Catfight

As Maria panted and basked in the afterglow. Lois sensed the presence behind her.

"Well, well, Lane." A familiar voice said. "I didn't peg you for a muff-diver. Then again—ow!"

Lois' heel had shot out and caught whoever was behind her in the shin, not enough to make them tumble, but they stepped back—and Lois turned and stood, fists balled in front of her. She caught a quick glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror—the reporter looked a sight, with no pants and Maria's ejaculation all over her chin—but she was feeling pretty steady on her feet, all things considered.

The reporter glanced back at her opponent. "Mercy," she said. Lex Luthor's bodyguard and girl friday. The slim brunette was in her customary charcoal-grey chauffeur's livery, a button-down full-sleeve coat that ended in a microskirt over a pair of hose. "Why am I not surprised?"

Mercy growled in response.

Lois slid forward with a swift left jab, Mercy backpedaled, winced a little as she put her weight on the leg the reporter had kicked, and then bumped into the sink. The reporter followed through with a body shot, low to Mercy's left side. Felt nails crack as she dug her fist against the hard muscle there.

Mercy's response was like lightning, an open-palm straight to Lois' chin. The reporter fell back, tasted blood where she had bit her own lip, but she kept her feet.

"Doesn't have to be like this, Lane." Mercy said, as she slid into a martial art stance, hips low, legs shoulder-width apart, arms up but not balled into fists. "Mr. Luthor would like you in one piece."

"Good to know," Lois said. Her right came straight at the brunette's head, but when it was going to connect the bodyguard wasn't there anymore. Strong hands gripped her arm and shoulder through her jacket, as Mercy went for a joint lock.

Lois lunged forward, then brought her leg up in a mule kick straight at Mercy's crotch. Mercy's eyes bulged in their sockets, veins popping out at the temples. The look on the brunette's face as she was on the receiving end of the cunt-punt burned itself into the reporter's memory, and she knew the memory of that image would keep her warm for many nights to come.

But she didn't let go.

Mercy twisted in a hip-throw—Lois was amazed the woman could even move—and without much ceremony the reporter was flipped onto her back, hard enough to knock the wind out of her.

"Please, Miss Graves...don't hurt her!" Maria sobbed out from the stall.

Graves turned to look at the barmaid, anger and pain on her face. "Don't hurt her? I should rip the bitch's tits off!"

She didn't, though. What she did do was draw a slim black ceramic switchblade from her pocket. It flicked open mechanically.

"And I will, Lane. You move one muscle I don't tell you to, and I'll cut off any part of you that Luthor doesn't need."

The bodyguard didn't bother waiting for a response. With practiced ease, she began slicing through what was left of Lois' clothes. The jacket gave way like paper; the shirt and bra might as well not even have been there.

Not without a wince and some indignity, Mercy stood up—and dragged Lois to her feet. The bodyguard put the reporter in an arm-bar, and held the slim black blade to her throat. "No ideas, Lane." Then called out to the stall. "Maria. Get your ass out here and open the door. Now."

The barmaid rushed to a maintenance door in the bathroom—which, half-blinded and weakened by the kryptonite as she was, Lois noticed was newer and sturdier than the rest of the fixtures, and had a biometric keypad. The barmaid laid her palm flat against the electronic rectangle next to the door, and the bolts unlocked with a heavy thunk.

Naked, Lois gritted her teeth as she was frogmarched froward.

They moved along a back corridor; doors led off to offices, storage closets, a breakroom. Employees stared at the two nude women, and Lois blushed a little at being marched naked through this semi-public space...she debated making a move, but there was no time and nowhere to go. Best to bide and be ready for the moment, whenever it presented itself.

A large man with a bald head, black glasses, and an earpiece stood in front of a door at the end of it, a heavy pistol visible in a shoulder holster—the lack of concealment alone let Lois know they were close to something big.

"Open it, Terry." Mercy said, and the big man moved quickly to do so.

The blade lifted from Lois' throat. Her arm was released. A foot found it's way to her backside and kicked her roughly through the doorway.

It was a cube of shiny white tile, with industrial-looking vertical lamps on every wall and the ceiling, along with small dark flatscreens. There was a little platform in the center. Then the door clicked shut...and there was the thump of a bolt as it locked. Lois shivered.

The screens flickered into life. Lex Luthor stared out from all around the reporter. "I'm sure you have questions," he began. "I have questions too. You will answer them, one way or another."

The lamps in the room began to brighten, and Lois felt...nothing. Barely a warmth, even as it got harder and harder to see. She felt better, in fact, than she had since she had come into the club. The light seemed to burn away the fever, the dizziness, the alcoholic haze...