So we told ourselves, anyway. So Bulldog insisted.

And, hell, maybe some of us believed it, or wanted to. Clung to the notion like a talisman, helping us save face or ego. Holding fast to our blind trust in Bulldog, which had gotten us through plenty of scrapes before.

It was...tactical. Strategic. Regrouping and recouping.

We’d lay low for a while, wait for some of the heat to die down, then rally like the true ass-kicking badasses we knew we were.

Yeah.

So Bulldog told us, so we told ourselves, so we really wanted to believe.

Damn, though, but shit had gone sideways.

There we’d been, squared off, a sea of snarls and sneers, swaggering, and spitting insults. Jeans, boots, leather jackets. The Cobras with their flared-hood serpentine logo, us Wreckers sporting a studded, gauntleted fist. No guns; guns were for chickenshit pussies; anyone who pulled a gun at a rumble might as well turn in his balls. Bikes parked with headlamps ablaze to illuminate the asphalt dance floor. Women on the sidelines, some slutted to the nines, many eager for blood. A few on the front lines, too; Payback vs. Black Mamba promised to be an epic catfight.

I dunno for everyone else, but I’d kept mainly focused on not pissing myself.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m no coward. I could fight when I had to. Fight mean and dirty. I was quick; I was agile. Someone had dubbed me “Rocket,” and it stuck.

But the rumbles had never been my favorite. I’d much rather be roaring along the highway, bike veering satin-smooth around the turns and kicking it like a cheetah on the open stretches. Maybe surrounding a lone car on a desolate road, boxing it in, doing throat-cutting gestures and shouting obscenities, only to then zoom away—eat our dust!—laughing our heads off.

I also loved it when our sleek black machines went rolling into some unsuspecting nowhere town, a clamor of engines and exhaust and glinting chrome. The raw, naked terror on normie faces! The way they’d scurry in panic, like some old western movie. Hide your daughters, send for the sheriff; it’s them outlaws!

Even if we never did anything more than give them a show, it was great.

A full-bore turf war, though? Soon as it was on, baby, it was fucking on. Bulldog and King Cobra went toe-to-toe. Payback cunt-kicked Black Mamba hard enough to lift Mamba’s boots off the tarmac. Whippet whirled his chain as three Cobras closed in. ‘Dozer lay facedown, a big bastard called Python whaling on him with a crowbar.

Suddenly, there was Viper—quick and agile as I was, switchblades jutting from both hands like steely fangs. I bobbed and weaved; one blade snagged my sleeve but didn’t touch skin, while the other scored a thin slash to my chest. It stung, but I clenched my jaw and took it, ducking low to uppercut him, then hooking his leg with mine and toppling him. One of his switchblades jarred from his grasp and skittered across the pavement; I snatched it, ready to do a nice insult-to-injury.

Only he sprang right back up, slammed into me, and...

The knife punched hilt-deep into his belly. As I juked to dodge a wild punch, my momentum ripped the blade sideways, opening his guts.

The stink and the hot wet gush of blood struck me simultaneously, hitting harder than any punch. Close behind came the shock, the realization—had I, Rocket, really just done that?—but I couldn’t stop to think about it.

Because that was when the goddamn pigs made their goddamn Charge of the Light Brigade, a chaos of flashers and sirens, black-and-whites skidding in from all directions. Uniformed officers, riot squads, a couple helicopters whupping overhead...fuck, for all I know the National Guard, maybe the Marines.

It went from rumble to rout in no time flat.

Wreckers and Cobras scattered every which way.

All I could do was shove past Viper, and bolt for my bike.

I made it. No idea how; I was in a blur.

Next I knew, the racked-and-stacked Cherry was pitching a Grade-A tantrum, screaming how we couldn’t just leave ‘Dozer. Overdrive told her it was too late; we had to haul ass the holy fuck out of there. She whirled on him, demanding to know what kind of weak-ass pussies would bail on a fallen brother. As Hammer and C-4 pulled her off, Jailbait gave her a smart smack across the face and told her to calm her tits. I thought Cherry would go at her next, but, to my surprise, she backed down.

It might’ve been the sight of Bulldog that did it. Though he made the usual tired joke about how we should see the other guy, all I could think was there must’ve been nothing left of King Cobra but pulped meat; the Dog was that bad off. His old lady, Dyna—short for Dynamite—was more keeping him on the seat than riding behind him.

As we gathered, my stomach did a slow, sickening roll. Was this it? Half our original number at best? How many had the Cobras taken out? How many had been nabbed by the pigs? We had gotten our asses handed to us for sure.

We peeled out, Whippet and Roadkill taking vanguard, Payback and Crusher bringing up the rear.

I may have been among the least hurt, though Viper’s blood all over me lent a different impression. I flinched again at the memory, the blade puncturing, the wet and awful sound it had made, the stench, the hot liquid gout.

Had I killed him?

I may well have fucking killed him.

Or, hey, paramedics, ambulance, hospital, and he’d be fine. Just a new scar for the collection. A story to tell. All’s fair in love and war, and all that jazz.

I shoved it from my head. If we were going to get out of this crazyfuck situation, we had to pull it together.

Beat to shit or not, Bulldog did his best. And, gotta hand it to him, not many would have done better.

Not, I say again, that we were on the run.

Strategic withdrawal. Regrouping and recouping.

We were two hundred miles down the highway before the eastern sky began to brighten. By then, it wasn’t just the bikes running on fumes. We were all feeling it: exhausted, sore, hungry, thirsty, shaky. We couldn’t risk stopping at even the sleaziest no-tell motel in the shape we were in, no matter how much cash we might offer.

In the thin dawnlight, we detoured onto some unmarked county road and found shelter in an old abandoned barn. There, we made what camp we could, patched ourselves up to the best of our abilities, ate and drank and smoked whatever we happened to have in our panniers, and crashed out to get some goddamn sleep.

I woke late afternoon to find Jailbait snuggled up beside me. Both of us were still dressed, so I took that to be a good sign. Not that I hadn’t done things with her before, and not that there weren’t things I sure wanted to do with her, but I’d held off going too far. Oh, she had a rockin’ bod, all right, but she seemed to be angling to become my main squeeze, and I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment.

Besides, discovering Roadkill and Hammer had both kicked off during the day, succumbing to what must’ve been more grievous injuries than anybody realized, put a damper on any sort of playtime. Bulldog’s condition didn’t help, either; he was coughing up blood, thanks no doubt to the splintered ends of shattered ribs jabbing at his lungs. Iceman—who’d had some first aid training—was pretty sure our leader also had a massive concussion, if not outright brain damage.

Heated arguments ensued, Dyna insisting we get Bulldog to a doc, Payback maintaining it was the last thing he’d want, Overdrive suggesting we split off into smaller groups to evade the authorities, Whippet saying we’d be stupid to do that and needed to stick together. We were low on gas, shit for supplies, and well out into the damn boonies.

“So, we’re fucked.” Crusher was the biggest and baddest after Bulldog; hearing him doom-and-glooming cast a real pall.

“Looks like,” said C-4.

“What about Bulldog?” asked Trixie, Iceman’s honey. “Can he even ride?”

“Shouldn’t,” Iceman replied. “Maybe, if we strapped him on behind someone...”

“We’re not leaving him here to die,” Dyna said fiercely.

“Hey, no,” I said, surprising myself at my peacebringer tone. “Nobody’s saying that. Nobody’s gonna do that.”

“‘Kay, listen,” said Overdrive. “We gotta be smart, here. We gotta be practical. If we split up—”

“Fuck you!” Little guy though he was, Whippet got right up in Overdrive’s face. “We’re Wreckers, remember? We don’t cut and fucking run!”

“Fuck you!” Overdrive retorted, undeterred. He swept an arm around the musty barn interior, hazily lit by afternoon sunshine drifting through dust and chaff. “We already fuckin’ did cut and run! Look where we are, ass-end of nowhere, with staties and county mounties on our trail—”

“We’re not on the run.” Bulldog’s voice was hoarse, a pained and ragged growl, and he horked a wad of stringy blood-mucus into the dirt. “Told you last night...we just need to...regroup, recoup...lay low for a while until...until the heat dies down...”

“Shh, shh, take it easy.” Dyna patted at him, giving the rest of us a glower. “You rest, get to feeling better. No one’s in any hurry.”

Except, as we all knew, we kinda were. Time was not on our side, dithering around not a luxury we could afford. We couldn’t stay here and do nothing... ergo, we had to go somewhere and do something.

In the end, we agreed on that much, at least. As dusk fell, we readied to move out. Crusher drove Bulldog’s bike, with Bulldog strapped to his broad back, while Dyna rode with Payback. We doubled up, siphoning what gas we could from the leftover motorcycles to leave them hidden in the barn. Telling ourselves we’d come back for them later. Same as we told ourselves about Hammer and Roadkill, interred in hasty shallow graves.

A pitiful procession, it was...eight bikes, a far cry from the usual proud crowd we made in full engine-blasting formation. With only me riding solo; I’d been able to talk Jailbait into going with Whippet on the grounds that I could scout ahead better without a passenger.

Night came on fast and full in the boonies. No evenly spaced line of lights marking the highway, no comforting cluster-glows from towns, not even the neon shine of a remote truck stop. We had the stars, a vast spangle of them in the denim darkness, but no moon risen yet.

I was sure any second someone’s engine would sputter and stall. Kept one eye on the needle of my gas gauge, dipping ever lower, and the other scanning the horizon for...shit, for anything, really; we were past being choosy.

When we pulled over for a brief break, Bulldog was unconscious, slumped and drooling blood down the back of Crusher’s leather jacket. Dyna sobbed against Payback as Iceman checked him, with a grim face and a slow shake of his head. Whippet and C-4 looked to me, as if it were my goddamn call.

Sure, Rocket knows what to do. Rocket can pull a miracle out of his ass—

“Hey, look!” cried Jailbait. She and Trixie had wandered from the roadside to find a place to squat for a tinkle, and now they stood atop a rise, tippy-toe as they peered into the distance.

Some of us trotted on up, and saw a small but bright glimmer maybe two miles off. It was steady, not moving. Electric, or battery at least. The first sign of anything approximating civilization we’d seen since leaving the barn.

Waving the others to stay put, I went ahead, until I was able to discern more details. A combination of hope and relief bloomed so hard in my heart it about knocked me off my bike.

A gas station! Not much of a one, to be sure; in fact, it was exactly the kind of run-down one-pump shithole as could be expected someplace like this...but, under the circumstances, it might as well have been fucking Shangri-La.

Up closer, I saw an old pickup parked at the pump, more primer patches than paint, its bed loaded with random jackstraw junk. Beyond was a cinderblock building that might’ve been plunked there temporarily fifty years ago and never touched again. Its only signage was a warped sheet of hand-painted plywood, too faded and peeling to discern more than a few letters.

Pepper’s? Piper’s? Puppy’s? Pappy’s? Fuck if I could tell.

The single grimy window hinted at suggestions of shelving within. The door was open, spilling a rectangle of light onto barren hardpack, showing a man who looked to be every bit as old and decrepit as the truck. Maybe he was Pappy; it fit well enough.

He moved with both a stoop and a limp, hunched over, but purposeful, as he headed for the building after plugging the nozzle into the tank. If he heard the low grumble of my engine, he didn’t turn and look, or express any sort of concern.

Nonetheless, caution was called for. In these isolated parts, the sudden arrival of a bunch of bikers would be met with suspicion at best, if not the double-bore of a shotgun. I trundled back to the others and reported my findings.

“So they’ve got gas?” Overdrive pressed.

“Pump must be working,” I said. “A truck’s gassing up.”

“Good enough for me.” Payback stubbed out her smoke and lit up another. “We go in?”

“Not much choice,” C-4 said, eliciting a general chorus of mumbled agreement.

“Hold on,” I said. “Iceman, Trixie, you go first.”

They nodded. It was nothing new; the two of them were the cleanest-cut and most presentable of us by far. Could pass for college kids on a carefree road trip...maybe a little the worse for wear this time, okay, but still a damn sight better than sending in the hardcore toughs.

I accompanied them, a discreet chaperon stopping well out of the reach of the lights. Iceman motored his bike to the pump, heeled over onto the kickstand, and swung off.

“Ohmigosh thank gawd!” Trixie blared like a ditz as she dismounted. “My butt was going sooooo numb!”

“I’ll massage it for you,” teased Iceman, goosing her.

She squealed. “You keep your hands to yourself, mister! Unless you buy me a pop.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll buy you a dang pop.”

From my shadowed vantage, I saw the old man lean out. “Whoozzat out der?” he called, dry and raspy as sandpaper.

“Hey, yo, just need to top off,” Iceman replied. “This your place?”

“Tha’ss my truck, sonny, so don’ you go futzin’ with it. Waitcher damn turn.”

“Sure thing, old-timer!”

“There a bathroom?” Trixie asked, still puttin’ on the ditz. “And a pop machine?”

“Hell else y’want, girl, valet parking an’ room service?”

She giggled, the kind of giggle that twisted into your ears like a pair of corkscrews. “Well, if you’re offering—”

“He ain’t,” drawled another voice, one that spiked my pulse rate to eleven.

A silhouette appeared in the doorway. If the burst of hope and relief I’d felt upon initial sight of the place had nearly knocked me off my bike, so too did this appearance, if for entirely different reasons.

Now, when it came to shapely ladies, the Wreckers had no shortage. But, the silhouette framed in the doorway? Put them alllll to shame.

Backlit, the fabric of her dress was so thin and sheer as to be almost nonexistent. She could have been standing there brazen-ass naked, wide-stanced and hip-cocked. A tousle of curly hair fell nearly to her shoulders. I would have been willing to bet—real money!—that the backlighting also filtered through an unfettered bush as full and lush as a Maine Coon.

Damn. Ho-leeee damn.

“Who ain’t what now?”

It was Trixie, mocking the woman’s drawl with an edge of amused annoyance. I realized both Iceman and I had been gawping jaw-dropped for most of a minute. Me, still from shadowy concealment, but Iceman right there by his bike, in full view. A sardonic snort from the old man told me he hadn’t missed, nor been surprised by, such a reaction.

“This here geezer,” said the woman, making a languid gesture, “ain’t offerin’ valet parkin,’ room service, or whateverall else. Ain’t his place, like he said. It’s mine.”

“And what’re you offerin’?” Trixie asked tartly.

“Nothin’ you c’n afford or’d be interested in, sugarbuns. ‘Side from gas for that there motorscoot. Cayash only.”

“Uhhhh,” said Iceman. “Cash. Sure. Right. Yeah. Fill’er up.”

“Betcha’d like to do jist that, woulnt’ya sonny?” cackled the old man. “Fill ‘er riiiight up.”

Trixie’s expression pinched. “What about a bathroom? Pop machine?”

One silhouetted shoulder hitched in a half-shrug, setting off enticing ripples throughout the curvaceous physique. I found I’d sidled a few steps closer without meaning to, desperate for a better look.

“The jakes is aroun’ back,” she said. “Best bring y’own paper. Pop machine’s got colas, but warm; fridge unit’s busted.”

Iceman and Trixie shared a fretful look. I knew how they felt. Somehow, this wasn’t unfolding at all how any of us would’ve expected. It seemed weirdly off-kilter. My instinct said to jump in the saddle, rev the throttle, and go, and I could tell their thoughts were along similar lines.

But...

Well, but, we couldn’t go very damn far, now, could we? Not without gassing up. Even warm colas, and what passed for snack food around here—I imagined expiration dates that’d come and gone before any of us, except the old geezer, had even been born—would be more than what we had left in our panniers. There might be, hell, outdated aspirin at the very least. Maybe antiseptics or ointment, or a proper first-aid kit if we were lucky.

Plus, there was the truck. A junker, for sure, but a junker that ran, with a bed where we could settle Bulldog flat rather than jouncing him so bad. If the geezer wasn’t inclined to be charitable, or see reason, we could deal with him. He’d break like a brittle bundle of twigs. We had strength, youth, numbers, and determination on our side. Not like we hadn’t done it before.

Could deal with the woman, too. Deal with her in all sorts of interesting ways. Ways she might even, judging by the look and sound of her, find less than objectionable.

Again, not like we hadn’t done it before...

A brief but vivid montage of memories flooded my mind—bruised flesh, bitten breasts, bloodied thighs...broken noses, split lips, blackened eyes...weeping and whimpering...praying and pleading...struggling and screaming...

“Can, uh, can we just get some gas then?” Iceman dug out a wrinkled, sweat-damp clump of bills. “Cash is fine.”

I saw the sense in it; if he filled his tank, we could get out of here, then siphon enough fuel into the other bikes to make it a ways farther down the road. Make it to somewhere...else? normal? safe?

Safe?

Instead of answering him, her shapely silhouette swiveled in my direction. “Why not tell your friend t’ come on out an’ say hello?”

And I swear, I swear, although the light was behind her and the angle was all wrong for any other illumination or reflection, I saw her teeth flash in a smile. I saw her eyes glint with mischief...or, no, not glint so much as...shine.

She was looking right at me, right at me.

“In fact,” she said, raising her voice so it carried far across the desolate landscape, “how ‘bouts all y’all do? No need bein’ shy.”

Her gaze still held mine, held it like a beartrap, unseen though I should’ve been. Until, that was, I shuffled forward into the light despite myself, legs sleepwalking me rather than moving by my own volition. I heard the gunning of engines from over where the rest of the Wreckers had been waiting. As if they were equally unable to resist the...invitation? call? summons?

“What...what’s going on?” Trixie whined. “What is this?”

“Hush, there, sugarbuns,” said the woman.

Trixie hushed, despite herself; her lips clamped shut even as her eyes opened wide, and only a “Mmmph!” sound came out.

“Hey, come on, we’ll just go, okay?” Iceman tried on his most charming smile.

The old man cackled again. “You’ll go whens she sez so, sonny, an’ no sooner. Aw yus, but this oughter be good!” He sat himself down on a stack of crates, eager as a kid at the circus.

“We just wanted to get some gas,” I managed to say.

“Didya, now?” The woman emerged from the doorway, and the backlighting had not been wrong.

Her dress might as well have been curtain gauze, with nothing beneath it but bare, beautiful, nude curves. The wispy fabric tented over dusky, turgid nipples peaked with what I didn’t think had anything to do with the night’s chill. And the hinted-at lush bush? I wanted to just bury my face in it, like you might a rich lady’s mink stole.

My mouth had gone dry, my throat clenched to a pinhole. All my eyes could do was rove her figure, and all my blood could do was thunder to my crotch. No part of me felt under my own control as my sleepwalker legs shuffled me a few steps closer.

“Ain’t you a cutie,” she cooed. “Rocket, was it?”

A chill rushed down my spine, doing nothing to counter the heat in my groin. I hadn’t told her... no one had said...

Her smile turned wicked. “Gots a rocket in your pocket, too, don’cha? Go on an’ pull it out; them jeans lookin’ a mite tight.”

I wanted to protest, wanted to ask if she was insane. Then wondered if I was insane, because against my will I had already unbuckled, unbuttoned, and unzipped. My “rocket” jutted stiffer and bigger than it’d ever been, when it’d never been a disappointment in the first place.

“Well, see who’s packin’ hisself a hogleg!” hooted the old man, rocking back and forth on the crates.

I was aware of Iceman and Trixie goggling at me, but neither of them seemed able to move or speak, and my attention remained fixed, with almost starving need, on the barefooted woman in the sheer-nothing dress.

“Give it a nice rub,” she told me, in a sultry purr that nearly did the job without any help from my hand. “But you best not come ‘til I sez so, y’hear?”

I heard, and I rubbed, my curled fist working in a fast rhythm, slickened by eager droplets oozing from my cockhead. My hips bucked of their own accord. My balls ached, heavy and dense, not just ready to come but ready to explode. There was no way I could hold it back, except... there was no way I could let loose, either. In a matter of seconds I was on the screaming edge of a violent orgasm that just...would...not...happen! I howled in an anguish of agonizing pleasure and frustrated pain, and kept tugging my cock faster and harder.

“As for you,” said the woman, pausing in her relishing of my torment long enough to glance at the others, “Sugarbuns here, askin’ after the pop machine, must be thirsty somethin’ fierce.”

Trixie, helpless tears of fright streaming down her face, nodded, mute.

“While, din’t I also hear somethin’ ‘bout toppin’ off an’ fillin’ up?”

Iceman, still clutching the crumpled bills, shuddered and shook like he was being electrocuted.

“Tha’ss right!” said the old man. “Sonny-boy were all in favor of gettin’ topped off, an’ fillin’ her up!”

“Then tha’ss what he oughta do.” The woman made a little “go on” gesture with her head. “Fill her up, fill her up good.”

And Iceman, after a convulsive whole-body twitch, moved with stilted but decisive strides. His face was a mask of shock and disbelief as he disengaged the pump nozzle from the old man’s gas tank. It dribbled the way my cock was dribbling, spattering the ground as he carried it toward Trixie, whose mouth wrenched wide open like she was going to shriek, but no shriek came out. Instead, the nozzle went in, Iceman jamming it between her gaping jaws. He squeezed the handle, the ancient pump dinging as gasoline gushed down Trixie’s gullet. She gagged and gurgled and choked. It spewed from her nose and backflowed over her chin.

“Reckon she’s full up now,” the old man observed, barking a shrill laugh.

“Reckon so,” said the woman. She smiled sweetly at Iceman. “Now let’s get you nice an’ topped off.”

Sobbing silently, he drew the nozzle out of Trixie’s mouth—she collapsed in a heap—and fitted it into his own. The pump resumed dinging, stopping only when he fell, violently puking, to the ground and his slackening grip released the handle. Gas puddled around them, the fumes acrid.

While, me, I kept right on jerking my meat, unable to come despite balls so blue they’d gone indigo, far past any sensual enjoyment, well into absolute torture. I’d rubbed my dick-skin raw, and though the seeping blood helped to lubricate, I was no closer to release or relief.

Beams from motorcycle headlamps played across the demented scene as the others arrived. In a weird unison, they parked, kickstanded, and dismounted—Crusher with the unconscious Bulldog still strapped to his back. No one said a word, but their eyes showed hideous, helpless comprehension.

“How’d’ya like that?” marveled the old man. “A gen-u-ine motorbikin’ gang, right outta the movin’ pick-shers, I do declare.”

The woman nodded. “Well, well, well. The Wreckers, is it? Seems you’ve been havin’ a bit of a rough time. What is it they say?”

“Check y’self aforen y’ wreck y’self!” the old man whooped.

“Bit late for checkin’,” the woman replied. “So let’s see some more wreckin’.”

With the additional sources of light, I could finally make out the lettering more clearly on the hand-painted warped plywood sign.

PUPPETS’, it read, odd-placed apostrophe and all.

“Please!” The word burst from Dyna, surprising everyone. “My man’s hurt.”

“Bless your heart.” The woman tutted indulgently. “True love, ain’t that sweet? You sh’d help him, shouln’cha?”

Dyna turned, robotlike—puppetlike—and went over to Crusher, who remained still as a rock. “No, please, no!” she sobbed, as her hands undid the straps, allowing Bulldog to drop with a meaty laundry-sack thump.

He lay there, chest hitching, scarlet bubbles burbling at his lips. In the periphery of my vision, I saw Payback and Overdrive straining, struggling to exert their will, to regain some control, but their efforts were as futile as my own. Cherry had gone waxy as a mannequin, eyes dead and dull. Whippet, C-4, and Jailbait, I couldn’t quite make out.

“Please!” Dyna cried again, so loud it hurt my ears.

For all the good it did; her body continued obeying other commands, planting one foot squarely in the center of Bulldog’s beefy chest and bearing down with the considerable pressure of her full-figured weight.

His ribs, already splintered, gave way with a series of grisly, gristly crackle-crunches, causing darker and thicker burbles to bulge from his lips. He wheezed a thin, final, drain-clogged breath before his body sagged limp.

Dyna only stopped her heartrending wails when Crusher’s brawny arms snagged her in a headlock and—true to his name—crushed her skull; a chunky mess of brains and hair erupted through wedges of bone. Barely missing a beat, he bent and ran full-tilt at the gas station’s cinderblock wall, slamming into it hard enough to piledrive his head six inches down, where it lodged between his shoulder blades.

“Hoooo-eee!” crowed the old man. “E’r’body else gon’ be sorry they missed this! Could charge admission, y’could!”

“‘Nuther time,” said the woman. “Lemme just have my fun.”

“How long you gon’ keep that feller beatin’ the bishop? Wear it down t’ a stub, this rate!”

Her gaze—her maliciously mirthful, terrible gaze—fell again on me. My dick hurt so bad, yet I remained stiff as a spike, jacking away for all I was worth. Blood drizzled onto my boots as my hips quivered, spasming in pent-up lust.

“Ease off, there,” she told me. “Don’ go launchin’ that rocket yet... let’s find you a nice dockin’ port, shall we?”

My hand stopped, falling to my side; my sloppy skin-sloughed mess of an erection kept right on jutting. The woman swayed nearer, so near I could hear the whisper-rustle of her sheer dress against her voluminous bush. The prospect of sinking into her warm, soft, slippery heat should have been enticing but filled me with cringing terror; any further touch would be tantamount to scouring my raw and bleeding cock with steel wool.

To have her then pause, mere inches from me, and ponder my friends in a contemplative, musing manner...to have her then smile at Overdrive and crook one come-hither finger...to watch Overdrive, fighting it with all his might to no avail, drop his pants and go to all fours with his hairy ass in the air, pushing his puckered brown hole toward me even as his eyes blazed with impotent murder...

“Nooo,” I groaned, brokenly.

She tousled my hair, planted a kiss on my cheek, and whispered, “Yessss.”

Then I was on my knees, forcing my dick into Overdrive’s asshole, and it was like stabbing Viper all over again, the push and resistance and puncturing give, the stench of shit and blood, hot and wet and horrible. I thrust hard as I could, slamming against him, pounding him, fucking his ass with rabid wild animal intensity—

And I still couldn’t come!

On and on, an endless acidic lightning-bolt agony, as Overdrive wept and blubbered...as, nearby, a furious Payback was made to suck Whippet’s cock while C-4 plowed her from behind...while Cherry splayed spraddle-legged, using the pump nozzle as a dildo, yanking it out for the money shot to spray gasoline all over herself...and Jailbait did a bump-and-grind striptease lap dance for the old man...

The woman, our puppetmistress, looked on, watching with smug satisfaction as we Wreckers wrecked ourselves.

Digging deep for some last surge of defiance, Payback reached into the pocket of her leather jacket, the gauntleted fist displayed prominently on the back, and withdrew a small, metallic, rectangular object.

I tried to cry out—warning? exhorting—and my tormentor must’ve taken it for a desperate plea, because she bestowed her indulgent smile upon me.

“Oh, aw’right,” she said, in that lazy croon-purr drawl. “I reckon you c’n go on ahead an’—”

From the lighter in Payback’s hand, there was a flick, a flame.

In the instant before the gasoline caught, I heard the woman gasp in horror.

Then the world ignited into a fireball of burning death...

...and I still hadn’t come.

About the Author:
Writer, editor, reviewer, cancer survivor, craft weirdo, baker of goodies, bringer of treats, high desert hermit, way more into sharks and dinosaurs than a woman her age should be, bossed around by cats.