RAGE - Payback

BY : salarta
Category: +M through R > Rage
Dragon prints: 3138
Disclaimer: I do not own RAGE, its characters or any ideas or concepts contained herein. This story is a mere fan-made work, and I make no money or profit from its creation and dissemination.

Author's Note: I had intentions to do a series of quickies about RAGE, because it has a bevy of very attractive female characters prime for use that, like far too many games and characters, get absolutely nothing for hentai. However, I think this will end up like most of my "intended to be multi-part" fics and cut off abruptly. I have at least one more quick piece planned because of a setup that's just too good to pass up, but right now I'm worn out and will need to recover before I do it.

 

 

The aftermath of Nicholas Raine's successful assault on Capital Prime was devastating for the Authority. Across the world, countless Arks rose from the Earth and activated, far faster than they had any power to intercept. Soon, the quaint little rebellion of filthy low-level survivors and faint few Ark survivors would blow up into a full-scale war, their power in this post-apocalyptic world challenged at every corner.



It didn't take long for the Authority to pinpoint the Wasteland groups and cities that helped bring about the coming bloody revolution, or to decide their next course of action. Examples would be made. Punishments, enacted. Death and torture would be meted out in dark, secret places against the men who dared to defy them, but as for the women...



Across Subway Town, Wellspring and even the far-flung Hagar Settlement, large televisions installed by the Authority broadcast endless streams of what transgressors could expect from their resistance. Each screen lit up, the Mutant Bash TV logo emblazoned in the corner as the cameras rolled on the next main event.



"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to another episode of Road Rage, starring your very own Washout Mel!" The announcer boasted.



Mel's face scrunched into a disgusted, hateful sneer. Barren beige Wasteland roads stretched out ahead. Her Jetter ATV hummed between her legs, trace wetness dripping down the sides of her seat as its vibrations ribbed her exposed sex. Her struggles to escape were fruitless. Every tug on the handcuffs that bound her wrists to the handles and ankles to the pedals only confirmed the chains' strength. For three damned weeks, she sat on her prized racer, skin sizzling under the hot sun as Authority troops tuned up her Jetter and filled its fuel tank before every race. She knew their eyes leered at her naked, jiggling tits and hefty parted rump from behind their helmet visors.



"Did you get a good look while you were gassing me up, asshole?" Mel spat. "Does forcing me to ride around the circuit naked and lose every race make you feel like a big, strong man?"



"Shut up and lift your ass," the troop ordered.



She obeyed, the sickening ritual grating on her nerves as she raised her rear high above her seat. A sentry camera hovered beside her, catching the rub of her thighs, the deep inward arching of her back and a hot moan crinkling her eyebrows when the soldier smacked her ass.



"Slut," he insulted.



"Bastard," she answered.



For years, Mel ran every race out of Subway Town. Every victory and defeat, every winner and loser made a name for themselves by registering through her booth. She used to be a shadow, giving flirty winks to top runners each time they talked to her, unaware of the blistering heat and shame of utter loss... until now.



The entourage of Authority troops prepping her for the race stepped back. Head of the pack, she waited behind the black and white checkered line for the signal. Her pussy ached with the endless throb of her Jetter. Her stench fumed off her, flaring even her nostrils as weeks of unwashed racer filth plastered on her small slim tits, girl cum staining her leather seat, and sweat sweltering in her armpits took their toll.



"Hey Washout Mel, why don't you give up now and go take a shower?" One of her many Authority opponents said.



"Why don't you fuck off?" She knew these catcalls only pleased them. She didn't care. A weight lifted off her each time she fought back, and as the racing lights shifted from red to yellow to green, she revved the engine and blasted out on a high-octane Boost.



"Oooooohhhh!" Mel moaned. She whipped around a hairpin turn, tires drifting in the dirt as deep as her pussy against her ride. The slick passes of her nether lips to the leather felt like a rough and tumble lick from the bustling mechanical beast between her legs.



Her eyes misted. Her open mouth heaved every breath. She looked down wearily at her labored tits jouncing wild on her chest. That's what they were: tits. Not lovingly soft and tender breasts, or milk-swelled udders, but small, obscene tits. Every inch of that firmly toned flesh was like a vulgar insult, spewing rock hard nipples and caked on Wasteland filth nastier to the eye than the most obscene swears that could tumble from her racing junkie mouth.



As she flew off a ramp and coasted through the air, Mel could see the finish line within sight. The flags strung across two poles, waiting for her, the queen of the racetrack, to make her first triumphant victory. Her wheels slammed into the ground. She hammered on another Boost... and swerved into a pillar of rock.



"Not agaaaaaaaaain!" She whined as the front end of her Jetter bashed into the obstacle. Her body leapt off her ride, only for her cuffs to seize her by the wrists and ankles before her head could smash against the remnants of a carved out quarry. A throbbing ache coursed through her pussy lips as she fell hard onto her leather seat, gnashing her teeth while the pricks that drove her into this pit by remote control raised the vibration of her seat to bring about the last indignity meant for her each time they had the cameras rolling on her: a mid-race orgasm.



Her Jetter rolled in reverse as she wailed at the top of her lungs, eyes clamped shut, squirming her hips and chafing her tough loins for deeper pleasure. A trail of her sopping shame dribbled down the sides of her four-wheeler while her competition whizzed past her to a victorious finish, their dust clouds painting still more of her face with the scum left behind in their wake. She coughed, she spluttered, panting as she came down from her high and pressed her forehead into the handlebars. As her Jetter made a slow roll over the finish line, speakers blared her results.



"Looks like Washout Mel came in last again, undone by her own horniness. In honor of her string of one hundred straight losses, we have a special treat for the legendary loser."



She blinked, eyes adjusting to the darkness of Subway Town. The short reprieve brought thick cool air, shaded by feet of concrete on all sides. Her tires locked into the rail lines' familiar track. Huffing for breath, she almost didn't feel the fizzling spray of aerosol against her back.



"What... what the hell are you doing?" she weakly barked.



"What does it feel like? I'm tagging you."



Minx. It had to be Minx. Her name always appeared at the top of the scoreboards for every race she entered, a constant thorn in the side of every contestant even when the stakes were fair. With the last pass of paint against Mel's skin, Minx stepped up beside the loser, patted the top of her head like a lowly pet and leaned in to whisper in her ear.



"Hope you like the new art, with another hundred losses under your belt we'll make it permanent."



Mel looked up just enough to glower at the bitch, her eyes catching the large television screen before her, cameras revealing the word written on her back in all its drippy green glory: SLUT.



The announcer's voice boomed from the television speakers. "That's all we have for Road Rage and Washout Mel today, stay tuned for a message from our sponsors, here on Mutant Bash TV!"



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