"Beck, pick up?"
A conscientious officer, Detective Beck would certainly have answered the incoming call on his dashboard device had he not been otherwise engaged. This part of the city was rife with prostitution, and Beck's favored predilection was particularly well served. Cradling his monstrous cock between her ludicrously ample breasts was Samara, formerly of Cambodia and Chicago, and formerly a petite Asian whose figure had ballooned to satisfy a particular niche client.
"Don't you have to..." she began, but Beck cut her off with a wagging finger, circling it round and pointing downwards to the huge, hard rod of excitement poking like a church spire from his pants. When not between her tits, his cock was being pulled warmly into her mouth and circled with a tongue so expert, so damned arousing, that he had to focus carefully lest he blow his load after only half the allotted time.
The device beeped to remind him he was being sought, but he ignored it. "Right now all I have to do is let you finish me." She grinned and took him back into her mouth. He marveled not only at the delicate warmth of her lips and tongue on his sensitive tip, but also at the incredible surgical advances which had led to this very particular combination of sensations. It was a mouth, one could plainly see, and featured a smooth and expert tongue, but it felt also like the tightening walls of a warm pussy were wrapped around his engorged member. Clenched from within by muscles no human had ever been born with, the contracting, pulsing tunnel which occupied the back of Samara's throat was perhaps the most enjoyable place Beck had ever found in which to dump his load.
Experienced and enthusiastic, Samara knew both how to bring him to his crisis, and exactly when it would happen. There was some pre-cum, but she knew to wait until the main event had started. As the first warm splashes reached her throat, she tensed suddenly, enveloping the spasming cock in the soft cunt-tunnel of her throat. The Detective moaned loudly, helplessly, as Samara milked his dick, its huge length now almost entirely inside her, its warm tribute spurting hard and then slipping smoothly down.
She waited until his orgasm had truly finished; men had a propensity to 're-cum' if Samara timed the contractions perfectly, but Beck seemed only to need one. It had been huge, she knew, although given that the cum had spurted neatly and completely down her throat, it was hard to tell just how much he had produced. Men like Beck prided themselves on showering their lover with many spurts of cum, just like the old-fashioned porn stars. Those incredible medleys of cumshots had encouraged an entire generation of men to seek ways of prolonging, heightening, enhancing and enlarging their orgasms.
He stayed hard but was certainly finished, she realized as his thrusts into her throat came to a gradual stop. His dick would stay hard for some minutes, as it always did. His daily cocktail of amphetamines and other stimulants included a strong steroidal component which pumped blood to his penis even when it wasn't strictly required. It made getting a second erection not only likely but virtually certain. On this occasion, though, Beck relieved Samara of her duty and gave her a moment to clean up while he finally answered the call.
"Beck here," he responded, albeit fifteen minutes late. "What do you need?"
There was a pause. "Hey, well... nobody has gotten there yet, so I need you to head over to Winchester and Fortieth and assist paramedics at the scene of an accident." The formal patter of this job gave an incongruously classy sheen to what would surely be a desperate, bloody scenario. As a homicide detective, Beck wasn't called to burglaries or to intercede in school bullying. He was there to respond when someone had lost their life, often in the most appalling circumstances. Every single member of his team had a drug, booze, gaming or sex addiction. Beck was simply unique in having all four.
Pressing his thumb to a thin, pale pad on Samara's wrist, he paid for the evening's entertainment. "These are yours, for free," she said, handing him her underwear which had become soaked from their half-hour of foreplay. Driving around in a cop car, even one equipped with deadly weapons and military-spec intelligence gear, was a lot more fun with one hand half-buried in a gorgeous girl's pussy. He had found her 'bean', another enhancement, and played with it until she had cum for the tenth time -- he counted, as he liked to. Linked physically to the G-spot and the clitoris both, the bean was an implanted nub of electrode-packed 'soft-skin'. It somehow had the convincing feel of belonging inside a woman, but had the potential to heighten her orgasm until her vagina -- and the tiny bean which now controlled it -- became the only thing in her universe. Beck had only stopped at ten because she begged him to. God, he loved it when they begged.
Blue lights dazzled brightly at the scene, a busy intersection which had been entirely closed, causing spectacular traffic problems. The paramedic team, he knew, had already failed in their task and would be packing up and moving on. With luck, Beck could get what he needed and get the junction open before the evening rush hour really set in. If it were complicated, or foul play were suspected, a lot of people would be late for dinner. He pulled up just short of the police cordon and greeted two uniformed officers who let him through. He was careful not to shake hands, even after sanitizing twice; Samara's pussy scent would be found strikingly out of place at the scene of a homicide. Best not raise too many questions.
The paramedics were, indeed, about to leave; one was squaring away paperwork with a uniformed officer while the other packed up the tubes and pads and gels which were the tools of their profession. The ground surrounding the body was littered with detritus, evidence of their attempt to resuscitate the victim. After one look at the deceased, it was glaringly obvious why he had not responded; the whole left side of his head was badly impacted, classic trauma wounds from having been flung in the air by a speeding vehicle. A tremendous welt had formed on his thigh, exposed so that the medics could provide intravenous, life-saving drugs, providing Beck almost everything he needed to know.
"Where's the biker?" he asked the uniformed officers, and was waved to a police wagon which was set up as a combined communications center and victim recovery space. Benches in the back allowed those struggling with their experiences time and quiet in which to reflect. And, more often than not, invent a sufficiently plausible story. Beck approached the van with his usual mix of curiosity, pity, skepticism and resigned disgust. "I'm Detective Beck. I understand you were involved. Are you ok?"
The biker was about nineteen, face as white as snow and hands trembling. Just a kid. Yes, Beck reminded himself, but a kid who had, for some reason -- hopefully soon to be established -- caused the violent death of the young man whose body was still bleeding onto the asphalt ten yards away. He didn't look capable of speaking, but words came nonetheless. "I'm a bit shaken up," he said redundantly. "He came out of nowhere."
If there was one accident scene aphorism which cropped up more often than all the others, it was 'he came out of nowhere'. Virtually every accident had, according to those who survived, been an utter shock, an unavoidable calamity which only clairvoyance could have prevented. 'It was dark and he just came out of nowhere...' or 'he didn't have his lights on, and came right out of nowhere'. Victims had so regularly appeared from this fabled but inaccessible place that Beck wondered whether it should have its own tagline: The Republic of Nowhere: Sending People to Sudden Deaths since Forever.
He quickly pieced together what had happened, without surprises or even particularly having to pay attention. The biker had been proceeding at pace -- but within the speed limit, he was at pains to repeat -- down the inside lane. The pedestrian had simply walked out into the road. Hadn't looked, hadn't raised his head, just walked out directly into the bike's path. The horrendous bruise on the deceased's thigh was testimony to the ferocity of the impact, as was his ruined skull proof of just how high he had been flung. If you're hit at 65mph, there's not much hope, and so it had gone.
Beck returned to the body. It was always his first question: why had this person walked out into the street? Unless intent on ending it all, people hit by traffic were largely guilty of having made a mistake; this form of suicide was regarded as terribly risky, in any case. What if the impact caused only life-long injuries and pain? Society had developed sufficiently efficacious chemical alternatives that hardly anyone these days jumped off a bridge or dashed heedless into traffic. Most were simply found dead with a needle in their arm, or a bottle of black-market pills by their bedside. This, on the other hand, just didn't look right. Beck trusted his instincts, honed over a dozen years and seldom found incorrect.
He brought himself to look the battered victim in the face. Detectives generally scoffed at Beck's assertion that the final facial expression was itself instructive. Muscles had a tendency to relax post-mortem, rendering the evidence unreliable anyway. But still. He brought out his flashlight against the gathering evening gloom and peered intently at the young man's face. He took photos and made notes. Then he returned to the wagon.
