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He was glorious. He was strong, tanned and smooth, naked head to toe, sweat shining off his muscles as he lay back on the bed in the morning dimness of my bedroom. His mouth was open, gasping almost in surprise, moaning, groaning; his cock was long, straight and hard, like a tool hewn from stone, the shaft thick and gorging and the head big and blunt…
…and as I straddled him, bare naked as he, tits free and kneeling up on the bed, I had his cock buried deep inside me, buried to the hilt in my hot wet cunt. And I was screaming.
My screams were motivated by two things. The first, obviously, was this man’s cock: touching me deep and in all the right places, as I pumped up and down upon him, sitting back and grinding him into me all over the place to forestall and heighten my building pleasure. The second was a much more irritating source of frustration ¬– it was my phone, ringing on the bed-stand, and I knew from the caller ID that I could not ignore the call. Despite the agonising proximity of my orgasm, calls from the Lieutenant did not go to voicemail.
I wailed one last time in delicious, shuddering vexation, and stopped in my pumping to answer the call. “What, dammit??” I cried, chest still heaving from my exertions.
“And good morning to you too, Detective Sergeant Jennings,” the Lieutenant replied, his sexy baritone conveying the sound of a grin down the line.
I sighed, and attempted to drop into a tone more respectful-of-rank. “It’s very early, Lieutenant,” I chastised him, while silently acknowledging the dismay of my bed partner with a helpless shrug.
“Am I interrupting anything of particular import, Jennings?”
“You know me, Lieutenant,” I replied, with a crooked grin. “Gotta kick-start the day somehow.”
The Lieutenant laughed. He knew me well, very extremely well, and the tone of his question implied he had guessed the cause of my irritation. “Sorry as I am to interrupt your morning routine,” he lied, “I’m afraid I need you to get straight to the scene.”
“This better be good, man,” I pouted, as I made to clamber off my lover; he tried to hold me in place, and he even jiggled his hips in a cheeky attempt to re-start the action, but I clamped my cunt-muscles down on him so hard I nearly snapped him in half – and with a look of exquisite agony, he let me go.
“‘Better be good’?” the Lieutenant repeated. “Don’t I always give you the choice cases, Jennings?”
“But of course,” I said, humouring him as I started climbing into my clothes.
“Well, how does an abandoned, blood-soaked Lamborghini sound?”
“NOW you’re talking!” I enthused, my curiosity well and truly piqued as I slipped into a skirt. “Don’t suppose it’s still got the keys in it? Maybe I can take it for a spin?”
“It’s wrapped around a tree with its engine in the passenger seat,” the Lieutenant advised. “So I guess the answer is: a big fat no.”
“Why is it, that everything I get from you is big and fat?” I grinned.
“Detective Sergeant Jennings: what am I going to do with you?”
“Do as you please, boss,” I purred, in my sluttiest tones.
“Just hurry up and get to the scene, will you?”
“On my way.” And with that I killed the call, turning to look at the nine-inch stallion in my bed. “Duty calls,” I told him, wrestling my way into a bra with a resigned sigh.
“Can’t you take just one extra minute?” the guy pleaded. “I’m so close, babes…” he added, holding onto his twitching, rock-hard rod as though he was worried it would rocket off to the moon.
I rolled my eyes, and sighed again with pretend exasperation. “Fine,” I said, and quick as a flash I dropped to my knees beside the bed and fell face-first onto his cock, swallowing it deep and whole. He wasn’t lying: after perhaps fifteen seconds of driving my mouth up and down on his cock, licking up the always-delicious taste of my juices mixed with his pre-come, he came for real. He hollered long and hard as I grabbed the base of his cock and milked it out kartal escort bayan of him, swallowing the thick hot streamers jizzing out of him with every pump and surge.
Once he was done, I returned to my feet and regarded him with a challenging, quizzical eye. “Happy now?” I demanded of him, shrugging into my shirt at the same time.
He couldn’t speak; he simply gasped and heaved, having to nod his reply.
“Good. Now, have you seen my gunbelt?”
He pointed me towards the end of the bed, where my gun and nightstick stuck out of my belt – that’s right, they had served as props in the prior night’s shenanigans.
“Thanks babes!” I told him cheerily. I left him to bask in his afterglow, hitching on my gunbelt and starting on the buttons of my shirt even as I slipped out the door.
‘Always leave them happy’, is my motto.
The scene was exactly as the Lieutenant had described it. Half-way along a twisting mountain road just outside of town, a guardrail was down, a trail had been smashed through the undergrowth, and at the end of the trail: one Lamborghini, a tree slicing rudely through the back half of the car – a result of having crashed backwards into the tree at high speed. The engine was indeed in the passenger’s seat; the driver – wherever he was – seemed to have had an immensely lucky escape. If he had hit the tree at the mildest of different angles, the engine would have parked itself between his kidneys.
And what an engine it was. Even in a semi-smashed and seat-bound state, the engine – a V10 – was a thing of beauty, hand-crafted and gleaming with muscular purpose. The car was a Lamborghini Gallardo: low, wide and fast, fantastically angular in style, and no less menacing for the gaudy shade of orange it had been painted. Before its encounter with the tree, it had been one of the fastest, most aggressive and agile cars money can buy – exactly the car I would get for myself, just as soon as I win the lotto or score a large inheritance from a previously unknown rich dead uncle.
I was not alone on the crime scene though: uniformed police and other plain-clothed detectives were milling around, and one detective in particular had noticed my arrival. “Jennings!” he greeted, in unkind tones.
“Harvey,” I replied, coolly. Detective Harvey Thompson and I did not get along.
“I hear you’ve just made Detective Sergeant,” he went on. “So then: how many cocks did you have to suck to earn your stripes?”
“Every cock but yours, Harvey,” was my reply – and there were more than a few chuckles from our colleagues as Harvey’s face went red, coming off second-best yet again in another of our unfriendly encounters.
By now you will probably have figured out that I’m not exactly a girly girl, not quite prim and proper, quiet and demure – in fact, you might think me a raucous slut. Go ahead and think me a slut. Hell, I tend to think me a slut too.
I like sex. I like it quite a lot. I’m not afraid to have sex, and I’m not afraid to have sex with the people who may have some say in when and how often I get promoted through the ranks. This is how I figure: I’ve got great tits, a great arse, fine curves and the long blonde hair that all the boys love, so why not make use of them while I’ve still got them? I won’t be pretty all my life, so by the time I get ugly I may as well be Commissioner or something.
Anyways, back to the scene. One of my favourite forensic boys – what was his name, the cute guy with the curvy dick, umm, Justin maybe? – was taking photos of the car’s interior, so I went over to join him.
“Hey there,” I greeted, warmly.
He looked away from his view-finder, and as recognition dawned he grinned at me too – and I’m sure we were both thinking back to our last encounter, where I may possibly have mounted the bench of his crime lab in return for quick and favourable processing of evidence in a case of mine. Well, we all have to grease the wheels somehow… “Well hello, escort maltepe Detective,” he grinned in reply.
“So: what have we got?” I quizzed, straight down to business.
“Got a tonne of blood in and around the driver’s seat,” he reported. “From the quantity, I’d say it was an arterial bleed. Real gusher.”
“So… is our driver dead, do you think?”
“Well, unless he had a good knowledge of first aid, he won’t be happy. That’s for sure,” my forensic man grinned – and as he turned to address me properly, I saw he had a name tag on his chest. ‘James’, it read. That’s right! ‘James’, not ‘Justin’. No, Justin was that other guy…
“Sounds like he fled the scene,” I summarised, from what the Lieutenant had told me and the chatter on the radio I had heard while driving up the mountain. “If he was bleeding so heavily, he must have left a trail…?”
“Few blood spots heading off in that direction,” James reported, pointing off into the trees. “Uniform did a quick walk, didn’t find anything. The canine squad is on their way up from town, they ought to sniff him out nice and quick.”
“Okay then: one missing, blood-gushing driver,” I said to myself. “Have we turned up any possessions in the car?”
“Haven’t searched it yet – I needed to take some photos first,” said James. “I only just got here myself.”
“Do hurry up, James,” I admonished, with a cheeky wink.
“Now now – perfection can’t be rushed,” James returned, wielding his camera as though it was Leonardo’s brush.
After a few more minutes with the camera, James rooted around under the seats and came up with a wallet. The driver’s licence was within, giving us a name and a face: Mick Worhurst, aged thirty, quite good-looking with sandy hair, blue eyes and a square jawline. Quite good-looking, indeed; even if he hadn’t been the proud owner of a Lamborghini, I certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed.
His name and description went out on the airwaves, and as the morning wore on I was left with the mundane duties: call in the description to all local doctors and hospitals, leave a query with the ambulance drivers, all of which turned up nothing. Nobody had seen our ‘Mick’, he hadn’t turned up anywhere… which probably meant he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere nearby. Pity, that. Such a waste of a pretty face.
As we continued to wait for the canine squad, who had been delayed in heavy traffic back in town, I decided to hop in my squad car and visit the address on the licence – on the off chance he had made it all the way home. It was a possibility, however slim, and it was worth checking, so off I went.
On arriving at the house, I was surprised – it was not the sort of place I had expected a Lamborghini owner to live. Don’t get me wrong, it was very nice: a cosy cottage-sized place, neat and charming, very suburban, but at a guess I’d say it was hardly worth half as much as a shiny new Gallardo. Quite surprising, indeed.
A knock on the door brought some dismay, as it was answered by a youngish woman with a pair of babies braced against each hip, and there were sounds of more children running amok further inside the house. ‘Damn,’ I thought, as she looked me up and down; ‘the guy’s got family…’
The woman could tell straight away that I was with the police. “Is this about Mick?” she asked, visibly suppressing her dread.
“Good morning,” I greeted her, solemnly. “I’m Detective Sergeant Cara Jennings, from the local station. Are you Mick Worhurst’s partner?”
“I’m his wife. Prue Worhurst,” she introduced herself. “Please, just tell me: is Mick okay?”
“I’m sorry, Missus Worhurst, but we’re not sure,” I said, apologetic but business-like. “We found his car crashed into a tree off the mountain, but he was not with the car.”
“Oh God…” she breathed. “He didn’t come home last night and he wasn’t answering his phone… I’ve been so worried…” She seemed unsteady for a moment, and I was ready to gather up the babies if she pendik escort wobbled any worse, but to her credit she seemed to tap an inner reserve of strength and she pulled herself together. “So: you can’t find him?”
“We searched the surrounding bush but we couldn’t locate him,” I reported. “The ‘dog squad’ are on their way to the scene now. They should turn him up pretty quickly.”
“Where did you say he crashed?” Prue asked, with a frown.
“Up on Mount Kenebo, at the hairpin half-way to the top. His car went through a guardrail and collided rear-first with a tree at speed. He was very lucky to be well enough to get out of the car,” I informed her, subtly stressing the point that he had been at least well enough to get up and walk.
“I don’t know what he was doing up there,” Prue continued to frown. “He works up in the city, the mountain is well out of the way of his commute. God, he’s crashed his company car…” she breathed. “I’m gunna have to call his boss and let him know.”
That had taken me by surprise. “Really?” I asked. “His company car was a Lamborghini?”
Prue looked at me as though I was a crazy person. “What?”
“Missus Worhurst: the car that your husband crashed was a bright orange, near-new Lamborghini Gallardo, with a retail value of four hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” I said, spelling it out for her very carefully. “What car did you think he crashed?”
“What? No…” said Prue, at a total loss. “He drives an old Ford wagon for work. It’s his boss’s car, a company car. Are you seriously trying to tell me that Mick was driving a Lamborghini?”
“That’s correct,” I confirmed.
“Mick’s never driven a Lamborghini in his life!” she stated, as a firm and flat fact. “I mean, he’d love to drive one, he’s a total car nut and he has a real soft spot for Lamborghinis… but, well, he certainly doesn’t own one,” she told me, almost laughing at the idea of her husband owning or driving such an exotic automobile. “Are you sure Mick was driving it?”
“We found a wallet under the driver’s seat, with his driver’s licence and bank cards in it,” I told her.
“Let me see it,” said Prue.
I hesitated: the wallet wasn’t in much a state to be seen by a family member.
“Detective: let me see your credentials,” Prue said again, in a very firm no-nonsense tone – she evidently suspected me as a scammer, “and let me see my husband’s wallet.”
“Missus Worhurst…” I began, as I got my badge out and let her inspect it closely. “I have the wallet in an evidence bag in my car. I’d rather not let you see it, because it’s… well, it’s a bit damaged,” I lied – the thing had been soaked for hours in her husband’s congealing blood, and it was not fit for her to see. “But if you insist, I have his licence with me…”
The look on her face made it clear she did insist. With a sigh, I removed the plastic-wrapped licence from my pocket; the chain of evidence regulations meant I was not permitted to clean it before bagging it, so unfortunately, the licence and the bag were both smeared with blood.
This was enough to sap Prue’s final reserves of strength, and she tottered somewhat. Having anticipated as much, I quickly reached out and wrapped my arms around her and her babies, helping her into a chair near the door. I spent the next ten minutes helping her calm down, and arranging for her friends and family to come and help her out; while I waited for them to arrive, I called in to the Lieutenant.
“Boss: Mick Worhurst, our Lambo driver. His missus had no idea that he owned or had access to a Lamborghini. Have we done a registration check on the car?”
“We certainly have – Worhurst is the vehicle’s owner,” came the reply. “No doubt about it.”
“Shit,” I breathed, amazed at the turn of events. “Umm, well… any word from the canine squad?”
“They tracked him down a slope into a creek, where they lost him. He’s walked along the creek to hide his trail, quite deliberately too.”
“So: our secret Lambo driver is hurt, but doesn’t want to be found?”
“Seems that way.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “Wow boss – you really do save the best cases for me!”
“Yeah yeah. Get back to his missus, will you? I want to get to the bottom of this, double-quick.”
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