Detective Slade Hammer's cock twitched when a quivering twig of a man named Virgil Quiverton stumbled into his office, reeking of desperation and cheap cologne.

"Hammer? Slade Hammer?" Virgil whimpered, his voice higher than a soprano's G-spot. "I'm fucked sideways. Someone's blackmailing me. Help a poor bastard out!"

Virgil's hands shook so violently Slade thought the pathetic fucker might vibrate right out of his ill-fitting suit and cum-stained tie. He slid a tumbler of whiskey across the desk.

"Spill it, limp dick. What's got your panties in a bunch?"

"You... you won't tell the missus?"

"Can't make promises. Give me the filthy details."

Virgil's attempt to pour a drink resembled a premature ejaculator trying to hit the target. Most of the booze ended up baptizing his scuffed loafers.

"I'm just a working stiff," Virgil began, voice cracking. "I make novelty sex toys, y'know? The kind that vibrates and plays 'God Bless America' when you shoot your load?"

"Get to the fucking point before I lose my hard-on."

"I travel for work. Gets lonely as hell. But I ain't no meathead - I crave brainy broads. Sure, I could plow airheads till my dick falls off. But finding a chick who can debate Nietzsche while tonguing my asshole? That's the holy fucking grail."

"Keep yapping, Einstein."

"There's this college slut. Barely legal. Goes to Swarthmore. For the right price, she'll come over and talk philosophy while I jerk it - Sartre, Kant, quantum physics. We exchange... ideas. You catchin' what I'm pitchin'?"

"Not exactly, genius."

"Look, the old ball and chain's great for a quick fuck, but she thinks Plato is Mickey Mouse's dog. I need a woman who gets me hard up here," Virgil tapped his temple. "I'll pay top dollar for a quick mental handjob, no strings attached. I'm a happily married man, for fuck's sake!"

"How long have you been playing naughty professor?"

"Six months. When my brain gets blue balls, I ring up Madame Minerva. She's got a Ph.D. in cunnilingus and runs a stable of brainy whores. She sets me up with an egghead escort, see?"

Slade almost felt sorry for the pathetic prick. Clearly, there was a market for guys starved for intellectual discourse with hot chicks, willing to empty their wallets for the privilege of emptying their balls.

"Now Madame Minerva's threatening to spill to my wife," Virgil whined.

"They bugged the hotel room. Got recordings of me debating Kierkegaard while getting my salad tossed. Real kinky shit. They want ten grand, or they'll tell Mildred. You gotta help me, Hammer! Mildred would die if she knew her inability to quote Dostoevsky doesn't make my cock hard!"

The old cerebral call-girl con. Slade had heard whispers about a ring of well-educated women running this scam, but the cops were too busy jerking off to solve it.

"Get Madame Minerva on the horn."

"What?"

"I'll take your case, you limp-dicked loser. Fifty bucks a day, plus expenses. Hope you've got a lot of musical dildos to peddle."

"It won't be ten grand's worth, I guarantee," Virgil grinned, dialing the number. Slade snatched the phone, winking. Maybe this twerp wasn't such a lost cause after all.

Moments later, a voice-like audible sex purred through the receiver. Slade got right to business. "Word on the street is you can hook me up with some high-class pussy that comes with a side of conversation."

"Indeed, darling. What flavor of intellectual fornication did you have in mind?"

"Let's discuss Kafka while I pound that ass."

"'The Metamorphosis' or his broader oeuvre?"

"What's the difference?"

"The price, sugar tits. Existential analysis costs extra."

"What's the damage to my wallet and my balls?"

"Fifty for basic literary criticism with a handjob, maybe a hundred for a deep dive into Kafka's influence on modern literature while I ride you reverse cowgirl. Want to throw in some compare and contrast with Camus? That'll run you a Benjamin and a rimjob."

"Money's no object," Slade replied, cock already straining against his zipper as he gave her a room number at the Ritz.

"Blonde or brunette?"

"Surprise me, you scholarly slut," he growled, hanging up.

Slade knocked back some jet-fuel coffee while skimming CliffsNotes and stroking his growing erection. Within the hour, a knock at the door revealed a stunning redhead. Her curves strained against a tight sweater like two ripe melons fighting to escape a produce bag, nipples visibly hard beneath the thin fabric.

"Hey there, big boy. I'm Scarlett."

They sure knew how to cater to a man's deepest fantasies. Flowing auburn hair, leather satchel, silver hoop earrings, fresh-faced and makeup-free legs that went on for days.

"I'm shocked you made it past the lobby dressed like that," Slade smirked. "Hotel security usually sniffs out intellectuals a mile away."

"A crisp fifty and a quick blowjob keeps 'em looking the other way."

"Shall we begin?" Slade gestured toward the plush sofa, his pants tenting obscenely.

Scarlett lit a cigarette, diving right in. "Perhaps we should approach 'The Trial' as Kafka's critique of bureaucratic power structures, non?" She purred, slowly unzipping her skirt.

"Intriguing, though one might argue it's more an exploration of existential alienation." Slade was bullshitting, testing her mettle while eyeing her creamy thighs.

"Ah, but doesn't the labyrinthine nature of the legal system serve as a metaphor for the absurdity of existence itself?" She took the bait, along with Slade's throbbing cock in her soft hand.

"Fuck me, you're absolutely right," Slade murmured, eyes rolling back as Scarlett's expert fingers worked his shaft.

"I posit that Kafka's use of surrealist elements underscores the protagonist's sense of dislocation from reality. Wouldn't you concur?" She purred before swallowing his length.

Slade let her prattle on between slurps and moans. Despite her youth, she'd already mastered the glib patter of a pseudo-intellectual cocksucker. She regurgitated ideas mechanically, faking enthusiasm whenever Slade offered an insight:

"Oh god, yes, Slade! That's so deep, baby. A Freudian interpretation of Josef K.'s relationship with authority figures - why didn't I see it before? Mmmph!" She moaned around his pulsing member.

They "discussed literature" for about an hour before Scarlett announced she had to split. Slade peeled off a hundred-dollar bill as she stood to leave, cum still glistening on her lips.

"Thanks, sugar."

"Plenty more where that came from, doll. Next time, let's tackle Dostoevsky... and that sweet ass of yours."

After Scarlett sashayed out, leaving behind the scent of cheap perfume and existential dread, Slade got down to brass tacks. He needed to nail this case harder than he'd just nailed that walking thesaurus.

First stop: Madame Minerva's den of iniquity and SAT prep. The joint was seedier than a watermelon farm, with more wood paneling than a 70s porn set. Minerva herself was a sight-think librarian who met a dominatrix with a Ph.D. in ball-busting.

"Well, if it isn't the dick with a dictionary," she purred. "Come to expand your... vocabulary?"

"Can it, sweetheart? I'm here about your little blackmail operation. Spill the beans before I spill something else."

Minerva's eyes narrowed. "You're out of your depth, gumshoe. This goes higher than you can imagine. Senators, CEOs, even that guy who invented the Shake Weight - they're all involved."

"Christ on a cracker," Slade muttered. "What is this, a circle jerk of the intellectual elite?"

"More like a mental masturbation marathon with a side of actual masturbation," Minerva smirked.

Just then, the door burst open. In walked Senator Thaddeus Longbottom himself, looking like a constipated bulldog in a suit.

"Well, well," he growled. "If it isn't the cut-rate Sherlock Holmes. Trying to stick your nose where it doesn't belong?"

Slade's mind raced faster than a sophomore on Adderall during finals week. He needed a plan and fast.

"Listen up, you pretentious pricks," he barked. "I've got enough dirt to bury you all. So here's the deal: you let Virgil off the hook, shut down this whole operation, and I'll keep my trap shut tighter than a nun's knees."

The senator's face turned redder than a baboon's ass. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Try me, Longbottom. I'll squeal louder than Schrödinger's cat in a blender."

After a tense standoff that felt longer than War and Peace, the senator caved. "Fine. But if I hear one peep about this, I'll have you writing fortune cookies in Siberia."

Slade returned to his office with the case closed tighter than Tchaikovsky's cock-cage.

Virgil was waiting, fidgeting like a virgin at a brothel.

"Well?" he squeaked.

"Relax, Einstein. Your secret's safe, and your wallet's intact. Just stick to jerking off to National Geographic from now on, capisce?"

Virgil nodded, relief washing over him like cheap whiskey at the last call.

As the twerp scurried out, Slade poured himself a stiff one. Another case solved, another day in the cesspool of academia's seedy underbelly. He'd seen enough to make Freud blush and Nietzsche question his will to power.

But hey, that's life in the big city. For Slade Hammer, every case was just another chapter in the fucked-up novel of human nature. And brother, this one was a real page-turner.