End: Ho-Ho-Hoe Holes!

Blaze mumbled the name...but Lois Lane had already spotted the four packages. Unlike everything else in the Lovecraft sex shop, they were bright white with red stripes, with a photo of a naked woman in a mall Santa's helper outfit. Lois recognized the faces from their social media—Jennie Dunlap, Mara de la Cruz, Tonya Wong, and Diana Reynolds—although the packaging declared them "Jennie Cuntslap," "Mara de la Cock," "Wong Way Pussy," and "Dickhole Di."

Lois Lane frowned. The names and packaging were utterly petty, bordering on pathetic. Blaze shuffled awkwardly in place, the dickgirl refusing to meet the reporter's eyes. Yet that wasn't what had Lois concerned.

The boxes had been opened.

The cardboard edges were white and frayed, the clear tape sticking them together was definitely not the same that had sealed them originally.

"Did you make them like that?" Lois asked.

Blaze frowned and looked at the boxes.

"N-no...I mean, they were supposed to look...cheap," the dickgirl said lamely. She leaned in and sniffed. "But these smell like they've been used."

The reporter rubbed her temples. There were some questions she didn't want the answer to.

"Can you turn them back?" she asked.

"Yesss..." Blaze drew out the last syllable into a **** hiss.

"Then do it," Lois crossed her arms.

The reporter wasn't sure what she was expecting. Something from I Dream of Jeanie, maybe, where a nod of the head or the twitch of a nose would result in a puff of blue smoke and four normal women would appear before her. What actually happened was a crack of thunder that shook the entire store...and the cardboard packaging exploded as the Ho-Ho-Hoe Holes seemed to unfold like origami, arms and legs and heads snapping into place, each vertebra sickening clicking, and as soon as they could breathe the naked women began to scream...

...and on the four were four crying, naked, shivering young co-eds who were in no shape for an interview or anything else. Tired as she was, the reporter gave them a few minutes to get the screaming and crying out of their system. The tall, lantern-jawed man behind the counter game to gawp at the sight.

"Do you have any actual clothing in here?" Lois asked him.

"We...have a selection of lingerie designed to taunt and tantalize the carnal senses," he said, pulling momentarily at his collar, color rising onto his pale cheeks. "Some...specialist footwear, high heels, and the like. And a few novelty items, oversized t-shirts with crude messages designed to appeal to the imbecilic masses..."

Lois smiled. She clapped her hands and issued an ear-splitting whistle that caught the women's attention.

"Ladies!" she said, still smiling. "I know you've been through a lot. But if you stop blubbering, this man will take you to where you can pick out some clothes. Blaze will pa for it. Then we'll all go out and get a meal, I'll ask you a few questions, and get you cab rides home. Okay?"

Which is, more or less, how Lois Lane ended up squeezed into a booth at a Waffle House with four women dressed in panties, high heels, fishnet stalkings, and T-shirts with such clever phrases as TOO SEXY FOR MY SHIRT and INSERT COCK HERE.

The waitress, bless her heart, didn't even blink and kept the coffee flowing steadily. Lois Lane interviewed them all...each story more or less supporting what Blaze had told the reporter...and Lois, recognizing there was no chance in hell that the cops would believe four human women had been turned into sex toys, spun a quick lie.

"Okay ladies, here's what really happened: You were ****. Someone was drugging women in the bar. Some weird South American cocktail of hallucinogens. Blaze didn't want you to get charged with **** possession and stashed you in a saferoom at the back of the porn star. Nobody **** you. You hallucinated everything. You've been gone for weeks, talking to one another, that's why your stories all match."

It was a pathetic whopper of a lie...but each of the ladies wanted to believe, so they nodded, dumbly.

Blaze paid for everything with a little black credit card. It was nearly dawn when the reporter saw the last of the former Ho-Ho-Hoes off to their lives again. Lois Lane reached under her tight-fitting pants and scratched at her pussy. She frowned as she felt the cold goo that Blaze had left there from before. She needed a shower, thirty minutes of oral sex, and a bloody mary.

"So...what do you want to do now?" Blaze asked, the dickgirl giving a strangely innocent smile, like a young woman with boundless energy out on an adventure. The reporter frowned. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that she should tell Blaze to fuck off, report her to the Justice League, cut her out of her life...

"How do you feel about coming back to my place and eating my pussy for about half an hour as I enjoy a bloody mary?" Was what actually came out of Lois Lane's mouth.

Blaze's grin widened, her eyebrows dipped. For a moment, her dark eyes were pure white, with no iris or pupils, and seemed to glow from within.

"I'd love to," the dickgirl said.

"Good," Lois Lane said as she led the way, her strange new fuckbuddy in tow...too tired right then to feel fear or panic, or to report Blaze, or maybe just too horny. There would be time enough in the hours and days to come to worry at who exactly Blaze was and what she was capable of...but right now Lois Lane was tired, she had a headache, her pussy itched, and there was a warm, willing tongue eager to eat her out right at hand.

Who could, in the end, blame Lois Lane? Who has not wished, from time to time, for such casual intimacy? Yet there would be a price to pay in the coming weeks, as the time for Lois Lane's period came and went without its regular appearance, as her waist thickened and the sickness took hold, and the dickgirl, like a cat, moved into Lois Lane's apartment and never left...

...but that is another story.