Hit the Dance Floor

"C'mon," Maria said, flicking her hair back. "Sal, cover for me okay?"

The other bartender, a slim young, androgynous thing with too much makeup and not enough style, nodded their head as Maria lifted up the bar and walked through. Lois took her slim, warm hand, letting Maria guide her onto the dance floor.

The buzz from the cocktails gave Lois a loose, flighty feeling. She let herself get lost in the act as Maria seemed to know just where to go, the crowd parting just enough for them to squeeze in. Lois' eyes were on Maria's ass, watching the glutes move through her tight skirt. Felt the stares as people around them were checking her out too, and put a little bounce in her step. Then the strobes came up, the DJ wailed something into the speakers, and the club began to move to a new beat.

Maria let her hand go, threw her arms up, breasts shaking through the mesh shirt. The women in the cages, as if on cue, let their bikini-tops drop, nipples jutting proudly as the multicolored lights flashed over them. Lois began a slow, stuttering pelvic grind, knees bent, hips thrusting in time to the music. Eyes half-closed she scanned the crowd without looking like she was, the singing through her veins.

Most of the people, the reporter realized, were just party-goers here for a good time. They crowded the dance floor, eager young flesh, looking for fun. The crowd hanging out around the walls would be a bit quieter, a bit rougher. Too timid or too focused to dance. That's where you'd find the -dealers and users looking to score, the pimps and whores, the date rapists and violent drunks... except not here, she realized.

For a second, Lois almost felt sober, and her dance stuttered, but she recovered quickly and worked it in, head nods and booty bounces, hands on her knees. There were lots of single guys, no-hopers looking to get laid, but nobody conspiciously seedy or open for business. Only over-muscled types, well-muscled men and women who wore shades and enough bulky clothing to conceal a weapon—and from their vantage points, they controlled the room. Leaned casually near every exit and entrance. Lois pegged them as security—and very good; ex-military, if she was to judge.

The lights shifted again, the pulse quickened, and with a flourish the air was filled with panties, wafting gently through the strobe lights into the crowd. The dancers were now sliding around their cages only in their high heels, and on the floor people surged around the bases for the free show.

Without warning, Lois felt a warm, strong arm around her waist. Followed the bare, muscular arm up to the mesh top, the erect nipples with their little barbels poking through the shirt. She shouted something, but Lois couldn't hear—but she could feel the hand slide down to cup the left cheek of her ass and give it a squeeze.

On impulse, Lois shifted her hips, and ground her booty into the barmaid's crotch. Her pulse raced, fight-flight-or-fuck engaged, face flushed and tingled where a blush crept across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. The weird crowd had her spooked; this wasn't a normal club for sure. With determination she worked her ass up and down against the responsive barmaid, whose hipped crashed into Lois in time the music, hotdogging in style. Lois scanned for exit routes, a shiver of fear and excitement cutting through the alcoholic haze—when she felt the hard slap of the bartender's hand on her ass.

, and unheard, Lois let out a soft moan.

Downstairs, Luthor watched her heart rate and internal body temperature tick up. The virus sped through her system faster. In the facsimile of her brain and crotch, sparks exploded—signal for bursts of hormones and endorphins into her system.

"Oh, Miss Lane." He said aloud to himself. "Shouldn't you be home in bed? You have a fever."