End: Not Enough To Forget Tonight's Indignities

At university, they had called it minesweeping. At the end of parties, the ones who just wanted to get shit-faced would move from table to table, ti finish the dregs of mostly-empty plastic cups. Beer, wine, tequila—sweet, sour, swimming with spit—it was not an activity for the faint of heart or the rational-minded. A sure-fire route to mono and blackout.

Maybe that was part of the reason why Lois Lane, under the influence of Poison Ivy, went at it with such utter single-mindedness.

Not just to cleanse the taste from her throat. But to try and wipe the night from her mind. To seek solace in an alcoholic oblivion which would leave her night out as a single blank space in her brain, like the hole left by a lost tooth. As Lois washed sperm down with stale beer, she heard the jeers and laughter of the crowd. From table to table she went, and she grabbed at any unattended cup. Grimaced at sickly-sweet cocktails, weak beer, bitter IPAs like horsepiss and hops...

Yet it was often only a sip at a time. Not even a mouthful. The clubgoers jeered at her as they drank. Fratbros rubbed the edges of their cocks along the rim, so she'd have to taste their shitty beer through a rime of smegma. Lois Lane watched as one woman hyked up her skirt, pulled her panties to the side, and pissed into a shotglass until it was brimming...then tossed a shot of tequila on top and **** it into the reporter's unresisting hands, so that it spilled onto the embarrassed reporter's shirt.

Lois drank it, too. The body-warm, steaming stein rose to her lips, and the tiny hit of ethanol from the tequila that floated on top did nothing to offset the flavor of the ammonia-laced liquid gold that cut through her throat.

She had already had too much to drink. The reporter's stomach recoiled and revolted. Yet Ivy's control was such that Lois couldn't pull her lips away. Like a good soldier-ant, she focused on her breathing, and gulped down the booze-laced piss slowly but surely. Even though her stomach seemed to bloat and revolt. Even though the flavor made her want to wretch. She hated herself for her own willpower and stamina, the steadiness of her hands as she raised the bottom of the stein to the ceiling and drained the last drop.

Then let it fall to the floor with a crash as she let out an enormous burp that sent the laughing clubgoers in front of her fleeing.

The reporter wobbled, unsteady on her feet. Not so much from the ****, now diluted in her system by so much piss, but by the sheer amount of liquid inside of her. She staggered, instead, in the general direction of the restroom. There were tables on the way. Drinks on the tables. Lois stopped at each one and cleared a swallow of wine, a trace of jagermeister and creme de menthe, a nearly empty-bottle of hard lemonade.

He stood at the final table. Fly open, cock out. His girlfriend stroked his cock and held the plastic cup, still half-full of pale lager. Her eyes followed the reporter as she made her way forward. Lois Lane's eyes pled with them. The reporter's hand held her stomach as her gorge rose, stomach flipped, and bile burned the back of her throat. Lois leaned against a table to steady herself...and in that moment the cock spurted, a thick yellow-white load that pumped straight into the pale amber. His girlfriend grinned maliciously as she wiped the tip of her boyfriend's dick off on the rim.

Lois stood there and focused on her breathing, barely able to move as the bitch brought her the American Pie cocktail. Blonde hair, spray tan, implants Daddy paid for, athleisure wear. A Karen in the making.

As an extra "fuck you," she hocked and spat into the cup as she presented it to Lois Lane.

"Here you go, slut!" the Karen said. "Maybe you should pour it up your twat! A stupid bimbo like you might like to get pregnant from a real man!"

If Lois Lane wasn't under Ivy's control, she would not have taken the cup. Yet she was, and she did.

Yet she would have had to be much, much drunker than she was not to lay the Karen out.

The crack of the reporter's knuckles crushed ten thousand dollars of expensive rhinoplasty and orthodontics. The blonde landed on her ass as the blood flowed from her ruined noise, and spat teeth into her hands. Lois Lane's leg came up and caught the bitch in the chin. With the same move, she raised the spermy cocktail to her lips and poured it down her throat. There wasn't even any need to swallow; she just opened her throat and let it slide down.

Then she crushed the cup in her hand and dropped it on the sobbing bitch on the floor.

No one else got in the reporter's way as she walked, slow and glassy-eyed, into the women's bathroom.

One stall was cleaner than the others. That was where Lois Lane allowed herself to get lavishly, exultantly sick. First one end, and then the other. None of it tasted any better coming up than it did coming out...and as soon as she was through vomiting, her bladder and guts demanded attention. As the reporter sat on the pot, she had time to regret every decision that had brought her there. A part of her worried that someone would come in, push a drink under the open door.

Yet no one did. Hours passed, and the reporter's rebellious guts slowly, tenuously emptied themselves. Until there was nothing else. Until Lois could make herself half-decent, stagger out of the stall to the sink, and lap water out of her hands like a dog. To swish and spit and gulp until her teeth felt less fuzzy and greasy, and her throat hurt less.

It was only then, when she felt vaguely human again, that Lois noticed the music had stopped.

She walked back into the club...and found it gone. Empty. No people left. The reporter blinked, checked her phone. It was 3AM. Everyone was gone. Even Poison Ivy had seemingly forgotten about the reporter. Lois Lane's cheeks burned at this final humiliation. She wasn't even worth the hassle to remember.

There were a few drinks left on the tables on her way out of the club. The reporter swiped and swallowed convulsively, unable to help herself. She hoped that soon, Ivy's order would wear off. If not...

...well, that's another story.