Suicide Slum

Lois squirmed in her seat. The bottle in her cootch filled her uncomfortably, and she laid a hand on her too-full belly, almost imagined she could feel the hardness of the bottle, the cap of which occasionally hit her cervix. Her labia were spread wide around the base of the bottle, and she idly wondered if it would ever go back to being as tight as it used to.

Her plan had been perfect—right up to the point that the cab had hit Friday night traffic. Twenty minutes of gridlock had been **** for her stuffed cunt. The reporter cursed herself; she could walk home faster than this...

"Hey," she handed some bills to the driver. "Let me out here. I'll walk from here."

"You crazy lady?" The cabbie said. "We're on the edge of Suicide Slum!"

But she was already out of the cab. Heels clicked as she walked between parked cars until she reached the sidewalk, then pointed herself west. It was four miles to her apartment if she skirted the around Metropolis Park, but if she cut through the slum it cut her journey in half—and the bottle almost felt like it scraped against her insides with every step. Two miles in heels were hard enough, but with that...

Lois started walking.

Weeds poked up from between the slabs of the sidewalk, and the street itself quickly degenerated into a cratered ribbon of asphalt, shot through with potholes, lined on either side with rusting cars, most of which had already begun the process of reclamation...they said the local kids could disassemble a car parked on the street overnight. It was Metropolis' poorest district, and its brownest—highest percentage of African-American and Hispanic population in the city—and the crime rate gave Gotham a run for its money; the **** rate was four times that of the rest of the city. **** was ten times more likely—and that was what was reported.

Lois clicked down the street, already sweating as she imagined what she looked like. White woman, alone, ass and tits almost hanging out of her club clothes, drunk enough to weave slightly...the smarter predators probably figured she was bait for a sting, but those weren't the ones she was worried about...and her cunt began to hurt like hell, as the sweat-soaked panties rode up the crack of her ass and began to rub against her labia, which already felt raw from the constant contact with the bottle. At this point it was probably safe to take it out, but there was nowhere safe to take it out, not until she got home.

Click click click. She picked her way through the trash-strewn sidewalk, over crack pipes and needles, broken glass and the dried skins of old columns. Half the streetlights were out, and some of them were just gone, gaping black holes in the sidewalks.

Click click click...and Lois became aware, as her pulse quickened, that someone followed her in the darkness.