On the Bathroom Floor

Lois came to slowly, to the sound and vibration of moving feet. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the sound didn't go away. There was cold, hard tile under her back, and the reporter shivered as she **** her eyes open, just a little.

The brunette was lying on the floor, naked. Her cheek pressed against the sticky tile, looking to her right. There was a pair of feet, in a pair of cheap black pumps. Somewhere, far ahead, there was the tinkle of water-on-water. In slow fascination, Lois watched the toes and calves tense as the woman got up off the toilet. Heard the toilet paper roll off the spindle, the gentle swipe of paper on pudenda. Then the flush.

The woman stepped out of the stall without a word to Lois.

Lois levered herself to a sitting position. There was dried blood and semen on her crotch and legs. Her clothes, what were left of them, had footprints on them. The reporter scowled as she peeled herself off the floor—literally peeled, the blood had formed a scab between her thighs and the tile.

She gathered her belongings and stumbled toward the sink. The face in the mirror was familiar, albeit vaguely. The makeup was smeared, bags under her eyes. A hickey on the side of her neck that Lois didn't remember getting. Tiny red marks in the familiar arches of love bits. Shallow scratches. Bruises in the shape of fingers. The fringe of pubic hair above her pussy was stiff with dry grey cum. There were bruises visible on her pudenda too, dark and livid.

Parts of her hurt. Part of her was just numb.

Not caring who came in, Lois started to clean up. Cold water and paper towels provided a kind of a sponge bath at the sink. She shivered as she wiped away the blood, delicately pressed a mass of paper towels over her raw labia. There was a deep, stinging sensation inside of her, a dull ache far up her canal. Lois pushed the thought aside.

It was when she was getting dressed that feeling started to penetrate again. Blaze had left her there. On the floor. In public. People had come in and done their business—it was a bathroom at a club after all—not paying any attention to the naked, passed-out woman on the floor. They could have done anything to her. Lois had no way to know.

Her shirt was ripped down the middle, but it was better than walking around in her black lace bra, so Lois put her arms through the arm holes and wore it like a vest. Amazingly, her jacket was still intact, and even more amazingly her phone and wallet were still in the zipped-up inner pocket. Panties were missing in action. The pants were more or less okay, minus the shoeprints and a couple small tears. She winced as she pulled them up, crotch hugging her bruised pussy tight.

The waist felt tight against her stomach, and Lois looked down at her midriff, bared by the ruined shirt. Literally contemplating her navel, and everything that lay behind it.

She check the time on the phone. 1 AM. The night wasn't over yet.