End: Masturbate Her Brains Out

A slippery slit is a slippery slope. That woman's smell filled her head. The strangely familiar perfume of cunt wafted out from the exposed pages of the book...and Lois Lane's fingers moved, almost of their own accord, rubbing her clit with something more than practiced ease. There was a need—an urgency—that drove her on. Her juices flowed more freely than she had ever known but something was missing, and Lois couldn't find her rhythm.

The more she tried to focus, the fainter the smell grew, and the further away the reporter's climax seemed to fade. Vexed, Lois rubbed her pussy harder, more roughly. Her fingers dipped into her sopping slit, sliding in easily, grasping at the spot inside of her which tonight seemed illusive...growled in agitation...and then she looked at the book again, that great gaping crimson wound that almost seemed ready to drip from the page...

...in utter frustration, Lois closed her eyes and lay back, momentarily giving up...and the moment she did, that delectable scent filled her head again, as though a hot, juicy quim hovered just before her face. Lois could almost feel the heat of it. For just a moment Lois couldn't think of anything...and she almost came right then and there.

It's so hard, not to think. To just let go...just the need that drove Lois on was like nothing she had ever experienced. Yet as her fingers plunged in and out of her cunny. As the electric thrill ran up her spine every time her fingertips found that spot inside of her. The reporter's toes curled, buttocks clenched, hips raising up off the bed as Lois began to pant...drinking in that tainted air...lungs burning, nipples hard and stiff, standing out tall from her small, palmable tits that quivered with each bucking heave into the air.

A slippery slope....because it was becoming easier and easier to just not think. To find her rhythm, bucking and fucking her sloppy snatch with stiff, aching, pruned fingers. Little by little the reporter gave way...let her body embrace the rhythm, the motion, pulse pounding in her temples, hot juice running in rivulets down her legs, forming a wet spot on the bed that her ass landed in every time it settled for a moment.

Yet all the time, Lois Lane's climax seemed just over the horizon. She needed to rub her clit more...slam her fingers into her sloppy, aching slit...suck in that hot, pussy-scented air. The image of that crimson cunt filled her mind's eye.

Until Lois could think of nothing else.

Until Lois could not think at all.

Like an animal. Or a robot. A biological robot, fulfilling her programming. A mindless machine, her entire life drained away as a third finger slipped into her sloppy cunt. As squeezing to tight it hurt, eyes rolling up in the back of her head, squirting harder and farther every time, the wet stain beneath her spreading. Muscles in Lois Lane's body threatened to tear themselves from her bones as she **** a fourth finger in her, wrist curling, knuckles stretching her labia, **** for more.

By dawn. she was curled up on the bed, hand buried to the wrist in a cunt rubbed pink and raw, inflamed by hours of constant, frantic masturbation. Utterly empty and spent. Drooling from the corner of her mouth. A blank slate.

The demon Blaze gathered her book up from the bed, snapping it shut. Soon enough, someone would find the reporter when she failed to show up for work...in her black heart, the villain hoped it was Superman that found his love like this, an empty, nymphomaniac shell of her former self. A smile graced the demon's lips. It was a sweeter wound than she could have dealt to the Kryptonian any other way...and the best part was, the reporter's own curiosity had been her downfall.