain that crushed her heart, and gave a strangled gurgle as the pressure spread to paralyse her lungs. She squirmed convulsively, but it was hopeless. Her frantic green eyes fluttered closed, and she flopped into the sea of yellow flowers.

The scarecrow lowered his bow and tugged his hood off, a satisfied expression on his face. He glanced round as the other archer waded to rejoin him, then pushed his way to where the bunny nestled in the crop where she’d collapsed. Frances lay tits-up, her pale face sullen, one thigh drawn up as if to guard her crotch. The arrow in her chest poked proudly skyward, as stiff as the erection underneath his shabby coat.

In the woods beyond the field, Emma heard nothing, but an instinct made her turn her head, as if she’d somehow sensed her friend’s demise. The undergrowth was dense and green, the air too still to stir it. Another bead of sweat rolled down her back.

The nausea in her belly grew more bitter. She scanned the trees with scared blue eyes and pouted miserably. Like Frances, she was nude apart from velvet bunny ears. The horrid sense of being stalked was prickling every blonde hair on her skin.

She’d thought the man who shook her out of sleep was going to rape her, but instead he’d slapped her on the arse and told her she was running for her life. Naturally she’d fled from him in terror, weaving her way between the trees until the fags caught up with her again. Clutching a trunk, she’d caught her breath while panic seethed inside her, her big tits heaving as she wheezed. Please God, she thought, I’ll never smoke again. Behind her, there was still no sign of anyone pursuing. She straightened up and forced herself into a panting jog.

The ground began to fall away, towards a shady hollow. The wood continued down below, but what if the descent became too steep? Emma slowed and felt her skin turn colder. She might be trapped here, casting round until the hungry hunter caught her up.

Suddenly, from further down the slope, a voice hissed: “Emma.”

Emma tensed and squinted through the tangled undergrowth. She thought she recognised the voice, but couldn’t pinpoint it. Cautiously she picked her way downslope, her heartbeat thudding. The nightmare of being chased alone increased her yearning for a friendly face.

Laura watched her coming from behind a twisted tree root, but didn’t want to show herself, not knowing where the hunter might be now. She thought that Emma was a slut, but felt relieved to see her. They could renew their bitchy feud once they were out of this.

Seeing Emma naked with those silly bunny ears made Laura feel a bit less mortified herself. She’d tried to pull her own off, but the things were fixed in place. She hated feeling so exposed, as if the rustling wood was full of eyes. The man who’d set her running must be after Emma too. She willed the bimbo to get down, before she led him straight to both of them.

Emma crept uncertainly towards her. She couldn’t see the slope had crumbled, forming a rough lip across her path. Laura was concealed behind it and the tangled tree roots. The posh brunette stayed motionless and wondered if she ought to call again. From where she crouched, she had a perfect view of Emma’s vulva. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She’d never seen a girl like this before.

Then Emma made a whooping sound and threw her head back sharply, her bosom swelling as she arched her spine. As Laura watched in disbelief, the blonde girl pitched towards her and slumped across the lip of earth. An arrow was half-buried in her back. Laura almost squealed, then clapped her hand across her mouth. Emma’s body hung head-down, arms dangling as if reaching out for her.

Startled birds went clattering away. She heard twigs snapping. Laura cowered amid the roots and waited, paralysed. Emma’s corpse was just as still, her head bowed in submission. Although she had died quickly, her last feeling had been suffocating pain. As if her lungs had finally stopped working. But at least her vow to quit had been fulfilled.

The man’s breath rasped between his teeth as he crouched beside the body. Reaching down, he grasped her mop of hair and raised her head. Laura glimpsed the girl’s blank face, jaw slack and tongue protruding. Her heavy breasts were pendulous, the bronzed flesh smeared with earth. The killer let her slump again and scanned the slope below him. Laura’s skin began to crawl, but he overlooked her in the undergrowth. “Don’t turn your back on me, you little minx,” she heard him mutter, but the words were meant for Emma’s deaf ears. Or her bunny ones.

He grasped the dead girl by the calves and dragged her up the slope. Emma slithered out of sight, arms trailing after her. Laura shut her eyes and choked a whimper. The muffled sounds receded. When she risked a fearful look, she was alone.

Claire, meanwhile, had made it to the far side of the wood.

It had felt like fleeing through a maze of foliage, where every shadow might conceal the man pursuing her. She’d almost been in tears by the time she blundered to the boundary. But the thought of breaking cover made her stumble to a halt.

Beyond the trees there was a water meadow, and then a placid river blocked her way. Claire stared at it, crestfallen, one finger at her mouth. Her nudity and bunny ears contrasted with her classy spectacles. Normally her winsome face was pale and rather earnest, but now her cheeks were flushed again, and tears were swimming in her wide blue eyes.

There were more trees on the far side of the river. If only she could get across, she reckoned she could lose herself in them. The water was slow-moving, but she couldn’t tell how deep. Maybe she could it wade it, but to swim across would leave her less exposed.

Her bare skin turned to gooseflesh at the prospect. She hugged herself and peered around. The sound of heedless birdsong broke the hush. The leering hunter could have been a nightmare – if only she’d been clothed again, not cringing in the nude.

She started nervously along the wood’s edge, hoping that the river would draw closer to the trees. Tomorrow she would be a strait-laced office girl again, reflecting on this horrid day with Susie, Fran and Em. And then they’d move on to the latest gossip ... She pinched her lips against a sob – and glimpsed a jetty by the riverbank.

Frowning, she moved on a little further and saw a pair of punts moored next to it. She wondered if that meant she was still in the house’s grounds, but either way, her heartbeat surged with hope. Nerving herself, she waited for a minute, then scuttled forward, crouching low, acutely conscious of her nudity. She reached the jetty and glanced back, but no-one had pursued her. She slid into the nearest punt and fumbled with the rope.

The knot was tight, but her fingernails unpicked it, her bosom heaving all the while, her wide eyes flicking back towards the wood. Still there was no sign of her tormentor. The poles lay on the riverbank, but she wasn’t going to stand up on this thing. She pushed off from the jetty till the sluggish current took her, then leaned back on her elbows, trying to stay below the reeds. Her bunny ears would show above them if she wasn’t careful. Despite the sun, a shiver gripped her flesh.

The flat boat drifted into the main channel and started languidly downstream. She willed it to go faster, but in vain. The thing was furnished with a rug and pillow, but comfort was the last thing on her mind. The woodland on the left gave way to marshy fields and reed-beds, and as they slid past, whispering, she glimpsed the distant house where she’d been drugged. Whimpering despite herself, she cowered even lower. At least no-one was lurking on the bank. Ahead of her, a stone bridge spanned the river. She floated on towards its single arch.

Suddenly a man reared up above the parapet, and Claire recoiled, then sat up with a gasp. He held a bow, and nocked an arrow to it. She felt her stomach plummeting and looked round desperately. The river’s banks were out of reach. She was a sitting target, with no way that she could stop or steer the boat.

The arch loomed like a gateway and the archer aimed his bow. “Oh no,” Claire bleated plaintively, her pale eyes widening. Her taut breasts rose as she breathed in, but she didn’t try to shield them. Instead she raised her hands as if she meant to swat the arrow to one side.

“Oh, please …” she quavered as he drew the bowstring.

“Look at that,” the man jeered back. “A cunt sat in a punt.”

Claire just gawped at him as if he’d slapped her, then realised what was going to happen next. Still sitting upright in the punt, she screamed in helpless protest. The archer loosed his arrow at her tits.

It struck her left breast just above the nipple and punctured it with a percussive thud. Claire’s shrill cry was choked into a whinny as the impact sent a shockwave through her chest. She clawed herself and screwed her pasty face up, a grimace that belied her bunny ears. A reedy mewl of agony was all that she could manage as the point embedded in her pounding heart.

Her body flopped back in the punt as it passed under the archway, and she squirmed until her ruptured heart had stopped. One arm slipped and trailed into the water, and her legs kicked out, then folded gracefully. By the time the boat came out again, Claire lay as primly lifeless as a rather po-faced Lady of Shallot.

Her scream had carried back into the woodland, and Susie heard it with a thrill of dread. Up till now, she’d had no clue what was happening with the others. The distant cry of terror bathed her bare skin in cold sweat.

Despite the dappled shafts of light, the wood felt claustrophobic. The undergrowth seemed full of threat. She glanced round helplessly. Normally her fitness was the envy of the others, but now she was pink-faced and tearful, like a schoolgirl after a long run. Frances might have felt a twinge of bitchy satisfaction, but Frances was past caring now. The small blonde sniffed and rubbed her sweaty fringe.

She still could not believe that she had woken up like this, her gym-taut body starkers and a pair of bunny ears in her cropped hair. But the man who’d woken her by squirting water on her bush had made it clear this was a deadly serious game. She’d seen the bow he held and felt a nauseous rush of horror. Her naked flesh was tingling now, as if in expectation of a hit.

Judging by that scream, one of her friends had just been cornered. Susie whimpered to herself and pushed on cautiously. A part of her said, go to ground – wait all day if you have to. But staying still while being stalked was just unbearable.

She knew she was becoming dehydrated. Her mouth was dry, and she felt light-headed, goaded onward by adrenaline. She couldn’t help but picture a cold glass of Chardonnay, and tried to force it from her mind. Then something up ahead stepped on a twig.

Susie stiffened like a doe, her groggy thoughts refocused. She realised she was on a beaten path between the trees. The noise was not repeated, but she felt a sense of menace. It swelled towards her like a wave, and she backed away from it, then turned and fled.

Pelting breathless down the path, her small feet almost flying, she didn’t sense the ambush till a length of rope snapped taut in front of her. She hurtled into it and felt it whack against her windpipe, as choking as a swift karate chop. Susie gagged and went down as if pole-axed. The rope dropped loose amid the leaves and started coiling up.

Susie wriggled, trying to gasp and clutching at her throat. Her vision clouded, turning red as she struggled desperately to fill her lungs. Her bruised windpipe was almost closed. She croaked aloud to clear it, while warning bells rang in her head. The hunter would be coming for her now.

She gathered her strength and started crawling forward, forcing herself up on hands and knees, her mouth still gaping as she fought for air. Behind her upturned arse, the man came crunching after her, a coil of the thin rope between his hands.

She heard his voice above her booming heartbeat. “No need to hunt a bunny; you can catch her with a snare.” Susie bleated with distress and tried to raise herself. She managed to kneel upright, and he quickly looped the rope around her neck.

She gurgled as he jerked it taut and pinched her windpipe shut. Her fingers scrabbled at the rope but couldn’t loosen it. The hunter loomed behind her, muscles bulging with the effort, and the blonde girl squirmed as he garrotted her.

He did it slowly, painfully. The little bitch annoyed him: he had known her goody-two-shoes type at school. Susie groaned through gritted teeth, her face clenched as she struggled, with her arms drawn tight against her heaving tits. In vain she clawed the rope that closed her airway, and her mouth gasped open as she tried to breathe. But the pressure on her throat was unrelenting. Her tongue poked out and purpled as she choked.

The bunny jerked a few more times, then sagged and slumped against him. Her arms fell loosely to her sides, and he heard the telltale gargle in her throat. A final death spasm twitched her perky breasts and left them hanging. Reluctantly he let her go, and Susie pitched face down into the mulch.

The birds sang sweetly over her prone body. Her killer stooped to hoist her up and shouldered her limp weight. The man who’d chased her back into the trap was on his mobile. He snapped it closed and licked his lips. “Four bunnies in the pot, and one to go.”

Laura didn’t know she was the last one left alive. She’d reached a field of uncut grass. The country house was fifty yards away. Crouching low, she stared at it with nauseous foreboding. Her skin was sticky with cold sweat, and she smelled as if she’d just been working out. Despite the peril she was in, the odour made her grimace. She would shower for an hour once she was safe.

The house appeared deserted and the countryside looked empty, but her heart kept thudding quickly in her breast. It made her flesh creep, being so close to where the men had seized her, and yet she felt less threatened here. It had to be the last place they would look. Maybe she could even slip inside, and find a phone ... The prospect made her catch her breath. A hot flush squeezed more sweat out of her pores.

Suddenly she heard a car and cringed in the long grass, acutely conscious of her bunny ears. Squinting through the stalks, she saw a white stretch limo passing. Her dark eyes widened as she watched. The vehicle looked bizarrely out of place – as if the driver had got lost returning from a hen night. The windows were black glass and gave no glimpse of passengers.

It turned into the house’s drive and went round to the rear. There was a carport in the former stable block. From where she crouched, she watched the limo slide into its berth. The engine stopped and two doors slammed. A pair of men emerged and crossed the yard. One was carrying a bow and quiver. She felt another pang of dread, but neither of them even glanced her way.

They disappeared into the house. She waited, stomach churning. Perhaps they’d left the car unlocked. Perhaps there was a car phone she could use. A part of her recoiled from the idea of going closer, but she knew she didn’t have much choice. The others were still out there, hunting her.

Cautiously she crept across the field, her dry breath rasping. The rough stalks brushed her dangling breasts. The sense of nightmare almost smothered her. Her pushed-out lip was trembling by the time she reached the mansion, but she kept her spoilt-schoolgirl tears in check. The building loomed above her, and a gutted silence filled it. This close, she felt absurdly safer, hidden now beneath the windowsills. She hesitated, squatting with her back against the wall, and strained her ears. No breath of sound. She slunk into the empty stable yard.

The limo waited in the open carport. Laura straightened from her crouch and scurried up to it. The port was cool and dim after the hot glare of the meadow. Her body was as bathed in sweat as if she’d poured a jug over herself. She glanced back at the sunlit yard, then tried the driver’s door. The bloody thing was locked, of course. “Oh, fuck,” she sobbed with snotty petulance.

Flouncing back, she glowered at the limo and saw her own reflection in its glass. She looked a sight: her boobs out like a floozy, her pouting features crowned with floppy ears. Impulsively she leaned in close and tried to see behind it, cupping her hands around her eyes, her bosom rubbing at the bodywork. But the windows were opaque, revealing nothing, and Laura got no hint of what was waiting in the car.

Beyond the glass, just inches from her nose, was Emma’s body, slumped gracelessly in an upholstered seat. Her big breasts were thrust out, and Laura stared at them unseeing, but the blonde girl’s face was turned aside, as if to nuzzle Frances next to her. The brunette’s head was resting on her shoulder, and the pair of them looked coyly intimate. There was a leaf in Emma’s hair, a smudge on her left cheek, and her tits were grubby where she’d lain face down. Frances’s pale skin was rather cleaner, but a dark rosette above one breast showed where the fatal arrow had been stuck.

The smell of semen in the car belied their Sapphic snugness. Their pussies were agape and sticky with their killers’ cum. In the seats that faced them, Claire and Susie sprawled with thighs wide open, their own vaginas oozing viscously. Claire’s glasses and her gawping mouth made her look like a schoolmarm who had just seen something scandalous – perhaps the flecks of spunk on her own breasts. Susie’s tongue was hanging out, her nipples puce and swollen. The four girls waited, limp as dolls, while Laura peered blindly in at them.

The posh girl gave a whimper of frustration. She straightened up, then glimpsed a shapeless movement in the glass. She flinched away, then realised what she’d seen was a reflection. An icy thrill went down her spine. She swung around. The waiting archer loosed.

The arrow leaped towards her in a heartbeat, embedding in her plump left breast to penetrate her heart. Laura grunted, spinning back against the limousine, then gave a guttural cry of pain, as if a dog was chewing at her tit. Her scream grew tearful as she squirmed, her haughty face contorting. It was the price she had to pay for being a stupid bitch.

At last she whimpered in her throat and let herself slide downwards, her body crumpling beside the car. The archer lowered his bow and eyed the curves of her slumped figure. Soon she’d be as full of semen as her hapless friends. He stepped across her, opened the car door like a chauffeur, then dragged the drooping girl inside to join the other four. The door slammed shut. After a pause, the limo started rocking. The creaks went on for quite a while, but apart from that, the afternoon was quiet.