End: Blaze Forces Lesbian Knowledge Into Lois Lane's Brain

Things happened rapidly.

In the blink of an eye, the waifish young woman whose pussy Lois Lane had tried to eat became a naked, red-skinned, horned hellion. As the scarlet succubus clamped her crimson claws onto the reporter's face, so that Lois couldn't look away from the mask of fury and denied lust. Instinctively, Lois grabbed the slender forearms—but it was as if the flesh had become hot, scarlet stone.

Through her peripheral vision, Lois saw the world fade into darkness. The stone beneath her feet gave way, and the two seemed to float in an infinite abyss, and the only light was Blaze's burning eyes.

"You're a shit lesbian, Lois Lane," the demon hissed. Her index fingers pressed painfully against the reporter's temples. "But I can fix that."

Lois screamed as the claws punched through skin and bone...and for a moment, she felt two hot spears press into her brain.

The Daily Planet's greatest reporter had learned about sex in many ways. In a classroom, the teacher had put a condom on a banana; in the girl's bathroom, the older woman had pulled out her vibrator. Lois Lane had interviewed an ancient Italian prostitute, who still worked in her nineties, and she had sat quietly next to the director during the filming of Pull Out, I'm Not On The Pill! 3, which had come with a splatter shield for her to wear. She had read ancient erotica translated from burned scrolls at Herculaneum, and she had spent long, weird hours on the internet, barely blinking, fingers rubbing her pussy raw as she gooned out into increasingly niche kinks.

Yet this was different. The reporter's body shook as memories flooded her brain. In a harem of an ancient king, the concubines played with one another as they waited for the only prick that would ever touch them. On a lonely windswept farm, two sisters lay in bed together, their fingers and hot kisses exploring each other as they crossed a long-forbidden line. At the boarding school, the eighteen-year-old bent over the desk and pulled down her panties as the headmistress raised her cane...and they both trembled in anticipation.

And they were all Lois Lane.

When the first Cro Magnon woman spread her lover's legs and delved her tongue into the hairy slit, it was Lois that tasted that hot cunt, and it was Lois that felt it plunge into her virgin hole. In a brothel in some ancient city, she smelled sesame seed oil and felt opium-stained fingers slowly press the wooden balls on a string into her little asshole, and it was Lois who was both the young prostitute and the ancient madam whose eyes flashed with terrible sexual wisdom.

Over and over, through the ages, through all the lives women, Lois Lane was drawn, and every Sapphic kiss and carress was burned into her brain. She drowned in a sea of pussies of every size, shape, and color. Her tongue twisted with every technique of cunnilingus known to woman, each generation rediscovering what had gone before. She drank tequila from dirty pussies that swarmed with crabs, and burst thehymens of virgins with a wooden phallus to drink their blood, vampire-like, in pursuit of fleeing youth.

In her mind, Lois Lane relived atrocities of lesbianism that wad blacken the soul of the most jaded cunt enthusiast in Metropolis. She was a maid to Elizabeth Bathory, whose pleasure was the hot blood of young women, and their screams as the whip struck their quivering buttocks, and the spasms of their young bodies as her tongue found them in the throes of ****; and she was the young women too, whose tortures found a weird peak, who mumbled prayers to a deaf and uncaring god as every part of her was violated, with avid watchers finger-fucking their slits in voyeuristic abandon.

There was women's prisons down the centuries where **** was the rule, the strong preyed upon the weak, and old women felt for the first time the plunge of hot, strong fingers in their ancient twats, and nursing mothers felt the milk squeezed from their breast to sate the thirsts of other women. Lois felt a thousand hands against the back of her head, pushed into a thousand pussies as each took their turn.

Each experience layered on the other. The reporter's muscles twitched in sympathy as the memories encoded themselves deep into her brain. Until eating pussy came as naturally as breathing. Until her fingers knew by themselves how to please a woman.

Yet the ordeal continued on.

In a nunnery, the spoiled daughters of aristorcrats profaned a devout young woman whose only fault was that she loved Mary, Mother of Jesus too much; and so obedient was she to her spiritual superiors that she became their plaything, and finally their whore. In the streets of the barrio, young brown women shared a stolen kiss before the party, and when their tongues met a pill slipped from one to another, promising a night to remember. After the wrestling match, muscles sore and aching, a massage turns into something more; cunts kiss as hips collide, stiff nipples rub against each other, as two hard muscled bodies seek mutual release.

Until the taste and memory of cock became erased from Lois Lane's mind. Until her heterosexual experiences dwindled and vanished, overwritten by a thousand thousand lesbian encounters. The million forms of feminine beauty became impressed into the reporter's consciousness. Old, young, tall, short, fat, thin, fat tiddies and flat justice, hairy and shaved, ass and pussy and mouths and tongue...all beautiful, wonderful, desirable in their way. A million labias were spread for the reporter's consideration, every color from neon pink to a deep, dark salmon. Some lips hung limp and dark, others were a bare line, like a cut in a fresh peach. Metal studs, rivets, and rings decorated some, and a profusion of tattoos...butterflies, mouths, little lawnmowers where the bush was trimmed, a succession of names, slogans, witty or trashy, mystic or spiritual.

In a Wiccan ceremony, she drank the moon-blood from a priestess, and in a Satanic ritual she felt the black candle crammed into her ass burn, the wax dripping down onto her naked twat. In ancient Atlantis, her lover focused the rays of the moon onto her spread labia, to conceive a moon-child; and in the lost continent of Mu, her cunt vomited forth centipedes onto the face of a bound and terrified enemy. In ancient Egypt, she wept and clasped the corpse of her lover, laid out for embalming; and in a desolate village in France, she caressed the stone bosom of the angel above the grave of her beloved.

Until, at last, Lois Lane could absorb no more.

The demon's fingers pulled from the reporter's temples; the twin wounds sealed without a scar. Limp and **** in the demon's arms, Lois could not see as the abyss around them lightened, and Blaze's bare feet touched the carpet of Lois Lane's bedroom. With little ceremony, Blaze dumped the naked reporter onto her own bed, where she lay sprawled, overwhelmed by the psychic pressure of a million lesbian lifetimes. A thin line of black blood oozed slowly down Blaze's thigh.

"And that is how you eat pussy!" Blaze growled to the insensate reporter...and left her there.

Come morning, Lois Lane would awake. The trauma of the night would be buried in her subconscious, but more of what she learned would remain. Her fingers twitched into familiar shapes designed to pleasure a woman, where tongue twisted as she felt a sudden thirst for cunt-juice. Something ancient dwelled behind Lois Lane's eyes from then on, and every woman between eighteen and eighty-eight who fell beneath her gaze seemed a potential partner for the thirst that had been awakened within her.

Clark Kent would never understand the change that came over Lois Lane as she began to focus on Supergirl and POwer Girl, Wonder Woman and Zatanna; her affairs at the Daily Planet would become a scandal, and yet after one night she could bring Cat Grant to her knees with just a whispered poem and a curious gesture...and sometimes did, in the bathroom, the older woman swiftly enslaved to a pleasure she had never achieved with men, never guessed possible.

Yet that is the future...and someday, perhaps, Lois Lane and Blaze would meet again, and the outcome would be quite different.