End: Lois Lane Can Only Orgasm Through Her Ruined Ass

Lois Lane did not see the black spark that zipped from Blaze's brow to her own. Yet she felt the impact as it buried itself in her brain. The reporter's entire body convulsed as if struck by lightning, every muscle tensed at once in a moment of excruciating agony—and then that moment went on as the prolapsed pink colon was slowly sucked back into the reporter's body, as the bloody fissures scabbed and then flaked away to reveal bright pink flesh.

The reporter's ass was healed—but not to the taut and pristine shape that it had when she began her night out. Now it was a thick and gaping donut of flesh between her asscheeks, the protruding posterior more appropriate on an animal than a human being. Yet the changes being wrought on the reporter's body went far deeper than her reconstructed rectum.

Nerve endings in her vagina and clitoris decayed as those in and around her anus grew. Primal pathways in the reporter's brain were redirected, subtle alterations were made to the reporter's erogenous zones. A thousand surgeons could stare at the reporter's brain for a generation and not understand the changes that the demon Blaze made in a few moments, subtle and pervasive as they were. Sight, smell, taste, touch—every sense and erotic instinct fine-tuned so that for Lois Lane there was no but one path to pleasure, and it led through her bloated and disgusting anus.

When the temporary paralysis ceased—when all bonds came undone, and the now-worthless chastity device fell off of Lois Lane, and she collapsed onto her face—the demon's smile was wicked with the terrible **** she had wrought on the reporter. She allowed herself a grim chuckle as the reporter sucked in air, and the pain in Lois Lane's exhausted body dwindled and fled. Instinctively, the super-sensitive anus twitched in the air.

"You may go now, Lois," Blaze said dismissively. "I have no further interest in you. Although if you ever find yourself in need of a good ass-fucking...well, you know where to find me."

The dickgirl left her there. Women came forward, to pick Lois up and towel her off. Clothing was found for her, though not the clothing that the reporter had come in here wearing. Numb and disoriented, she allowed herself to be dressed in a short skirt that barely covered her buttocks, a tube-top that left no imagination to her small breasts, and a midriff-baring jacket and three-inch heels. Cum-stained wads of money were stuck into every pocket, and at last, as Lois found herself being led out a door into a dark alley, someone pressed her smartphone into her hand.

Then the door shut. A cool breeze blew across Lois Lane's asshole, and she shivered with a sudden inexplicable feeling of profound emptiness.

With nothing better to do, she began to walk.

It was like being drunk...punch-drunk, maybe. Dazed, confused, moving more by instinct, like a boxer in the ring. Instinctively, the reporter set her shoulders high, projected confidence. It keep the people on the sidewalk away from her, the grim expression on her face, the set determination of her walk. Gradually, as more and more of herself returned, Lois guided her steps towards her apartment.

Except there was something wrong with her.

An itch.

A need.

It seemed to grow with each step. The little twinge in her monstrously distorted anus. Lois Lane found herself flexing her ass with each step, but that just made it worse. She could actually feel the ring push against the edge of her tight skirt, and the reporter had to tug it down. Her pussy, by comparison, might as well have been dead. A limp pocket of flesh. Utterly unresponsive as she rubbed her thighs together.

Late at night, and Lois began to look at the businesses on the street. The ones still open. She wondered where she might stop for a bit of relief. Duck into a dive bar, grab a beer, make a bee-line for the bathroom and frig herself raw? The reporter's mind recoiled at the thought...but the burn in her hungry ass grew worse.

Cold sweat began to trickle down her ribs as the heat built and built in the reporter's body, the clack-clack-clack of her heels a rhythm that threatened to drive her mad. She imagined some ruthless **** pulling her into an alley at knife-point and stabbing his prick into her. Or calling Superman to swoop down out of the cloudless sky and thrust his fingers into her as she babbled out what had happened to her tonight. Jamming the smartphone into her ass for just a moment's relief...

Then she came to the adult toy store. A small, seedy little place, only two blocks from her apartment. Still open. Lois barely thought as she turned in. Past the doors, the upright monoliths of the sensors to prevent shoplifting. Into the brightly-lit, clean space where dildos and butt plugs lay in pristine plastic packages against every wall, and aisles were filled with DVDs, magazines, little memory sticks filled with gigabytes of hard pornography.

Behind the counter was a little old lady, grey-haired and with thick glasses, in a black polo t-shirt. Knitting what looked like a sock.

Lois went through the store. At first, she grabbed the smaller butt plugs. Little silicone teardrops with fake jewels on the flared base. Yet need drew her to grab the biggest plugs. Then several of the largest dildos—the longest, the thickest—and ben-wa balls that went from the size of a lawbreaker to as big as a small bowling ball. She was shaking as she carried her harmful of sex toys to the counter. The old woman smiled nonchalantly, surveyed the mass, and asked in a soft, quavering voice:

"Lube, dearie? There's a sale."

When Lois Lane left the store, several hundred cum-stained dollars lighter, she carried a plastic bag of oversized sex toys in one arm, and a gallon jub of personal lubricant in the other, barely disguised by a nondescript black bag. The old woman had even been kind enough to double-bag it, but the reporter's cheeks still burned as she trudged the final blocks to her apartment building. Aware of every person and camera she passed, as if they had X-ray vision and could see her shame.

The ride on the elevator seemed to take forever. The reporter panted and quivered, her shoulders ached from the weight of her carnal cargo as she stumbled down the corridor. A few miles in heels made Lois Lane's legs ache. Her shoulders drooped. She fumbled with the key. Burst into her apartment and closed the door.

She didn't even both to get undressed first. The first dildo was nearly a foot long, three inches thick, a deep chocolate brown with sculpted veins and a half-molded pair of balls above the suction cup. Lois slammed it onto the floor and cracked the seal on the lube. Moaned like a bitch in heat as her skirt ran up her thighs, her buttocks. As soon as the toy was wet, Lois aimed her ass toward it and eased herself down.

As her asshole stretched around the tip, Lois let out a low, deep moan. Intellectually, she knew that she needed to take it slow. Don't go too fast. Give herself time to acclimate to the size.

Yet her hips and thighs couldn't stop. The head popped out of her ass, and she guided it back in. Two or three times she did that, every moment the exhaustion growing inside of her, as well as the dire need.

Then the heels on her borrowed shoes snapped...and Lois fell down. All the way to the base. To twitch and spasm in a sudden, intense climax unlike anything she had ever experienced. It was like losing her virginity all over again.

When morning came, the sunlight creeping through the glass door to Lois Lane's balcony, the reporter was still on her kitchen floor, legs out in front of her, impaled on her new toy. She had fallen asleep in place, sitting up, back against her fridge. Not once during the long hours had she even touched her pussy. As the sun hit her eyes, the reporter moaned...not in sexual satisfaction, but the groan of long-needed sleep denied.

She leaned forward...and with a loud pop, the suction cup gave way. With the fat dildo still lodged firmly in her ass, the reporter crawled on hands and knees to the glass door and closed the blind. Then to the bed, where she collapsed again.

Maybe it was the dildo that let her sleep so soundly. Later, Lois Lane would worry about that...and about the other changes she would discover in herself. Yet for now, Lois Lane's ass was full, and the reporter was content. Her night out was over...and her new life had only just begun.