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November 06, 2025
Poachers and the Gamekeeper: Bound & Bared in the Woods – Ami Mercury & Sandra Silvers Tracked & Trapped by Ben!

The forest breathes in silence - dappled sunlight cuts through the canopy as fallen leaves crumple beneath stealthy boots. Two intruders move like shadows through the underbrush: Ami Mercury, fiery red hair, curves clad in a thick rib-knit sweater and tight-fitting denim pants, and tan work boots; beside her, Sandra Silvers, the silver-haired huntress in her early 50s, elegant even in the wild, her chunky knit jumper hugging her curves, dark denim jeans stretched over toned thighs, and brown leather hiking boots sinking slightly into the damp earth.

They’re poachers on a mission - stealthy, confident, believing they own the night. But they’re being watched...

Ben, the gamekeeper, stands motionless behind an oak, kit bag over his shoulder, eyes sharp as flint. He’s known of their trespass for days. Tonight, he’s ready to enforce the law - his law. In a flash, he descends.

A sharp crack of branches. Ami spins - too late. A coil of nylon rope, thick and unyielding, wraps around her wrists mid-reach. She gasps as she’s yanked backward, stumbling over roots, her boots kicking up mulch. Sandra lunges - valiant, fierce - but Ben is faster. One loop snags her forearms; another cinches her elbows behind her back in a hobble harness, the cord biting into soft skin. The pair are swiftly silenced with thick cleave gags between their lips.

The women are dragged - kicking, muffled by the sudden press of microfoam wraps - tight, padded bands that seal over their mouths and eyes in one cruel stroke. The material conforms to their faces like silent verdicts: gagged, blinded, voiceless. The trees become their prison.

Each woman is bound to a separate pine, roots ancient, trunks rough. White bondage rope, coarse and unforgiving, winds around their torsos - over shoulders, under arms, across collarbones - anchoring them to bark. Their legs are lashed together from ankle to thigh, knees bent slightly, feet splayed - one pair in brown lace-up boots, the other in mud-streaked combat shoes, now useless. Then, their knitted tops are seized.

Ben grips the beige woolen sweater on Sandra, fingers hooking under the fabric. With a slow, deliberate tug, he yanks it and RIP. Her breasts spring free, tanned and full, nipples stiff in the cool air. He does the same to Ami - her tan sweater turned torn threads - her sweater puppies now fully exposed, rosy tips quivering as she strains against the ropes.
Ben circles the detained damsels.

One hand drags across Sandra’s left breast - palming the soft globe, thumb rolling her nipple until it darkens with unwanted arousal. He pinches - hard - eliciting a muffled whimper through the foam. Then to Ami: his rough palm smacks her right tit before kneading it, twisting the peak between calloused fingers. She arches, trying to pull away - but the ropes hold, the tree unyielding. Then he steps back. Is it worse to receive unwanted attention? Or, to wonder where he's gone to...

Two captives, bound like prized game, their helpless state on full display. The rope trusses dig into delicate skin. Their bound forms press against tree bark, writhing subtly, boots and soles flexing in silent protest. The forest listens - no birdsong, just the occasional rustle of a toe curling inside a boot, the faint creak of rope as they shift.

Ben snaps photos - close-ups of exposed flesh, humiliated faces, the way their bound arms can’t even flinch to cover themselves. He documents their subjugation, their arrested rebellion, their naked vulnerability. Then - without a word - he vanishes into the trees. Left alone, the two women remain: tethered, silenced, exposed. Their captive positions force them to feel every gust of wind, every brush of bark, every pulse of blood rushing to their bare, sensitive breasts. The microfoam gags trap their breath, their muffled cries lost to the wild.

High above, a crow calls.
Another prize claimed by the Gamekeeper.