Take Me To The Black Door

The stairs had seen better decades. They were dark, unlit, and smelled—a familiar antispectic smell underneath it all—but she couldn't quite place it. Rat shivered as he guided Lois in and down.

Lois pulled out her phone to light their way, and in the pale glow could see the the goth sweat, and from more than just the rising heat. Her eyes were drawn once again to those stains on his pants where she'd wiped her hand after his ejaculation. The goth looked younger now, and scared. His lips worked, almost as if in a prayer, and Lois felt drawn to them...

Rat did not shrink back as Lois' right hand grabbed the back of his neck.

"What are you scared of, Rat?" she asked.

"Stories," he said. "Sometimes, whatever they do, it doesn't work right. Or people snoop around, ask questions. Never see those people again."

"But we're not asking questions, are we Rat?" she said. "We're a couple looking for a little adventure, right?" Lois draped her arm around Rat's neck.

They hit the bottom of the stairs, and a warm, wet waft of air slammed Lois in the face. It was hot as a grow-house in the basement, and she immediately started to perspire. The air, too was rank with a kind of animal odor—a gym or bathhouse smell, human bodies. The thump of the music upstairs barely penetrated.

Light from the screen reflected on a swollen stone belly, rudely etched with a spiral, played on pendulous breasts, a gross, deformed lump of a head, hips that flared wider than the shoulders. The squat idol was of light green stone, the belly about the size and shape of a basketball. Lois snapped a picture, then shifted the phone. The idol rested on a roughly rectangular stone platform; behind it, the bare concrete wall had been painted with a black mural, like the one that surrounded the door. Phallic tentacles disappearing into biomechanical mouths, cunts. There was a sub-theme of bulbous growths, like bunches of grapes...yet each one, Lois saw, was a shadowy spectre of a fetus, like an ultrasound caught in spraypaint, bunches of them all together.

At the foot of the idol, and all around it were...offerings. Lois saw burnt out black candles, scattered wads of money in tight cash bands, the dried leaves of dead flowers, strings of used condoms, hung up, their dead weight cargo listless yet symbolically potent, small copper bowls of liquid, smaller stone fetishes of phalluses and vulvas, bottles of rum and vodka, and a gray scatter of bones...

Rat hesitated. "We gotta leave an offering. They're watching." he said.

"Too bad you didn't tell me sooner," she said. "Think you can get it up again?"

The goth's answer was cut off as Lois unzipped his fly. His limp dick slid out. From her purse, the reporter fetched a condom, tore it open with her teeth. She settled down on her knees.

"Hold this," she said, and handed Rat the phone.

With both hands, Lois rolled the condom over the man's half-stiff dick. She grabbed it in her hand, felt the blood-warm length of hardening flesh in its slick latex wrapper, let it grow. Her thumb played over the hard metal piercing at the head of his dick, trapped behind the latex. She began to stroke it. When she felt the condom start to run, she reached in and pulled out his shaven balls, used her left hand to hold it down around the base of his penis, fingers cupped around his testicles.

She looked up at Rat, who had the camera on her. His eyes went back and forth between her and the phone, and the thought crossed her mind, briefly, that he might be recording this—but he had also said others were watching. She slipped her mouth around the head of his cock. It was warm, and she didn't care for the taste of latex, but she swirled her tongue around the intruding head, licked at the underside of the glans, felt the cold nub of the cock ring on her tongue. Her left forefinger circled the soft underskin of his taint—and then she pressed hard and her cheeks bent in at a sudden suction.

Rat had already cum only a few minutes earlier. Maybe he was backed up. Maybe he was a fast shot. What Lois knew, with some satisfaction, is that the reservoir tip of the condom in her mouth filled up fast, a hot, soft mass that sat on top of her tongue. The goth grunted, softly, twice—and then he was done. Lois took the dick out of her mouth and carefully rolled the condom off, so as not to spill it. She tied a knot, and placed the offering in one of the bowls at the feet of the idol.

The goth returned her phone, and zipped his pants. In a weak-legged daze, he guided Lois around the corner.

Lois gazed around at was once an underground parking garage: bare concrete walls and floors, painted concrete columns, drains set in the floor. Most of the fluorescents were dead or flickered fitfully, leaving most of the place in shadow. Every surface had been tagged, as if generations of graffiti artists had come to ply their trade...provided that their trade consisted entirely of crude erotic works, interspersed with what looked like runes or symbols, picked out in black and white against the red and pink of cartoon vulvas and penises. The reporter in Lois picked out lines of cuneiform, Egyptian hieroglyphics, and more obscure alphabets.

The brightest lights were on a black door set into the wall opposite the elevator—probably originally the offices for this part of the building. The graffiti that surrounded the door took on an H.R. Giger-esque quality. Cocks and cunts seemed to flow into each other with a machine precision, hints of exoskeleton ribbing here and there. She stepped forward, searched the tags for a signature.

Lois steeled herself in the dark. Sweat dripped from her temples, and already had begun to pool at breast and armpit, crotch and waist. Her shirt and panties were already soaked as she and Rat stood before the Black Door...and without knocking, it opened to admit them.