The Trophy Rack by Matt Nicholson

The Trophy Rack
By Matt Nicholson
     
    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