End: Lois Bites The Cunt That Feeds Her

Lois Lane was fiercely intelligent—but at times, she was simply fierce. Backed into a corner, when the smart reporter might play along with her captors in order to gain time or seek an opportunity to escape, she would sometimes fight back. It often took her foes by surprise.

Certainly the nameless woman with the exotic accent was shocked when the reporter opened her mouth, apparently willing to eat her out—and then the jaws snapped tight. Sharp teeth bit into super-sensitive flesh. Bit and held, until coppery blood trickled down the reporter's throat. Until the blows to her head made the reporter dizzy and dazed, and then with thumbs dug into the corners of her jaw and wrenched Lois Lane's mouth open.

There was something stuck between the reporter's teeth.

"Alright, Lois," the woman hissed. "We could have had fun...but you've chosen the way of pain!"

The whip came down. It didn't stop. Not for hours. Blow after blow landed on the pale skin of the reporter's shoulders, her back, her buttocks. Under-hand blow s caught the reporter's pussy, the super-sensitive labia struck mercilessly.

Until the flesh reddened, then turned purple. Until each stroke turned the bruised flesh white, before that swiftly faded.

Lois Lane's voice was hoarse with screaming when the purple flesh broke open in bloody stripes. The leather cut through the swollen, sensitive flesh and spattered blood against the walls. The reporter shivered as the blood dripped down her body. Wracked with pain whenever an under-handed blow shredded her poor cunny, which was little more than an open wound.

Valeria never even got a turn. It was all that strange woman. Her arm was tireless, but her breathing grew fevered and ragged. Lois turned her head, her tears cried out, as she saw the nostrils flared, the nipples hard, her whole body flushed with excitement. A pure sadist, the only sign of their encounter a dried track of blood down her thighs. Sweat dripped from the woman's body as she worked, the criss-crossed wounds of the reporter's back a map of agony. Once firm flesh reduced to so much hamburger meat.

Lois shook as with a chill. The blood was leaving her body. Too much. She'd heard of people being whipped to ****...and perhaps, in that moment, she welcomed **** as a relief from this agony.

"Oh no you fucking don't," the woman hissed...only it wasn't a woman, not anymore. Lois craned her head, and out of the corner of her eye she could see that the flushed skin had turned as red as fresh blood on parchment, dark horns curled up from the broad brow, and the eyes beneath were pure white, without pupil or iris. Sharp teeth attacked a crimson wrist...and then the demon held her arm out over the reporter, and let her blood drip into the bare wounds.

If the bonds had not held Lois Lane firmly, she would leaped from the table. Her back, a mass of red agony, felt as though the demon had set it on fire. The reporter's hoarse voice broke into a new octave of suffering as she strained nakedly against her bonds. Unable to see the marks of the whip close up, the bruised flesh return to its normal paleness, without even a bit of scar tissue to mark the events of the night. Even her pussy, lacerated into shapelessness, became once more the tight pink twat that Lois had possessed at the beginning of her night out.

The reporter panted as the pain faded. She felt feverish...and weirdly tainted. Unclean. The demon's blood flowed through her veins.

"Now then," the demon said, as she raised her whip again. "Where were we?"

There was something stuck between Lois Lane's teeth. It took her a long time to work it out from between her incisors. When she did, the reporter had an inkling as to why the demon sadist was so mad.

It was the demon's clitoris, severed in the reporter's attack.

As the blows fell, the reporter grimly swallowed the terrible remnant. Uncaring at this point if she was a willing participant in her own corruption, if only to spite the bitch who had put her in this place.

Yet it would be a long time before the demon's fury and sadistic lust was spent. Long cycles of **** and regeneration...long enough for the reporter's mind to look back on her night out and see all the ways it could have gone differently, if only she had made some other choice.