The rugged guy in the full leather biker suit stumbles forward on the uneven railway tracks, caught off guard. His face slams straight into the massive, glistening chest of the leather-clad cop standing there like a wall of muscle.
A deep, muffled thump echoes as his nose and cheeks sink into the warm, sweat-slicked pecs bulging beneath the half-unzipped police shirt. The cop doesn’t even flinch—just lets out a low, amused grunt, his thick arms hanging relaxed at his sides while the biker’s gloved hands instinctively grab those rock-hard leather-covered hips to steady himself.
For a second the biker just stays there, face buried between those heaving, shiny mounds of muscle, breathing in the intense mix of fresh sweat and leather. The cop smirks down at him, voice rumbling like gravel:
“Careful where you’re going, boy. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt… unless that’s what you’re after.”
The biker’s breath hitches against the cop’s slick chest, warm air fanning over the deep valley of those pumped pecs. He tries to pull back, but the cop’s huge gloved hand slides to the back of his neck (slow, deliberate), pinning him there just a second longer.
“Smells good, doesn’t it?” the cop growls low, voice thick with amusement and something darker. His thumb strokes the edge of the biker’s leather collar, tracing the zipper all the way down to where it meets the jacket. “All that sweat from the ride… been waiting for someone to run into me like this.”
The biker’s own chest rises and falls faster, the tight leather creaking as he unconsciously presses closer instead of away. His lips accidentally brush the cop’s skin, tasting salt and heat, and a small, involuntary groan escapes him.
The cop chuckles, deep and filthy. “Yeah… that’s it.” He flexes his pecs hard (once, twice), making them bounce and squeeze the biker’s flushed face between them like a trap. “Go on. Get a better taste. You’re already drooling on my shirt, boy.”
The biker’s gloved hands slide up from the cop’s hips, gripping those thick, leather-wrapped lats as he finally gives in, mouth opening against the slick skin. He drags his tongue slowly up the center of that broad chest, lapping at the sweat gathered there, moaning softly when the cop rewards him with a rough squeeze to the back of his neck.
“Good boy,” the cop rumbles, tilting the biker’s chin up just enough so their eyes lock (one pair wide and hungry, the other dark and predatory). “Now open that pretty mouth wider… I’ve got something else you’re gonna run into tonight.”
The cop’s gloved thumb presses hard under the biker’s jaw, forcing his head back just enough to expose the long line of his throat. Those dark eyes rake over him (slow, hungry, like he’s already stripping every layer of leather off with his gaze alone).
“Hands behind your back,” he orders, voice low and absolute.
The biker obeys instantly, wrists crossing at the small of his back. The movement makes his own leather jacket creak and ride up, baring a strip of sweat-damp skin above his belt. The cop notices. Of course he does.
A thick forearm slides across the biker’s chest, pinning him firmly against the nearest rusted container wall. Cold metal bites into the biker’s shoulders; the cop’s body is pure heat in front of him. With his free hand the cop yanks his own zipper the rest of the way down (slow, deliberate, metal teeth parting with a hiss). The leather shirt falls open completely, revealing a torso carved from years of heavy lifting and harder nights: heavy pecs glistening, abs ridged and flexing with every breath, a dark treasure trail disappearing beneath the tight black belt.
He leans in until their lips almost touch, letting the biker feel the furnace of his body.
“You’re gonna keep that tongue busy,” he murmurs, breath hot against the biker’s mouth. “Start right here…” He drags a gloved finger down the center of his own chest, collecting a bead of sweat, then pushes that finger past the biker’s lips without asking. The taste explodes (salt, leather, raw man), and the biker sucks greedily, eyes fluttering shut.
The cop growls approval, pulls the finger free with a wet pop, and replaces it with two more, stretching the biker’s mouth open while his other hand drops to the front of those skin-tight leather pants. He cups the obvious bulge there, squeezing hard enough to make the biker jerk and moan around the gloved fingers.
“Already leaking for me,” the cop says, voice rough with satisfaction. “Good. Means you’re ready.”
He drags the zipper of the biker’s jacket down in one sharp motion, exposing the thin, sweat-soaked shirt beneath. Then, without warning, he spins the biker around (fast, controlled), slamming his chest against the container wall. One massive hand plants between the biker’s shoulder blades, holding him pinned. The other snakes around front, popping the button on those leather pants with practiced ease.
Cold night air hits overheated skin as the cop shoves the pants down just far enough. A low, filthy laugh rumbles against the biker’s ear.
“Been watching asses like yours ride past the precinct all week,” he says, pressing the heavy, unmistakable weight of his leather-clad bulge between the biker’s cheeks (slow grind, deliberate threat). “Tonight you don’t get to ride away.”
He leans in close, teeth scraping the shell of the biker’s ear.
“Tell me you want it, boy. Say it loud enough the trains can hear.”
The biker’s forehead presses hard against the cold, rusted metal, breath coming in ragged, desperate bursts that fog in the night air. His leather pants are shoved halfway down his thighs, trapping his legs, leaving him completely exposed and shaking. The cop’s massive frame cages him in from behind (one iron forearm across his chest, the other hand wrapped possessively around his hip), and that thick, leather-covered cock keeps grinding slow and deliberate between his cheeks, teasing, never quite giving him what he needs.
“Please…” The word rips out of him, cracked and hoarse.
The cop stills. Just enough pressure to remind the biker who’s in control. “Please what?”
The biker’s whole body trembles. His gloved fingers claw at the container wall, boots scraping uselessly on the gravel. “Please, officer… fuck me. I—I can’t take it anymore. I need it so bad.”
A low, dark chuckle vibrates against the back of his neck. “Louder.”
“Fuck!” The biker’s voice breaks, raw and wrecked. “Please, sir, please fuck me! I’ve been hard since I saw you standing there. I’ll do anything, just—please, shove it in me, breed me, ruin me, I don’t care—just don’t make me wait anymore!”
He pushes his ass back frantically, trying to chase the cop’s cock, tears of pure desperation stinging his eyes. “I’m begging you, officer, I’m fucking begging—use me, own me, split me open right here on the tracks, I need your cock so deep I feel it for days—”
His voice cracks into a broken sob when the cop finally grips his hips with both hands, thick fingers digging bruises into leather and flesh alike.
“That’s it,” the cop growls, lining up, the blunt, slick head of his cock pressing right against that trembling hole. “Keep begging while I take what’s mine.”
The cop doesn’t rush it.
He lets the blunt, swollen head of his cock rest right there, hot and heavy, slick with precome and the sheen of leather polish, nudging insistently at the biker’s twitching hole. Every time the biker tries to push back, the cop’s iron grip on his hips yanks him still.
“Stay,” he snarls, low and filthy. “You begged so pretty. Now you take it exactly how I give it.”
A thick thumb circles the rim first, spreading the slick mess, pressing in just enough to make the biker whine and clench. Then the cop lines up again and starts to push, slow, relentless, unforgiving.
The stretch is immediate and brutal. The biker’s breath punches out of him in a broken cry as that fat head breaches him, forcing his body to open around raw, burning heat. His gloved hands scrabble against the container wall, boots skidding on gravel, whole body shaking as inch after thick inch sinks deeper.
“Fuuuck—sir—too big—” he sobs, voice cracking, but his hips still try to rock back, greedy even through the pain.
The cop just growls, one massive hand sliding up to fist the back of the biker’s leather jacket, using it like a handle to drag him down harder onto his cock. Halfway in and the biker’s already babbling, tears streaking his cheeks, drool shining on his chin.
“Take it,” the cop grunts, voice rough with lust. “Every fucking inch. You begged for this cock, now you choke on it with your greedy little hole.”
Another slow, merciless thrust and he bottoms out, balls pressed flush against the biker’s ass, so deep the biker swears he can feel it in his throat. The cop holds there, letting him feel every throbbing vein, every pulse of heat buried inside him.
The biker’s legs nearly give out. Only the cop’s grip and the cold metal wall keep him upright.
Then the cop pulls back, almost all the way out, just the head stretching him open, and slams home in one brutal stroke.
The biker screams, raw and wrecked, the sound echoing off the rusted containers as the cop sets a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward, leather creaking with every thrust, heavy balls slapping loud and wet against sweat-slick skin.
“That’s it,” the cop snarls against his ear, teeth scraping leather and flesh. “Scream for me, boy. Let the whole damn rail yard know who owns this ass now.”
The night air is sharp with rust and diesel, but all the biker can smell is the cop: thick, heady leather warmed by skin, fresh sweat rolling off those massive pecs, the faint bite of gun oil from the holster still strapped to the cop’s thigh. Every brutal thrust drives that scent deeper into his lungs until it’s the only thing he knows.
The cock inside him is molten, impossibly thick, veins dragging over raw nerves with every punishing stroke. Each time the cop bottoms out, the fat head punches a spot that whites out the biker’s vision and rips a guttural, wet sound from his throat, half-sob, half-moan, spit flecking the rusted wall in front of him. His own cock is trapped against the cold metal, smearing precome in long, sticky strands that cool instantly in the night air, the contrast making him shudder harder.
Leather creaks like a whipcrack with every snap of the cop’s hips. The cop’s belt buckle digs cruelly into the biker’s ass on every thrust, cold steel biting skin already blooming with bruises. Those gloved hands are everywhere: one fisted so tight in the back of the biker’s jacket that the seams groan, the other clamped around his throat now, thumb pressing just under the jaw, forcing his head back so the cop can growl filth right against his ear.
“Feel that?” the cop rasps, voice shredded raw. “That’s twelve inches of cop cock splitting you open. Every vein, every throb, mine.” He punctuates it with a vicious grind, hips rolling slow and deep, stirring the biker’s guts until tears stream down his face and his legs shake uncontrollably.
Sweat drips from the cop’s chest in rivulets, sliding down the biker’s back, pooling where their bodies slam together, slick and obscene. The slap of skin on skin is wetter now, louder, the cop’s heavy balls smacking against the biker’s taint with a rhythmic, meaty thud that echoes through the empty rail yard.
The biker’s hole burns, stretched to its limit, fluttering helplessly around the relentless invasion. He can feel every pulse of the cop’s cock swelling thicker inside him, the flare of the head catching on his rim each time the cop pulls back, only to ram forward again and force a broken scream from his raw throat.
“Gonna wreck this pretty hole,” the cop snarls, teeth sinking into the biker’s shoulder through the leather jacket hard enough to bruise. “Gonna flood you so deep you’ll taste me for a fucking week.”
And then he speeds up, hips pistoning, breath ragged, the entire container rocking faintly with the force of it, until the biker’s world narrows to nothing but heat, stretch, burn, the overwhelming reek of sex and leather, and the thick, inevitable promise of being bred raw under the stars.
The cop’s grip tightens on the biker’s throat, thumb digging in until the pulse hammers against leather.
“Shut your whining,” he snarls, voice like a blade dragged over gravel. “You open, you take, you thank me. Nothing else comes out of that mouth unless I put it there. Understood?”
The biker tries to nod, but the hand locks him still. A single brutal thrust punches the air from his lungs.
“I said—understood, bitch?”
“Y-yes, sir!” It comes out a broken croak.
The cop slams in again, deeper, meaner, hips grinding so hard the biker’s boots skid forward on the gravel.
“Louder. Who owns this hole?”
“You do, officer! Fuck—you own it!”
“Damn right.” The cop’s other hand clamps over the biker’s mouth, gloved fingers sealing it shut, muffling the next scream as he starts pounding in earnest. Each thrust is a command, a claiming, the container wall rattling with the force.
“You breathe when I let you. You come when I say. You leak my load all the way home and you keep it in until I decide you’ve earned the right to push it out. That clear, boy?”
The biker’s answer is nothing but desperate, stifled noise and frantic nodding against the gloved palm.
The cop leans in, teeth scraping the shell of his ear. “Then shut up and milk me. Squeeze that sloppy hole around my cock and prove you’re worth breeding.”
He pulls his hand away just long enough to bark one final order:
“Thank me for every inch, slut. Start now.”
The cop’s rhythm turns savage (short, vicious jabs that punch the air from the biker’s lungs and drive his cheek harder against the cold metal wall). Each thrust slams so deep the biker’s vision fractures into white sparks.
“Thank me,” the cop snarls, yanking the biker’s head back by the hair until his spine arches painfully.
“Th-thank you, officer—fuck—thank you for your cock—” The words break into ragged sobs, tears streaming hot down flushed cheeks, snot bubbling at his nose.
The cop’s grip turns brutal. One final, grinding thrust buries him to the root and he holds there, cock pulsing, swelling impossibly thicker. A low, animal growl rips out of him as he unloads (thick, scalding ropes flooding the biker’s guts in heavy waves). The biker can feel every spurt, every jerk, the heat spreading deep inside him until it feels like he’s drowning in it.
When the cop finally pulls out, the sudden emptiness makes the biker collapse. His trembling legs give way and he crumples to the gravel, leather pants still tangled around his thighs, ass leaking a steady stream of come that cools instantly on his skin.
He curls on his side, wrecked and shaking, soft broken whimpers spilling from his throat as aftershocks ripple through him.
The cop looms over him, chest heaving, cock still half-hard and glistening. He unzips fully, takes himself in one gloved hand, and lets go.
A hard, steaming arc of piss lashes across the biker’s face first (stinging his eyes, filling his open mouth with the sharp, acrid taste). Then lower, soaking the leather jacket, running in rivulets over trembling thighs, pooling beneath him on the cold ground. The biker doesn’t even try away; he just sobs quietly, letting it brand him, mark him, reduce him to nothing but a used, dripping mess.
The cop shakes off the last drops onto the biker’s cheek, zips up, and turns away without a word.
Boots crunch over gravel. The rumble of a Harley fires up nearby (loud, throaty, impatient). Headlight slices through the dark, tires spit stones, and the cop guns it. The roar fades into the night, leaving only the distant echo of an engine and the wrecked, piss-soaked biker whimpering alone on the ground, come still oozing from his ruined hole, shivering under the indifferent stars.
