Maria's Boudoir

Maria looked at the mess in the stall, then seemed to brighten up. "Hey, I got an idea! Wait right here."

The barmaid returned in a minute with white towel tucked under her arm, and a plastic bag. She loaded the enema gear into the bucket, and then placed Lois' discarded clothes into the bag.

"C'mon," she said, and helped Lois stand. Maria led Lois through a maintenance door in the bathroom—which, drunk as she was, she noticed was newer and sturdier than the rest of the fixtures, and had a biometic keypad. The barmaid laid her palm flat against the electronic rectangle next to the door, and the bolts unlocked with a heavy thunk.

The back of the club was full of storage closets, a dressing room where the dancers in the cages could change, showers, a break area, and the usual offices you might expect—but Maria guided Lois to a particular closet which looked older than the rest, paneled in wood, and barely big enough to hold a couple of brooms. Maria ducked into it sideways, and motioned for Lois to get in as well. The reporter slid in—tit to tit with the slightly taller barmaid, who closed the door.

The closet was dark, and with the both of them in there, it began to get hot. Lois could feel the cold barbells of Maria's piercings on top of her own breasts. A heavy hand fell on the reporter's right hip...and then there was a long slow creek, and a wash of warm, scented air. Lois stared to her left, where she could just make out the outlines of a stair descending into darkness.

"There used to be a speakeasy and a brothel down here, in the 20s and 30s." Maria whispered. "It isn't on any of the plans. I don't think the Big Man knows anything about it."

Lois gulped, and felt Maria move. The reporter switched on her phone, the pale light illuminated a steep descent down wooden stairs to a brick-lined hallway. She was Maria's ass bounce in her skirt. Hate to see you leave, love to see you go...she joked to herself, then followed the woman down, through another door...

...into a small apartment. Lois felt as if she was stepping onto the set of The Great Gatsby. An ancient four-poster took up most of the bedroom, sandwiched between old marble-topped tables and small barrister's bookcases; the plush carpet was faded; the gilded patterns on the wallpaper were darkened with age, and here and there she could see where Maria had not managed to reach, dust and spiderwebs lay thick. But there was a small, exquisitely fashioned bar opposite the bed, and on the ceiling was a mural—Hokusai's The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife, painted huge above the bed.

Maria followed Lois' eyes up to the naked Japanese diver, and the strange googly-eyed octopus that was eating her out...and smiled. The woman rested a hand on Lois' left hip.

"It's nice to get out from under for a while, right? Just...hide away from the world. No one watching. No one who has to...know." Maria leaned for the kiss. It was slow and sweet, the feel of her warm lips against Lois' own, with just a touch of her tongue, softly probing. When they broke it, Lois found that she'd had her eyes closed.

"I recognized you, in the club. I know who you are." Maria said, as she raised her hand up to rest it on Lois' breast. "I think that's why the boss wants you. But here, you don't have to be anybody. We can just..." and this time Lois kissed Maria, hard. She could feel the churning as the goo in her guts spread, heat building on heat. The lights seemed to be so much brighter now.

Lois knew she should ask questions. Find out who the big man was. Why he wanted her. What had happened to the missing women. But she felt a certain...relief. There was no sense of being watched here. No need to maintain the illusion that she was Joanne, the club-goer. Or Lois Lane, the prim and proper star of the Daily Planet. There was no-one here except Maria...who had already shown her willingness. Just for once, it might be nice to...let go.

"What did you have in mind?" the reporter asked.