End: Lois Lane Never Gets Her Chance

Cocks rubbed against the reporter's sperm-spattered eyes. Fingers held Lois Lane's ass and pussy open as men and women took turns spitting inside of her gaping holes. Two young women sucked hard on her nipples, until the stiff sensitive flesh was sore and raw, and when their jaws got tired two young men replaced them.

No part of her was off limits. They braided her black hair with streams of jizz so that they dried into ugly locks. Stuck fingers into her mouth to rub cum into her gums. The reporter's fingers and toes pruned inside pussies as women masturbated themselves relentlessly against her extremities.

It wasn't like a gangbang or orgy on a porn film. There were no breaks for Lois Lane, no cuts, no moments when she could catch her breath. She was woman against dozens, and her opportunity to escape, even to fight back, was never there. Hands always gripped her, always kept her from scratching, biting, kicking. Even as Lois Lane gave way to frustration, fought and twisted against the hands that held her, that only meant that the bodies piled on, so that she was nearly smothered as more cunts rubbed against her, more cocks penetrated her aching holes, more cum poured into her over and over.

Little by little, the reporter's strength and stamina failed. The pain grew past her ability to endure. Her poor pussy had seen more cock tonight than it had in the rest of her life. Lois Lane's jaw ached, her tongue felt thick and swollen in her mouth.

How many cunts have I tasted? Lois Lane thought drearily as she was passed from hand to hand, limp as a dead fish. Her pussy and asshole hurt. Her jaw hurt. Tears leaked from eyes that burned. She could only smell sweat and cum, quim and ass. Jizz had few calories, and her stomach was stuffed with it so that it rumbled nauseously, hungry and yet overfilled with salty, bitterness. It caked her thighs and buttocks, and Lois Lane didn't want to imagine what diseases she might have caught, what her chances of pregnancy were. She felt like one of the sponges that prostitutes used to stuff deep in their cunnies to prevent the seed from reaching their wombs.

That's what I am now, Lois Lane thought, through her exhaustion. Cocks plunged into her cheeks, and she was too tired to try and bite them. Just a toy. A fuckdoll. Something to be used for their amusement and discarded.

That was her sole ray of hope in this long dark night out of the soul. The idea that at some point, they would be fucked out. That everyone had cum as much as they could, they would get tired of her, and then it would end. Even if they didn't let her go, if they just left her alone, let her sleep, recover some strength, that would be something.

Hell, for Lois Lane, was other people. Fucking her in every way imaginable, without end, without rest.

It didn't even matter to Lois now as her legs were **** far apart, so that two cocks could stab into her ass and two more cocks could penetrate her pussy at the same time. Her body tensed and shook as pain pierced her again. The tiny skein of flesh between as and pussy was stretched and stressed to the point where it threatened to tear. The reporter wondered if they would even stop if that happened, or if they would simply **** her wound wider so that they could use her blood as lube and core her out with their cocks and arms and feet.

Hot jizz spurted on her like rain. Lois Lane didn't even flinch. Not even as she was lowered onto her back. The hands slipped away. For a moment, for a space, she was alone, free.

Dimly aware of this one chance, Lois tried to **** her aching body to move. She pushed herself up on her hands and knees, arms as weak and wobbly as strands of spaghetti. Her palms and knees her, and bile and jizz surged in her throat. Lois Lane sucked in air as she tried to push herself forward.

A cock slapped her in the face, and Lois Lane collapsed as if she had been pole-axed.

Her body shook and shivered all over. Too weak to rise again. Darkness clouded her vision, and as she tried to open her eyes she found the cum had glued them shut. Then a voice drifted down from the darkness. Female, familiar, with that odd accent. Fingers pried her eyelids open, and blearily Lois stared at a crimson, feminine figure that knelt over her. A cock, bigger than anything she had ever seen on a human, as big as the reporter's own forearm, throbbed.

"A part of me wants to keep you here forever," the demon said. Because the reporter could see now the dark horns that swept back from that broad bow, the pure white eyes without pupil or iris. "Your suffering is...delicious. But I will give you one chance to escape, Lois Lane. Beg me to fuck you with my big cock, and I will let you crawl your cum-stained carcass back to your old, pathetic, sexless life."

Lois Lane's whole frame moved as she panted. The air felt heavy. She coughed, her whole body wracked as if a bit of jizz had gotten into her lungs. Blearily, she stared at the massive cock. Big enough to do some damage, even with how stretched out Lois Lane's holes were.

It was a damnable choice. But it was a choice. An opportunity. Swallowing the bile and her pride both, Lois Lane stared the demon in the eye and whispered hoarsely:

"Fuck me. Please."

The demon's hands burned as they spread the reporter's thighs in a movement that had become all-too familiar. Lois squeezed her eyes tight as the massive, rubbery head pressed against her aching and wounded pussy. This was worse than before. This was submission.

The scarlet succubus went slow. So that Lois Lane could feel every centimeter of that cock that stretched her pussy wider than before. That stabbed deeper than any other. Hit the back of her pussy and pushed forward until Lois Lane cried out as it ground against her cervix.

Hot hands grabbed the reporter's waist and pulled the reporter on an off that clock. Lois Lane had no more tears to cry at this pitiless ****, her body limp and flopping around like a ragdoll, yet her pussy felt overstuffed and tight as a condom on the crimson cock that defiled her.

Lois could feel it in her mind. The image of the red prick seemed to batter at her brain. Her exhausted body responded, sexual excitement an agony heaped on agony after the hours of sexual ****...and the demon's breathing became labored, her motions more frantic as she pumped the reporter's hole mercilessly.

The boiling jizz burned like acid, deep inside of her. A primal scream ripped from Lois Lane's lung as she was transported to some place beyond mere human pain and suffering. A shadowy cloud of ink pierced through some secret part of her and stained her soul, impregnating her consciousness with that sensation of utter spiritual degradation. In her nightmares for years to come, Lois Lane would always be drawn back to that moment, and every time she would wake in a cold sweat, her fist clenched between her legs, blood on the sheets, and feeling the taint that could never be washed away or douched out sink a little deeper inside of her.

The morning after her night out, Lois Lane would awake naked in her own bed. All the bruises and scratches of the night were there. All the filth and cum that bedecked her body. She pissed threw scabs and vomited yellow gobs of rancid jizz into the toilet. Shook with the memory of the thousand degradations she had suffered.

Yet there was one thing that marked her above all else. A dark souvenir of that night. One that Lois Lane would never be able to remove.

Her labia and asshole, from clit to rectum and the taint in-between, had turned from a pale pink to the bright red of fresh blood on parchment. The exact same color as the demon who had marked Lois Lane's holes as her own.