Cum

Downstairs

Initial viral load complete. Luthor watched the bright swarm flood through Lois' system, the bright lines of heat focused on her genital areas. Subject is ready for phase two.

"Good," Luthor said. He leaned over to the microphone. "Maria. Bring her to the White Room. I will take it from there."

In the Dressing Room

Lois let out a deep series of groans, thighs bunched around Maria's head, her fingers tangled in the purple-and-pink hair as she came. Unbidden, a flood of fluids splattered over the barmaid, whose nose was buried in her black bush, tongue crammed as deep as it would go. The afterglow of the orgasm left Lois a little drained; her thighs ached as she pried them off Maria's ears, and the reporter panted a little.

"Hey baby," Maria said. She smiled, chin sticky and dripping with Lois' ejaculation. "Didn't know you were a squirter."

Lois brought a hand up to her mouth, giggled a little. "I do feel better," the reporter said. "Thank you."

"Oh hey," Maria's eyes went wide. "Hey. I recognize you!"

Lois started, eyes gone wide for a minute. "Yeah, you're Lane, right? Lois Lane? Daily Planet's star reporter!" Maria's voice crept up a notch in pitch, to end with a squee. "I just ate Lois Lane's pussy!"

"Y-yeah," Lois said, uncomfortably aware she was still bottomless in a dressing room after a sexual encounter with a basic stranger. She leaned over, caught Maria's face in her hand. "Hey, Maria, look. I'm going to square with you. I didn't just come here to go clubbing. Four women have gone missing in this club in as many weeks. I came here to find them. Do you know where they are, Maria?"

The barmaid stared into her eyes, then looked away. "I...I think so. It's not easy to explain. But I can show you."

Maria wiped her face with the towel. Then looked over at Lois. The reporter could read the calculation in her furrowed brow, the tenseness in her shoulders. The barmaid was afraid of something. "Take off your top," she said.

Lois blinked. "What?"

"The place I need to take you—the entrance to it is like a tanning room, where the dancers go to top up. We'll wrap you in a towel, I'll tell them you a new girl and I'm getting you set up."

Hesitantly, Lois shucked her shirt, then wrapped her arms around her back. The bra unclasped and came away—a black satin number, just enough support to give Lois some cleavage. Her breasts hung free on her chest, healthy handfuls with pointed nips that hung proudly, just that touch of sag to give them fullness. Maria didn't turn away, watched Lois impassively. She reached down to help Lois to her feet, the reporter still favoring her wounded ankle, and Maria handed her a terrycloth towel—big enough to cover her nipples or her bush, but not both; Lois chose to leave her bottom exposed.

"What about my phone?" Lois asked. "I need the camera."

Maria bit her lip. Then rummaged around the dressing table and came back with a small bottle of lube. Lois gulped, slightly, then took it. The reporter lathered the phone up, then lifted her injured leg, and pressed the slim, rounded oblong against her slit. Wet as she was, and with the lube, it wasn't too difficult to slide it inside, although the width and shape was fairly uncomfortable.

"Hey, can I get your number?" Maria joked, but Lois just shot her fangirl a dirty look.

Maria led Lois along a back corridor; doors led off to offices, storage closets, a breakroom. 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.

The barmaid spun the line just as she said—new girl, needs a tan. Lois cursed, wished for once she wasn't so pale as the chunk of beef in front of them looked her up and down—didn't even focus on the bits that were exposed.

"Lose the towel," he rumbled.

"C'mon, Terry..." Maria said, but Lois was ahead of her. With a deft move, she unwrapped the towel, held it out over her head like a cape. She did a pirouette on her good foot, let him see she didn't have anywhere to hide anything...and worried, for a moment, that he would do a cavity search—but the goon swiftly lost interest, and waved them through.

The door clinched shut behind them.

"Don't take it personally," Maria whispered. "I think Terry's gay."

The White Room 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.

"No tanlines, see?" Maria said. "You stand in the center and raise your arms. Watch a movie on the screens. You can move a bit—the light's everywhere. Here," she handed Lois a pair of dark eye-cups.

A fist thumped on the door.

"Shit," the barmaid said. "Look, just stand on the pedestal, act natural. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Maria!" A female voice called, deep but naggingly familiar to Lois. Yet she couldn't blow this opportunity to find out what was really going on, and assumed her position on the pedestal.

Then the door clicked shut...and there was the thump of a bolt as it locked, and the screens flicked on to life.