Lois Gets Catcalled

A dark-skinned, big-breasted Lois Lane sashayed through the club. She couldn't keep her hips from rolling, swaying, heels clicking on the floor. Men noticed. Eyes followed her, noted the pierced nipples that pressed against her thin white t-shirt. The now black reporter looked like walking sex...and some of the men at the tables called out to her.

First it was low whistles, barely audible above the music. Then there were words that cut through the noise of the crowd.

"...hey hot mama..."

"...Yo bitch!"

"...break me off a piece of that."

"...how much you charge sugar?"

Lois Lane studiously ignored the comments. She had heard those kinds of sentiments before...although never this many. Maybe that was what made her pick up her steps, letting her booty shift, her tits jiggle. Maybe a part of her actually enjoyed the attention, temporary as it was going to be.

I'm going to fix this, Lois thought. Go downstairs, grab the book, cast a spell. Call Zatanna if I have to.

Except that someone wasn't content with just catcalling. As Lois was walking past a table where men were dressed in suits, gold at their wrists, and in chains at their neck, dark of eye and dark of skin, a hand shot out and closed on her wrist.

Lois looked down...into the most intense stare she had ever seen.

"My beauty," he said, voice thick with what might have been an Arabic accent. "Come, sit with us for a while..."

The reporter swallowed. He didn't look like the type that liked to be told "no"...and he wasn't alone.