End: No, Lois Lane Does Not

Lois Lane did not normally believe in the existence of God. She lived in a world of self-proclaimed demigods and extraterrestrials, had met sorceresses and plant elementals. Yet there had always been that lingering doubt, the natural skepticism of the journalist who demanded proof, not just faith.

Then, on rare occasions like this one, everything came together and Lois Lane saw the working of the divine behind the scenes, and she whispered a little prayer of thanks.

There was a ring that pierced the head of tall, blonde, and spray-tanned. Lois hooked it with her pinkie and pulled. The scream that burst out of his lips was like the orgasm of a cheerleader celebrating her 18th birthday. Even as he hunched over and grabbed at his bleeding cock, Lois Lane brought her knee up to meet his nose.

Blood fountained. His skull cracked against the button panel, and the elevator lurched back into life, on its way upwards.

All the cumulative stress and frustration of the reporter's night, all the pain and suffering, the humiliation and agony of her piss-filled pussy exploded in a monstrous moment of pure ultraviolence as the reporter kicked him, over and over.

When the doors opened, she grabbed his feet and dragged him out of the elevator. She must have looked a fright, with her high heels and star-spangled panties, the golden brassiere that exposed her midriff and emphasized what little cleavage the reporter had. The reporter looked like a whorish parody of Wonder Woman—and as Lois dragged the bleeding, moaning man through the crowd, they parted as if Moses had raised his hand. No one who met her eye held it; even hard men looked down at the bloody ruin of his crotch and blanched.

The restroom, while not particularly clean, was far from empty. There was a line of women, waiting their turn for a stall. Lois ignored them as she dragged the man in toward the sink...and that was when she felt Circe's curse lift. When it was no supernatural **** that held her pussy cinched tight, but only her mortal muscles and indominatble will.

He opened his eyes, just as the reporter popped a squat over him. Gilmpsed in shadowy recognition the pink line of a pussy.

Then the floodgates opened.

The sound Lois Lane made as all the stored piss fell out of her in a single gulf made the women in line blush. A hot stream burst onto the tanned man's chest as Lois Lane's own bladder let loose. The raven-haired reporter closed her eyes anr arched her neck, not caring at that moment who saw her. It was simple, utter relief...and when she stood up, the man spluttered and bubbled, embarrassed and, despite the injury, aroused.

Lois did not care. She stood up and grabbed at a paper towel to wipe her cooh. Tanned man's money clip in her hand. The exhausted reporter was past the desire to investigate. It was time to go home.

She held up the wad of cash.

"I need clothes."

Five minutes later, Lois Lane left the restroom, several hundred dollars poorer but reasonably dressed. A black leather skirt went to mid-thigh. A white wife-beater covered the whorish brassiere. A young woman had traded a pair of worn tennis shoes for the heels, and her friend had an extra pair of socks in her handbag.

Lois Lane stepped out into the night...what had been her night out. The cool darkness felt both timeless and ancient. She thought of the tattoos, the piercings, the brand. Thought too of Circe, drunk and horny. Wondered if the sorceress was watching her. Yet Lois was too tired to care. She aimed her feet toward her apartment, and began to walk.

Down below, the demon Blaze watched the reporter go, as a spider might watch a fly that had somehow crawled out of its web. The scarlet succubus frowned as she saw the web of power the lewd tattoos and piercings formed. Circe, even in her cups, was a formidable spellweaver, and had woven enchantments designed to keep the likes of Blaze away from her chosen plaything.

"By the Dark Gods, next time, Lois Lane," Blaze swore. "You will not be so lucky!"