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Biker Fantasy
It had
been a long, hard twenty years on the force. He was only forty-three, but he
felt like an old man. Five years on the horse patrol and thirteen as a SWAT member
had taken its toll. His knees were shot and he wasn’t able to jump out of the
patrol car at a moment’s notice like he used to. So last year, he did the
unthinkable; he took a medical retirement. It was that or take a desk job,
and he wasn’t about to spend the next five to ten years pushing paper for the
same young bucks he had trained. When he first joined the police department, he had a
pretty active sex life, but as the years went on, he sacrificed his lifestyle
for the force. His bearing made it pretty clear he was a cop, and anyone he
dated expected the “man in uniform” to play the rough, tough top. He handled
the role like a natural, but it got old fast. The last real relationship he
had broke up five years ago, and it became harder to risk his job and
reputation on rumors he was queer. So except for a
few one-night stands here and there, his entire life was his career, and now
that was over. He let his hair grow out from the flat top he had worn
for twenty years. He tried to keep in shape, but he could feel the beer gut
starting to emerge from what had been a slim, trim 32-inch waist. He did odd
jobs around the house and thought about getting another job or going back to
college, but nothing seemed to interest him. He was a cop. He was born a cop
and would die a cop. Finally, after a year of sheer boredom, he decided
to take a vacation to Arizona. He had never liked the cold, harsh winters in
Detroit, so he figured a little bit of sunshine would do him good. The
sunshine was great, the scenery was beautiful, but he was still depressed. He
had given up everything; there was nothing to go back to and nothing to go
forward to. He decided he needed one last hurrah. He wanted to go out, but
with a bang, not a whimper. But how? He had been walking through the streets of
Scottsdale late on a Sunday afternoon, looking in shops, having a few drinks,
looking for something to motivate him, when he stopped at an intersection and
waited for the light to change. Suddenly, there it was. Stopped in traffic
was a biker on a Harley chopper, with a chrome skull on the rear backrest.
The biker was a typical outlaw; long hair in a braid, black tee-shirt and
dirty leather vest, chaps, and gloves. He wore a scraggly goatee and ‘stache, and dark, wrap-around sunglasses. He was a
standard 1%-er, but something about him made the
cop’s dick suddenly get hard. At his side, in a dirty black leather holster,
was a .45 semi-auto pistol. This was the ultimate high the cop was looking
for. Almost without thinking, the cop walked out into the
street. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, walked up to the biker and
showed him his badge. He calmly told the biker, “I’ve got $1,000 on me and
can get $400 more out of a teller machine. This badge and the money is yours,
if you’ll take me out to the desert, fuck my face, then blow my brains out.”
He expected some sort of reaction, but the biker just looked straight ahead,
didn’t even acknowledge the cop was there. After about ten seconds of
silence, the light changed. The biker gunned his bike and rode down the
street with a string of traffic following, and the cop just standing there
with his badge in his hand. The cop walked back to the sidewalk, sat down on a
bench and waited. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew he shouldn’t leave yet. He
pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket, bit the end off, sat on the bench and
smoked. He knew he should have been horrified at what he had just done, but
he wasn’t. He was a little surprised, but all in all, he was content. He had
found a direction and made a choice. The cop sat there for a little over an hour. The
first shadows of evening were starting to darken the landscape, and the
earlier crowds of shoppers and tourists had long since thinned out. For the
first time, the cop was starting to feel a little bit silly at the position
he had placed himself in. He was about to get up and start the walk back to
his hotel when he heard the unmistakable sound of a Harley Shovelhead in the
distance. Once again, his dick twitched. He wanted to look around, but he
just sat there on the bench, waiting. He didn’t want to have any doubts, and
he didn’t want anyone else to think he had any. The distant lion’s purr grew louder and louder, till
finally, the biker with a gun pulled up to the curb in front of the cop,
stopped and waited. The biker still looked straight ahead and was still
wearing his sunglasses. Without hesitation, the cop stood up and climbed on
the bike. The biker roared down the street with the cop at his back, then
turned his bike toward downtown Scottsdale. He darted in and out of traffic
like it was standing still. The cop smiled a little, realizing the biker was
trying to size him up, see what he was made of. The cop could feel his boner pushing against the
biker’s ass and wondered if the biker could feel it too. He wanted to feel
the biker’s leathers, put his hand on his gun and imagine how much action it
had seen. He knew, though, that if he tried, the ride would be over, and
anyway, the cop could tell, this dude was the real deal. The two rode through downtown Scottsdale for about
ten minutes, when the biker pulled into the parking lot of a bank, just a few
yards from an ATM. He didn’t say anything, but idled his bike and waited. The
cop knew what to do. He got off the bike and walked up to the ATM. He thought
for a moment about testing the biker by taking out less money than promised,
but he decided this was too important to fuck up now, by trying to be a smart
ass. He withdrew the $400, added it to the $1,000 in his wallet and walked
back to the bike. He handed the roll to the biker who took it, and without
counting it, pushed the wad into his vest pocket. Next, the biker set the kick stand and got off the
Harley. The cop noticed for the first time what a big man he was. The cop was
a good 6 feet tall, and the biker stood a good half foot taller. He was
muscular, but not in any way like a body builder. He was a lot like his
Harley, a powerhouse, but not a lot of show. For the first time since the cop had seen him, a
good two hours earlier, the biker spoke. “Turn around,” he said, and as the
cop complied he could see the biker take out a pair of chrome handcuffs from
his pocket. The cop thought for a moment, “Well, this is the point of no
return.” As he automatically placed his hands behind his back, he wondered if
the biker would handcuff him, then ride off on the bike, leaving the cop
broke, bound and feeling like an ass. He had to admit, it would have been
easy to do, and the biker and his buddies would no doubt get a hell of a
laugh over it. Even so, the cop still had a feeling about this guy. The biker
was looking for something, too. The biker tightened the cuffs around the cop’s
wrists, just tight enough to get a message across, then he grabbed hold of
the cop’s shoulder and led him back to the bike, supporting him as he
straddled the Harley. The biker climbed on, barely missing the cop with his
boot, and the two rode off again into the night. The cop was a little surprised when the biker continued
to ride around the city, this time leaving Scottsdale, and driving through
Phoenix and into Mesa, where the houses turned into shacks and BMWs turned
into broken down Chevys and Fords. After about half an hour, the cop was
starting to grow anxious. Surely, he thought, the asshole wasn’t going to try
anything here in the city. He kept his thoughts to himself, though, and tried
to keep his balance on the bike with his hands handcuffed behind him. At
least, he thought, there’s no one around to see me like this. He dreaded the
thought of being pulled over by another cop and trying to explain this one. The biker pulled up to one of the four-room ranches,
turned off the bike, and dismounted. His second set of words for the evening
were, “Stay here.” He walked up to the porch and into the house. The cop was
thinking, stay here? Where the hell am I going to go? The biker stayed inside
about half an hour, just long enough to get the cop worked up again, which
the cop figured was planned. When he came out, he was talking and laughing
with a skinny white guy, who also looked like a biker, but a crackhead type. The cop figured this guy was the current
tenant of the shed. The skinny guy stayed on the porch and called out have
fun as the biker returned to his Harley. He was laughing as he looked the
cop’s way, as if he was in on the joke. The biker had removed his sunglasses,
but his eyes were cold, and didn’t betray any emotion. The biker was carrying a small bundle, wrapped in
canvas or burlap, and tied with about three feet of rope, definitely more
than was needed to secure the package. He shoved the bundle into his saddle
bags, climbed back on the bike and the two were on their way again. When he
got on the bike, the cop noticed the tell-tale smell of marijuana on the
biker. This was mingled with the smell of dirty leather and week-old sweat,
and the cop thought, well, I wanted the real deal. Finally, the Harley was headed out of the Metro area
and into the desert. For the first time, the cop started reflecting on the
consequences of his actions. He wondered if he could go through with it, if
the biker could go through with it, if it would be the ultimate climax he was
looking for; and what was in that mysterious bundle? The road was long and straight and the two rode for
a good hour before the biker finally turned off onto a side road in the
desert. They turned off five different roads before finally reaching a dirt
road, barely a road at all, that curved up into the mountains. It was
obvious, at least, that the biker knew where he was going. Whether he wanted
to now or not, the cop was along for the ride, wherever it went. The trail
ended in a flat stretch of desert, obviously leveled
out for a construction site. The cop could see bulldozers and backhoes in the
headlights and he figured the biker had probably worked this site at one time
in his “day job.” The biker stopped in the middle of the site, turned
off the bike and got off, leaving his headlight on, but walking away into the
darkness where the cop could not see. He sat on the Harley and waited. After
a few minutes, the cop was blinded by the light of a bulldozer headlight, and
a minute later, a second beam of light. This was it. This was the arena where
his final fantasy would become a harsh reality. He was listening intently,
trying to gauge the location of the biker. He could hear the crunch of boots
in the dirt, but in the vastness of the surroundings, he couldn’t place the
location. Suddenly he was lifted off the bike by the shoulders
and flung to the ground. As he tried to orient himself, the biker straddled
him, reached down and jerked up his wrists, painfully. The biker took a key
from his vest and unlocked the handcuffs, then walked back to his bike. As he
rubbed his wrists, the cop started thinking, that fucker’s not gonna just ride off and leave me out here, is he? Well,
that was going to happen, but not in the way the cop was currently thinking. The biker turned off his headlight, then walked to
the back, reached into his saddlebags and pulled out the bundle. He walked
back to the cop and tossed the bundle in front of him. “Open it,” he said.
The cops eyes were finally adjusting to the light and he reached down and
untied the bundle. As he unwrapped the canvas, he realized what the package
held. Inside was a stainless Smith & Wesson model 629 revolver with an 8”
barrel, black Pachmyr grips and six loose rounds of
.44 magnum Black Talon ammo. The cop’s stomach turned; at the same time, his
dick twitched again. With his years of experience, he knew the devastating
capability of the Black Talon round, ironically pulled off the market in the
late ‘90’s as a “Cop Killer” bullet. He had used them before and knew the
destructive effect of these black beauties. From almost any distance, these
little soldiers had the power to take a man’s head clean off his shoulders.
Well, if he had any doubt whether the biker was taking him seriously, this
removed it. Still a man of few words, the biker barked, more
commanding now, “Load it.” The cop was now being ordered to load the gun that
was going to kill him. He had to appreciate the balls of this man, and
understood this was another test, to prove his resolve to go through with the
contract. The cop picked up the gun and opened the cylinder. He picked up a
bullet and placed it in the chamber. He couldn’t help but notice, in the
silence of the desert, the sound of the round sliding in. He had done it a
million times and never noticed the beauty of the sound. He finished loading each of the six cylinders, then snapped
the chamber shut. He realized this was the point of no return; this was his
last chance to back out. He could shoot the biker, take back his money, ride
back into Phoenix, and no one, absolutely no one would ever know who he was.
It would just be another gang shooting. He could waste this guy. He’d done it
before, as a cop. He thought for a moment how funny the look would be on the
biker’s face when he pumped two .44 magnum rounds into his chest, how the
rounds would literally explode out his back and through his leather vest
before he dropped dead on the ground. He thought for a moment, sat up on his
knees, then took the gun by the barrel and handed it to the biker. The biker took the gun by the grip, raised it and
looked at it, almost lovingly. Then he reached down with his left hand and
pinched the cop’s cheeks to open his mouth. He pushed the barrel of the .44
magnum into the cop’s mouth as far as it would go, then pulled back the
hammer and rested his finger on the trigger. The cop made a retching sound as
he gagged on the barrel. He felt a hot flush throughout his body, but still
ran his tongue along the barrel, tasting the harsh metal in his mouth. Softly, the biker asked, “Ready to play?” He pulled
the barrel out part way, then slid it in and out of the cop’s mouth, fucking
his face with the hand cannon. Slowly, the cop nodded his head. Holding his
thumb on the hammer, the biker pulled the trigger and carefully lowered the
hammer. He pulled the gun out of the cop’s mouth, held it up again and smiled.
“Then let’s play,” he said as he stuffed the revolver into the inside pocket
of his vest. The biker reached down and took the rope, stepped
behind the cop and ordered, “Give me your wrists.” He wrapped the rope around
the cop’s wrists and tied them together, circling the rope in-between the
wrists to make the bond more secure. With the cop kneeling on the ground, his
arms secured behind him, the biker stood over him, his crotch inches from the
cop’s face, his gun still in its holster at his side. The biker unzipped his jeans and pulled out his
boner. From the look of the semi-hard meat in his hand, the biker evidently
enjoyed the games he had been playing with the cop. The cop was impressed;
everything about this biker was big and muscular. The shaft was surrounded by
thick black fur and extended about 8 inches before reaching the thick head.
In spite of himself, the cop was starting to salivate. The biker took his dick in his hand and reached for the
cop’s head when all of a sudden the cop said, “Wait.” The biker betrayed his
first emotion by the look of surprise on his face. He thought the cop was
going to try and back out and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the fucker
turn back now. The cop continued, “There’s a cigar in my shirt pocket. Would
you smoke it?” The biker chuckled; this is what you’re worried
about? he thought. He replied, “It’s your money,” as he pulled the cigar, a
Gloria Cubana #7 maduro,
from the cop’s pocket. He bit the end off and pulled out a zippo lighter. He flipped open the lighter, and, cupping
his hand over the flame, started puffing fire into the big ring stogie. He took a big draw off the cigar as he snapped
his lighter shut, then took the cigar out of his mouth and blew a large
stream of smoke in the cop’s face. He clenched the cigar in his teeth, grabbed the cop
by the hair, and slid his dick into the cop’s mouth. He pushed the cop’s
mouth clear to the base of his cock and held it there. While the cop gagged
and choked on his dick, the biker puffed on the cigar, listening to the
retching sound. Then he loosened his grip to allow the cop to gasp for air
before ramming his cock to the hilt and holding it again. After about ten
seconds of this, even the cop was beginning to lose his resolve and starting
to panic. He couldn’t breath. His face was
reddening and he was desperately trying to suck air through the nest of pubic
hair smashed against his nose. Involuntarily, he tried to pull back, to free
himself from the massive cock, even larger now as the biker became more
excited. The biker just stood there, pushing the cop’s head harder into his
crotch. Just when the cop thought he was going to pass out,
the biker eased the tension and pulled his cock back, leaving just the cop’s
lips wrapped around the head. The cop resisted the desire to spit out the
intruding cock, and, while snorting air through his nostrils, his lungs
heaving in and out, the cop licked his tongue around the head of the biker’s
dick, holding it firm with his lips. Once the cop’s heaving and snorting slowed, the
biker began a slow, rhythmic face fuck. Using two fistfuls of hair as
handles, the biker directed the now eager mouth up and down his shaft, in and
out, in and out, never fully removing his cock from the cop’s throat. He kept
this up for a few minutes before slowly increasing the drive. The cop, though
not used to being on the receiving end of a blowjob, kept up the pace,
sucking the sweat from the biker’s shaft and swallowing his increasing flow of
saliva in between lunges. As the rhythm of each stroke increased, so did the
power behind it, and soon the biker was thrusting his hips forward as he
pushed the cop’s head into his crotch. The cop’s drool was spraying out of
his mouth, soaking the biker’s jeans, and dripping down his chaps. All the
while, the biker kept puffing away on the cigar as little bits of spit and
ash fell into the cop’s face. Without any warning, the biker pushed the cop off
his dick, causing him to fall onto his back in the dirt. The biker stepped
behind him, and, using no effort at all, pulled the cop to his feet and
walked him over to the resting Harley. The biker reached his hands around the
cop’s waist and began undoing the cop’s belt and trousers. The cop was
initially confused, but when the biker started to pull down his pants, he
turned towards the biker and started, “Hey, this wasn’t part of the…” Before he could finish his complaint, the biker
punched the cop square in the face, causing him to tumble over the bike and onto
the ground, blood spraying from his now broken nose. The biker walked around
the Harley to the cop lying on his back, and in what almost looked like a
pro-wrestling move, he proceeded to jump with both feet onto the cop’s
abdomen. The rush of wind from the cop’s lungs only slightly muffled the
unmistakable crack of three of his ribs. The biker jumped off the cop’s crumpled body and
began kicking him in the stomach and crotch with his steelcapped
boots. The cop couldn’t even scream. He couldn’t breath.
The only sound breaking the desert silence was the thud of boots crashing
into flesh. If the cop had been thinking this was a game, the biker was
letting him know that the game was over. Through it all, the biker never lost his cigar. Now
he stood over the groaning cop, puffing hard on the stogie,
himself a little winded. He grabbed the cop by the hair and shirt, lifted him
off the ground and tossed him onto his belly over the seat of the Harley. He
yanked the cop’s pants down to his ankles, and as he shook his own dick into
stiffness again, he joked to the cop, “Well, we’ll just call this one a
freebie.” With that, he rested his hardened cock against the
shuddering cheeks of the cop’s ass, put his hands on the cop’s hips, and
shoved his cock through the clenched fuckhole.
Finally, the cop gasped in enough air to scream. His howl pierced the desert
silence and continued for half a minute as his body reacted to his broken
nose and ribs, his bruised and aching nuts, and his now torn and bloody
sphincter. He struggled to breathe, each gasp searing his gut with pain. He
prayed to pass out. He wondered if he was dreaming, if this was some sort of
horrible nightmare. What had he gotten himself into? The biker took a last drag from what was now a stub
of the cigar and tossed it onto the ground. He pulled back for a moment, then
set himself to plowing the aching ass before him.
He arched his back with each thrust, shoving his cock ever deeper into the
cop’s fuckhole. He liked the feel of the cop’s ass
as it clenched his dick like a vise, throbbing with
each spasm. He was starting to breathe heavy now, enjoying the fuck. On principle, he punched the cop in the side every
now and then to soften him up. The pain was immense. The cop was actually
crying now, but he didn’t say a word. Whatever was happening, he had asked
for it. Damn, he’d even paid for it, and he wasn’t going to stop it, no
matter what. The biker was ramming his ass so hard now, he was
lifting the cop’s body off the bike, literally impaling him on his dick. He
shoved his cock in to the hilt, then rotated his hips in a circular motion,
to stretch out the cop’s asshole, before pulling back and ramming him again.
The cop’s senses were starting to numb, and he was beginning to go in and out
of consciousness. The biker was getting close to climax when he pulled
out of the cop’s ass. He grabbed the cop by the hair again and dragged him
off the bike. The cop was on the ground again, kneeling in front of the
biker, with caked blood lining his face and chest. He was breathing in short pants now; the pain in his
ribs and ass was too great to ignore. The biker pinched the cop’s cheek in
his hand again and lifted his head up to his shit-and-blood-caked cock. “Now,
clean it off, bitch,” was his final order. This time, he didn’t have to grab the cop by the
hair. Without hesitation, the cop opened his mouth and took the biker’s cock
in. He could taste the blood and cum and shit that caked the head and shaft.
He couldn’t believe he was tasting his own blood and shit, but he was. He was
slow but determined. He could barely move now, and wondered if he was going
to pass out before the climax. He was so preoccupied with his oral
manipulations that he didn’t even notice that his cock was rock hard. It was
pounding from the excitement, the fear and the pain. The biker was getting close, he could tell. He put
his hands on the back of the cop’s head and started pumping furiously. In the
desert night, the sounds of the biker’s cock thumping and the cop’s drool
slurping were mingled with the soft whine of the bulldozer’s headlights. The biker was grunting now with each thrust of his
cock. Suddenly, as he pulled his dick back, a stream of hot, thick cum shot
to the back of the cop’s throat. He tried to swallow, but the biker was jerking
his head back and forth so fast, he could barely breathe. The biker let out a
loud groan as his cock spewed again and again into the cop’s mouth. Cum was
rolling down the cop’s chin. The biker slowed his plunges as the stream of
cum finished its flow, but the biker wasn’t quite through with his orgasm. As
if he wanted to make sure he didn’t lose the rush before he finished the job,
the biker all of a sudden pushed the cop’s head off his dick, leaving a thick
string of cum like a spider web dangling from the head of his dick over to
the cop’s chin. The cop, resting on his knees, was spewing cum and saliva out
of his mouth like a rabid dog with every gasp for breath. Without a word, the
biker reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the .44 magnum, and with
the barrel aiming straight up, he pulled the hammer back and lowered and
straightened his arm, placing the barrel of the gun about two inches from the
cop’s forehead, right between the eyes. The cop had only a second to look up
and see the gun in front of his face, the endless barrel, the Black Talon
bullets in the cylinder, the leather fist gripping the gun, the finger on the
trigger, and the biker’s cold eyes staring him in the face. When the biker pulled the trigger, the recoil of the
shot raised the gun a foot into the air. He watched the shot take the top of the cop’s head
and blow it about four feet away. Blood and brains and gunpowder sprayed the
ground. The body teetered for a second, then dropped to the ground on its
side. The biker watched for several minutes, and as he
lowered the smoking gun, he took hold of his still hard dick and pumped the
last few drops of cum from the head. As he held his dick in one hand and the
hand cannon in the other, he watched the cop’s body jerk a few times in the
last recoil of death. He opened his vest and returned the revolver to the
pocket, and as he pushed his cock back into his pants and zipped them up, he
calmly said, “Game over.” The biker walked over to the cop’s lifeless carcass, bent over and took hold of the back of his pants. He straightened up, lifting the legs, and reaching into the back pocket of the trousers, he took out the cop’s badge wallet, then let the body fall back to the ground. He put the wallet into his back pocket, turned each of the spotlights out, mounted his Harley and started the engine. He revved the idle a few times, turned on the headlight, and with one last acknowledgement, he sprayed the cop’s body with dirt as his wheels spun out and he rode back to Phoenix. |
