End: Get Used To It

Lois Lane's pink tongue slid between the lips of the woman's labia. Fingers combed through the reporter's hair. The tangy juices filled the reporter's mouth, and she couldn't help but swallow. The hot liquor ran down the reporter's throat and lit a fire in her belly...and between her legs.

"Doesn't this feel right?" Blaze said, her oddly compelling voice sinking into Lois Lane's brain even as her fingers massaged the reporter's scalp. "Isn't this your natural place?"

The whore-reporter couldn't answer. Her tongue was busy exploring Blaze's pussy. The changes of texture. The stretchiness of the labia. How the swollen clitoris quivered as she sucked softly on it, and the way the muscles would clutch at her tongue when she pushed in deep.

"I always knew you were a whore, Lois," Blaze went on. "Now you know it too. And that knowledge is my gift to you. A gift that I'm going to bind to your very soul. Lois Lane, the Daily Planet's greatest cuntlicking prostitute. That has a certain ring to it, doesn't it?"

The tip of Lois Lane's tongue played with the very bottom of Blaze's pussy. To tickle that tiny space between pussy and asshole. A part of Lois wondered what Blaze's ass tasted like. What she would pay the reporter to find out.

"I'll be your manager, your pimp, your best friend," Blaze said, and Lois could almost feel those finger tips somehow slip painlessly through skin and bone. Sparks danced in front of the escort's eyes as they rearranged her grey matter into new patterns. Old memories shifted, moved around; new memories inserted. Inhibitions erased. A subtle yet important shift in the reporter's moral universe.

So that the Lois Lane that stared up lovingly at Blaze, her tongue hot and sticky with the overflowing honey of Blaze's twat, was utterly devoted to her new secret life, her new avocation. By day, to be the crusading reporter...and by night, to entertain female clients as Blaze's whore.

The demon smiled back. A Mona Lisa smile, small but with the hint that she knew something that Lois Lane didn't.

Other things happened that night. Lois Lane had to earn money. Eat pussy. Blaze was there to guide her, cajole her, fine-tune the changes she had made to the reporter's mind and soul. Yet for all practical purposes, Lois Lane's night out was at an end. She was no longer there to find the missing women, no longer on the case. Now, her only mission was to sell her eager mouth to whatever cunt needed to be licked.

Lois Lane was open for business.