The Trophy Rack

The Trophy Rack

Published by Darker Pleasures at
Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Matt Nicholson. All rights
reserved.

Cover image by
alekseypoprugin/123RF Stock Photos

Smashword Edition, License Notes

This work contains graphic language and
sexual depictions of sometimes extreme consensual and
semi-consensual female bondage and sadomasochism. It is intended
for mature audiences only and is not suitable for persons under
eighteen years of age. This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters places and incidents are products of the authors’
imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
or redistribute this book or portions thereof in any form
whatsoever. For information, address Darker Pleasures, webmaster at
darkerpleasures.com.

The Sangre de Cristo Exotic Game Club was
nestled in the heart of the pine, spruce, and aspen-covered
mountains of New Mexico’s Wheeler Peak Wilderness. Brice Comstock
had no idea how long the club had been around, but from the looks
of the carvings on trees, tables, and walls, it had been several
decades, maybe longer. He’d heard of it through word-of-mouth, or
rather, word-of-mouth had directed the owners of the club to him.
He’d soon learned that only certain people recommended by
established members could join the club, and then only after a very
thorough background investigation and interview.

In any case, his first hunt had been three
years ago—to the week. The one-day hunt had cost him fifteen grand.
He’d bagged a small doe that year and the rack now hung proudly in
his study. The second hunt had cost him seventeen-fifty, thanks to
inflation and higher operating expenses. He’d spent hours stalking
a beautiful bronze, but in the end she’d gone to ground and his
money had netted him nothing more than a grilled burger and
exercise.

This year was different. Thanks to his
promotion to Division Vice-President, the twenty-five thousand he
spent for the three-day weekend came easily. With the extra money
came luxury overnight accommodations, a guaranteed trophy, video
and photographs, game dressing, meals, a campfire celebration, and
the trimmings.

He settled behind the fallen pine he’d been
using as a makeshift blind and took a quick swig of Ozarka. After
re-capping the bottle, he quietly slipping it back into his pack,
shifted around and lifted the rifle back to his shoulder. Using his
scope, he scouted the ridge where his pale quarry had disappeared
fifteen minutes earlier. She had cover, shade and water, so there
was no reason to think she’d bolt, but there was also only one way
out. He had that covered.

He wasn’t giving up on this one. She had the
biggest rack he’d ever seen at the club, well worth stalking
through the mountain thicket for almost three hours. Even though
finding another might be easier, after all they’d released six does
to make certain each of the three hunters bagged one, she was well
worth the wait.

About ten minutes later, his patience paid
off. He caught the faintest hint of movement about fifty yards
directly up the slope from him. Slowly, easily, he shifted the
rifle. Less than a square foot of target was clear through the
trees, but the bull’s-eye he saw through his scope almost made him
gasp. She was even bigger than the big one he’d let get away
before, and, though she was remarkably pale given the conditions,
the colors and textures brought close by his scope made him
hard.

As much as he wanted to take the shot, it
would ruin the rack, not to mention the festivities. His heart rate
climbed as he kept the laser trained and watched through the scope,
waiting for a better shot. Just moments later, his patience paid
off again when she turned and slowly moved away. He could have
easily drilled the left side of her rump, but that would ruin
things, too. Holding his breath, he watched, praying she wouldn’t
bolt. Then it was there.

Ignoring the hard thumping in his chest, he
drew a deep breath and held it. Thinking about the fun he was about
to have, he carefully pulled his fingertip back.

~~~

Faline broke through the underbrush, wiped
the light sheen of sweat from her forehead, and then quickly bent
to retie her calf-high moccasins. The thin boots were the only
things she wore besides the tag that pierced her left labia, and
they’d been worth twice their weight in gold this time around. The
guy was good; he’d even tracked her down the stream she’d used to
loose several hunters before. Nevertheless, he wasn’t so good that
she couldn’t have lost him a half dozen times if she’d wanted.

Still, were it not for the flesh-colored
suede, her calves would have been scratched raw, and the light
scratches here and there over the rest of her body spoke of the
several times she’d thrown caution to the wind to give him a good
chase.

Once she caught her breath, she edged up to
the ridge and peered through a break in the thicket. He was still
where she’d last seen him, half a football field down the
mountainside, scanning for her with his laser scope. It was then
that she caught the red beam moving up the rocks just a couple feet
in front of her. When she looked down, a bright red spot of
glittering light danced in a half-inch circle over the wrinkles in
her areola a quarter inch below her nipple.

She started to panic, thinking back to the
second time she’d been shot. The hunter she’d chosen turned out to
be a tit man with an itchy trigger finger. Given her assets, they
were always tit men, but instead of waiting for a better shot, he’d
darted her breast from only a dozen yards away. There wasn’t enough
handsome alive that could have made the bruising ache that came
later worth it, and she’d vowed to make sure she gave the hunters
only select targets to dart from then on.

Ignoring the dot, Faline gritted her teeth
and turned, slowly walking away. Deciding it was time to let the
man have his glory, she let her bottom fill his scope. Holding her
breath, she imagined him waiting for a better shot, hoping he had
plans for more than just her boobs. It was only a couple seconds
later that it hit, slamming into the upper part of her thigh just
below her ass.

Pain or not, she almost cried out in thanks
as she yanked the dart free, wincing at the sharp sting as she
tossed it aside. She had a couple minutes, at best, before the drug
made it dangerous to run. But that was all the time she needed. She
had just the outcropping in mind to sprawl out on so her big bad
captor could claim his prey.

~~~

A combination of sensations helped wake her.
The first things Faline saw as her eyes began to focus were the
trees—pines and aspen—though the angle was all wrong. She lifted
her head and looked up to find out why her wrists were hurting. As
her awareness returned, she realized she was hanging by her wrists
and ankles from a horizontal pole. Two men carried it, one on each
end. A third man, carrying a rifle, walked beside the pole handler
at her feet. Her head now clearing, she remembered she’d been here
before.

Besides the dull pain her wrists, her
shoulders ached, and the outside of her left thigh felt as if it
had been hit with a baseball bat. Her bottom, nearest the ground,
swung from side to side along with her long, dangling blonde hair.
Both occasionally brushed across a small shrub or seedling pine as
they strode through the woods toward camp. Every now and then, a
taller weed or seedling slapped her bare labia. A light stinging
swathed her pussy lips and the tight, lower curves of her rear,
suggesting she may have found a nettle plant some time earlier.
None of the feelings were necessarily bad. In fact, as she became
more aware, she started to get aroused.

The needles of a sapling pine dragged down
the inside of her left thigh and funneled between her legs,
tickling her provocatively at the same time as a more urgent pain
made its presence known. She looked down at the thigh. A mottled
blue bruise had spread like a stain from the small hole left by the
tranquilizer barb, forming a ragged circle on her pale, muscular
flesh.

Concentrating more on the tingling left
behind by the pine, she glanced back to the man that shot her and
thought about what he’d be doing to her later. Despite the pain,
her nipples turned stiff, her labia started to feel full and there
was a slight tingle beginning to build in her rapidly swelling
clit. Though she could attribute most of the reactions to the
brazen flora and cool mountain breeze, the horny came mostly from
anticipation at what the evening had in store.

This was her sixth hunt in the three months
since they’d recruited her. She’d been waiting their table at the
diner when they started chatting her up. At first, when they
explained what her role would be over coffee and chocolate meringue
pie, she thought they were joking. She’d started to take them
seriously when they offered to pay her ten thousand dollars plus
luxury accommodations to run naked in a private preserve in the
mountains for a weekend.

She’d taken fifteen and joined them after
that, only too happy to hear more. For that kind of money, she’d
hardly blinked when the talk turned to hunters with tranquilizer
darts. When they’d told her it would even be her choice to let one
take her or not, she started waiting for the catch. But they just
said there would be a hefty bonus if she let herself be bagged.
After she read the contract, she knew she was in. It was nothing
but win, though the seventy-five hundred dollar signing bonus
hadn’t hurt.

This was only the third time she’d been shot.
The first had been an accident. More than satisfied with the easy
ten grand, and not at all certain she was ready for what it took to
earn the bonus no matter how exciting it sounded, she really hadn’t
planned to be take. But she’d tripped, and the older man with his
greying temples was good—in more ways than one.

Had it not been for other obligations she’d
already made that made the extra time commitment a problem, she’d
have readily let herself be bagged the next two times. Once those
commitments were done, she made certain she was always free for the
entire hunt from then on.

Once again, Faline looked down her long legs
and bare feet past the man at the end of the pole to the hunter
that bagged her. He was about her age and handsome enough that she
could have fun with him later. He was looking at her fat tits,
watching them bobble like Jell-O with every step her handlers took.
Given the hungry look in his eyes, and the trouble he’d taken to
track her, she had little doubt he had special plans for her fat
‘rack.’ If she could entice him into playing nice with her pussy
and spreading a bit of the spanking to her rear, it would be the
best money she ever made.

A glance at the prominent bulge in her
hunter’s crotch only added to her excitement. Since she was
supposed to be playing the dumb animal, she did her best not to
smile even as she felt her nipples get harder and her pelvic
muscles involuntarily contract.

Less than five minutes later, they lifted her
pole to their shoulders and dropped the ends across two uprights
posted in the middle of the camp. Two of the other women dangled in
similar fashion just a few feet away. One of them was a veteran. A
college professor during the week, hunters had taken her down over
a dozen times. Some of the other longer-timers were pissed because
she all but threw herself in front of the crosshairs, denying them
bonuses. But she’d become so popular among some of the richer and
lazier clients the owners let it slide.

Just before they’d released the herd that
morning, one of the girls whispered in a jealous pique that the
preserve should throw a ‘catch and keep’ clause into the contract.
Maybe knowing the hunter would get to take her home if she didn’t
make a decent show would be incentive for lazy game. But, since
there was a line between being consensually hunted and ‘played
with’ and being sold into slavery, the suggestion hadn’t gone too
far. Still, Faline could only imagine what the bonus would be for
agreeing to
that
clause.

She didn’t have long to think about it as the
other two hunters came back from a beer run at the main lodge,
waving like schoolboys at her captor. Spreading out ahead of the
two toward the three does were a half-dozen game handlers. The
preserve’s taxidermist and videographer split from the group and
headed her way. Since they’d already measured, photographed,
videotaped and molded her twice before, she really didn’t see why
they had to do it again. She supposed they wanted to account for
water weight, brush scratches and freckles. Not that she minded.
All the manhandling just added to the fun.