Chapter 7 by Zeebop

What does the pair do next?

Tyrell Makes A Move

They were sitting close together in the booth—but Tyrell moved closer. Until their thighs were touching, and she could feel the heat of his body. Lois Lane felt like she should move...put some distance between them...because it was already warm in this club; she was sweating beneath her leather jacket.

Then Tyrell's hand clamped down on her knee. He leaned in closer to her.

"Those women," he whispered. "They never left the club."

All of a sudden, Lois didn't want to move. She leaned in, every journalistic instinct alert to what Tyrell had to say.

"They've got an operation, below the club," he said. "You heard of bum fights? They run bitch fights. Bareknuckle, no-holds-barred—the winner goes up for auction, punters bid to fuck her. The loser gets gang-**** in front of a crowd. Even if it's a lame fight, the aftershow gets 'em off, right? Real nasty business."

Lois could feel her heart beat faster. The **** was working on her, and she felt the buzz, the ease...she wanted to believe Tyrell. Wanted to know what he knew. All the details.

She didn't even care about the brown hand that slid up her thigh.

"Who are 'they,' Tyrell?" Lois whispered back. "Who is running the bitch fights?"

The Black man hesitated. Lois could see that he was feeling the heat too, his brown skin shiny with perspiration under the club lights. He leaned back a little, and as his arm shifted his hand slid all the way up between her thighs. Instinctively, Lois squeezed her legs together, to trap his fingers there...and he waited. Picked up his drink with his left hand and sipped it.

After a second, the half-drunk reporter caught the hint, and stopped squeezing her thighs. Then Tyrell answered her question.