Lois Fellates The Faucet

The bathroom sink was one of those shallow, slim bowls over which curved a narrow, curved arm of stainless steel that served as a faucet. Body burning as with fever, heart thundering in her chest, Lois Lane felt the pang of panic...and, perhaps, inspiration. If she couldn't **** herself to gag, there might be another way to flush the poison from her system.

The reporter pressed her breasts down into the shallow bowl, opening her mouth wide. Panting heavily, she **** herself forward, lips peeled over her teeth to avoid chipping them...tasting the cold metal in her mouth, the scrape of the wet nozzle as it pressed against her tongue...and then she moved forward, her boobs pressed into the sink itself, ass raised and on her tip-toes as she slid as much of the faucet into her throat. Something that would have been impossible if her gag reflex was working.

With trembling hand, Lois turned the lever, and felt the cold rush of water down her esophagus.

Downstairs

"Ph and electrolyte balance within Lois Lane's stomach is shifting," one of the drones said, mindlessly.

Brainiac said nothing as he routed additional resources to his personal purview. The reporter's stratagem was crude, but effective: while the naninte payload was no mere toxin to be flushed out, the shifting chemical balance in her body could impact the speed of the nanite infection, giving the reporter's body more time to fight the invading nanotechnology.

However, it also represented a certain...opportunity.

"Access personal nanite storage," he said. "Interface with the building plumbing systems, and route to sink 3."

One of the drones moved from her console and grabbed a hose. Brainiac seated himself in his command chair, conserving energy as he opened the access port in his crotch. As the bare metal parted, the drone slid the wrist-thick tube into place and rotated the connector, locking it down...and a grey-white goo of Braniac's personal nanite reserve began to flow through the flexible tube, disappearing into the floor, racing along pipes, shunted toward where it needed to go.

In The Bathroom

The faucet sputtered. Lois Lane frowned. It felt so weird to have no gag reflex at all, the water simply flowing down her throat. She could already feel the cold mass of it in her chest, and her stomach, pressed against the rim of the sink, felt bloated. How much had she drunk already? A gallon? Two? A chill ran through her body, all the more odd a sensation because her eyes felt bright with fever, and perspiration beaded her forehead and neck, underarms and thighs. Lois could already tell that her white t-shirt was soaked through, and she wondered how much more of this she could take...

...and then she tasted it. Something different in the water. Salty, metallic, oddly familiar.