Play along

The only real option you've got is to play along, and so you do. You slowly reach for the hemline of your shirt, then just as slowly pull it over your head and off. The slaver watches appreciatively, though the shotgun never wavers and his eyes never shift.

"Nice rack. Now keep going." His voice brooks no argument, and you realize you've got a bit of a problem. It's either your boots or your bra. As risky as pulling your boots off is, you're not really keen on showing him your breasts quite yet. With exaggerated care, you kneel, careful to keep your torso upright and squared up to him, and unlace your boots. Standing again, you toe them off, standing barefoot on the rough asphalt.

"Keep going, bitch." His words are backed with a gesture with the muzzle of the shotgun, and you groan inwardly. Keeping your pistol hidden is going to require taking your bra off. You're running out of time before your hand is forced.

Again, with the same slowness, your hands reach behind your back, fumbling with the clasp of your bra, his eyes widening a hair as you fight the clasp. "What a slut. You'll fit right in with the Colonel's gig." You've got no idea what he's talking about, but it doesn't sound good. The clasp finally pops open, and you slide the straps off your shoulders.

As your breasts are bared, his eyes take on a slightly predatory gleam, and you wince. You just might be fu---. A growing rumble sounds down the highway, coming from the opposite direction he did, catching the slaver's attention as well. His eyes stay glued to your breasts for a split-second, then he turns his head a bit, trying to look up the highway. The shotgun shifts slightly as he twists, just off to your right.

You seize the opportunity, letting the bra fall free of your arms and grabbing for your pistol even as the slaver begins to swear, starting to look back at you. Your pistol clears your waistband, and you sidestep left as you raise it, the sudden roar of the shotgun deafening from so close, the passing buckshot ripping through the air mere inches to your side. Your pistol snaps up, and you witness him frantically racking the slide on the shotgun back as your pistol cracks twice, the rounds tearing into his chest, his eyes going wide as they rip through him.

You turn to look down the highway, and see what's easily a half-dozen bikers roaring down the highway towards you. Whoever these people are, they definitely scared the slaver. You're definitely not sure if that's a good thing or not. One things for certain: you had once again make a fast decision, or it would be made for you.