Bleach It All, Just To Be Safe

Lois Lane decided not to take any chances. Backing out of the bathroom, she turned to the laundry nook where she kept the gallon of bleach. Setting the Penetrator by the door just in case she needed it the reporter took a deep breath...and then began to pour it over everything.

Grey piles seemed to dissolve as the pale liquid touched them, and Lois Lane's eyes began to sting. She remembered dimly that you weren't supposed to mix bleach and acids or bases, that it could create chloride gas...but she held her breath and poured the bleach over every pile of jizz and half-crushed sperm, watching the little grey bodies squirm and go still, then start to dissolve.

She finished the gallon jug and then filled it up from the sink, pouring the diluted bleach all over the floor and the tub, just to be safe. By that point her lungs were burning and her eyes felt ready to burst. The reporter dropped the jug in the bathtub and half-ran to the balcony, throwing it open and gasping in the fresh air, not caring what neighbors might see her naked.

Out in the cold night air, away from her now toxic apartment, pussy aching, Lois Lane focused on one thing: someone had fucked with her. Her mind turned back to the club, to the shrine beneath it...and a plan crystallized in her mind.

Taking a deep breath, Lois dived back into her apartment, picking up clothes. She got dressed back on the balcony, simmering anger made her past caring as to whom might see her. Instead of the jacket she had worn earlier this evening she grabbed a trench coat, long enough to conceal the Penetrator.

Lois Lane was pissed, she was hurt, and it was time to fuck somebody up.

The anger stayed with her during the cab ride back to the club. The reporter slipped down an alley, the Penetrator hard against her hip as she found the fire door in the back ajar, and passed unnoticed back into the club. Eyes wide for security, but moving as thought she was meant to be there, she made a bee-line for the stairs, heels clicking down the hard steps, one hand on the rail, the other on her weapon.

To stand once more before the shrine. It's candles and bottles of obscene liquids, offerings of condoms and cash, **** and sex toys. The squat, ugly, broad-bellied idol in the center of it all.

Lois drew the Penetrator. She hugged the grip in both hands, just like they taught her with softball as a young girl. And she began to smash.

Bottled cracked and spills, candles broke, threads tore and bowls clattered and split. Lois Lane was methodical in her destruction, the bat sweeping whole shelves to shatter against the wall, feet kicking at the bits and pieces on the floor, leaving as little intact as possible. **** spilled and scattered uselessly into the floor, bottles leaked puddles of grey-white jizz in which burning candles sputtered, and in a very few minutes of focused destruction, Lois was panting.

The only thing left intact was the idol itself. Lois raised the Penetrator above her head with both hands.