Chug

Already tipsy, Lois grabbed the bottle marked 'XXX.' Action followed idea almost immediately as she twisted off the cap. The smell of it hit her, stronger than in the cocktails upstairs. An ammonia reek that reminded her slightly of stale piss. Yet her throat felt dry, and she didn't hesitate to bring the bottle to her lips—then throw her head back and chug it.

It slid down her gulp, cold slimy gulp after gulp. Thick as snot, to Lois it felt like salty jello-shots, clammy and gooey, that left a trail down her throat and made a cold pool in her stomach. Yet she wanted it, she needed it. The Daily Planet's star reporter tilted the bottle and swallowed and swallowed.

Her throat bobbed, and she had to breath through her nose. The action of drinking was mechanical, the taste not entirely pleasant, yet she couldn't have pried the bottle from her hand with a crowbar. Lois could feel something in the liquor—for she still assumed it was liquor, though it had nothing of **** to the taste—but Lois could feel herself get wet. Her panties were soaked, as if she had pissed herself, and as she ran a hand down between her legs, she felt the red disco pants between her crotch were soaked, and rivulets ran down her thigh.

Lois squatted against the wall, bottle still raised to her lips as she cupped her mons through her pants. Felt the heat radiate from her groin, the little clit struggle erect against the fabric.'

When the bottle was empty, she brought it down. Heaved in air as she rubbed herself through her pants. Her nipples felt hard enough to cut glass. The bottle of 'XXX' hadn't hit the spot—it had hit a spot Lois didn't know she had. She could feel the slimy, dense, cold liquid slosh in her stomach, so full...but she stood up, and staggered around the corner, away from the shrine.

Lois gazed around at was once an underground parking garage: bare concrete walls and floors, painted concrete columns, drains set in the floor. Most of the fluorescents were dead or flickered fitfully, leaving most of the place in shadow. Every surface had been tagged, as if generations of graffiti artists had come to ply their trade...provided that their trade consisted entirely of crude erotic works, interspersed with what looked like runes or symbols, picked out in black and white against the red and pink of cartoon vulvas and penises. The reporter in Lois picked out lines of cuneiform, Egyptian hieroglyphics, and more obscure alphabets.

The brightest lights were on a black door set into the wall opposite the elevator—probably originally the offices for this part of the building. The graffiti that surrounded the door took on an H.R. Giger-esque quality. Cocks and cunts seemed to flow into each other with a machine precision, hints of exoskeleton ribbing here and there. She stepped forward, searched the tags for a signature. Took out her cellphone—zero bars, no surprise—and snapped a few pictures.

Lois steeled herself in the dark. Sweat dripped from her temples, and already had begun to pool at breast and armpit, crotch and waist. Her shirt and panties were already soaked as she stood before the Black Door.