Honeymoon Suite

The first impression that the reporter had was of pinkness. Everything was some shade of pink, that terrible 70s pink that bordered from an earthy almost-red to a bright neon pink that threatened to glow in the dark. The bulbs were pink, and the shades; pink roses crawled up the pink curtains over the windows, and the great heart-shaped bed was covered in pink sheets, and topped with pink pillows. The only thing not pink was the television, a great black plastic-framed flatscreen bolted to one wall.

Opposite the television, on the wall over the bed, was a tasteful erotic print of a man and a woman locked in carnal congress. The artist, Lois Lane noted, had taken great pains on capturing the hairy swollen sack on the man as he pushed himself into his bride.

"So, um," Maria stammered, blushing. "We should probably get that stuff out of you."

The reporter shook her head to clear it. In all the excitement, she had nearly forgotten about the plug in her ass, the sense of warm fullness of the XXX that had been pumped into her colon. Which was odd in and of itself, that wasn't the kind of thing you normally forget...

Lois took a step toward the bathroom, and then her legs went wobbly. Maria caught her arm as she began to fall.

"I don't feel...good," the reporter managed. A fever-heat was building inside of Lois, and she felt weak, sleepy. Leaning on the young woman's arm, the raven-haired reporter let herself be led into the bathroom.

There was a tub built for two—some kind of faux-pink marble—and lots of pink tile. Lois took in dual sinks, a toilet, a bidet. It reminded her, very obscurely, of her grandmother's house. It had that same aesthetic, a kind of arrested development, as if the hotel had been styled in 1970 and stopped, never updating anything.

Except the television, Lois remembered. That was new. Shiny LexCorp sigil on it and everything.

Maria guided Lois to the toilet, helped her disrobe. The reporter, clinging onto the edge of the sink for support, thought she was past embarrassment. Yet she still flushed when she realized she was staring at the young woman's pierced nipples, outlined through her shirt.

"What...did you put in me?" Lois managed as she hovered over the toilet, the young woman pulling at the plug in the reporter's ass.

"They just called it 'XXX'," Maria said. "Viral, retroviral...something like that. Deep breath now, and don't clench—"

It is, Lois reflected in her feverish haze, impossible not to clench when someone tells you to. So the pulling of the plug was a bit more of a drawn out practice than the reporter expected. She began to cling to Maria, moaning gently, feeling the pressure in her backside build knowing it was about to come out...

...and then it did, with a wet plop. And the rest of it came out shortly after. Lois managed to settle heavily on the toilet seat, hideously embarrassed as this young woman, virtually a stranger, watched her void her bowels. The plug went into the sink, Maria running hot water over it, then setting it on a towel to dry.

Why? Lois thought, temples pounding. She was feeling properly ill now, like the depths of the stomach flu. Are we going to use it later?

The thought simply made her blush more deeply.

She wiped and flushed. Maria helped her navigate from the toilet to the bidet. This was a more delicate operation, the young woman holding the sick reporter by her armpits as they aimed the spout of cold water at the reporter's backside.

"How do you feel?" Maria asked.

"Like hammered shit," Lois said flatly.

The young woman sniffed.

"We could both use a bath," she said. "But maybe it would be best if we got you to bed."