Piggie Plumpkins meets “The Femcan-azons” motorcycle gang. Episode 1
By morselman
Piggie Plumpkins slammed the hood of his car down with a huff. Steam poured out from the ruptured radiator hose as a big puddle of antifreeze pooled under the engine. He pulled a phone from a pocket--no bars! Tossing it to the ground he uttered a curse of frustration.
As Plumpkins looked around himself, a rising panic began to replace his anger. He was in the absolute middle of nowhere on a desert highway--and the day was young. Soon the inexorably climbing sun would turn the parched landscape into a deathtrap! He opened the trunk and frantically searched for the emergency kit.
Finally finding it, he gave the ancient corroded zipper a firm tug--the bag’s rotted fabric ripped open and the contents spilled out. He greedily grabbed the water pack from the grimy trunk floor but then gave out a cry of despair--it had long ago sprung a leak and was bone dry…
Just then, Plumpkins heard the sound of a distant engine roaring along the roadway--a wave of relief washed over him--until it became a symphony of many engines--motorcycle engines--unmistakably Harleys. Suddenly, a dozen radically chopped and bobbed motorcycles, carrying as tough looking a crowd of women as Plumpkins had ever seen, came rolling over a rise of the road.
Upon spotting the helpless Plumpkins, they immediately diverted course and began circling around him with hoots and whistles. They finally came to a stop and climbed off their rides. They all wore skintight blue jeans and flat soled shit kicking motorcycle boots that reached high up the calve. Their leather jackets sported rocker patches on the back. The upper read “Femcanazons” and the lower read “Motorcycle Club.” Between was an image of a piggie skewered on a spit.
The leader approached Plumpkins and towered over him, placing her hands upon her shapely wide hips. Her sharply protruding breasts were right at his eye level, nearly poking into them. A jet black Betty Page hairdo framed her face. She had a tough, but attractive visage--her jaw seemed just a bit too strong to be able to call her pretty, but the over all effect was still definitely sexy.
“Well, well, well--aren’t you a lucky piggie!” She declared, prompting a loud roar of laughter from her companions. She glanced around at them with a mischievous smirk. “It just so happens that we’ve been looking for a piggie to “join” our gang--to become a part of us!”
“A part of each of us!” one of her companions said, producing an uproar of merry guffaws from the crowd drawing ever closer around Plumpkins.
“That’s quite an honor I’m sure…” Plumpkins stammered, “but I really need to be going…”
“But we insist!” the leader said, quickly slipping on a set of brass knuckles and punching deep into Plumpkins’ torso--knocking the wind out of him as another Femcanazon swung her powerful leg from behind right up into Plumpkins’ groin, lifting him high off the ground. He crumpled into a heap with the crowd’s laughter still ringing in his ears.
Plumpkins awoke to find himself naked and tightly bound to the sissy-bar of the leader’s chopper as they rolled down the road. A rusty chain was run between his teeth and wrapped around his neck, then around the chest and belly, to be secured with an enormous padlock.
The other gang members noticed him stirring and pulled alongside. They began poking the lit end of their cigarettes into the exposed portions of his flesh, making a game of it. They all seemed to be focusing on a special effort to burn his nipples, much to Plumpkins’ horror.
The game finally ended as the group arrived at a rundown shack. “Welcome to our clubhouse piggie!” the leader said as she swung off her bike and unlocked Plumpkins. He slumped to the ground with a moan. She gave him a sharp kick and bent over close. “No time for laying about piggie--you’re due for initiation into our gang.”
Plumpkins looked up bleary eyed to see all the Femcanazons closing around him in an ever tightening circle, each carrying her weapon of choice cradled in a hand. Some had enormous crowbars with spikes welded upon them. Others swung chains, also bespiked. All had adorned their boots with overshoes sporting sharp cleats and projecting spikes…
