“With this ring I thee wed,” Bone said, locking the steel collar around my neck with a strong padlock. I tried to resist as they shackled my wrists to the collar, but four strong hands and the chain they’d wired around my balls tilted the odds against me.

“By the powers vested in me,” Rev paused to polish off his can of Coors, “ I now pronounce you Brother and Bitch.” Bone was the Brother: The tattoos on his huge arms and the patches on his grimy denim jacket proved it. I was therefore the bitch. “You may now kiss the groom,” Rev told me. Blade, a mean looking asshole that wore a large knife on his belt, placed his foot on the loop of chain that was tied to my nuts and stepped down, forcing me to my knees.

“You’re in for a real treat, Honey.” Bone unfastened the Harley chain that he used for a belt and lowered his pants, then placed his huge hands behind my head and pulled me towards his cock. “Enjoy it. It’s the best you’ll ever suck.”

It smelled rank, as if he’d jacked off several times since his last shower. Several of his curly crotch hairs were glued to the tip with God only knows what, and I instinctively recoiled and willed my lips to remain sealed, but the pull on my balls became too intense and I finally shed my last remaining bit of dignity and opened my mouth wide, keenly aware of Blade and his knife and my balls.

It had started just like any other Saturday. I had donned my leathers and rolled the Ducati out of the garage at dawn. I wanted to strafe the canyon before the California Highway Patrol hit the road and the traffic got too heavy. I was determined to make my best time ever up the canyon and I was doing great when I came around a corner to find the highway full of slow moving Harleys. Way too early for a Harley Owners Club to be out for a Saturday cruise, I thought. Also, these assholes seemed to be weaving around a lot for a HOG club, more like they were stoned or drunk, behavior that the Harley Owners Clubs would never permit on their rides.

I was starting to get a little pissed off. Every time I tied to pass, one of the assholes would pull out in front of me and force me back behind. By the time we got to Rattler I was determined to leave these assholes in the dust. Rattler, so named because of all the potholes and washboards, is a long sweeper halfway up the canyon. I knew it was there and I knew how to take it, so I downshifted into second and laid it over and squirted through on the inside of the pack. The best Harley ever made is no match for a decent modern sport bike and before long they were nothing but a faint shadow in my mirrors.

The few minutes delay had eliminated all hope of a personal best time up the canyon so I slowed down a bit and settled back to enjoy the ride. Set up for the corner, pick a line, off the throttle slightly, slide off the seat and let my knee puck kiss the pavement, then back on the throttle at the apex and upshift and haul ass out like a cannon shot. Okay, here comes Pucker, so named because of what your asshole does if you enter it too hot, then Cop, not to difficult but with a wide spot that is sometimes used by the CHP.

A few more, and then Rocky. Rocky isn’t too hairy, but it is pretty tight and the unstable slope above sends down a little gravel now and then so I back off slightly. No rocks this time, so back on the throttle. What’s that black stuff? Looks kind of like oil. Oh shit! In an instant I was down and sliding on my ass across the pavement. I stopped and jumped up, adrenalin charged, and took a quick survey. My leathers were scuffed slightly but I was apparently not injured. The bike lay on its side in the wide gravel shoulder, still idling, rear wheel spinning. I walked over and shut it off and then wrestled it upright and extended the side stand.

I hadn’t been going fast and the race-bred bike had been designed to withstand minor lay-downs like this without major damage. There were a couple of scratches on the side panel and a mirror and turn signal had been broken, but that was all. The damage wouldn’t even meet my insurance deductible.

I felt a sudden need to drain my bladder so I stepped over to the edge of the shoulder and stood on the berm and let it fly. A wrecked car lay at the bottom of the gully along with several old water heaters, washing machines, and refrigerators that had been dumped through the years. My piss stream landed right on top of a dozen empty oil bottles, some still oozing their viscous contents, and it suddenly occurred to me that someone had purposely dumped oil on the highway. I was contemplating what kind of asshole would grease the grapevine when I heard the rumble of the approaching pack of Harleys. I hurriedly zipped up and rushed around the corner to warn them of the oil slick. I don’t go along with the fake wannabe tough guy image cultivated by the lawyers and accountants that buy Harleys, but I don’t want to be responsible for their injury either.

Before I could even see them I heard the burble of their pipes as they downshifted and slowed, and by the time they got to the corner they were just creeping along. It wasn’t until the first two had pulled over and joined me on the shoulder of the road that it occurred to me that they had been well aware that the oil was there. I made a break for it but two of them grabbed me before I got to the Ducati. “Going somewhere, pretty boy?” One asked.

“Goddamn but he’s cute!” The apparent leader said. “All dolled up in that tight little chippy suit.” Assholes like these guys ride in short sleeves. A fall like I had just taken would cause them major pain and most likely result in skin grafts. “Hell, boy, your cute enough to fuck. Why, if you could cook I’d marry your ass!”

“Shit, Bone, look at that bulge in his pants. He’s hot to trot,” Another said, pointing to my crotch. I wasn’t hung any better than any other twenty two year old guy, but I always wear a cup in my leathers and that makes my crotch look big. “Better do something to relieve the pressure. Blade, help him out.”

Before I could move the huge guy they called Bone had me in a full nelson and two other guys had grabbed my legs. Blade, as they called him, unsheathed a long knife and deftly cut away the front of my leathers, cup and all, ruining the thousand-dollar racing suit that I scrimped and saved to buy.

“Hook him up,” Bone commanded. Blade strode to his bike, rummaged around a saddlebag, and returned with a length of wire and a five foot long piece of light chain.

“Come on, Tank, pop your thumb out of your ass and give me a hand,” Blade said, passing the wire through the end loop of the chain. Tank, a huge hairy guy with a beer gut lumbered over, reached down, and grabbed my testicles. I involuntarily shuddered. This was the first time since junior high that anyone had grabbed my balls with malice. Bobby Jones and I had been wrestling back then when he reached inside my shorts and put a nut lock on me. I hurt for a week and almost went to the doctor, certain that I’d been injured. I hear that Bobby’s now shacked up with an architect in San Francisco.

“Jesus!” Tank announced, tugging on my balls. “We got us quite the bull here. Might have to do some rodeo riding!”

“Just hold him still,” Blade said. He then looped the wire around my nuts several times, always passing the end through the chain loop. He finished by twisting the wire tight and snipping the ends off with a pair of wire cutters. Even if my arms were free I knew I couldn’t loosen the wire without pliers or cutters.

“Okay, bitch, let’s ride,” Blade gave my chain a shake, sending a wave of pain coursing through my belly, and then pulled me towards my Ducati. I had no choice but to grab the chain and follow. “Saddle up, bitch,” he then ordered, and when I had done so he padlocked the other end of the chain to his Harley. I caught on real fast: I was to be right by his side, wherever he went.

I started my bike, he fired up his Hog, and the rest of the pack closed in tightly around us and we started down the canyon. I don’t like riding five feet from another bike, even in a race, but he started off slowly and I was able to keep my position. As if I really had a choice. I don’t weigh over a hundred and forty pounds and his heavy Harley could have easily dragged me along should I have fallen off. I could grab the chain, of course and keep my nuts from being torn from my body, but with the crotch of my leathers cut away my wired-up balls would surely be ground off by the pavement. We met a cop on the way down but I didn’t dare even try to wave and he only gave us a cursory glance and didn’t turn around to follow us or pull us over.

We left the highway a few miles down the canyon and headed up a small gravel road. I almost lost it once: the Ducati drifted a bit on one corner and the chain got tight. I slid over on the saddle at the last instant and regained control of the bike. We finally stopped in front of a small cabin, which I took was the headquarters or clubhouse or whatever the hell this bunch called their place.

“Off the scooter, bitch,” Blade commanded, and when I had stepped from the Ducati he gunned his engine and popped the clutch, lurching a head a few feet and scaring me shitless. “Where the hell’s the reverend?”

The door opened and a sleepy dirtbag wearing the remnants of a clerical collar stumbled out. “What the fuck you want, Bone?” He complained, taking a long pull from a can of beer.

“I’m going to marry this here bitch,” Bone announced, helping himself to a beer from the cooler by the door. “Where the fuck’s the ring?”

“He ain’t hardly dressed for a wedding,” the guy they called Rev eyed me and proclaimed. Two of the guys held my arms while Blade used his ever-present knife to shred my leather suit completely away, leaving me standing jaybird naked in the warm sun.

“Goddamn, but he’s beautiful. Just look at that lily-white ass. Can I have seconds?’ Blade asked.

“Fuck no! Go catch your own bitch. This one here’s mine, least wise ‘til after the honeymoon.”

Kidnapping me, stripping me naked, ogling my body, and threatening to rape me were tactics obviously designed to intimidate me, and they sure as hell worked. I hadn’t been that embarrassed or self-conscious since junior high, when I discovered that I was the only kid in the Eighth Grade PE class that hadn’t yet entered puberty. The real humiliation, however, came after the mock wedding when I was forced to suck Bone’s cock. The manacles locking my wrists to the collar around my neck offered only enough slack for me to reach around and grasp his penis and prevent it from being rammed clear down my throat. He finally unloaded and immediately clamped his huge hand over my mouth, forcing me to swallow, and culminating the sickest, most depraved activity that can be forced on a man. Or so I thought.

“Good stuff, huh bitch?” Bone stepped away, week in the knees. “Okay, honeymoon’s over. Who’s next?”

All six of them spent the rest of the morning taking turns at me. My ass, my mouth, even my nose and ears--no orifice was inviolate, my compliance guaranteed by the chain around my balls and Blade’s ever-present knife.

“You know what?” Bone asked. He and the rest of them were finally spermed out, and also drunk. “I think I done married me a Ho. I want a dee-vorce. Rev, get your ass over here.”

Rev finished what he was doing--pissing on the corner of the porch--and hurried over. “I now pronounce you divorced,” he solemnly announced, unlocking my wrists and removing the collar from around my neck. I immediately reached down to feel my balls. They ached a little from the abuse inflicted upon them, but they were still warm and sensitive to my touch.

“Saddle up, bitch,” Bone commanded, shaking the chain that was still attached to my nuts. My ass was so sore that I could barely walk, and I was sure I could feel their goop oozing out with each step, but I finally swung a leg over the Ducati. Bone passed the end of the chain through the frame under the gas tank before padlocking it tight. “Haul ass, bitch, “he said, “and stay out of the canyon.

They had already started the bike, so I headed slowly down the rough gravel road. I was planning on stopping at the highway and fumbling the tool kit from under the seat and using the pliers to free my balls from the wire. I knew there were some houses down the canyon, and I was trying to think of a way to knock on the door, still bare-assed naked and with white stuff running down my leg, and ask to use the phone. Probably the only one home would be some teenybopper who knew where her dad kept his thirty-eight.

I stopped at the pavement, but soon found that the chain didn’t have enough slack to allow me access to the tool kit. I was still trying to work it from under the seat when I heard the staccato rumble of the Harleys starting, so I decided to head down the canyon, hoping that I would be apprehended by the Highway Patrol.

The shift lever broke off as soon as I up shifted into second. Then the brakes failed. A good rider, such as myself, could have still made the few gentle corners if the throttle cable and return spring had also not failed. A quick look at the ignition switch revealed that the key had been broken off in the lock. The only thing left was the kill switch on the handlebar, which was also inoperative. I immediately reached down and shut off the fuel valve, but it would take almost a minute for the carburetors to run dry.

I regained consciousness in the hospital. I had a broken femur, a dislocated shoulder and twenty percent of my skin missing along with two other irreplaceable parts of my anatomy. The corner I failed to negotiate was so lame that it didn’t even rate a name—Not bad, huh. Now it’s known as the Nutbuster.