End: The Neighbors Are Invited Over To Use Her

"One mo' ting," the old woman said. "Open yo' mouth."

Do it, the voice inside the reporter's head said. You've gone this far.

Lois Lane did...and felt the bundle of green plant matter stuffed into her mouth. The mass of slightly bitter herb pinned the reporter's tongue to the floor of her mouth. As Lois closed her lips, there was the familiar rip of duct tape, and Lois felt the shiny silver pressed against her lips.

"Don't swallow," the old woman grunted...and then smiled. "It's good ganja."

That was when the reporter recognized the flavor, from late-night smells in dorm rooms, head shops, and marijuana dispensaries. She blinked and shivered, wondering how high she would get as her saliva slowly dissolved the mass of weed in her mouth. Lois could already feel the bitter pool of liquid cover her tongue. Experimentally, she swallowed, to let it flow down her throat as the old woman walked away.

For a moment, Lois wondered if she as just going to leave the naked reporter in the pillory, tripping on ****. Like an initiation, or a deprivation that made the sensuality that followed all the more intense.

Then she heard the woman's voice, talking to someone else. Heard the creek of the gate in the high fence. Lois Lane's eyes went wide as the woman welcomed her neighbors into her back yard...and now Lois knew what she was really in for.

There was a dozen of them. Some came in leather, others in latex. A shambling parade of older men and women, couples and throuples. Lois shuddered as she saw the man wearing nothing but leather chaps, his cock covered in little bumps from dozens of beads underneath the surface. The bare-chested woman with the huge black silicone strap-on dangling off her wide hips, like something better suited for a horse. A man who wore a glove, each of finger of which was a different kind of dildo.

A parade of sex freaks...and Lois Lane was the main course at this neighborly barbecue.

The voice in her head laughed...and faded...and then Lois Lane was left suddenly alone in her own head, with a mouth full of weed, naked and unable to free herself from the pillory as the cavalcade of men and women closed in on her.

"Go ahead," the old Black woman said with evident glee. "She asked for 'dis! Make her feel good."

Lois writhed. She moaned. Warm hands gripped her small breasts, squeezed her pussy. Held her buttocks apart and took turns spitting on her asshole. Watched her face as the gloved man pushed the smallest of his finger-pricks into her tight ass.

The night went on. She felt them suck at her breasts. Rub her flanks like a horse. The reporter clinched as that bumpy prick was the first to push into her pussy, hoping beyond hope that he was using a condom. Watching the fat woman stroke lube onto her horse-cock strap-on, wondering when it would be her turn.

Not that Lois was ready for it when that turn came. Her legs were weak and shaky by that point, the dark sky was lightening in the east. The hours between had seen the reporter's face burn with embarrassment as her body betrayed her, climaxing convulsively at the fingers in her hands and ass at the same time. Feeling the wet, hot something run out of her cunt, unable to know if it was lube or sperm, or even if she had pissed herself. She remembered how quite everyone got, two of the men holding her legs as the woman moved behind her.

Lois swallowed what was left of the saliva-sodden mass of weed in her mouth as the flared tip of the fat horse-dildo slipped past her well-lubed lip. Her bladder let go as the woman slowly **** herself forward. Sweaty hands grabbed the reporter's trim waist and pulled. Lois felt her head drawn back against the board of the pillory, and it was all she could do to not scream as the hot lump of psychoactive plants hit her stomach.

There was a huffing behind her. The reporter tried to go limp, but her back arched, hips moving on their own as the slack dildo shifted slightly in her pussy with each thrust. Lois Lane's pussy gaped obscenely around the wriggling black invader...but the events of the night had exhausted her in body and mind, and when she heard the grunting figure behind her squeal like a stuck pig, the reporter's eyes closed in relief...and then grunted as the fake cock pulled out, nearly turning Lois inside-out in the process.

The reporter was barely conscious as the neighbors filed away, their lusts sated. The old woman smiled as she pulled the pillory board up...and Lois was limp as a cat as the Black woman slid her shoulder under the reporter's midsection and lifted her up. Deep in the grip of the **** at this point, Lois was only dimly aware of being carried back into the house. The sharp pain as the duct tape was pulled off. The nipple of the water bottle pushed between her teeth. Being redressed, shuffled into the car...and finally, staggering out onto the curb outside her own building, red-eyed as dawn broke over Metropolis. Unable to even process what had happened as she staggered into the building, ass and pussy aching, muscles strained as if she had run a marathon...

...and numb and exhausted as she was, a part of Lois Lane wondered at the voice that had urged her on, the devil on her shoulder that had pushed her to make the choices she had. A suspicion grew in Lois about who or what that voice might really have been...but for now, her night out was over.