Entering Old Detroit

Old Detroit may have been the crucible and mold from which Diesel City was formed, but it was slowly being abandoned. The old auto factories, office buildings, and neighborhood bars had been left for the enormous industrial complexes that had sprung up around it; many in the Dearborn "neighborhood". Ford, Pontiac, General Motors, Rocketdyne, and the others had retooled their machines for mass production and logistics on a scale unrivaled anywhere else in the world, save perhaps for the cold, metal behemoth of Nizhny Tagil; which still churns out thousands and thousands of the T-63 Main Battle Tanks known colloquially as "Iron Ivans".

The effect of being surrounded by industrial growth that quickly consumed the suburbs and smaller towns around it was that the center had become somewhat isolated and independent from the Big Green Machine that catered mostly to the War. Rather, the old factories catered to domestic goods and needs; such as the domestic vehicle GM factories, the enormous Lester-Holt complex which was centered around an old Aluminum mill, and a truly staggering number of custom shops; the largest of which produced the Diesel City Turbotaxi fleet.

The muscle cars, custom motorcycles, and attitude seen on the streets of Old Detroit quickly spread to the rest of urban sprawl, making it the counter-cultural center of the city; and in many ways the entire country. The people here were patriotic enough and many were veterans, but most didn't give a good Goddamn about their PQ scores or how the war was going. They were society's rebels; and as such were quite a bit more weary of authority, if not outright hostile to it. The "Spirit of '45" was strong here, and many Americans hold Old Detroit dear to their hearts for no other reason of nostalgia for a simpler time.

The culture even extended to the police with custom black, white, and chrome interceptors and motorcycles often occupied with a combat vet-turned-officer in black armored leather and sapper gloves; many of them sporting a Thompson '57 submachine gun or Street Sweeper drum-fed 12 gauge shotgun to deal with often company-strength clashes between clubs that left dozens dead or wounded. The also had little time or patience for "Big City" Brass interfering in their affairs.

It was through these streets; filled with men and women in jeans and white T-shirts, leather jackets, and spiked bracelets and collars that she rode. Bridget, with her Skura Intimidator and tight black leather shorts, fit right in. Everywhere she looked, she saw the distinctive Old Detroit color pallet of blue, black, and chrome. She took a corner and had to wait on a passing group of bikers bearing patches of the "Local 99's", a small club centered around an autoworker's union. She couldn't help but be envious of their custom chrome work and powerful engines. As a refugee, she simply didn't have the connections necessary to join a decent union; and didn't necessarily like the culture that female employees were expected to "work" on the men instead of the cars that many had.

She pulled up alongside the road and made her way to a hot dog stand that had the typical group of "helpful" young men lingering about. She blushed slightly as they whistled on her approach, but knew they were there in a symbiotic relationship with the vendor. He was an older man with the wrinkles and scars of a lifelong factory worker that was laid off long ago and had to figure out a way to make a living.

"What'll it be, doll?" he asked. Bridget scanned the short menu and plopped her ration card on the counter.

"I'll take a Big Frank with Cum n' Onions; please." She had a couple hours to kill before the Meatheads Motorcycle Club would be meeting at the address Johnny had given her, and reasoned that she needed a hearty meal. The vendor nodded and split open a bun before motioning with his finger. As if on-cue, one of the young men approached her. Bridget smiled politely at him, noting his fit body and clean-shaven face. His tattoos were fairly well done and in the "pin-up" girl style with a buxom blonde riding a bomb on his upper arm and a pair of crossed American flags on his forearms. He wasn't as handsome as the condiment men in Northspire, but he certainly wasn't driving women to other vendors. She placed her palms against the counter as he stepped closer behind her.

She felt his cock slide against her exposed pussy lips and was pleased by his length. The vendor began chopping up the fresh onions as she arched her back slightly and put her foot on the small stool placed there for just this purpose. He slid his cockhead up and down her slit until it was wet and ready. Bridget gasped as his dick pressed into her. If this was the lunch rush, he would have quickly started jerking himself, but as there no other customers in line; he took his time to build his rhythm as be began to enjoy her tight pussy. The ketchup and mustard bottles started rocking back and forth as she felt his initial probes turn into solid, deep thrusts. Bridget bit her lip as her body began responding, but she knew he wasn't there to make sure she got off.

He held her shoulders and started rapidly fucking her now soaking wet cunt as the vendor spread the onions and shredded cheese on the bun. She looked up as the vendor got her attention. He held the large hot dog to her lips, which she was obliged to open her mouth for. He slid the warm meat into her face as the man behind her started grunting. "Pickle?" the vendor asked her now euphoric mind. Bridget nodded as she took the hot dog down her throat before he drew it back as set it aside.

"Ugh!" the man suddenly exclaimed. Bridget's mouth fell open again as she felt him filling her tender sex with thick streams of hot jizm. He quickly got his wits back about him, and held his hand out to the vendor. The man placed a large dill pickle in his open palm. Bridget glanced back to see him carefully draw his twitching penis out and slide the pickle in in its place. Her abdomen tensed as its knotty surface was pressed and twisted inside of her. She watched as he drew it out and handed it to the vendor; who was careful to only touch the non-cum covered parts before slicing it and putting it on the bun. Next, the hot dog itself was passed over and similarly inserted. Bridget loved the warm, full filling of the freshly cooked meat inside of her; and had to admit that a trip to the hot dog stand was usually about more than her rumbling belly.

He worked it in and out of her until it was slick with sex juices. The vendor held the open bun out, and closed it around the cum-covered link. Bridget smiled as she took it while he punched her card. She held the dog and bun between her legs, and squeezed her powerful internal muscles; covering the entire center with ropy lengths of semen. As etiquette dictated, she casually sat on the small stool and cleaned the man's cock with a few quick sucks and strokes before she patted him on the hip and dug into her meal. She sighed in contentment at the taste. Cum 'n Onions, as it was called, was so much better than mustard in her mind. She dipped her finger into her sex to clear it of cum as best she could and licked her finger clean before devouring the rest of her messy meal.

She wiped her sex and her cum-dirty lips before tossing the wrapper into the trash bin, collected her ration card, and hopped back onto the bike to continue to her destination. As she traveled deeper into Old Detroit, the temporal power of the big motorcycle clubs became evident. One neighborhood bar had the Bangalore Boys symbol clearly displayed on the neon sign while another had the Meatheads distinctive chrome steering wheel with a screaming, goggled face in the center with ape hanger handle bars jutting out like horns on either side; proclaiming the shop to be affiliated with the gang.

It was that gigantic chrome and black symbol she saw adorning what was once a school bus factory . The building was almost certainly condemned, but it had been converted into a veritable urban fortress. 10 foot tall chain link fencing topped with barbed and razor wire surrounded the entire ominous facility; and rows of railroad ties with custom welded spikes and caltrops filled the inner perimeter. As she pulled up to the gate, the nostrils of the symbol began smoking and small flames licked up the chrome face and onto the eyes, causing them glow like angry embers. She hit her horn, and waited. She saw a dark shape behind the iron bars of a busted out window. Someone was home.

Bridget cautiously hopped off of her bike and opened her saddle bag. She pulled the harness out and slid it up her legs. She heard the receiving doors open as she buckled in. A 40-something ogre of a man with a black leather vest, shaven head, and handlebar mustache slowly rode a custom bike with an inline 6 and turbocharger out and toward her. Bridget turned her back to him as the piston slid into her. She was nervous, but she had a plan.

"Hey, toots! Nice scooter ya' got there." he said as he idled for a moment before settling the bike on the knurled stainless steel kickstand that was shaped like a skeleton's leg and foot. "Nice ass, too." He observed with a lewd grin as he approached the heavy chains and padlocks that secured the fence. She could tell he was working himself up to use her, and decided that she needed to take the initiative or she might never see Johnny.

Bridget turned around, the chrome phallus jutting from her pubic mound as puffs of smoke drifted from the exhaust pipes. His grinned faded as his mind beheld the contraption and mentally worked it out. His aviator sun glasses slid down his hooked nose as he took in the sight of the ivory skinned redhead and her chrome and crimson harness. He was speechless.

"I hear you guys could use a girl like me." she said, putting one hand on her hip and shifting her weight as she leaned on the Skura. She smiled to herself as he wordlessly pulled the key ring from his belt while a beam of sunlight pierced the smog to glint off of the chrome cock. She was in.