Outside, dusk painted the precinct parking lot in streaks of gasoline rainbows and fading brake lights. Vasquez lingered by the cruiser, fingertips brushing the lightning-bolt scar still etched across her left cheekbone—the last frayed thread of the sergeant's stolen face. Tomorrow's transformation would erase even this relic, smoothing Lena's flawless skin over the jagged proof of Vasquez's existence. Angelo now Vasquez traced the raised tissue with her thumb, imagining the moment skin would swallow scar like quicksand claiming footprints.
The apartment exhaled gunmetal and jasmine when Vasquez shouldered open the door. The knife waited on the dresser—its edge catching the neon glow from the bodega sign across the street. One day remained. Angelo peeled off the uniform with Lena's delicate precision, each button slipping free like a counted breath. In the bathroom mirror, Vasquez's reflection fractured—Lena's poreless forehead, sculpted nose, and pillowed lips framing those storm-cloud eyes, all stitched together by that single defiant scar. Tomorrow, even this would be velvet.
Pre-dawn light bled through the blinds as the knife's tip traced the lightning bolt ridge. Angelo pressed down—not with Vasquez's brute force, but with Lena's manicured fingertips—feeling the magic dissolve the scar tissue like sugar in hot water. By sunrise, the transformation would be complete: Vasquez's face erased millimeter by millimeter, replaced with Lena's flawless mask pulled taut over Clara's curvaceous scaffolding.
The precinct parking lot was slick with overnight rain when "Vasquez" emerged from the cruiser, the final day of light duty clinging to her like stale perfume. Every step sent Lena's newly perfected breasts bouncing beneath the navy uniform—Clara's pillowy fullness barely constrained by regulation fabric, Vasquez's muscular abdomen flexing visibly through the starched shirt. Hayes whistled from the smoking area, coffee cup paused mid-air. "Jesus, Sarge. You look like someone vacuum-sealed a pinup over your skeleton." Angelo smirked with Lena's lips, tossing her hair—now glossy black waves where Vasquez's had been military-short—and let Clara's hips swing just enough to make Ruiz drop his keys. "Nineteen days off and you morons forgot how to handle a fit woman?"
Inside, the briefing room chatter died when the door clicked open. Vasquez paraded her body through the aisles—every officer cataloguing the impossible metamorphosis: the way Clara's waist nipped in above Vasquez's eight-pack, how Lena's poreless throat tapered into the sergeant's muscular shoulders. Chen's pen rolled off his clipboard. "The fuck happened to your scar?" Angelo leaned across his desk, Lena's cleavage threatening to spill from the unbuttoned collar, and smiled with teeth that were just a shade too white. "Laser treatments, dumbass. You've seen me changing day by day for three weeks." Mendez snorted, kicking his feet up. "Told you Vasquez would come back looking like a damn Maxim cover."
Diaz sat rigid in her chair, knuckles pale around her coffee cup. The rookie's gaze kept catching on Lena's hands—delicate fingers that had filed paperwork beside her for nineteen days now tipped with French manicures that hadn't existed during roll call. When Angelo brushed past, Lena's perfume—honeysuckle and gunpowder—made Diaz's nostrils flare. "Sergeant?" Her voice cracked. "Your eyes…they were hazel yesterday." The room went still. Angelo turned slowly, letting the fluorescent lights catch Lena's newly violet irises—a shade never photographed in Vasquez's personnel file. "Contacts, rookie. Keep up." Ruiz whooped. "Fuckin' diva!"
Rain drummed against the precinct windows as Diaz tailed Angelo into the evidence room. File boxes teetered when the rookie slammed the door, her service pistol already half-drawn. "Who the fuck are you?" Angelo chuckled—a sound like Lena's windchime laughter filtered through Clara's diaphragm. "Look at you, finally asking questions." He stepped closer, Lena's breasts brushing Diaz's holster. "Problem is…" Lena's hand closed over the rookie's wrist, thumb stroking her pulse point with predatory gentleness. "...nobody believes hysterical women." Diaz recoiled—just as the door burst open to reveal Hayes holding two coffees. "Uh. Bad time?" Angelo plucked one from his hands. "Rookie's just nervous about her first strip search." Hayes winked. "Attagirl, Vasquez."
The lock clicked shut behind Hayes with finality. Diaz backed into a shelf of confiscated dildos—plastic shafts toppling around her ankles—as Angelo peeled open his fly. "Nineteen days without touching you," Lena's voice purred while Clara's muscles tensed beneath Vasquez's uniform. The waistband snapped. Diaz's pupils dilated at the monstrous erection springing free—ten inches of veined flesh glistening with Lena's natural lubrication. Her tongue darted out unconsciously. "That's it," Varquez coaxed, guiding her trembling fingers toward the heat radiating from his shaft. "Your pussy's been dreaming about this since day one." Diaz's nails dug into her own thighs, but her hips rolled forward of their own accord—memory overriding morals as her body recognized its maker.
Vasquez pinned her against the drug seizure ledger with her biceps. Diaz's uniform skirt tore like tissue paper when he lifted her—Lena's deceptively delicate hands spreading her thighs wide. The rookie gasped as her sopping cunt kissed the cockhead without guidance, inner muscles fluttering in obscene recognition. "See?" Vasquez thrust upward in one brutal stroke, bottoming out against a cervix that had spent a night reshaping into a perfect socket. Diaz's scream muffled against Lena's collarbone as her body convulsed—not in resistance, but in primal welcome. Evidence bags rustled with each piston-like drive, the shelving unit rattling in time with Diaz's choked moans.
Fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Vasquez switched grips—one hand fisting Diaz's hair while the other guided her hips onto each downward plunge. "Say thank you," Lena's lips murmured against the rookie's ear. Diaz's teeth chattered around the words as her traitorous cunt milked vasquez's cock with greedy, practiced ripples. . Outside, Ruiz's laughter echoed down the hall, oblivious to the evidence room's newest exhibit: a rookie cop impaled on her sergeant's genetic blueprint, dripping onto a pile of unlogged contraband.
The cruiser's backseat reeked of sweat and betrayal. Angelo wedged Diaz facedown against the Kevlar-stuffed seatbacks, her regulation slacks tangled around one ankle while Lena's manicured fingers pinned her wrists to the headrest. "Quiet now," Vasquez's voice warned as her cock breached Diaz with the slick certainty of a key turning. Dispatch crackled through the radio—a domestic disturbance three blocks away—drowning out Diaz's shuddering gasp as her spine arched into the thrusts. Through rain-streaked windows, Chen strolled past with a coffee carrier, his shadow pausing briefly beside the rocking vehicle before continuing toward the precinct steps.
Bathroom stall hinges squeaked under rhythmic pressure. Diaz braced her palms against graffiti-etched metal, Vasquez's dress uniform skirt hiked over the swell of Clara's ass as Angelo pistoned into her from behind. "Count my strokes," Lena's breath teased against the rookie's jugular. Hayes' voice boomed from the urinals—some joke about overtime—and Diaz's thighs quivered as she choked out numbers between suppressed moans. The mirror above the sinks reflected nothing amiss: just two sets of polished shoes side by side, though one pair trembled violently with each inward snap of hips.
Precinct parking lot asphalt burned through Diaz's knee pads as she swallowed Vasquez under the noonday sun. Angelo cradled her head with deceptive tenderness, Lena's thumb swiping away a tear track while Clara's cockhead nudged the rookie's tonsils. Mendez's patrol car rolled past with a lazy honk—just boys being boys—as Diaz's throat bulged around each inch. Her fingers scrambled for purchase on Vasquez's duty belt, but the holstered gun just clinked against her grasping nails.
The women's locker room reeked of Axe body spray and shame when Angelo pinned Diaz against the tile wall. Lena's knee parted trembling thighs while Clara's erection prodded the sopping lace barely containing the rookie's desperation. "Tell me you've wanted this since orientation,"
Vasquez's voice crooned as the last barrier ripped. Diaz's nod came fast and frantic, her hips bucking to sheath Angelo before the sentence finished. Steam from the showers curled around their conjoined silhouettes, fogging the mirror where Ruiz's reflection should have caught them—if he hadn't been whistling past the door thirty seconds prior.
Angelo's desk chair squeaked under dual weight when Diaz straddled him post-shift, Lena's blouse unbuttoned to showcase Clara's heaving cleavage while the rookie rode with frantic precision. Case files fluttered to the floor with each downward plunge, Diaz's formerly crisp uniform now clinging to her sweat-slicked back. Across the bullpen, Hayes high-fived Chen over a closed case—their laughter syncopated with the wet slaps of flesh meeting flesh beneath the desk. "Atta girl," Angelo murmured as Diaz's orgasm ripped through her with enough force to crack the chair's plastic armrests.
Midnight found them in the holding cell, Diaz's wrists cuffed to the bars as Angelo took her from behind—Lena's perfume masking the scent of bleach and stale piss. The rookie's moans bounced off concrete walls, her uniform shirt gaping where buttons had popped during the seventh round. Through the observation window, a graveyard-shift janitor pushed his mop past without glancing up—just another Friday night in the drunk tank. Diaz's toes curled against the floor as Angelo buried his teeth between her shoulder blades, the bite mark blooming like a Rorschach test of surrender.