Take Me To Her

The old freight elevator had seen better decades. It had the slightly industrial smell of old paint and grease, the numbers worn off the plastic buttons. There was something else to the smell too, Lois noticed—a familiar antispectic smell underneath it all—but she couldn't quite place it. Rat shivered as he guided Lois in and shut the door. As the cage began to descend, Lois stared into the eye of the camera in the corner of the elevator.

"Are they watching us?" The heat began to increase as they descended.

"Camera's don't work." Rat said. "Ain't nothing going on tonight. Th-the sabbat ain't for a couple days."

Lois could see the the goth sweat, and from more than just the rising heat. Her eyes were drawn once again to those stains on his pants where she'd wiped her hand after his ejaculation. The goth looked younger now, and scared. His lips worked, almost as if in a prayer, and Lois felt drawn to them...

Rat did not shrink back as Lois' right hand found the middle of his chest; did not resist as he was pushed back against the wall. She began to bite at his neck, playful little nips. Her left hand reached around and unzipped his fly. Let his meat fall out, dangle in the open. "Stroke it, Rat." She said, as she pulled his balls out of his pants. "I want to see you."

He did. Right hand grasped his cock and began to shift, in quick shuddery strokes. The goth was only half-hard, still spent from before.

Her hand came down, a heavy smack that could have raised a welt on a child's ass. Rat's eyes bulged, but the dick grew hard almost instantly. She could see the imprint of her slap on the pale shaft, the swollen purple of the head around the polished chrome ring that pierced it. "Better," she said. "Now stroke."

The elevator clanked softly into its landing. Lois turned as the doors opened with a series of soft clanks. Rat still stood there, dick in his hands. The only sound was the shuffle of his knuckles.

A warm, wet waft of air slammed Lois in the face. It was hot as a grow-house in the basement, and she immediately started to perspire. The air, too was rank with a kind of animal odor—a gym or bathhouse smell, human bodies. The thump of the music upstairs barely penetrated.

Lois stepped out of the cage and gazed around at was once an underground parking garage: bare concrete walls and floors, painted concrete columns, drains set in the floor. Most of the fluorescents were dead or flickered fitfully, leaving most of the place in shadow. Every surface had been tagged, as if generations of graffiti artists had come to ply their trade...provided that their trade consisted entirely of crude erotic works, interspersed with what looked like runes or symbols, picked out in black and white against the red and pink of cartoon vulvas and penises. The reporter in Lois picked out lines of cuneiform, Egyptian hieroglyphics, and more obscure alphabets.

The brightest lights were on a black door set into the wall opposite the elevator—probably originally the offices for this part of the building. The graffiti that surrounded the door took on an H.R. Giger-esque quality. Cocks and cunts seemed to flow into each other with a machine precision, hints of exoskeleton ribbing here and there. She stepped forward, searched the tags for a signature. Took out her cellphone—zero bars, no surprise—and snapped a few pictures.

Lois steeled herself in the dark. Sweat dripped from her temples, and already had begun to pool at breast and armpit, crotch and waist. Her shirt and panties were already soaked as she stood before the Black Door.