Candy had officially been adopted by the Gut Busters MC after the Laughlin River Run. Rattlesnake declared her “club property” (the good kind), slapped a tiny pink “Property of Gut Busters” patch on her thong, and the crew voted unanimously: she was riding with them to the Grand Canyon for the annual “Rim Job Rally” – a three-day booze-and-burnout campout on the North Rim.

The convoy left Laughlin at dawn: twelve chopped baggers, two chase trucks hauling tents and kegs, and Candy riding bitch on Rattlesnake’s rigid frame, her double-Ds pressed against his back like heated seat warmers. She wore a cropped Gut Busters tank that barely contained her assets and cut-off shorts so short they qualified as underwear. Every time the pack hit a straightaway, she’d stand on the pegs, yank her top up, and flash the desert like she was signaling aliens.

First adventure: a 90-mile-an-hour game of “Tag the Tits” on I-40. Candy would lean way out, boobs swinging like wrecking balls, daring the guys to slap them as they passed. One prospect missed, grazed her nipple ring instead, and nearly high-sided into the median. The crew howled. Candy just giggled and yelled, “Harder next time, baby!”

Second adventure: Flagstaff gas stop turned into an impromptu wet-T contest when Candy “accidentally” dumped a Slurpee down her front. She peeled the soaked tank off, wrung it out over her head like a porn star in slow motion, and the entire station erupted in cheers. A family of tourists took one look and sped away so fast their minivan left rubber. Rattlesnake paid for the gas with a fistful of crumpled twenties and a wink to the clerk: “She’s worth every penny.”

By the time they rolled into the North Rim campsite, the sun was high and the canyon looked like God had carved it with a chainsaw and bad intentions. Tents went up, fires roared, and kegs were tapped before lunch. Candy declared herself “Rim Queen” and spent the afternoon riding shoulders on Rattlesnake’s bike, topless, waving a Gut Busters flag like she was leading a parade of horny Vikings. Bikers lined the rim, beers raised, phones recording. She mooned the canyon itself – “Take that, nature!” – and the echo came back sounding suspiciously like applause.

As dusk painted the sky slut-red, the real party ignited. A massive bonfire crackled in the center of camp. Someone cranked outlaw country through truck speakers. Someone else rolled out blankets in a giant circle around the flames. Candy, already three Crown-and-Cokes deep, stripped down to nothing but her property patch and a smile. “Who wants to welcome the new old lady properly?” she purred, dropping to her knees in the middle of the ring.

What followed was a good old-fashioned Gut Busters MC orgy – no cameras, no outsiders, just brothers, bikes, and one platinum bimbo at the center of it all.

Rattlesnake went first, pulling her onto his lap reverse-cowgirl so everyone could watch her bounce like she was riding a mechanical bull with a V-twin heartbeat. Then came the chain: prospect after patched member taking turns, passing her around like a ceremonial bottle of Jack. Candy laughed the whole time, squealing when someone hit the right spot, moaning when they hit it harder. One guy tried to be gentle; she grabbed his beard and growled, “Fuck gentle – I’m not glass, I’m glitter!”

Hands everywhere: groping, slapping, fingering, spanking. Beer poured over her tits, licked off by multiple tongues at once. Someone brought out glow sticks – she ended up with them tucked in places glow sticks aren’t supposed to go, turning the circle into a neon rave. At one point she was on all fours, Rattlesnake in front, two brothers behind, and a prospect jerking off in her hair like it was a finishing move. She came so hard the canyon probably felt the tremor.

By 3 a.m. the fire was low embers and bodies were sprawled everywhere, sticky and satisfied. Candy lay in the middle on a pile of leather vests, hair a tangled mess, body glistening with sweat, cum, and victory. Rattlesnake draped his cut over her like a blanket and kissed her forehead. “You’re one of us now, baby. Canyon witnessed it.”

She smiled sleepily, tracing the patch on his chest. “Best road trip ever. Next year… let’s do Yosemite. I wanna flash a waterfall.”

The Gut Busters laughed into the night.
Some rims are made for staring.
Candy’s? Made for owning.

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