Find The Culprits

Lois Lane stomped out of the bathroom, ruining her good towel scrubbing the bulk of the cum out of her hair. The nude, cum-drenched reporter swung her eyes around the apartment...and settled on the glass bottle.

She picked it up, searching for any sign, any hint...

There was a pentagram molded into the glass at the bottom of the bottle. Metropolis Bottling Co. An address...which Lois recognized as that of the club.

Her hair was a mess. Lois didn't care. She squeezed back into the pants, not bothering with her ruined thong or bra. Clean t-shirt, check. Jacket, heels. Check check.

Purse...

Lois Lane opened up her "special drawer." The one she only opened when she was going undercover places it wasn't good to go undercover. She picked out the sharp metal key-fob with the holes carefully placed to act as a knuckleduster. A switchblade that hung on a chain around her neck, cold metal in between her breasts. A packet of condoms. And...

The hammer was short-handled, cut down to only about three inches and wrapped with tape. Small enough to fit in an inky-dinky purse. Heavy enough to do serious damage. The reporter put the bottle in the sink, the ruined towel on top of it. She brought the hammer down, heard the blissful tinkle of shattered glass. Did it a couple more times, just for good measure.

Her pussy hurt. She could still taste cum. But she had a target, now.

Down below the club, where she had found the bottle. There would be someone there who knew what was going on. And she would find out.

On the cab ride over, Lois ruminated on the times she had been nearly **** during her career. There had been a few close calls...especially before Superman had been there to save her.

The worst time had been tracking down a serial **** that targeted prostitutes—she had staked out his hunting grounds, dressed in even less than she was wearing now. Her theory had been that it was one of the johns...she hadn't even been watching for the cop. Not until his hand came up with a chloroform-soaked rag.

But unlike the other women, Lois hadn't struggled. Held her breath, played **** right away. And when he was groping her...trying to pull her panties down...she had actually felt his drooling prick against her thigh. Her hand had found the knuckleduster and...

...well, she had left him alive. And mostly intact. For weeks afterward, she had woken up late at night, feeling his cock on her leg. But Lois Lane had got her story. And she would again.

The reporter didn't bother with the main entrance, heading down the alley to the fire door.

She welcomed the noise and the rush of the club as she slipped in, making a bee-line for the stairs. Her answers lay down below, and she would find them, whoever was responsible for what had happened to her tonight...and make them pay.