Count The Money

Toweling off, both of her holes still sensitive and sore, Lois knew that what she should do was spend the rest of the night laying down with an ice pack between her legs...but her mind kept going back to the sink, where the bottle she had smuggled out of the club lay...and the money.

Fishing around in the drawer beneath the sink, Lois came up with a tube of lubricant with aloe vera in it. A gift from a bachelorette party, sadly never used...but now was the perfect time. Squirting some of the clear gel onto her fingers, she raised her leg and gently massaged the soothing goop into her sore pussy lips, and around the rim of her asshole. Relief seemed almost immediate, as Lois washed her hands...and then went to count the money.

The crumpled bills lay next to the bottle, and Lois smoothed them out on the counter. Two fifties and a twenty. Someone had scrawled an address on the twenty in blue ballpoint.

My first earnings. A weird flutter went through Lois' stomach. It reminded her of her first part-time job as a kid. Not quite pride, but... He tipped me. I only charged him a hundred. And I didn't even count it! Bad business. Her fingertips caressed the greenbacks, remembering how he had shoved them into her open palm. If I did it again, I'd have enough for a nice purse.

The reporter shook her head, trying to clear the though, guilty that she didn't feel more guilty at having had that. It happened. But it was only once. I had to.

There was something familiar about the address, though. Taking the ball over to the kitchen table, she fired up her laptop and typed it in. Google gave her the directions and a street view...and Lois raised an eyebrow. It was the same building as the club she had just come from...except around the back, a separate office attached to it.

Madame Blaze's Palm Readers.

Lois took a breath. Palmistry parlours were often covers for brothels. She stared down at the twenty. This wasn't a tip...it was an invitation. And maybe...a lead.

A brothel would be a great place for sex trafficking. It could explain the missing women. I have to check it out. Lois, sitting naked in her kitchen, looked at her dirty club wear on the floor. But how? Can't get in as a club girl or as Lois Lane, star reporter of the Daily Planet... The reporter rose and headed over to the drawer where she kept her fake IDs. Need to go as somebody else...