End: Make Harley Sing While Lois & Ivy Double Fist-Fuck Her Pussy and Ass

"Now," Ivy said, as one lock of red hair fell in front of her eye. "I want you to sing it."

"P-pammy...I-I'm real-ly..." Harley said, the strain evident in her voice.

"You sang it before. For him," Ivy said savagely. "Now I want you to sing it for me while we wreck your holes."

It must have been love. Or madness. Or that place where love and madness meet and mingle. Lois Lane watched, dizzy and still under the influence of Ivy, as Harley Quinn took a deep breath...and then her voice caught, and she offered a single querulous note that resolved into a word, a tune...

"Haa-aaap-py birth-day...to meeee..." Harley began, and then Lois could feel Ivy's hands move. The reporter did likewise. Clasped together, the reporter pushed her fists up and down, almost pulling them out of the straining birthday girl's pussy before shoving them back in. Behind Harley, Ivy was doing the same thing to her girlfriend's ass.

"Haa-aa-aa-ap-p-py B-b-b-iiiirth-day...t-t-tooo...mee-ee-EEP!"

The clown's voice shot up into a squeak as Lois Lane's lips found Harley's swollen kit. Ivy was panting, her hands moving faster and deeper.

"H-h-ap-py b-b-irthday...d-d-deeaar-Haaar-leeey..." Harley Quinn's voice was out of tune. Her whole body suddenly taut as Ivy and Lois continued to fist her pussy and ass, stretching the two holes to their limit and beyond. Lois felt her fists touch something, some barrier of resistance deep inside of the woman.

"H-a-p-py...birth-day...t-t-t-oo..." Harley struggled as her body heaved and convulsed, ass and pussy spasming around the four invading hands. Lois Lane looked up, lips still locked on that clit, and saw the villain's face twisted into a rictus of utter idiocy, completely lost in the sensation.

"...MEEEEEE!" Harley belted out, her lungs emptying in a single convulsive spasm and rush of air.

Mismatched eyes rolled back in her head. Face locked in a stupid grin, Harley fainted and collapsed backward onto her girlfriend. Which meant that the hot spray of Harley's juices from her singularly cataclysmic climax spurted directly into the reporter's open mouth, as the clit was pulled off the reporter's lips.

Slowly, Lois and Ivy disengaged. The reporter's fingers were pruned. Her forearms ached. Harley's juices dripped from her chin. Lois could taste the slightly acrid spray. She'd swallowed some of it.

"Well, she should remember that birthday," Ivy said smugly. "But let's get a few pictures, just in case."

Meekly, Lois found herself using her fingers to stretch Harley's gaping holes while Ivy took photos. Posed with her bare pussy pressed against the **** clown-villain's face. Sucking on one pale tit and giving a peace sign. Using a permanent marker to write nasty things on the pale body.

SLUT. WHORE. IVY'S CUNT. NOT AS FUNNY AS SHE THINKS. HYENA BITCH.

Lois Lane wasn't sure when exactly Ivy's influence wore off. She remembered at some point Ivy had broken out a bottle of vodka and decided they would do shots, and Lois had been listening, asking the occasional questions, and then the realization had dawned on the reporter that she could just...stand up, get dressed, leave. Go home. Put this night out and its bizarre sapphic exercises behind her.

She licked her lips. Ivy's eyelids were heavy. Her words slurred. The redhead reached for the shot glass, a dreamy smile on her lips.

"Ivy," Lois said, feeling weirdly more sober than she was. "Some women have gone missing lately. From this club. Do you know where they went?"

It was a brief interview. The answers were slurred. Ivy was slumping, half-asleep, when Lois caught her and carried her over next to where Harley Quinn snored away. Yet Lois had at least a little of what she'd sought when she came out to the club tonight. A lead, an address, a name, someone to talk to. The next step in her investigation.

Which only meant that she had to decide what to do with Harley and Ivy.

Lois Lane was tired. More than a little drunk. And she already had the marker and the camera.

Which is why, when Harley and Ivy woke up the next morning, they found some more comments and images drawn on their body, and a few more pictures on their phone. Lois Lane had stumbled away, dressed in borrowed bits of their costumes, and wondering how Ivy would feel when she saw CUNTLICKER drawn on her face in permanent marker, or the little marriage bands Lois had drawn on their left ring fingers, the word HONKERS across those pale green tits, and stranger notes which had made sense to the reporter's ****-impaired mind, though probably wouldn't make quite as much sense when she was sober and hungover the next morning.

Although Lois at least had the bright idea to send the photos to her own phone, too.

It would be a little souvenir to remember her strange night out.