Flee

Sweat broke out on Lois' forehead.

"I'm...going to go look around." The reporter said, trying her best to keep her eyes anywhere except on Rat's face, and walked down the corridor, away from the shrine, away from the leaking dick...

There had been times, in the middle of her cycle, when Lois had been sort of hyper-aware of sexuality. She had thought of it as her secret superpower. All the little clues to how aroused people were, the bulges, the stances, the shifting from one foot to another, staying seated to hide an erection...she could see right through them. And they, she could tell, were easily aroused by her. Pheromones or something, or maybe she wore a shirt that revealed a little too much cleavage, but she could sense that attention and part of her loved it, yearned for it...

Lois had called it her Inner Bimbo. Now, though, as she wandered down the dark corridor, feeling the unfamiliar tightness of her pants that spoke of slight bloating, her hypersensitivity to the smell of Rat's semen...she knew it was something else. The Inner Bimbo didn't just want attention, or to get fucked. She wanted to get knocked up. And Lois was afraid...really afraid...that this time she might just do it.

There had been some close calls before. Lois didn't want to think about it, but the Inner Bimbo replayed the memories in her mind's eye, like her own personal porno theater. One-night stands, bareback on a risky day. With a condom, but after he was gone she'd empty it out into her fresh-fucked cunt, thinking about what might have been. Sabotaging one condom in a pack, and letting him pick it out so that he could unleash inside of her, and neither of them would know if this was the one with the pinhole, his cream spurting straight through the receptacle and into her unprotected snatch. Putting off the morning after pill until the next day...or the next...

She'd never "caught." Lois had been careful about that. It was one thing to play the game with herself, to pretend, the delicious certainty of not knowing, that she might already be pregnant, a knocked up slut. Once she'd let a guy cum in her twice, then waited three days and brought a pregnancy test. Stupidity itself; even if her fertilized egg had implanted that quickly, she wouldn't know it. Yet the ritual itself had left her shivering on the toilet, rubbing herself off as she waited to see if the line on the stick turned blue.

It hadn't. And that had been the closest she'd ever come, yet. Lucky Lois, spinning the roulette wheel and yet...right now...she felt that even a drop would do it. She could almost smell it herself. So she mustered up all her willpower, and walked away from the cock and balls which Rat was a living life support system from. At least until she calmed down. Focus on something else.

The corridor turned, and she followed it into some sort of underground parking garage. To her left she saw what looked like a freight elevator—probably going to the club upstairs. To her right...

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.