End: The Robed Woman Has Horns

The figure that bore the pitcher of beer turned...and Lois Lane saw the dark horns that rose up out of the cowl of that robe. The naked body beneath was red as fresh blood on parchment. Pure white eyes, without pupil or iris, burned with their own internal light from beneath the shadowed folds of the cowl.

"Lois Lane," she spoke, with a voice like a velvet glove that gripped the reporter's throat and choked out any word she might make. "How wonderful of you to join us. As you can see, we have a place waiting."

Hands gripped the reporter's arms. Aisha on one side, Maria on the other. Lois Lane knew she should fight them...kick and twist away...but those white eyes held the reporter's gaze. There was a terrible power in those eyes, and the will behind it seemed to reach out and hold the reporter's own. Lois could muster only feeble protest as the two women who had guided her here dragged her to the empty pillar, and clapped the manacles about her wrists.

The horned woman—the demon, as Lois came to think of her—stood before Lois, unblinking, to hold her gaze as the scissors came out, and the reporter's clothes were cut from her. The reporter blushed as her breasts and pussy were bared. Her thighs clamped shut, but Lois still felt terribly exposed.

"You have a beautiful body," the demon said and stepped forward. "You should learn to enjoy it...and to let others enjoy it."

The pitcher of beer was brought up to Lois Lane's lips. The gaze burned into the reporter's skull, a white light that seemed to obliterate all conscious thought. Lois felt her traitorous lips sip the bitter, heady brew. A strange heat radiated from her stomach, through the reporter's naked limbs.

The reporter's head spun as the pitcher was finally taken away. Her mind was not entirely her own. Like the other naked women, she stood listless as the club slowly filled up...and one by one, strangers came up onto the stage. Lois hung from her wrists, tongue limp and useless in her mouth as they began to touch the other women. To touch a nipple there. Run a hand up a naked thigh. Slip a finger inside a slit. They moved from one to another.

Until they got to Lois.

The first hand that grabbed her breast was sweaty, nervous. Lois tried to turn her face away, but something **** her to look into the eyes of the man that groped her. Pushed her lips into a smile. Which only encouraged them further.

More and more men came onto the stage. Four or five of them surrounded Lois, their hands all over her body. Between her legs. Pushed past her defenseless labia. Suck on her nipples until they were hard. **** their tongues into her mouth.

It was only a matter of time before the cocks came out.

Dimly, Lois Lane heard the wet smack of flesh on flesh, and a scream of pain. One of the other women, perhaps not **** sufficiently, had become their punching bag. Lois had her own problems. One of the men had pulled her legs up so he could squeeze his prick into her slit. The violation was dull, almost expected, a blind thing that pushed in and out of her pussy without thought or care to her pleasure.

A weird dissociation came to Lois then. As if she watched all this happen to someone else on a documentary. Even though she could feel him finish, squeezed her muscles to push his watery jizz down over her thighs, another came to take his place, and then another, and another, the punters stood in line, cocks in hand, avid eyes fixed on her like a hungry man might eye a joint of beef. Her eyes fixed on their faces, identifying characteristics...height, weight, age, tattoos...as if some part of her was going to document this all, write it up in a column.

It must have been near dawn when the last on wiped his cock off on her belly. Lois Lane, exhausted and tired, dully looked over the tally-marks and crude comments drawn on her body. Someone had brought a sharpie, and they had all loved that. Her shoulders burned, as the chain was now most of what kept her upright; her legs felt weak as noodles, a filthy pool of accumulated jizz beneath her cunt, which ached, fucked raw and red.

Dimly, Lois was aware of Aisha and Maria as they unlocked the other women and, one by one, carried them away. Until Lois was all alone.

Then the demon came to her again. Red fingers caressed the reporter's cheek, then settled around her throat, warm and tight as a familiar necklace. The white gaze found Lois Lane's eyes and held it, once again.

"The first time is difficult. But I can make the pain go away. Clean your body. Good as new. Swear yourself to me, Lois Lane, and all this will be not even a memory...as if your night out never happened..."

The reporter's jaw worked. She could feel her tongue become unglued, for a moment.

"Go to hell," Lois Lane croaked.

A smug half-smile graced the demon's lips.

"In time. Perhaps you will change your mind...tomorrow night."

Then she turned and left Lois there. Naked, stained with cum, marked with the tally of her rapes. Yet a part of Lois Lane remained defiant...and as the horned figure left the room, and the lights in the room died, so that Lois was left in darkness, Lois could feel something of the demon's influence go with her.

The reporter grimaced as she **** her aching body to stand on her tip-toes. Fingers dug around in her hair for a bobby pin. Exhausted as she was, working blind, it took Lois nearly six minutes to pick the locks on the manacles. To fall with a splash into the puddle of jizz beneath her.

Except she was free. Lois **** herself to her feet and staggered forward on the stage. She worked from memory, and by touch. Naked, yes. Alone, for the moment. Tired, violated, emotionally numb...yet defeated?

No. Not yet. Lois Lane grit her teeth as she found the shreds of her clothes...and then her smartphone, right where she left it. The press of the button, and the light of the screen hurt her eyes. A call...a distress cry...and help was on the way.

Lois sank into a chair, naked and cold. The impact of the night slowly crept up on her...and they found her there, wrapped a cape around her, carried her far away. To home and healing. Yet Lois Lane felt that for the rest of her life, a part of her would be chained to that pillar on that stage.