The Supervillain Sex Club

"Rat," she called. "Stuff your dick in your pants and come here."

He did. His feet shuffled on the floor, and the black-clad goth seemed to wilt in the heat. "Get us in," she ordered.

Rat fetched something out of his jacket, then knocked on the door. A panel slid out, a pair of dark eyes stared. Lois couldn't quite see what Rat held up—it looked like a black business card, with no writing—but the panel slid shut, and the Black Door gaped open. They stepped inside, Lois clutched to Rat's elbow.

The furniture was deliberately crude, an industrial aesthetic where benches were made of cinderblocks and tables were tangled sculptures of welded rebar topped with round slabs of concrete. The kind of place where a normal human couldn't lift the furniture, much less break it. Waitresses dressed in skimpy bustiers and capes, tits bare and bottomless, clicked along the concrete floor in high heels, trays of drinks balanced in their hands. Four parodies of Supergirl danced in cages with green glowing bars, their breasts more massive than Powergirl's impressive rack, far bigger than their heads. One or two floated a few inches above the ground. A long black slab of marble and burnished chrome occupied the back wall, where a woman with four arms, four breasts, and four eyes mixed cocktails...and the clientele...

Killer Croc sucked the meat off the bones of a turkey leg, while a bald woman with scales and slit pupils rubbed his erections through his pants under the table. A young Middle Eastern man in a black costume arm-wrestled on one table with a hulking cyborg. Lois caught the flash of a yellow lightning bolt on his chest as the teen slammed the metal arm into the concrete table top with a whine of breaking metal. The bestial form of Kalibak, son of Darkseid, lay in a corner drinking along, the table around him littered with bottles.

Lois took all this in, then Rat tugged her to the left.

"There's rooms here," he said. "They do couples, sometimes. Let me do the talking."

Rat guided Lois to a doorway covered by a black velvet curtain. A woman sat there, in an elegant black evening dress.

She was pale of skin and stripped to the waist, and gave a half-smile as she sipped a familiar grey-white cocktail. Raven hair, slightly wild, but dark as Lois' own ran down to her back. She was tall, stately even—she carried herself with chin raised and broad shoulders thrown back, even while seated, which caused her heavy breasts to jut forward, just a hint of wide areolas visible. The reporter her **** herself to look up, into half-lidded eyes that seemed so dark as almost to be black, and were set in a face that reminded her, vaguely, of the bust of Nefertiti—smooth, almost streamlined and alien yet distinctly human.

"Rat," she said. He handed the black card to her, and she took it. She stared at Lois. "Who's this?"

"A friend," Rat choked.

"Joanne," the reporter said, giving her middle name.

"I didn't realize you had such good-looking friends, Rat. Come to deal?" The woman gave that half-smile.

"Thought we might check out one of the girls. Couples thing." He said. "She's never been with...someone with a little something extra, y'know. Wants to experiment."

"A menage, Rat! Well, you are full of surprises." She sucked down the last of her cocktail. "Why, I might just offer to take you up on that myself..." she slid out a long length of red tongue to scoop the last of the grey-white ooze from the bottom of the glass. "...unless you have someone else in mind?"