Shoe Cum Killer

Casey Calvert slips into the warehouse wearing nothing but her badge and boots, expecting one perp, finding six. The first gang member drops to his knees, already sucking the villain’s cock while Casey watches, openly smirking at the mess she’s about to step into. Before she blinks, another kneels behind her and starts tonguing her ass, loud and eager, the wet sounds echoing off concrete. Their leader suddenly splays himself across a splintered crate, legs open wide as the biggest of his crew pounds him senseless, cum already dripping from his wrecked hole. A slight, pale guy clings to the henchman’s leg like a puppy, drooling around the shaft halfway down his throat whenever the bigger man shifts hips. Casey almost laughs. Every step she takes makes that rented boot stick to the floor in puddles of milk the killer pumped there yesterday; each splatter is his signature trademark, complete with size-twelve tread print. She calls out the classic you’re-coming-with-me line, but the moan that answers her is suddenly half-obscene orgasm, half guilty giggle. With sweat running between her tits and a grin she can’t kill, Casey finally admits it out loud: this crime scene’s so sticky, not even her pistol grip feels clean anymore.