Follow Instructions

Around the corner, Sherri, card, Lois repeated to herself. Then just the small matter that I just agreed to be a bareback whore just to get into a club. Definitely not something I'm going to put into the article.

It would be the first time Lois had done something like this to get a story, although she didn't like to think about that. She'd cross that bridge when she came to it—feign cold feet, sudden illness, something.

Around the corner. Another door. A window standing there, looking tired and smoking a cigarette. Black, late 30s, close-cropped hair, a thigh-length latex dress that fit a little too tightly, boots that came up to her knees. Dark black tattoos on her face, her neck, down her arms and onto her hands. Lois knew prison tats when she saw them.

"Sherri?" Lois asked. "I'm Joanne."

She handed her the black card. "Terri said you had some work for me?"

The black woman blew smoke and looked Lois up and down. Like a horse.

"Yeah, okay." Sherri turned and opened the door. Lois walked through it, into what appeared to be a small locker room. Open showers to the right, no curtain. A heavy security door to the left. Not much else.

"Strip," Sherri said. "Put your shit in a locker."

Setting her jaw, Lois quickly began to disrobe. The first locker she tried was empty, she dumped in her jacket, casually made is if locking her smartphone when she was actually setting an emergency signal to go off if she didn't stop it in two hours, then her heels, her pants, shirt...bra and panties...

When Lois was done, feeling self-conscious about her nudity but not wanting to show it, she turned to see that Sherri had put on a face mask and gloves, and tossed Lois an envelope. The reporter quickly opened it and thumbed through. Hundred dollar bills. Ten of them. Lois tucked it into the jacket pocket and closed the locker.

Sherri was unsealing a bucket of white powder and a paintbrush.

"Stand there. Arms out, legs spread. Close your eyes. You don't want to get this shit in your eyes."

"What is it?" Lois asked, an unfamiliar chemical reek coming from the tub.

"Meth," the black woman said. "I'm gonna dust you with it. You're gonna to walk through that door. There's gonna be eight people there. You're gonna take care of them okay? You're the party favor."

Taking a deep breath, Lois nodded. So that's how it was.

"You throw a lot of these kind of parties?" Lois asked, as Sherri dipped the brush into the bucket and then began to paint the reporter's skin with the fine white powder. It itched, but Lois didn't want to think about that.

"Every week."

"Must be hard to find talent." Lois pressed. "Maybe you got a few regulars?"

Sherri was wiping the powder over the reporter's chest, dusting her breasts with the ****, the nipples hardening at the touch.

"Three or four. They 'bout played out though. Time for some new blood. No more talking. Close your mouth, don't lick your lips."

Round and round Sherri went, dusting Lois thoroughly, front and back. All the way to the nape of her neck, the insides of her thighs. The reporter's pussy tingled as the brush ran over it, and Lois knew that she would pop positive on the next **** test, if she took one. Closed her eyes as the brush went over her face, leaving a layer of powder on her lips and nose.

When Sherri was done, she opened the door. "Okay. Go on through. Try not to touch anything 'til they touch you."

Last chance, Lane, Lois told herself. Either I go through that door, or I try to run out of here butt-naked and covered in enough meth to qualify as a dealer.

She needed this story. Lois stepped forward.