To The Bathroom

The buzz from the cocktails gave Lois a loose, flighty feeling. Then her stomach lurched, and the feel of bile rising. She stopped, raised a hand to her lips to hold back what she knew was about to come, then bolted through the crowd to the bathroom. The door slammed open to the reporter's charge, and Lois pistoned through as fast as she could, bent almost double.

The first stall was empty, which Lois took for a blessing, and relatively clean, for which she gave thanks as she dropped to her knees before the bowl and spewed. Her hair hung loose around her head. Throat and stomach convulsed, emptied into the clean white porcelain. The sushi for lunch. The 5-hour energy in the afternoon. It came on and on, until Lois thought she was going to cry.

Finally, with a few aching dry heaves, it ended. Lois gasped, black rivers of mascara ran down her cheeks. She could still taste the bile. As she reached a shaky hand up to flush the filth away, the reporter became aware of someone in the stall next to her. Someones, it was quickly apparent, from the creak of the toilet seat, the shuffle of feet beneath the ledge of the stall wall, and the soft moans.

The stall was clean, but graffiti'd. The reporter in her made note of the names, phone numbers, dates. Correlated them with what she knew of the missing girls. A few possible hits, but she'd have to double check for certain. Lois felt feverish, her skin too hot, eyes bright. The room still spun slightly, and her drunk buzz was on in full ****. The moans in the other stall got her interest. There was a hole drilled in the wall of the stall, jagged edges wrapped in black tape, at a little below eye level when Lois was on her knees.

She hesitated only a moment, then brought her eye down level with the hole. The angle didn't give much room for detail, being about at crotch level, but Lois tried to gain the best angle she could, as silently as possible. There was a black skirt she knew well—she'd watched Maria strut around in it all night—and the other girl wore a red vinyl miniskirt, long chocolate brown legs ending in matching red pumps. They were locked in an embrace, hands beneath each other's clothes, in that intimate dance of exploration. What caught Lois attention was a tattoo on the woman's left leg—a coiling dragon. Identical to a tattoo one of the missing women had.

Even through the drunken haze, Lois tried to focus. This was a lead. Then the red skirt stepped back, broke the embrace. Reached down to pull her red satin panties down those warm cocoa-colored legs, stepping out of them deftly. Maria was on the toilet, her own hands tucked into the waistband of her skirt. Lois could see the gentle, insistent motions as the barmaid frigged herself underneath her panties.

Long-fingered hands with red nails gripped the edge of the red skirt and pulled them up...letting a long, black dick with a bulbous head pop into view. The drunk reporter gasped, the audible yelp unnaturally loud in her ears. Warm brown hands stroked the tumescent cock, ran up the big ropey vein to to circle the slightly tapered head and back again.

"Looks like we have an audience." The voice of the black woman was raised loud enough to be heard clearly on the other side of the stall wall. She turned, and Lois stared full on at the brown head. The slit even with her eye and already dribbled clear liquid. It was only a few inches away, beyond the wall, Lois realized. The oddly familiar scent suddenly struck her, and for a moment the drunk reporter almost leaned forward to stick her tongue through that hole, to catch the salty drip on her tongue.

Maria had ceased her motion, and the cock suddenly turned away; Lois caught a glimpse the slim black flank and slight hang of the ass beneath the edge of the bunched red skirt. The voice suddenly said, in a different tone, "I didn't tell you to stop."—and Maria began again, harder this time.

The cock returned, pointed back at Lois. "Now then. What shall we do with you?"