End: Six Hours in Latex Sucking Cock

The waiting was the worst part. Trapped in her latex shell, hot and sweaty, the sweat pooling around the lowest parts of her prison, Lois couldn't see anything. Couldn't scream. Could only listen as the dull thump of the music ended. The doors opened. Feet on the floor...the sounds of surprise as they saw her.

The first dirty thumb stuck into her mouth tasted of cheap beer.

The first dirty cock followed not long after.

Warm. Hard. The sour drop of piss on the tip ran across her tongue, the laughter of the men around her. Hands pressed against the latex, hard enough that she could feel them enjoy the curve of her ass, while the one in front of her gripped her head for leverage as he humped her face. Focused as she was on the cock pumping her mouth, Lois could only pick up bits of speech:

"...form a line!"

"Slut."

"Cumbucket."

"No, I don't have another fucking condom."

"Give that bitch some protein."

"...not a dude?"

"A hole's a hole."

"Fuck that's tight."

"Time to drain the monster."

"Chug that spunk!"

Lois did. Some of them had condoms, some didn't. The bitter, sticky spunk roared into her mouth in ropes...and without many other choices, Lois swallowed. Felt each salty, nasty squirt slide down her throat. She reminded herself that what didn't kill her made her stronger...and that it was just cum. Nasty as it was, Lois knew she would survive this.

Yet it was a long night.

The cocks seemed endless, the reporter relishing the few moments when her mouth was free. Her stomach was hot, nausea taking hold of her and she trembled within her constricting prison. Muscles in her arms and legs ached from their **** positions. Lois tried to reassure herself that many people had survived far worse. Prisoners of war in Vietnam kept in bamboo cages so they couldn't sit, slaves in the antebellum South kept in hot boxes under the boiling sun. Submissive sluts who would have paid good money for just this experience...

Yet for Lois, it was simply misery. Small aches and irritations spread and multiplied. A little itch in the middle of her back, utterly inaccessible, became a burning patch. Sweat dripped down her heaving sides as the inside of the latex shell became a sauna, the liquid pooling about her extremities rising a little higher and a little higher...and it wasn't all sweat. Her pussy was a sodden mess beneath her fingers. Lois had saved her cunny from violation, but it pulsed and throbbed...but Lois dared not try to touch herself anymore. The trapped reporter felt the effects of the heat and dehydration, and worried about surviving until morning.

So did the crowd.

"Hey, let's give the bitch a drink!"

A bottle was **** through the hole. Lois coughed, sputtered, nearly drowned as the warm whiskey filled her mouth, burned down her throat. Her stomach roiled, still lacking solid food...and her bowels contracted as her body, unaware that there was nowhere for that waste to escape, tried to void...but Lois squeezed her muscles hard until the sensation settled down.

For now.

Maybe it was the occasional drinks of **** which made Lois lose count of how many cocks had slid into her mouth. Maybe she simply became cum-drunk. In the tight latex, her stomach felt bloated and swollen with cum. Exhaustion nagged at the reporter. She exerted so little energy trapped as she was, and doing nothing was worse in many ways than anything else. She was afraid that she might fall asleep...and that the men would continue to fuck her face, offloading her cum into her body. Probably they wouldn't even notice if she died...

Except she did not die.

Eventually, the music ended. The cocks became fewer, and those that left took longer. There was no rush in the wee hours of the morning, when the partying crowds had gone home. Lois dimly felt a relief that no one had tried to carry her off...and then she was alone. For what seemed like an eternity, but might have been only five minutes. Lois wanted sleep, but shooting pains ran through her limbs.

The last footfalls were heavy, yet hesitant...they stopped...Lois guessed that whomever they belonged to had seen her. Then there were no footsteps, just something tearing the latex from her body, as though they had simply flown across the filthy tile without touching it.

The cool air made the reporter's wet, naked skin squirm. She almost screamed as light hit her eyes, too bright, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Yet that glimpse had been enough to see who her rescuer was...who must have gone looking for Lois all night, and finally found her here. When the latex ring was taken out of her aching mouth, the reporter stammered.

"Sm-smallville...get me to a...toilet."

He placed the naked reporter on a warm toilet seat, Lois leaning against the wall of the stall, her arms and legs not wanting to work right. She unclenched...and nature took its course after the long night out's debaucheries.

Clark Kent returned, moments later, in the middle of it. He had sports drinks to replenish her electrolytes, dry clothes, wet wipes. Helpless as an infant, she let him baby her...not even objecting as he wiped her ass and pussy, the clean-wipes sliding over her neck and breasts. Strong fingers massaged the life back into her arms and legs, fingers and toes. She was more than half asleep as he **** the bottle between her lips...the dry shirt over her bare breasts, the sweatpants over her panty-less legs. Lois thought she did fall asleep for a second, as he gathered the reporter, who had lost pounds of water weight, in his arms to carry her out of there.

The story of what she had endured Clark would get out of her later, as he nursed Lois Lane back to health...and when he found out who had been responsible for her suffering, he vowed to make them pay.

In her sleep, Lois Lane was back in that private hell. Perhaps a part of her would always be there...or perhaps a part of her would yearn for that punishment. Yet that is another story.