Gumshoe Gal

Original story by: AzumiTheFlirt

Tags: White male hero/black private eye, some lesbian themes (white female/black female), blowjob, bondage, consensual sex, cum facial, impregnation, motherhood, happy ending.

-

No human deserved to die like that. Tyrone Golems might have been a rapist, a drug pusher, and a tax cheat, but whoever did him in had made it bloody. Mayor Shekelberg personally put out a thousand-dollar bounty, to be paid in gold coins. For a gumshoe like her, that was a lot of money. Enough to retire from risking her neck with nothing but a revolver and a keen sense for clues, and instead settle down to raise a family. That was why she hit the bricks to track this perp down.

The cabaret singer knew more than she was letting on. Too many sequins on her dress, and the detective knew she stuffed her bra. After a little leaning-on, and a night spent indulging the leggy blonde's lust for hot chocolate in a cheap suit, the detective had her best lead. The killer was part of that dangerous right-wing extremist group, the Freikorps. A ravenous maniac, but damn good in bed if the singer was to be believed. "You'll find out what I mean, darling," the blonde said the morning after. "And do come back safe."

In her profession, safe didn't have much meaning other than a metal box with a lock on it that you picked to steal what was inside. She had grown up on the streets, clawed her way up from the ghettos into the halfway-respectable position of a private eye. Saw a lot of other girls end up in the gutter. The pushers and pimps didn't have much use for a dame if she wasn't buying blow or blowing them. Tyrone was the third dead this year that they cops could link to this killer. Her contact at the police department assured her that the staff psychologist had the perp all figured out. Doctor Nosenbaum had published many papers on the subject of race-based psychopathy. His profile of the crimes indicated that this had to be a white male, muscular, who was driven by a sense of inferiority and self-loathing to kill people who looked different than himself. There was no chance of rehabilitation, so officers were urged to shoot on sight in the interest of public safety.

That was why she was here, revolver in hand, at this abandoned warehouse out on the pier. The police were going to hit this place come dawn. If she wanted her thousand dollars, she had to collar the perp tonight. This wasn't the first time she had taken down a crook by herself, and she was determined that it wouldn't be the last. The crime scenes had nine-millimeter casings sprinkled around, meaning that the killer probably used one of those German semi-automatics. She would have to be sure to get the first shot, and make it count.

Well, nothing ever went right in her line of work. The psychologist was correct about most of the profile. A big, muscly white man, with cold blue eyes and cropped blonde hair. He was prepared for a raid. The entire warehouse was rigged with explosives, and he had a whole arsenal inside. She managed to pick the lock and sneak in without setting off any of the tripwires. There was no question about his guilt. The big white man was wearing bloodstained clothes, and calmly dissolving a dark-skinned corpse in a vat of acid. She should have taken the shot when his back was turned, but... but she hesitated. She recognized that corpse.

That was El Padre, the cartel warlord from south of the border who smuggled everything from rum to cigars north... then took guns, cash, and kidnapped women south. He was dirty as sin, but no matter how many times he was arrested the courts always fumbled. As the big white man eased the corpse into the acid, he reached down and removed the golden cross that the warlord always wore. With what the detective thought to be surprising reverence for a psychopath, he placed it in a small box next to a foreign war medal that looked like some kind of iron cross. She slipped back into the shadows and puzzled over what she had seen. Maybe the psychologist was wrong. Maybe this guy could be brought in alive. Wouldn't that be a feather in her cap. They might even pay her more.

So went her line of thinking when she stepped out of the shadows with her revolver held ready, and commanded him to put his hands up. He obeyed without a word, those blue eyes searching her face. She was prepared to pull the trigger, and he knew it. The detective slid a pair of cuffs across the floor to him, and he put them on as ordered. Then she made her crucial mistake. When she stepped closer to check him for weapons, she felt the bulge in his pants. His Luger was on the table. That bulge was all white meat.

Some of the cabaret singer's words trickled back through her thoughts. She felt a little dizzy as her hand gripped his length. It was all she could do to stay on her feet. He smiled. Trying to take back control, she ordered him to drop his pants. He did, revealing that he wore no underwear. The detective looked up into his cold blue eyes, then down at his hard white rod. Too many years of putting the job first caught up with her all at once. She would... she ought to... interrogate him before the police could. They wouldn't let her do it after she turned him in, and she wanted... some answers. Running her brown fingers along his length, she asked why he did it. He asked why she did it. Both already knew the answer. This city was sick, and needed help. Both of them acted outside the law, her way was just a little more legal than his.

He asked if she was planning to shoot him. She asked if he was thinking of a way to shoot her. It was hot in here, so hot that she unbuttoned her shirt a little. His cuffs clinked as he took her hand. She remarked that he wasn't the wide-eyed white supremacist she had been warned about. He replied that she wasn't the shoot-first she-devil he had expected the city's rulers to send.

"Nobody sent me, bub," said the detective. "I'm here for the bounty, see? You're worth a thousand, paid in gold."

"I'm afraid I can't match that. I am a man who labors by his own hands, not by bribing the hands of others."

Well, he had a point there. She was cleaning up the city to pay the bills. He was doing it at his own expense.

"Seems like the city owes you a debit of gratitude. Not that they'd ever pay it."

"Well, our very existences testify that when the government fails, the people must rise up."

"You've certainly risen to the occasion," she remarked as her hand stroked his length.

"It takes courage to follow our hearts. Courage, and trust in our fellow man." His blue eyes stared into her light brown ones. In the right light, her irises were almost red. "You have one. What of the other?"

A small, sad smile crossed her lips. "I'd be the biggest fool to throw everything away just... just to follow my heart."

"As I see it, you can be a fool for yourself, or a fool for Mayor Shekelberg."

She stared at him for a long moment, then sighed and holstered her revolver. Sinking to her knees in front of him, the detective said, "If I don't wet this monster down, you're going to rip me open like Jack the Knife."

Not that she liked to brag about it, but the detective was good with her tongue. So other girls, like the cabaret singer, told her. He certainly seemed to enjoy it too. As she worked over his length and cupped his balls, her dark skin stroking against his pale flesh, she loosened his tongue on all sorts of things. Full confessions, for one. He hunted the crooks, studied their crimes and their patterns, then put them to death. Judge, jury, and executioner, yet... well, all the criminals he killed were unquestionably guilty. As she sucked and stroked, he explained how he would send evidence to the police, and use pay phones to send tips. Always such things were ignored. It was as though there was some wicked force throwing its shield over the evildoer.

So heartfelt was his speech that the detective did not notice her fingers had crept up beneath her skirt until she was close to the edge. He was throbbing and ready too. They finished together, thick ropes of his seed splattering onto her face and dribbling down into her cleavage while her juices made a puddle on the floor. She licked her lips and adjusted her hat as he leaned back against the counter. The fog of orgasm dulled her senses for just a moment, but that was far too long. When she looked up, the barrel of his luger was pointed down at her.

It was a hell of a way to die, blown away by the guy you just gave a blowjob. She winced and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the bright light and the hereafter, but it never came. Trust. That was what this was all about. He helped her to her feet. No, he wasn't going to prison. His work was not yet complete. She could leave. Already she had seen enough to know he was not a danger to the city. Only to the scum. But, she didn't want to go. It was cold outside. Her dark fingers played over his bloodstained clothes.

This time, she was the one wearing the cuffs. Flat on her back, pressed down into the military-surplus bedroll he kept in a corner, several of the buttons popped off her shirt in their haste rolling around on the floor. Heated, aggressive sex, the kind that tore clothes and made toes curl. He kissed her hard, and she kissed back harder. There was no rush. They had all night, and they made the most of it. He bent her over a large bomb and gagged her with her handkerchief. She straddled him on a shaky catwalk. He hung her up in a meat locker and they watched their breath turn to fog as they kept each other warm. Finally, just before dawn, she pulled her ravished clothes back together and bid him farewell. The police lookouts were watching for a big white man, not a dark-skinned private eye.

Next evening's paper had a cover story about the apocalyptic explosion down at the docks. A full three teams of the department's "best and bravest" perished in the explosion, and many more were badly wounded. Mayor Shekelberg had demanded a total commitment from the police department, and now was wringing his hands while bemoaning the tragedy. He had reason to be upset. A recall petition had been started by concerned citizens who believed that the corruption in the police department was from the top-down. That evening, the detective went to see the cabaret singer to follow up a hunch. Sure enough, the leggy blonde was the one who had started the petition, and it was gathering a lot of steam. It was a secret, one the private eye was willing to keep for the good of the city.

That wasn't the only secret the two ladies shared. Over the coming months, as the recall movement succeeded and the police department was rebuilt with civic-minded individuals willing to take the fight to the darkest alleyways, the detective quietly retired, as did the singer. Both had a little money set aside, but the capstone was a successful sale of an oversized, solid-gold cross. A parting gift from the man she had gone to kill. The money set the two women up for a quiet, family life, which suited the expectant mothers quite well. Their white hero had given them a safer city, a nest egg that could be wisely invested to provide for the children, and each other. There was little more that a man could aspire to.

Yet, on some nights, the former detective would wake next to her blonde bedfellow and creep to the window. When she would look out across the city, now growing purer by the day, she would sometimes glimpse a tall, muscular shadow carrying a semi-automatic... as if, somehow, her white hero was still away at war for the soul of the city. She had little time to think on such things. Both she and the cabaret singer had given birth to twins. Keeping up with them was even more of a challenge than sleuth-work had been. After one such night, the morning paper had a startling story about how the former mayor had been gunned down in what appeared to be a pitched battle. The police believed that the disgraced politician had turned to crime and was finally done in by a rival gang.

As they finished reading the paper together, the two mothers' eyes met. A smile crept across the dark skinned woman's lips, while the blonde lightly pecked her on the cheek. Each knew that the other was feeling that familiar ache. The honest, natural need to be bread by the strong seed of their white hero, to feel white children suckle at their breasts. That was a case they would eagerly solve again and again... and who knew what other girlfriends might join such a righteous cause along the way?