This was farmland he was riding in, with plenty of rolling hills covered with corn and soybeans. No lights brightened the road. Sandy crested a hill and looked ahead. A yellow sign marked a four-way intersection ahead. He noticed that there were lines of headlights on both sides of the road. With only a hundred yards or so before he crossed, some of the lights pulled out ahead of him. He hit the brakes, though not hard enough to lose his balance. They were bikes, he saw, five or six of them ahead of him, and as he crossed the intersection, the rest of the bikes pulled out and followed him.

He swallowed hard. What on earth was going on? No one seemed to be threatening him, but all the same, he was surrounded. They had slowed down. He was going no more than forty miles an hour. Time to pass. But as he started flowing to the left, a bike came up on his left side to prevent him. Now his heart began to thump in his chest and the sweat of fear trickled down his back. The biker on his left was a big man with long black hair and a flowing beard over a paunchy belly. Sandy glanced over at him but the biker didn't look back.

The bikes ahead slowed down even more and started pulling to the right. Off the highway was a dirt trail. Sandy tried to keep his course, to go straight and get away from the pack, but the biker to his left closed in on him and started to run him off the road. Without looking at Sandy, the biker pointed off to the right. The bikes behind him closed ranks. He didn't have a choice but to go where he was told.

The trail was rough and full of holes and bumps. Sandy's bones were rattled and shaken. The headlight's spot flashed wildly along the trail as he traveled along, overgrown weeds slapping at his thighs. A long line of lombardy poplar trees was on his right, a field of corn to his left, red taillights and exhaust ahead of him. No one was going to see him back here. Terror was gripping him like a vise around his guts and he was beginning to shake. What had he stumbled into?

Finally the pack came to an old barn, half-open with rotted planks and leaning timbers. There were a few bikes already parked up ahead and a glow from inside the barn. As the bikers ahead started pulling their bikes up, Sandy made a desperate turn to escape, but the bikers behind blocked him quickly. He stayed on his bike but soon they surrounded him. Sandy stood, shaking and alone, captured in the headlights of more than a dozen bikes.

One by one, the throaty growl of the engines were cut off and the bikers dismounted. The burly one with the flowing black hair, the one who had ridden on his left, grinned and came up to Sandy, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Look what we have here, boys!" he said in a voice roughened with years of cigarettes and whiskey. "We have a new member and we didn't even know it!"

Sandy looked around him. They were all Devil Dogs. "No," he whined, his knees shaking and hardly able to hold him up. "I didn't say, I didn't mean to--"

The biker threw his arm around Sandy's shoulder and crushed him close. "Don't worry about it, bro! We're just going to initiate you. It's a big party!" He laughed harshly and pulled him towards the barn.

The whole gang followed along. Sandy tried to look them all in the face, to see if any one of them showed any compassion at all. There was a fat man, shaved bald, wearing a Devil Dogs vest. There was a balding man with long, curly brown hair and a goatee. A skinny, ratty-looking man with greasy dark hair and buck teeth. All of them different, all of them hardened, all of them tough, and none of them looking at him with an ounce of compassion.

Heavy metal music was pouring out of the barn. Someone had brought a boombox. Empty beer cans were littering the floor already and bottles of Jack Daniel's were being passed around. In the middle was what looked like an old workbenchand some coils of rope. Sandy dug in his heels and tried backing away but the men closed in and grabbed him. Their hard, powerful hands dug into his arms and legs, picking him up and carrying him the rest of the way. Sandy tried to twist out of their grasp, but it was no good. He was just too weak.

They threw him against the table and bent him over the edge, crushing his face against the rough wood. The man with the black hair, apparently their leader, stuck his face into Sandy's and grinned with awful yellow teeth. "I think we'll hang on to your jacket," he said, his breath stinking and stale. They stripped Sandy's jacket off him and yanked his brand-new leather pants off.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sandy babbled as they tied rope to his wrists and stretched him out over the table. His feet left the ground, only his toes now touching, and they grabbed his ankles. His legs were spread wide and his legs tied to the table legs. The chilly air raised bumps on his skinny white legs and ass. By now, Sandy was crying. Why had he ever had that stupid jacket made? What on earth had possessed him to show it off in public?

"Please don't," he whined, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Please!" His voice was thin and hoarse now and he was bawling.

"We don't let little crybaby pussies into the Devil Dogs," said their leader. Sandy heard the sound of a belt being unbuckled and pants dropping. "We'll make you a man!"

Sandy's eyes widened as he felt something thick and hard push between his asscheeks. "NO!" he yelled in the same instant that hot, thick dick rammed through his asshole, a ripping explosion of pain that he couldn't have imagined. A white-hot spear tore into him and he lost all control of his muscles, thrashing like a fish and screaming, but more than a dozen hard hands held him down. The leader pumped his stiff, powerful dick deep into Sandy's ass, his huge hairy balls slapping just under Sandy's torn red hole.

One by one they took their turns with him, a parade of dicks ripping into his deflowered ass and pumping hot white cum deep into him. Streaks and dribbles of cum and blood ran down his legs. Sandy's screaming turned into weak, uncontrolled weeping. Splinters of wood embedded themselves in his chest and belly, unnoticed because of the raging pain in his bowels. Finally he passed out from the pain while he was being fucked for the seventh time and he involuntarily puked onto the table. It puddled under his face and he choked as he sucked some of it back in. In his haze, he hardly noticed.

The last man took his turn with Sandy's ripped, bleeding asshole. Sandy no longer made a noise or a move. He was a limp, used rag of a man, insensate. He hardly noticed when they stretched his balls off and tied them off with wire, but as the wire was pulled cruelly tight, the searing pain in his balls roused him again. He looked up, shaking, breathing heavy and ragged, puke dripping from his face and hair. He saw the leader step into his range of vision and show off a wickedly long switchblade. The leader laughed nastily when the blade flicked open.

"I hope you liked your initiation, bro," he said.

Panicking, Sandy looked around wildly, not understanding. Only when those big, crushing hand gripped his balls and pulled them away from his groin did he understand and an animal scream escaped him. Too late.

The pain of his rectum being torn repeatedly was nothing compared to the sawing of a sharp knife through his tender scrotum. He sounded like a dying piglet as his most precious parts were separated from him, the cords and veins sliced away. His screaming died away as the last of the flesh was severed. The last thing he saw was his bloody sack, seeping cloudy fluid, slapped onto the table next to his face. He'd been destroyed and his mind couldn't take it. Sandy slipped into unconsciousness.

When he awoke, he lay on the ground, his wrists and ankles rubbed raw where he'd fought against the ropes. A searing pain was still in his groin and a heavy ache was in his gut. His throat was raw, every muscle in his body sore. His back felt torn. Above it all, when he moved, when he stood like a shaky foal on its feet for the first time, he felt the hot throbbing pain of his torn asshole. He looked at himself. He was covered with dirt and his legs were painted with blood and shit. He'd been laying in a puddle of his own piss and shit and blood.

It was just past dawn. He was alone. Painfully, tearfully, he forced himself to stagger out to his bike. The keys were still in the ignition and his pants lay draped across the seat. Though it brought back every hard memory of being raped just hours before, though it made him weep with pain, he struggled into his leather pants, afraid to touch the raw rip where his balls had been. It was going to be hellish, he knew, having to ride his bike to the nearest hospital an hour away, feeling every pebble on the road as if it were a needle in his anus or a match to his wounds. But he had to.

There was something on the gas tank, he noticed, as he was about to kick the bike to a start. For a moment he was baffled at its lumpy gray shape, but recognition kicked in and he shook with horror. They'd left him his balls.