A Little Of Both

The thought of owning Lois Lane outright as her **** amused the demon. She thought of the tortures and degradations that could be heaped on the reporter. Yet as she looked at the pictures, the idea soured in her mind. The glory of the master reflected on a ****. As the cup was removed from her pussy, another of Blaze's personal harem came forward on hands and knees. This one, Blaze had gifted with a heavy golden collar, and gold studs in her tongue. The same tongue that now lapped at the scarlet slit, to clean the last ebon dribbles from the hairless mound.

No, being my **** is too good for Lois Lane, Blaze thought. Her eyes, pure white without pupil or iris, burned in their deep sockets, and black lightning arced between her horns as she felt the small metal piercings rub against her clit. So too, to destroy her is too grand a fate; Lois Lane is not my enemy...she is nothing but a cunt-sponge to be used, then discarded.

A terrible smile creased the demon's lips then as an idea came to her—the perfect fate for Lois Lane. Something appropriate for one who was not worthy of serving her directly.

Across the astral plane, a black bolt of lightning seared from the depths of Blaze's mind. Minor spirits and neutral elementals quailed at its passing, leaving dark ripples in the aether that would haunt the dreams of sensitives. Throughout the coming months, there would be an uptick in interest in BDSM in Metropolis...prostitutes would see heavier traffic...new human trafficking operations would be founded and existing ones expanded as the demand increased...but these were all symptoms of the terrible spell that was aimed solely at Lois Lane. Like a radio program aimed at a single antenna.

Until now, the voice in Lois Lane's head had been the merest whisper, scarcely different from the reporter's own inner voice. Now, the words exploded in her head with such **** that the reporter's eyes rolled up and only the whites showed. Her heart hammered so fast and hard she thought it might explode, and small vessels burst, so blood oozed out of her nostrils and ears. The voice that filled the reporter's mind, that etched its command into the naked reporter's very soul, was to her nothing less than the voice of God, overriding every other thought.

YOU ARE HER ****.

To the old Black woman, who caught only the brief aftershocks of Blaze's message, the reporter had bottomed out on the doggy dildo, the knot stretching her cunt almost to the point of bursting, and then suddenly spasmed, boneless and without control of her body. Lois Lane collapsed backward, the suction cup pulling up from the floor.

Yet she heard...and having heard, the old woman nodded her head, closed her eyes, and gave a prayer of silent thanks to her infernal benefactor for this gift.

As Lois Lane stunned and barely conscious, the woman grabbed her wrists and dragged her into the bathroom.

If this was to be her ****, she would have to mark her as such.