The Showers

Lois hobbled along, the pain in her ankle and the liquor she had consumed combined in a knot of nausea in her stomach. The vomit, when it came, was sudden and unexpected. Maria held her up as onlookers hooted and stared. With the bile seemed to go the last of the reporter's strength; she hung limp as Maria scooped her up in her arms.

Even through the fever haze, Lois was aware of Maria call out to Sal to clean up the puddle of puke. The barmaid herself carried Lois behind the bar, into the employees-only area, past the supplies of liquor and glassware to the space where the girls in the cages obviously changed when they came in—she noted a line of lockers, dressing tables—and then they were in a communal shower, all soft white tile and tall chrome cylinders from which nozzles and handles jutted.

Maria sat Lois down on a wooden bench that was bolted into the wall, the reporter almost as limp as a rag doll. It wasn't that she couldn't move, Lois decided, as she lifted her right arm to stare at her right hand. She just couldn't seem to care. Between the **** and the fever she was sure she was running, a deep lethargy had settled into her bones, as well as a dull ache in her muscles, reminiscent of last year's flue.

The barmaid disappeared after she had set Lois on the bench, and returned with a bucket, sponge, and body wash. Unselfconsciously, the red-and-purple haired woman stripped off her shirt, the chrome barbells through her nipples shined in the soft flourescents, dark against her soft pink nipples and large areolas. Lois flushed as she saw the barmaid unbutton and pull down her skirt, though she wasn't surprised to see the barmaid wore no panties. A soft purple landing strip led down to a shaved vulva, the cleft a solid line defined by the woman's thigh gap.

Lois felt herself excited at this economic, swift way that Maria disrobed. She didn't try to tease or tantalize, and the soft curves of the girl, and the hard muscle that were evident in thigh and bicep, were utterly natural. The lack of artifice held her attention, though the reporter knew she shouldn't stare.

"Baby," she said, as she looked Lois over. "You're a mess. We need to clean you up."

Lois looked down at herself. A line of grey-green vomit had soaked into her shirt, and all over her pants, a line of which ran down her left leg and into her shoe. Absently, Lois nodded.

The shoes came off, then the jacket. Lois brushed, tried to help, but it was Maria—strong, no-nonsense Maria—who helped her out of her clothes with all the calm professionalism of a nurse. Lois wondered if that was what Maria was...or would be...she knew almost nothing about the woman who peeled her puke-stained shirt and pants off. Lois sat there in bra and panties, shivered a little in the cold. Then Maria's hands slipped behind her, in an almost hug, and Lois breathed in her scent—sweat and stale beer, and an earthy odor that spoke of Maria needing a shower as much as Lois did.

The bra unclasped and came away—a black satin number, just enough support to give Lois some cleavage. Her breasts hung free on her chest, healthy handfuls with pointed nips that hung proudly, just that touch of sag to give them fullness. Maria smiled as she saw them, and Lois blushed more fiercely than she had before. Then the barmaid hooked her thumbs into Lois' panties, and dragged the drenched black satin down her legs, over her knees and...the reporter sat there, nude, her curly, carefully trimmed black bush a virtual jungle compared to Maria's sole strip.

A sudden terrible vulnerability came over her, and Lois shivered again, not just at the fever, ache, and cool air. If Maria tried to do anything, Lois didn't know if she could do anything to stop her...or worse, she admitted, if she would even want to.