A Dirty Apartment

They drove. Lois Lane's fingers began to get sore and stiff, but she kept rubbing her pussy steadily. She could feel the cabbie's eyes on her in the rearview mirror at times, feel the smile as her moans reached the front seat. Yet she didn't cum...and while she was masturbated, making a soppy mess of the back seat, all the reporter could do was wonder...

Why am I doing this?

It was so unlike her! To offer to go down on a random woman, to lick her pussy, to obey her order...it was like something out of a dream. A nasty wet dream...and Lois huffed as she remembered the nights she had rubbed herself while reading those books about proud women that gave in to their desires, who became sex slaves, gave up their lives to serve someone else...and the mind-shattering orgasms they got in return.

Those had just been fantasies. Some of them terribly written. Yet late at night, after long weeks or months of abstinence...the very taboo nature of them had worked for Lois. She had a folder on her laptop at home of her favorites. A guilty little secret that she would never admit to or ever dream of living out.

Until now.

Something made me do that, Lois realized. Some inner voice, some compulsion. It's like a stray impulse that I seized on that I would normally discard. The devil on my shoulder...

They stopped. The cabbie got out. Opened the reporter's door.

"Gid out. Don't stop. Ain't nobody around to see."

Lois climbed out of the car, her pants clutched in her right arm, left hand cupping her pussy, a finger embedded in her soaking twat. They were outside an apartment building, the kind where all the doors faced to the outside. The black woman pointed at the nearest door...number 609. Someone had removed the 0, though the faded imprint of it remained on the wood.

The cabbie opened the door. The smell rooled over Lois as she stepped inside. Marijuana...incense...old cooking smells, heavy with spices. Lois saw a neat little apartment, faded dark wood paneling on the walls, furniture a couple decades out of date, dark carpet and discolored linoleum. No bugs were in evidence, thankfully, but there was only one picture on the wall...a naked black woman with a heavy iron collar about her neck, the chain dangling between her naked breasts. Right above the television. Used dildos and butt plugs were lined up on the tray table by the couch. Pornographic books and magazines were stacked in tottering piles.

"Home sweet home," a dark hand smacked the reporter's ass hard...and then slid in between her legs from behind, to feel the reporter's finger buried there.

"Now, I and I gotsta decide...what ta do wit ya."