Before The Black Door

The first thing she knew was pain. A beating pulse against her chest. Heavy lungs heaving. A terrible pressure in her head. Her limbs didn't want to move, but a spasm shook her, and every movement hurt. Some animal instinct gripped heart and diaphragm, colon and cunt. A terrible explosion in slow motion, as every orifice gaped, clenched, released, and began again. Muscles worked against her conscious control, expelling everything inside of her, and taking in...air. Heavy, thick, sweet air. The taste and texture of it hit her mouth like a forgotten wine. Then the racking cough and vomiting would hit her again, driving everything out of her.

It went on for some time. With each retching expulsion, each deep breath, the pain in her head lessened, and Lois began to become more aware—of the drooling masses being **** out of her airways and stomach, the hard concrete floor, the blinding glare of the fluorescent lights overhead. The underground smells, dry and overpowered by the endless streams of jizz being blown out of her mouth and nostrils—and somewhere overhead, the dull, muted pulse of club music.

In time, the retching was reduced to a racking cough. Lois recognized the graffiti on the walls, the obscene bio-mechanical penises and vulvas, cock-like guns with fetus-bullets pointed at mechanical locks between spread legs with muscles of steel coil. She followed the line of spray paint to the dark rectangle of the Black Door.

Lois found the strength to push herself into a sitting position. She looked down, and saw she was still in her own clothes, though they were drenched and, where they had a chance to dry, stiffened like the nasty socks under a teenage boy's bead. On the floor around her was a puddle of white goo, tinged here and there with swirls of red. The reporter reached up to touch her face and hair, and found those too stiff with cum, either damp or drying.

There were no random drips or trail of dried cum leading from the door, as she might have expected if someone had hauled her out and dumped her here.

She remembered the dream—if it had been a dream—when she was sinking. Body and soul. Lois shuddered. In a sane world, she would dismiss that as just a nightmare, maybe brought on from too much to drink, or some **** somebody slipped her upstairs. Then she remembered the other part of the nightmare, and instinctively reached down to lay a hand on her stomach.

A spot of pain hit hurt, and Lois brought her hand away from her abdomen...then carefully lifted her shirt.

There was a mark, right below her belly button. A livid red circle, like a tattoo, intersected by short lines to suggest the shape of a five-pointed star, inverted. A broken pentagram.

Lois frowned at the mystery, but instinct told her she had been lying here too long. The night was wasting. She didn't want to be found like this. Time to move.

She found her feet like a newborn horse, knees wobbling, dried sperm on her pants creaking and cracking with every movement. Lois snorted at the thought that she must look like a glazed donut. On her feet, even in heels, balance came back easier. Leaning on the wall for support, she breathed, feeling stronger every moment. Time to go.