By now, nearly all of the girls had volleyball-size tits hanging out of their torn T-shirts. They'd gotten so cautious about taking another hit that they were all hiding behind something -- bushes, trash cans, trees, etc. -- and taking wild, barely aimed shots whenever they thought they had a chance of a hit.
Twenty minutes had gone by without a single sensor registering a hit. Jim's boner was fading in frustration. And the girls were getting pretty frustrated, too.
Finally, one Sharon stood up -- then ducked down again as eleven pistols turned her way. She called out instead. "We're not getting anywhere here. None of us wants to see what happens when we take a second hit," she shot Jim a dirty look, "so we're stalemated. Just so we can get it over with, I'm going to shoot myself once. I think we all trust Jim enough that, twisted as he is, he wouldn't put anything fatal into this game. Now nobody else better shoot me -- I don't want to see what happens on a third hit, thank you, and especially not on a thirteenth!"
With that she stood up again (everyone else ducked lower just in case), turned her pistol around, and shot her own target.
Sat Aug 14 20:18:29 1999