You're Not Really My Type...

"...I prefer guys," Sal said, offering a weak, chagrinned smile.

Lois Lane digested this comment. Her eyes narrowed. Her lips pursed.

With her left hand, Lois pulled at Sal's collar, not letting him go. Staring into his eyes, she climbed atop the bar, and then over it. Sal began to sweat as the reporter stepped over the edge and lowered herself down, never once loosening her grip or losing eye contact. As soon as she came in range, her right hand thrust down between Sal's legs.

It was as though something else moved in Lois Lane's body. Emotions she couldn't name, raw and unfiltered. Her stomach growled, and the pleasant buzz of the **** was lost in a terrible need as she groped Sal's balls through his pants.

The reporter's tongue slid into his mouth, forcing its way past Sal's numb lips. Her hand unzipped his pants, freeing his trapped cock, which flopped down against the palm of her hands. Small, soft, warm...but it had potential...and there was a small metal ring that pierced his glans. The feel of that cold metal on her fingertips excited Lois in ways she couldn't name.

Lois pulled away from him and stared into his eyes, panting softly as she peeled back his foreskin. Gently tugging at his cock, stroking it, not caring who in the bar saw her. The excitement rising and rising within her. Lois Lane couldn't stop herself, even she wished to...couldn't hold back as nasty thoughts flooded her mind. Desires that she would normally have repressed, or which would only be fleeting fancies, now burned at the forefront of her brain.

"I am everyone's type," Lois Lane growled, and dropped to her knees.