braided tee

Title: The Haunted Mansion (Reader x Peter Parker)

Summary: It’s Halloween night and the two find an abandoned house they decide to explore, not knowing of the hidden dangers inside

Word Count: 1995

A/N: YAY HALLOWEEN! This is going to be the last imagine for a week or so, I won’t be home from my trip until Sunday the 24th! Hope you enjoy :)

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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.

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