Category: Sci-Fi & Fantasy Stories


by Farmerboy©

"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.

"I want to go back to the very moment he stepped off the curb," Beck said straightforwardly. It was vital to pull information from the biker's memory before he went home and got drunk, or however he might choose to obliterate this horror from his mind. "What exactly was he doing?"

Mild sedatives had calmed his trembling hands, Beck noticed, but he was still anything but lucid. "He didn't look, man, he just stepped out."

Beck gathered his patience. "I see. So he was just staring at the ground?"

The biker paused, obviously reluctant to haul these dreadful images before his mind's eye once more. "No," he said softly. "No, I think..." Beck waited. He knew patience was often rewarded, and the odd sense that this had not entirely been an accident refused to leave him. "I think he was looking at his phone."

Beck rode in the ambulance which took the deceased to the County Hospital where it was efficiently transferred to the morgue. Three phone calls had sped the process of commencing an autopsy, and barely had the body arrived that gloved hands were poking at it in a quick but earnest attempt to identify the cause of death. The first results were hardly a surprise.

"Well, the victim suffered an impact wound to the right thigh bone which smashed his pelvis. I'd say he was thrown perhaps thirty feet and landed very hard on his left side, causing cranial fractures, hemorrhaging and death within a few seconds. It's also possible that the shock of the impact knocked the victim unconscious."

"Something to be grateful for," commented Beck. "I'd want to be out cold if my head were about to be smashed into the sidewalk."

The physician continued, pointedly ignoring Beck's morbid musings. "Toxicity reports will be back in an hour, so in the meantime we'll do the basic physical analysis and get you an initial assessment in... say, twenty-five minutes?"

Beck did as he always did when required to wait: he got coffee, cleared his messages and watched a few minutes of porn on his phone. It was as regular and as thoroughly habituated an act as his morning shower, or cracking his knuckles when feeling impatient. His member had begun to stir when, annoyingly, the physician emerged earlier than anticipated. "Did you know about the implants?" he said at once.

"What kind?" Some 20% of all humans in the industrialized world had either chosen to, or been required to accept some form of physical implant. It had begun with medical devices which replaced organs, then medical telemetrics which remotely provided data on patient recovery, then a whole slew of tiny devices which produced chemicals of one sort or another. Enthusiastically lifted out of the purely medical realm and embraced by pharmaceutical companies cashing in on less salubrious human needs, implanted devices were now available for every conceivable purpose. It was hardly a surprise to find the victim in possession of one. But this particular bio-product had confounded the autopsy medics.

"We're not sure. It's something new. Maybe an import. There's nothing in our database." To be bereft of a simple answer seemed to make the medic seem faintly uncomfortable. "Perhaps you'd better take a look."

The victim had been cleaned and was naked and definitively, irreversibly dead. His forearm had been cut open in a long, straight incision from his left wrist to his elbow. Within the grisly space alongside his tendons and blood vessels were a network of tiny, white and gray fibers. "So he's wired?"

"It seems. But we don't know why."

Beck donned gloves and poked warily at the slender, almost translucent cabling within the young man's arm. "How far does it go?"

Ten minutes' cutting, photographing and debate produced an answer. The wires ran to the tips of his fingers and were both transmit- and receive-capable. At his elbow, they joined in novel fashion to his main nerve using a small, square interface chip made from soft plastic which had warped slightly to form a half-tube. "Jesus," offered the physician, genuinely alarmed. "This thing is connected directly into his CNS."

Beck's mind clicked. "Could it have been controlling him?"

"God only knows. I've never seen this kind of bonding before. It's as if they were growing a new nerve to compensate for a loss of sensitivity in his hand and fingers, but there's no evidence the original nerve was damaged."

"So why replace it? Why duplicate the biological system?"

The medic frowned. "I'll run some more tests. Will you be around?"

Beck glanced at his watch. "I'll be back in ninety. Think you'll have something then?" The man nodded sternly and turned back to the perplexing elegance of this artificial nerve; was it intended to be secondary, or subsidiary, or superior to the first?

The car didn't only seem to drive itself back across town, it actually did so. AutoDrive was a pricelessly useful function for a cop, which was why commercial sales were limited to the military and law enforcement. The average Joe paid so little attention to the road these days, anyway; why encourage them to pay none at all? Cops formed their own habits as to how they might spend this newly-created free time. Some worked, catching up on reports or reading. Others cleared personal emails, surfed the net or ate. Beck, not even slightly interested in working on a case whose details were still being researched by others, decided to head back to visit Samara.

"I do love a ride in a police car," she purred as she got in. A few months of practice had smoothed their transactions, ensuring they met somewhere they could not easily be seen and that his payments to her appeared innocuous on his credit card statement. Samara was a businesswomen, Beck reminded himself frequently. Just one with whom he had regular, extremely intimate and thoroughly mind-blowing sex.

Both of them enjoyed the smutty depravity of a back-seat fuck under the railway bridge. She got him to his usual hardness, making full use of her pleasure-modifications to coax a titanic erection from him, contracting and relaxing her extra throat muscles to really supercharge his arousal.

"You wanna do me regular, or something new?" she offered. Her clothing, skimpy almost to the point of meaninglessness, had been discarded with practiced ease and she lay invitingly on the back seat, playing slowly with the thick lips of her pussy while Beck watched from the front.

"Well, what did you have in mind?" he asked with a lascivious grin.

She smiled back, blew him a kiss and knelt up, offering twin holes already moistened and swollen. "I never got an ass-fuck from you, did I?" Beck chuckled and confirmed her version of their sexual past. "Well, it's high time, don't you say?" There would be a nominal additional fee for this particular service, they both knew, but deep down, Samara simply wanted to delve into yet another experiential extreme and feel the monstrous girth of Beck's manhood stretching her ass. Various objects had passed this way, but none as desirable as the commendable thickness her favorite Detective now brandished.

One of her colleagues -- if so formal a term is suitable -- had once described anal sex with a well-endowed man as, "like taking a massive shit, but in reverse, and a whole lot more fun." Samara relaxed her back passage and allowed Beck to press his knob into her opening. It gave way for him, enveloping the head of his dick in an ecstatic, warm tightness. He stroked her back, gave her time to adjust her posture and add more lubricant, before pushing slowly most of the way inside. Samara let out a long moan as his monster dick filled her rectum.

"Beck, pick up?"

"Fuck," he exhaled, but continued sliding his length back and forth in the outrageously pleasurable confined of Samara's ass.

"Beck, the lab has reported in. They need you back at the morgue." Despite this sure-fire erection deflator, Beck continued his steady thrusts, focusing squarely on the sensations created by rubbing his sensitive glans against the inner walls of a tight bottom. His orgasm was making progress while Samara played delicately with her bean, the two fingers in her pussy in syncopation with his less nuanced fucking.

"Beck, are you there? Did you hear me?"

Furious but holding his temper, Beck snapped the device into audio-only and took the call while steadily ploughing Samara's butt. "Beck here."

"Detective, we've found something I know you'll find interesting. When can you be here?"

Samara suppressed a giggle as Beck found an especially pleasurable spot in her ass and pressed his tip repeatedly against it. "Twenty minutes or so. What's so important?"

For a few seconds, only slippery cock noises were heard in the car. Then, "you were right. It's a control system. I don't think what happened was entirely inadvertent."

Well-honed mental pathways began operating. A murder had occurred and Beck would chase it down. Simultaneously, even better-honed pathways were directing his thrustings towards orgasm. Samara had cum a dozen times and it was high time to off-load his own. He let it build and grow, felt the pressure move from his balls to his perineum, then to the base of his cock, then finally to the tip, where his cum began oozing forth. Once triggered, the finale was huge, a torrent of sticky whiteness gushing into Samara's ass.

The drive back might well have been through a different town. In darkness, reliant on its own illumination, the city took on a shadowed, sinister sense which put Beck's nerves on edge. The steady daytime traffic of commuters and students had given way to a more various blend of joy-riders, drug dealers, pickpockets and drunks; two thirds of the city would, Beck knew, imbibe or snort or smoke or inject something tonight. Most would do so entirely without trouble. In about ten or twelve cases, something would go wrong and they would end up dead. And that wasn't counting those who were simply unlucky enough to be hit by a speeding motorbike.

"He was more than unlucky," the medic reported when Beck asked about the cause of the accident. "The neural transmissions from this device are incredibly strong, sufficient to override pre-determined natural processes. It was making him do things. I'm not sure what, but they must have concerned his right hand and fingers. It's the only thing which makes sense."

Category: Sci-Fi & Fantasy Stories