She Attracts Some Attention, But No One Stops Her

Tits out. Lois Lane pushed her chest out, strode with a purpose. Even in the darkness, the pale breasts were clear, pink nipples oddly shadowed in the multicolored lights of the dance floor.

The trick, Lois told herself, is to exude confidence. You have to be confident, to walk through the club bare-breasted. People respond to that.

They did. Eyes flashed and held—but not on her face. It was like a strip club. None of the punters looked the strippers in the eyes. They were forcused on the bare skin, exposed. Nipples hard, the flat plane of her stomach. Lois could almost feel them head from her nipples down to the tight red pants on her waist, as if they could see her pussy, though they couldn't, and then back up to her breasts again.

Looked, but didn't touch. Lois Lane's mouth was set in a poker face of slight disdain. She moved through the crowd, which was never possible in a straight line. Navigated around gyrating couples on the edges of the dance floor, felt the boom of the house music vibrate up her heels. There were security people who glanced at her and then glanced away: no threat. Waitresses that smiled and side-stepped to let her pass, and her path took her back toward the bar.

For a moment, Lois Lane's eyes met the bartender's. The woman from before. Recognition in that gaze. The bartender touched her ear, whispered something. Then Lois was going, trying to get out as other people came into the club. The reporter could feel the weight of the book in its impromptu bookbag press against her back, awkward but still there.

She stepped out into the night...took a deep breath...and as people on the sidewalk gawked, quickly zippered up her jacket.

"Taxi!" she yelled, and stepped into the street.