A Chase

Click click click.

The sound of Lois' heels against the sidewalk boomed loudly in her ears, but the reporter, who stared straight ahead, was straining to catch the tip-tap of the feet behind her, almost in time with her own steps. Her pussy burned around the bottle, which was barely held in place by her panties, and she cursed the thought that had made her steal it in the first place...but she had other problems.

Suicide Slum was the sex crime capital of Metropolis. She knew the statistics, saw them every day at the office. The forcible **** rate was twice the national average - comparable to Gotham - and that was the crime that was reported. Lois knew how bad it could get, had seen the bodies on the slab in the morgue. One of them came back to her: a spontaneous gang-****, young woman walking home drunk after a college party. Police had estimated at least forty people involved in the ****. One of them had a bat. Even if she hadn't died on the operating table, she'd never have been able to walk again. That was the kind of thing people didn't think happened in America. That was Suicide Slum.

Lois didn't stop at the street corners for the light. There wasn't much traffic, not here, not at this hour. She looked left and right and hurried across the street. She didn't want to spare the seconds for the crosswalk signs to light. The tip-tap of the steps behind her were getting louder...closer. They weren't just keeping time with her anymore, they were coming quicker.

So she quickened her own pace. Clickclickclick, the heels tapping it out faster on the sidewalk, her heart beating faster. Already her thighs and calves were starting to burn. She wanted to run, but didn't dare; not in these heels, not with that thing between her legs, rubbing her raw with each step. Worse, she could feel her panties start to ride up the crack of her ass, the fabric pulling into the cleft of her labia. The added irritation was the last thing Lois needed.

There was still six blocks left when her heel broke.

Panic tore at Lois as she hobbled for a few steps, looked down, stupidly, at the show with the heel hanging on by a hinge, splayed out at an angle. Then she looked back.

Her pursuer was half a block away, and closing fast.

She slipped out of her shoes and started to run. Almost immediately she regretted it, not just the rough concrete on her bare feet, but the constant presence of the bottle that seemed to punch her with every step. It shouldn't be possible for the cap to hit her cervix with each step, but the thing seemed to scrape at her insides and jump with each jolt.

It slowed her down.

There was no pretense now, and she heard the fit behind her, hitting the pavement, faster and faster, closer and closer.

Her balance was off, and her lungs burned as she sucked in air, panting.

Six blocks. She could see the end of the Slum. There were cars there. Traffic. People. Police.

Then the hand caught her upper arm.