0 comments/ 11007 views/ 7 favorites I-Blivion 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." I-Blivion "See what else you can find. I really want to find out who built this. And when he had it implanted. And whether it was voluntary." The medic found this hard to swallow. "Voluntary? Who would walk around with an unwelcome implant in their arm and not tell anyone?" Beck cracked his knuckles and said, "someone who didn't know they had an implant". He went home and tried to sleep but by 3am, Beck had become so tired and frustrated that he took a Snorley, an over-the-counter sleep medication whose only side effects were slightly orange urine. Waking at 8.30, he checked his messages and called the lab. "Anything new?" "Yes, as a matter of fact. I have an address for you. Keep this quiet. He has friends in places way too high to be messing with." It was on the University campus about six miles out of town. He hadn't gotten out here much, except for the occasional round of golf at Raymond's Meadows. It was more open here, greener, suddenly very different from the usual urban miasma, the architectural maze, the crime-veneered cesspit of the city. The campus was very deliberately set in unspoiled woodland surrounded by verdant hills, all of which belonged to the University. It was perhaps the fifth richest organization in the state, and it showed. Who here, Beck wondered, would enslave a young man and drive him to his death? "I'm here to see Dr. Muir. Would you let him know I've arrived?" Beck's credentials prompted a quick response from the University reception desk. He was waved through security to an elevator which took him seven floors up to the research department of the University's bustling, gleamingly metallic and obviously lavishly funded Science Wing. It was a cylindrical building literally full of curiosities, both mechanical and human. Small robot flyers buzzed quietly around an atrium which formed the central feature of the building, with offices and research labs all around. The personnel were notably dressed-down, permitting them to indulge their inner geek in their clothing choices. Beck felt woefully out of place, both cerebrally and in terms of fashion, but shelved his discomfort and hunted assiduously for Dr. Muir. "How can I help you, Detective?" The voice had actually come from behind him and, for a second, Beck wondered if Muir had simply been following him since the elevator. "Dr. Muir?" The two shook hands. Beck chuckled inwardly at the thought of where his hands had most recently been. He suspected it had been some time since the graying, tall researcher had touched a woman, let alone done the things Samara liked to let him do. "I wonder if I could trouble you to identify a piece of work?" The two sat in Muir's office, a small and surprisingly dark place, shadowed from the light of the atrium by hulking blocks of steel which apparently formed a modern sculpture. "I recognize it, of course," Muir confirmed, returning the phone to Beck. "Tommy made a special request. Quite sophisticated." "A custom design?" Beck asked, glad of the co-operation but wary that Muir had been on such familiar terms with the victim. "Of a kind, yes. The patient had requested particular help with an aspect of his relationship with technology. We were able to assist." Muir folded his hands. He took an obvious pride in his work, although Beck had not yet told him of his patient's fate. "Dr. Muir, I'm wondering if this work, this... modification," he said, pausing to allow Muir to confirm his terminology, "have implications for volition?" The researcher raised an eyebrow. "Volition? Lord, no. I don't understand the question." Beck made to explain, but his device rang loudly. "Excuse me, sorry," he said, glancing at the number. "I have to take this." Outside the office, he connected the call. "Beck, we need you back here. They found CCTV footage of your bike collision victim. You're not going to fucking believe this." Beck sighed. "Don't tell me. He walked out into the road because his arm told him to." "What?" There was a roomful of chatter on the line; Beck knew the investigation team were hot on some trail or other. "No, man, what are you talking about? What was that about his arm?" "Never mind. I'm leaving soon." The Detective quickly closed out his interview with Muir without learning much more. "Some people simply find that their physical responses do not tally with their desires," Muir said carefully. This wasn't news in 2073, when almost everyone had tweaked their 'responses' in some way or another, and when desires were indulged with almost religious zeal. Beck took the express route back into the city and was soon sitting in front of the CCTV monitors, watching a playback of the incident. No CCTV material was allowed out of the room, so he couldn't simply have called it up on his phone. Privacy protections, enshrined in a comprehensive suite of laws after 2013, ensured against the widespread availability of security imagery. Happily for Beck, the city's police had access to everything it recorded. The Pentagon wished it had such flexibility. "He walks, he raises his arm to his face, he reads, and he carries on." Beck watched the figure go through this bizarre ritual every thirty seconds or so throughout the last minutes of his life. Six cameras were needed to view the victim's journey from his apartment to a coffee shop, and thence to the junction where he had been hit. The savagery of the impact was too shocking to watch more than once; besides, Beck was focusing on the phone. "He lifts it like he's got a robot arm, you see?" The movement was indeed strangely choreographed, as though the arm had been moved by an invisible force. "He phone is actually making him check it?" Beck's team had never seen anything like it, but that was a refrain repeated almost weekly around here. Human behavior had become so various and unpredictable -- and had been becoming so, even before the advent of widespread implants -- that its outer extremes and inner nuances were being daily re-drafted. At a time when more data was available than ever before, Beck found it unhelpfully perverse that it was so hard to get information on people. Firewalls of absolute stubbornness guarded inter-agency data transfer; this prevented, say, the NYPD from delving into someone's Boston medical records, or their Albuquerque gun license. It also prevented past convictions from skewing police opinion; it stopped someone's browsing habits from being used against them; it insisted that private correspondence had remained private. The great 'data-burning' sessions of the early 2020s had restored a degree of public confidence; the sight of exorbitantly expensive but undeniably smashed server and data units being wheeled out of the NSA buildings was one of the key online videos of the century. Instead, Beck called back into service those old-fashioned, sidewalk-pounding, just-the-facts-ma'am methods which had served his grandfather well in the NYPD of the 1990s. He called the victim's friends, then family, then doctor and dentist, then his childhood sweetheart (who had married and was living in orbit), then his high school guidance counselor and gym instructor. Not one of them mentioned a long-term relationship, or even the name of a girlfriend. Or boyfriend, for that matter. Then he called the neighbors. "They need to put that biker in fuckin' jail, man. How can someone just get run down in the fuckin' street and nobody does anything, huh? What the fuck is up with that?" "If a crime was committed, sir, I assure you we will take appropriate action. But I'm actually more concerned with the implant in his arm. Could you tell me anything about that?" He could, as it turned out, and Beck set up a meeting. Clarence, as he called himself, seemed nervy as he approached Beck's booth at a local coffee shop. He wore a wool hat, overcoat and dark glasses, looking the stereotypical police informer despite never having assisted a cop before. "This is all off the record," Beck lied. "I want to know about the implant." Clarence sipped his water, then set it down and rolled up his sleeve. "Crazy how cheap this was. We looked at all the options. We even thought about that ocular implant, you know the one that's in court right now?" Beck knew, as everyone did, about the Opti-Net device. It gathered internet data wirelessly and transferred it to a virtual screen set a few inches in front of the face. Initial trials had gone well, leading to spectacular over-production which, even with the low wages and costs at the factory in Zaire, had brought down OPC, perhaps the largest implant business casualty so far. The kicker had been an NIH report which linked Opti-Net use with epilepsy, insomnia, dependency and suicide. Sales had dropped like a rock, and the idea of ocular implants seemed dead. "There's no way I was putting that shit in my head," Clarence announced. "So, we looked for an alternative and the University was doing these paid studies, you know, $2000 for a few visits." "Sounds attractive," Beck agreed, instantly irritated that Dr. Muir had kept this from him. "Oh man they treated us nice. After the surgeries we stayed overnight and there was all this food and a huge TV and booze. Great times, man." "So what was the implant designed to do?" Clarence shifted noticeably in his seat. "You know, Tommy had this problem." "Everyone's got problems, Clarence." "Yeah, but this was about getting laid, man. This is the top of the tree." Beck sniggered at the elevation of such a base act, just as Clarence had wanted him too. The ice was breaking. "He was a virgin, you know..." Clarence was obviously embarrassed by the very word. Hardly anyone these days made it into adulthood without having had some kind of sexual experience, and not just with themselves. "And he never did any enhancements down there," Clarence added, prompting another encouraging snigger from Beck, "so he reckoned the girls wouldn't be interested." "He was young, in good shape, had good grades," Beck knew from his calls to Tommy's high school. "I'd think the girls were beating a path to his door." "Yeah, yeah, but he wasn't connected properly." Beck nodded but inwardly he was interpreting the jargon; words had taken on extra layers of meaning, and none more so than 'connected'. It could mean anything from a physical link to a certain understanding of the zeitgeist, from a close emotional bond (it had come to almost replace the word 'love' in some circles) to a description of one's level of social interaction. Clarence saw the question in Beck's face. "He wasn't getting the deals, man." This was becoming a linguistic minefield. "Business deals?" Clarence threw his head back and laughed so loud the whole coffee shop turned to look. So much for the stealthy informant persona, Beck sighed to himself. "No, no man. Pussy deals. Poontang!" Beck laughed along, making fun of his own anachronism. "Yeah, I got it. Poontang!" "You need to be connected to get the goodies, you know? He went and missed all kinds o' tail because his phone were always on silent, or switched off, or he just didn't notice. If you ask me, he couldn't even use the fuckin' thing. He weren't connected," Clarence repeated, emphasizing the word as if it were the linchpin of Beck's investigation. "Hence the implant," Beck offered simply. "Hells yeah! Never miss another one, right? You gots to get in there quick! If she's horny, she'll take the first good-looking dude who hits her back. Tommy was always way down the list! But now his arm just up and brings the goodies right to his face." "No Opti-Net, but no missed poontang," Beck summarized. It had been a sexual-technological compromise. Tommy found something impossible, so he enlisted technology to make it inevitable. How desperate must he have been? "You got it, man. I mean, I'm truly sorry he's dead. I loved him, like you know, not exactly a brother or nuthin', but like a real good neighbor. He just weren't connected, you see?" Beck saw an image in his mind of Tommy's headstone: 'Here Lies Thomas Burton. He lived life. But he was not connected.' Beck paid the check and rose. "Thanks, Clarence. You've been a big help." Back at the office, things moved quickly. Dr. Muir, unsurprisingly, was not to be found at his office and hadn't answered his cell. Beck put out an APB, made his report to his boss and called Samara. "Oh honey, three times in twenty-four hours! Are we setting a record or something?" Beck stifled her pseudo-protestations with a huge erection which eased into her mouth and down to the playfully grasping muscles in her throat. His morning pills were losing their potency at this late hour, but he still managed to give her a good fucking in all three holes before her gifted hands brought one last outrageous orgasm from his throbbing, insatiable cock. She cleaned him up with her mouth, then tissues, and dabbed her crotch where seeping wetness threatened to stain the back seat. "Stressful day, huh?" "I guess. Just a guy who couldn't cope, outsourcing to technology the work his brain and balls should have been doing." Samara sat upright, straightened her make-up in the car's vanity mirror, then closed her compact and slipped it back into her tiny purse. "Well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Detective?" She smiled and reached over to stroke his remarkable dick, still hard and willing after a day of excess. "Better living through chemistry, isn't that what they say?" "And through surgery," Beck admitted. She chuckled. "Ain't that the truth." Samara smiled and once more licked Beck's engorged, salty cock. "But what's a life if you can't enjoy it to its fullest?" *** Epilogue In the weeks after Tommy Burton's fatal accident, the legal mechanisms of the city swung into action. First, Tommy's family sued Dr. Muir for medical malpractice and won; he had, in the court's estimation, misled his client as to the 'method of action' of the arm implant device. Muir was also arrested for obstructing the investigation and served three months in jail. The University was sued by the biker, who had suffered 'untold psychological trauma' over a 'frivolous, damaging and ludicrous' medical concept so poorly designed as to have 'distracted the victim to death.' He won, invested the damages in bike repair, and then got himself a new set of neural implants to make the last two years of his undergraduate career rather more enjoyable. And a whole lot easier. Samara was arrested by vice squad detectives after giving three of them simultaneous hand- and mouth-jobs on digital video in the back of their police wagon. In a circular and confusing case, the three detectives were then disciplined by their superiors for soliciting a prostitute. The charges against Samara were dropped. She continued seeing Beck for a few weeks, and then returned to Chicago to take care of her sick great-grandmother, investing in a set of life-extending implants which would make the old lady -- at 144 years of age - one of the longest-lived people ever. Detective Beck continued his career at homicide and was promoted. His work and personal life flourished until he was offered a new metabolic pill by a trusted friend. The pharmacological effects had been poorly studied. Beck wound up with a boxer-busting, 4-day erection which knew no satiation; legions of prostitutes were enlisted and dozens of orgasms coaxed from the stubbornly erect member, but all to no avail. Convinced it was his last chance, Beck visited Muir at home (the researcher having been summarily dismissed for his role in the Tommy Burton scandal) and requested his help. Two weeks of surgery and therapy defined a new procedure to 'roll back' penile augmentation, and it soon became the third most popular surgery in the United States. The advocacy group ADAM (Authentic Dicks for Authentic Men) lobbied Congress to ban penile prosthetics on safety grounds; the motion was defeated 81-19 in the senate. Commentators remain convinced that the bill never became law because two-thirds of the men in Congress had themselves received the surgery, prompting MSNBC's Paula Tatevossian to excoriate Congress as being full of 'little-dick men in a big-dick world". Cock size became one of the leading campaign issues in the 2078 midterm elections. The rest is history.