Surprise Surprise

Noon came with a familiar air horn blast, surprising her at how lost in thought she was. Sid trusted her to pick up on Johnny's project until they heard one way or another about his fate. She was leaning under the hood of a Pontiac Patriot her arms stretched inside the powerful 6.5 V-12 engine. It boasted 750 horsepower from the factory, but by the time she was done it should be closer to 1000. She worked the socket, causing her body the shake a little, and the **** tightness of her shorts and posture caused the access slit to tightly frame her labial lips. As she stretched further forward to tighten the last bolt, she leaned over further, the tightness of her shorts making her pussy look puffy.

"Christ, if that ain't a sight for sore eyes!" she heard. Her eyes went wide as the cock slid into her. It was Johnny. She sighed in relief as he entered her, but was immediately annoyed at the use. Sid made it clear that legal or not, no one messes with her while she's working on something that might be damaged if she can't concentrate. Still, he wasn't slamming into her like he usually did. He was just casually fucking her as she finished tightening the last bolt. She shined a small flashlight to check for loose bolts or debris before carefully drawing her grease-smudged arms back out and bracing herself against the frame as Johnny grabbed her hips. They were the only ones in the shop as the others had already went to the break room to eagerly devour their meals.

As she stood up, she looked at him over her shoulder. He had a black eye that wasn't quite swollen shut and a cut on his lip. His greasy hair, usually styled into a cowlick with shaved sides, was combed straight back haphazardly. She could see that he had bandaged hands with red seeping through the knuckles. She started to say something, but he held up his hand in the "Shush" sign before sliding his impressive cock deeper and faster into her puffy, exposed sex. He wore a plain white T shirt and denim jeans, his sleeves rolled up to show off the tattoos on his bulging muscles.

"Where...what happened?" she asked quietly, her breathing hot and rapid as he reached around her to unzip her vest. He grabbed her by the back of the head and pushed her back down under the hood, her cheek resting on the engine block. She gasped as he pulled out of her cunt and quickly pressed it into her asshole. She clamped her eyes shut and held her breath as 8 inches of wet meat impaled her. She focused on relaxing to give her body a chance to adapt.

"I got carjacked! Bunch of '45ers **** me off the road. They took all the gear, but I left a couple of them in the dust with broken jaws. Still, it weren't for some Motor City Meatheads showing up to get a few licks in one, I mighta been done for," he said as he started pistoning in and out of her ass. Bridget quivered, her grease smudged legs shaking. She snaked the socket wrench between her legs and started rubbing the knurled handle against her clit. The rough, cold chrome was quickly coated in her wetness. She angled her hips up and slid it into herself as he fucked her roughly in the ass, an orgasm flowing through her as the thick handle's knurling stimulated her tight, wet cunt.

The 45'ers were a group of known carjacks and criminals affiliated with the Bangalore Boys. Many of them were rejects from the infantry, or had a history of **** in General School and couldn't land a job, so they turned to crime. The "45" in their name comes from the year 1945, the largest and most serious riot Diesel City had ever seen. It had become a symbol for those who didn't think they were getting a fair shake with the passing of the 23rd Amendment, establishing the Unified Military Code as official U.S. law.

The Motor City Meatheads, on the other hand, were a rowdy group based in Old Detroit. They worked on their own gear and lived by their own rules. They weren't as big as some of the other clubs, but they made up for it through sheer, high-octane vehicular power. As Bridget desperately stabbed the wrench handle into herself, she was glad they'd stepped in, but doubted they did it out of anything more than wanting to scrap.

Johnny stepped back, jerking himself as he watched the wrench disappear and reappear over and over again. He thought briefly about sliding his cock in beside it, but had no desire to see who would win the friction game between his big, fleshy dick and a big, knurled handle. Instead, he grabbed her by the bun of red hair wrapped neatly under her handkerchief bandana and **** her to her knees. Bridget was used to Johnny being a little rough, so she wasn't surprised when he smacked her cheek lightly and rammed his cock down her throat.

She kept fucking herself with the wrench handle as he rapidly, violently fucked her throat. Bridget could hear the faint drops of her wetness run down the handle and hit the dirty concrete floor as he **** her back so she was trapped between his thrusting member and the car tire. She reached up and started to jerk it, which earned her another light slap, this time on the other side to even out the slight redness and giving the appearance of wearing rouge. She lowered her hand to her clit, adding her fingers furiously flicking to the rapid, deep insertion of the wrench handle. He rammed his cock deep into her throat and held her there.

She could tell he was cumming from the way his cock pulsed and heavy testicles clenched. Her own orgasm was muffled, and she was thankful for that. Her eyes fluttered as her pussy clamped down on the wrench handle, and her chest heaved as he finally pulled back, a trail of cum following up her throat, onto her tongue, and breaking on her lips.

He held out his hand, helping her to her feet. She immediately started squeezing her asshole and relaxing it, coaxing to back to her normal tightness from her powerful internal muscles. "Thanks. I needed that." he said, and meant it. Bridget stood, slowly drawing the wrench from now incredibly tender sex. He gave her pussy a pat, like you would to a dog's head who just did a trick. She shuddered as a wave of sensations coursed through her, an aftershock of the orgasm she'd just had. "Listen, I just came back for my bike, but the guys could use a girl like you...well, yeah like as in "use you", but also use your talents."

Bridget zipped her vest back up and leaned against the car, lighting a cigarette. "What do you mean? What guys?" she asked, somewhat confused. "Aren't you coming back to work?" she asked. He shook his head as he stuffed his wet cock back into his tight denim jeans.

"Nah. you see this?" he asked, indicating his black eye. "That's from my entrance exam with the Meatheads. I passed." Bridget could see that he was serious about this. She'd thought about joining a motorcycle club in the past, but had heard enough stories about their wild parties and run ins with the law to ever have the courage to approach one. He leaned in closer, looking over his shoulder as if he were about to tell her a secret. "...and besides, they took the engines. You know what you could do to your Stura with a HD 995 inline 6 with a turbocharger?" he said, knowing what buttons to push and mental switches to flip to interest her. "Whadda ya say, doll?"

Her first thought was to immediately reject his offer, but she thought about what he was offering. Sure, she'd get used quite a bit more and probably in some rather rough ways, but the chance to get away from her six day a week, 14 hours a day schedule to just ride and work on engines was appealing to her.

"I don't know, Johnny. I've never done anything like that before." she said quietly. He started rubbing her tender pussy tenderly, leaning closer to kiss her on the neck. She let her hands roam up his well muscled chest as she sighed in contentment.

"Think about it," he said, stepping back to look into her lustful eyes. "Here's the address. Club meets up at 10pm every night. Hope to see you there, doll." Johnny grabbed the keys from the hook by the door, and stepped out. Bridget exhaled, milling it all over in her mind. "Oh, and get something to eat. We've got a whole crate of these." he said as he tossed a stack of eight, unpunched ration cards on the workbench before quickly making his way to the bike. She immediately snatched them up and hid them in her vest pocket. That was over six months worth of food, drink, and heavily rationed items. She looked out the window to see him pull away, leaving the shop forever.

"Who was that?" Doug said, returning to his work station.

"It was Johnny." she said dreamily and a little nervously. "He's gone."