Kelly felt like a burnt Barbie Doll duct-taped to her sicko foster brother’s BMX handlebars.

Such were the pained thoughts that played across the tear-stained mind’s eye of Kelly, a massage therapy professional yesterday, a freshly liberated lipstick lesbian last night, and today, nothing but a sex toy being packed off by a band of bikers, now well over twenty strong, to be unwrapped in some degrading fashion. She had finally found herself sexually, less than a day ago, and would now have to endure having that aspect of her humanity soiled forever.

Kelly cried.

She woke from the back of the tear-sodden leather vest worn by the muscular man before her to a spectacle out of some western, only plaid out with bikes instead of horses. She was at the back of a pack of maybe 25 bikes spilling down out of a short lane into a country road. At the confluence of these two asphalt strips sat a lone biker from a rival gang it seemed, eyeing their passage with sleepy eyes of the most stunning sky blue. He had eyes like Aunt Sue’s husky. Not huge like some of these men, but about the size of her rider, this man was freakishly muscled—looking like one of those UFC fighters she had always wondered about working on from a technical standpoint.

But there was something wrong.

He had scars from some terrible riding accident, a wickedly broken nose—and an axe strapped to the side of his bike. There were also guns and other stuff hanging from this Frankenstein biker’s apparel, and on the back of his shoulders hung a helmet he had taken back off of his head. As the crazy biker sat his bike in the intersection, working his throttle like a low menacing growl, the men who Kelly now belonged to rode past him, circling in front and behind, spitting on him with great gobs of worked up saliva.

Last up was Kelly’s rider, who expanded his chest with a mighty effort and hocked a mouthful of fluid onto the man’s forehead, and growled, “Fucking retard—see you in hell!”

As frightening as this man seemed, he had the slack face of a mentally handicapped person and lacked any of the anger one might supposed buoyed men at times like this. As she pulled by the man seemed to drink her in with his eyes with a look she had never before experienced, a look not so much lustful as imbibingly appreciative, like a dull-witted boy wondering at some mechanical wonder.

Despite her horrible situation, Kelly’s heart went out to this idiot cutie with the mangled version of a god’s body and eyes like the winter skies she had always loved in her childhood, eyes like Aunt Sue’s poor husky who died one winter from something he couldn’t understand.

Eager for one last look back down the road, Kelly turned her head and saw something that made her stomach sink, something that she—with her knowledge of human musculature and the stunned realization that these motorcycles were so incredibly heavy—was appreciative of on a deductive level.

The retarded biker god was apparently a savant of some kind, with childlike sensibilities and freakish strength in excess of his freakish appearance.

In the middle of the road, having let go of the handle bar and throttle and spreading his arms in imitation of flight, the man stared open-eyed into the blazing late-morning sun of August using his booted feet and legs to stand the bike—a big metal machine like the one she was being taken on—up in a wheel stand, playing with it like a circus clown on a unicycle and/or pogo stick, wheelying around—even hoping!—in the road with his eyes drinking in the sun and an idiot face painted across what might have otherwise been extremely handsome features.

With a shudder she peeled her eyes away and thought with a shiver of this man who seemed to drink the world with his eyes.

Her reverie lasted for some time as they crested hills and she wished that such an enjoyable ride might have been hers voluntarily. She came stiffly to her senses as the bikes stopped in an open field—a small field set for a party, where Savage was directing his gang to drop their phones in a leather zip-case, one at a time as he handed them each a condom—ad big, fat Blue demanded three condoms, ad to her horror, got them.

She cried hysterically out at nothing, for there was not a human to appeal to in the bunch. Cheryl’s man hand then shut her up with a resounding slap and her sultry voice commanded, “Shut up, you stupid bitch! What the hell did you think this was about? Fucking enjoy it—I did.”