Paintballs
WARNING, PENECTOMY, TESTICLES, NULLIFICATION
Don\'t be so cocksure it\'s just a cunt hunt.
` The mayor of the gambling center of the universe is really pissed this time.
It is, _and always has been,_ a family place after all. Not. `

A little further north, the Mustang Ranch died on the range.

As if the desert heat dries up one's sex drive. As if the casino AC freezes
one's libido.

But, let's assume the mayor is right, or partly right, or that maybe his parts
don't work anymore. Because even assuming it's now a Family Place then does
anyone here remember how the kids got here in the first place?

I don't mean Southwest Scair or the direct-from-Moscow Aeroflop, I mean kids
come from cunts. Like it or not, even the mayor has to admit that sex _exists_
or at least _did exist_ or the kids wouldn't even be here, right?

Before, they were happy they had it, and they flaunted it. This was the proud,
loud motto:

__

Never a loss  
for ass  
in Las  
Vegass  

So, you'd think when the guy admitted the Bambi Hunt was a hoax, the mayor
would cool off. But no, apparently you now need a license to even _think_
about a high-roller paintball safari for sneaker-only sex kittens.

Correction: they had white socks in addition to the Nikes.

Hoax or not, the South American pony farm likes new ideas. No license required
there, and the tropical climate seems to take one's sex drive and boil it to a
fetish frenzy.

They already had their first hunt. Wasn't for no bambi's. Paintballs on the
asses of fag stags was the theme.

They must use satellite phones or coded internet messages or something. Some
NSA voyeur listening in must jerk off all over the high-tech electronics of
interception. But the word gets out all across the world where most people
_admit_ they have sex drives.

Where some admit they would drive anywhere and pay just about anything to
satisfy a new fetish. Even fetishes they didn't know they had until the coded
invitation triggers an immediate jean-creaming reaction.

However they get the invitiation, the kinky accept. Come they do. Searching
for that ultimate of kinky cums.

For those who prayed to be prey, and for cunts who love to hunt right along
with the AK-47 macho men, the sound of the cock hounds is about to go off.

The guys on the run have to meet strict qualifications: silky smooth buffed
bods, beautiful bouncing balls, long and luscious throbbing or teasingly
flapping cocks, sneakers and white socks. And they're paying big bucks to be
hunted bucks.

Even more doe is required to be an armed doe or a flak-ejaculating big-game
hunter of the great He. Since it's all filmed, the steel rod crew has to be
buffed and beautiful too as they hunt the delicious cum rods. Just sneakers
and white socks for them too, along with the paintball guns of course.

But the broad in the group paid extra to be a bow hunter, the razor-sharp real
deal. She's on the prowl for fresh-sliced gonads, or several severed pieces of
six or more inches.

The paintballers shoot different colors. Each paying for their color-coded
reward for their piece of ass _piece de resistance._

The hunted know their odds. Depending on their own odd sub-fetish, some are
actually hoping to be shot by the most extreme colors or even by a balls-on-
target arrow into their target of balls.

They've all agreed. The thrill is as high as their high cocks as their naked
nubility leaps into the jungle. If you're shot red, that night you'll be
pleasantly dead. Piece by piece will be brazed and boiled for the after-hunt
feast of beautiful a hard-bodied happy-happy man.

"Harvest me please," they all have agreed with glee. Even the quested quest
for the lose-my-parts party that night.

So excited are the game, they are often shot in pairs as they cross paths in
the jungle and stop for an exciting interlude of cum lunch. As they suck the
succulent boners, they are careful to always leave their balls in plain view,
always a well-displayed target of opportunity.

What a spread at twilight. The rock-hard hunters have been crawling over rocks
all day, mostly successful in bagging a beautiful bag of balls as one of the
hunted was getting his rocks off into the mouth of fellow fag stag.

The spread is color-coded with spread-eagle fag stags strapped on their backs
to the picnic tables. Yellow for cock-head stew. Green for hard-boiled gonads.
Pink for barbequed penis dogs. Blue for the full-package blue-plate special.
And red for the real deal meal of a lifetime, the happy end of life to nurture
life for the happiest fag stag.

Everyone drools like Pavlov's dogs. The fabulous fetish feast will follow,
with every delightful flavor from cum to cock to balls to butt, but this is
the moment to really savor.

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