Chapter 3: The Initiation
The night air whipped past, cold and sharp, but Candy felt only the engine's vibration thrumming up through Helga's thighs into her own. The world was a smear of neon and streetlights, the roar of three motorcycles a wall of sound that drowned out everything, even thought. She clung to Helga’s waist, her face pressed against the scarred leather of her back, the helmet smelling of old sweat and perfume.
They left the city’s grid behind, turning onto a rough access road that cut through scrubland. Up ahead, a sprawling, low-slung building emerged from the darkness, a silhouette against the lesser black of the sky. Lights blazed from its high, grimy windows, and the distant thump of music grew until it was a physical pulse in the air, competing with the bikes.
The compound. It was less a garage and more a reclaimed industrial bay, surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Dozens of motorcycles were parked in chaotic rows outside.
Helga swung her bike into an open space near a large rolling door, half-open, spilling yellow light and noise. The engines cut, one by one, leaving a ringing silence quickly filled by laughter, shouts, and the driving bassline from inside.
Bex dismounted first, rolling her shoulders. “Home sweet shit-hole.” She looked at Candy, who was clumsily trying to get off the bike, her legs buckling. “Look alive, sweet thing. Meeting the family.”
Astrid caught Candy by the elbow, steadying her. Her grip was firm, impersonal. “Try not to piss yourself.”
They moved toward the light. The interior was vast, a cathedral of grease and iron. The air was thick with the smells of hot metal, stale beer, weed, and a deeper, animal scent of crowded humanity. Along the walls, motorcycles in various states of assembly sat like skeletal monuments. In the center, a makeshift bar made from sawhorses and plywood was surrounded by women.
They were all variations on a theme—tall, broad, layered in muscle and ink, clad in leather and denim cut-offs. Hair was shaved, braided, or wild. Eyes, sharp and assessing, turned from the bar, from pool tables, from conversations, and locked onto the new arrivals. More specifically, onto the disheveled, stumbling figure being ushered in.
The music dipped as someone killed the track.
“Well, well,” a voice drawled from near a tool bench. A woman with intricate blackwork tattoos covering her bald head stepped forward, wiping her hands on an oily rag. “What’s the catch of the day, Bex?”
“Found her making a nuisance at The Dive,” Bex said, guiding Candy forward with a hand between her shoulder blades. “Decided she might be more useful here. Name’s Candy.”
A wave of low chuckles and murmurs rolled through the garage. Dozens of eyes scanned her—the torn sequins, the bite marks on her neck and back visible in the bright light, the way she stood with a slight, open-mouthed wobble.
“She looks properly broken in already,” another woman observed, taking a swig from a bottle of whiskey.
“Just a warm-up,” Helga boasted, slinging a heavy arm around Candy’s neck. “Pool hall bathroom special. She’s a noisy one. Likes to beg.”
“I do not,” Candy slurred, a ghost of her earlier defiance flickering. It was met with a fresh round of laughter.
The woman with the head tattoos came closer. She was older, her face a roadmap of fine lines and old scars. She circled Candy, her gaze clinical. She didn’t touch, but her proximity was an intrusion. “Seems ripe. Holes still tight?”
“Loose enough,” Astrid said from beside the bar, already pouring three fingers of bourbon. “But trainable.”
“We were thinking,” Bex said, her voice cutting through the chatter, “she could make the rounds. A welcome gift for the crew. Since we had first taste.”
A cheer went up, sharp and hungry. Bottles were thumped on tables.
Candy’s heart, which had been hammering a numb rhythm, suddenly felt like a trapped bird. She looked at the sea of faces, all grinning, all waiting. This wasn’t three of them anymore. This was a legion.
The head-tattooed woman, who seemed to be some kind of lieutenant, nodded. “Bar’s as good a place as any to start.” She pointed a thick finger. “Jax. You’re up.”
A massive woman with twin blonde braids and arms like corded steel pushed off from where she leaned against a bike. She grinned, revealing a chipped tooth. “My favorite kind of chore.”
Bex gave Candy a slight shove towards the plywood bar. “Be polite.”
Jax didn’t bother with preamble. She sat on a tall stool, spread her leather-clad thighs, and hooked her fingers into the waistband of her jeans and underwear, pulling them down just enough. “You heard the boss. Get to work, Candy. Let’s see if that mouth is good for something other than whining.”
The garage watched, a silent, attentive audience. The music had not come back on.
Candy stood frozen for a second, the reality a cold wash. Then, driven by a deep, instinctual wiring to obey the strongest voice in the room, she dropped to her knees on the concrete floor. The smell of leather, sweat, and a musky, intimate scent filled her nostrils. She closed her eyes and pressed her face forward.
The women cheered, the sound roaring back to life. Someone put music on again, something with a heavier, punishing beat.
Candy lost track of time. It became a cycle of taste, texture, and command. When Jax was satisfied, grunting and twisting her fingers in Candy’s hair, she was replaced by another, then another. They guided her head with rough hands, criticized her technique with casual crudity, and praised her only when she gagged. “There you go, that’s the spot, you dumb slut.”
At some point, they turned her around, bending her over the sticky bar. A woman with knuckle-duster rings used them to open her up, the cold metal a shocking intrusion before she replaced them with thick, greased fingers. “Gotta stretch you out proper for the main event,” she chuckled, working them in deep.
Candy’s world narrowed to the point of contact, over and over. Her body was no longer her own. It was a thing being used, tested, filled. The pain from the bathroom had melted into a constant, throbbing ache that was just part of her now, a baseline of existence.
“Think she’s ready for the gauntlet?” someone shouted.
Bex, who had been observing from a throne-like motorcycle seat, nodded. “She’s dripping enough. Do it.”
Hands grabbed her, lifting her off the bar. They carried her, not ungently, to a clearer space near a heavy-duty workbench. An old, stained mattress had been tossed on the floor there. They laid her on her back.
The circle closed around her. Faces blotted out the ceiling’s hanging lights.
Helga knelt between her legs, her hands pushing Candy’s thighs up and apart. “Gonna make you real wide, cunt.” She wasn’t just using fingers now. She worked her whole hand in, slowly, the stretch a white-hot brand of impossibility. Candy screamed, a raw, tearing sound, but it was lost in the music and the encouraging yells. Helga’s forearm muscles bulged as she pressed deeper, twisting, opening. Candy felt something give, a deep internal surrendering of structure, and then a strange, hollow fullness.
When Helga withdrew, there was a collective murmur. “Look at that. Beautiful.”
Astrid took her place, but she focused lower. Her thumbs pressed against Candy’s other hole, already abused from earlier. She used more of the mechanic’s grease from a tub nearby, working it in with a relentless, gradual pressure. The sensation was beyond anything—a brutal, unignorable fullness that stole the breath from Candy’s lungs. Astrid pushed in, first two fingers, then three, then four, scissoring them, opening the tight ring of muscle with a terrifying, methodological patience.
Candy’s body arched, shuddering, no longer capable of sound. Tears streamed down her temples into her hair. She was being remade, her boundaries erased.
“There,” Astrid said softly, almost to herself, as she removed her hand. A low, involuntary sound escaped from Candy, a gasp that fluttered on the edge of the space she’d been stretched open. A faint, airy noise followed it, utterly beyond her control.
The circle erupted in laughter and applause. “She’s lost it already! She’s blowing kisses!”
“That’s our girl!”
They took turns then, one after another, using hands, fists, sometimes toys pulled from lockers. Each woman sought to go deeper, to widen her more, to elicit those helpless, fluttering gasps from her ruined ass. Candy floated outside herself, watching the parade of intense, grinning faces, feeling the colossal, shifting pressures inside her, hearing the wet, obscene sounds and the cheers that greeted each uncontrolled, farting release of air.
It went on for hours. The music changed. Bottles were emptied. Some women wandered off, only to return later to watch or take another turn. Candy became a fixture, a centerpiece, her body a well-used proving ground.
Eventually, the pace slowed. The crowd thinned to a dedicated dozen. Candy lay limp on the mattress, a sheen of sweat and other fluids coating her. She was grotesquely open, aching with a profound, hollow throb that seemed to echo.
Bex crouched beside her, brushing sticky hair from Candy’s forehead. Her touch was almost gentle. “You’re still with us. Good.” She looked over at Astrid. “Think she’s learned her lesson?”
Astrid lit a cigarette, her face calm in the dawn light now creeping through the high windows. “She’s learned she belongs here. On the mattress. On her knees. Where we put her.”
Candy heard the words. They didn’t feel wrong. They felt like a fact, as immutable as the ache in her bones.
Helga plopped down heavily next to her, handing Candy a bottle of water. “Here. Don’t want you passing out. Big day tomorrow.”
Candy sipped, the water blissfully cool on her throat. “Tomorrow?” she rasped.
Helga’s grin was enormous. “Well, yeah. The girls on the day shift gotta meet you. And we gotta see how long it takes before you can take a fist without squealing like a piglet.” She poked Candy’s swollen belly, making her jump. “This is just the beginning, Candy.”
Candy looked from Helga’s excited face to Bex’s satisfied expression, then to Astrid’s smoke curling towards the ceiling. The garage was a wreck, the air stale and spent. Her body felt utterly, permanently changed.
She took another sip of water, and a small, broken sound escaped her—not a protest, not a plea. Just an acknowledgement. The beginning.
Outside, the sky was turning from black to a deep, bruised grey. Somewhere, a bird tried out a tentative chirp, a sound completely alien in this place of grease and gasoline. It didn’t belong here. Candy did.