The Club Beneath The Club

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. Maria and the black woman with the cock—Aisha—were hanging off Lois and each other as the trio made it 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.

"Always" Maria said, with a smirk. "Want to give them a show?"

Lois could see the the bartender sweat, and from more than just the rising heat. Her eyes were drawn once again to those pointed, pierced nipples that strained against the mesh shirt. Aisha already had her cock out, the veined chocolate shaft already half-hard. The barmaid looked younger now, flushed and excited. Her lips worked, almost as if in a prayer, and Lois felt drawn to them...

Maria did not shrink back as Lois' right hand found the back of her neck; did not resist as she was pulled into the kiss. Lips suddenly locked, an exchange of hot heavy breath, and then Lois' tongue brushed against hers...and they were lost there, for a mad minute, eyes closed, tongues swirled against each other, explored this strange space they were in. Foreign teeth, the slimy, muscular invader, the pulsing beat of their hearts as they clasped each to the other.

Lois took Maria's hand, and guided it over to Aisha's cock. She pumped the woman's wrist, to make her stroke it. Under their mutual caress, the ebony cock was soon standing proud. It throbbed gently in the warm air.

They dropped to their knees. Aisha placed a hand on their heads, and guided the two women's mouths to her dick. Their tongues lapped around the shaft, lips worked up and down it, sometimes brushing up against each other in a kind of obscene kiss.

The elevator clanked softly into its landing. Aisha grunted as she came, eyes half closed, her seed splattered on the floor. Lois turned as the doors opened with a series of soft clanks.

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, but there was a new sound coming from somewhere else—a heavier, more insistent beat.

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.

Maria stepped beside Lois, to take her right arm. Aisha, took her left. 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 they strode up to the Black Door...and it opened for them as they approached.