End: To A Nearby Brothel

They left the club. Out into Metropolis and the night, the air cool on the reporter's skin, Angelica Blaze's hand hot on the reporter's wrist. The moon glared down at them, as their heels clicked on the pavement...and barely two blocks from the club, Blaze's head turned sharply. Her nostrils flared, and she led Lois down a small alley, through an open door into a small, lit room.

Full of whores.

Four walls, three couches, eight women, barely dressed, listless and beaded with sweat, reeking of sex. Empty-eyed, their party dresses rumpled as if they slept in them, legs spread to show their pussies. A big man stood by the only door that led deeper into the building, massive arms crossed against his chest, a pistol in a holster at his right hip. On the other side of the door, a little old Asian woman, scrunched and ancient.

The nearest whore rolled her head to stare at Lois. She was slim, with a wan, dissipated look, the long silky hair of a pink wig incongruous with the deep shadows under her eyes.

"Hey. I'll suck your ass for ten."

Lois looked at her. The reporter felt feverish, the sweat ran down her ribs, and her asshole clenched tighter.

"My ass is full of sperm," the reporter blurted, face flushed suddenly, exquisitely aware of the eyes now all on her, like a pack of cats who scent food.

The whore didn't miss a beat.

"Five, then."

Blaze gave the reporter's arm a tug. The demonic dickgirl addressed the old woman by the door.

"We are here to see Satanus."

It was not a request. The big man reached for his gun, but the old woman raised a hand. She smiled...and Lois Lane shuddered as she saw that the teeth were small and sharp, like a shark's. The grey head nodded.

"All the way to the end of the corridor."

The dickgirl pulled Lois behind her as she strode through the door. Hungry eyes followed her, focused on the reporter's backside.

Once, this must have been a boarding house. The corridor was gringy, the doors thin. Lois Lane heard the moans and slaps of flesh on flesh from left and right. Cockroaches scuttled underfoot, and dead insects filled the glass bowls of the lamps overhead as Blaze stalked down the corridor to its end...and Lois Lane tagged along behind her, unnaturally complacent, watching and waiting, but for what, she wasn't certain.

The final door opened of its own, and Lois and Blaze strode into what had once been a dingy office. Now, all furnishings had been stripped bare except for an ancient wooden throne-like chair set against the wall, raised up on a dias of three steps. A naked man sat in that chair, his skin blood-red, with a bodybuilder's physique, each muscle clearly defined. A dark helmet hid his face except for the glowing white eyes, and horns protruded through holes in the metal from his forehead.

Yet what caught the reporter's attention was his cock. Stiff, swollen, priapic, inhumanly tall...and four naked women clutched at his knees and fought over it, pulled it back and forth to suck on the swollen scarlet head, or struggled to suck on the immense, animalistic testicles that dangled over the edge of the throne.

"Satanus," Blaze said coolly.

"Sister. How lovely to see you," the voice echoed oddly, but it had the exact same accent Blaze had. "Care to join me?"

"Cut the shit, brother," Blaze said. "You've been hunting in my preserve."

Crimson hands came to rest on the heads of the naked women that fought over his crimson cock. Lois recognized now the missing women. The ones she had been hunting for.

"You didn't seem to miss any of them. Finder's keepers." Satanus acknowledged.

"Unacceptable, brother. Your predations have drawn attention," Blaze said evenly.

The helmeted head tilted. Lois Lane found herself staring into those glowing eyes.

"You don't think Superman will mind you buttfucked his little slut?" Satanus shot back.

"That is my concern," Blaze said. "Release them."

"In exchange for what?" Satanus said, his voice almost bored as his gaze shifted back toward her. "A favor at a later date? Or a ride with your...paramour?"

"How about you let them go and I won't rip your cock off and fuck you in the ass with it?" Blaze said, harshly.

Lois Lane was aware of a change in the energy of the room. The darkness in the corners drew darker, as though something drank the thin light that shown from the light fixture up above. The whores paused in their endless game of fellatio, suddenly pensive. The reporter saw their hair begin to stand on end, as though a massive static charge built up...and then she felt it on herself, the air lifting, nipples strained against her shirt, asshole clenched almost painfully tight as the jizz inside her burned.

Satanus sighed. He lifted his hands...and the women blinked, in sudden realization of where they were and what they were doing. Immediately, their hands moved to cover themselves, they stood up and backed away from the throne.

"Fine. I wish no quarrel with you, sister," Satanus said. "When are you coming home?"

"When I am finished with my business here," Blaze said. Then she tilted her head. "Until I return, our holdings are yours, of course."

"Of course," he said, voice hollow and tired. His eyes shifted back to Lois Lane, and for a moment the reporter thought he might speak again...but Blaze turned and pulled Lois behind her. She gestured to the naked women to follow, and they did.

Once outside, Blaze released Lois Lane's wrist...and it was as though Lois was her old self, almost. Quickly, she made calls. Arranged clothes for the women, social services. She talked to them about their experiences, the weirdly charismatic man that had talked them out of their old lives...endless memories of degradation, sex, living like animals in that filthy place...by the time the police arrived, the door guard and the old woman were gone, and the cops escorted the prostitutes out one at a time, wrapped in blankets.

Angelica Blaze hovered in the background, seemingly invisible to everyone except Lois Lane. Watching intently as Lois got her story, garbled as it was. A human-trafficking ring. No evidence of ****, but the women seemed listless, drained, hollowed-out by their experience. Some of the social workers had seen cultists like that, when they pulled them out.

Then, near dawn, the last of them waved at Lois as she was driven off, back to her old life.

Lois Lane blinked as Blaze stepped close, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

Instantly, the reporter felt weak at the knees. Her ass burned. Pussy wet. Nipples tented her shirt. ****, needy...

"It can be addictive," Blaze said. "Our presence. Our fluids. We are the mirror of your lusts, so long repressed. We feed on the psychic energy when those feelings are made manifest. When you...indulge. Yet my brother is crude, greedy. Rapacious. He let them burn themselves out, **** on their own dark desires. In time, they would have died, mindless things, little more than shells, consumed from within and without."

Lois Lane trembled as the dickgirl's head dipped. Her hot lips found the reporter's throat. Yet the reporter could also feel the demon's need. The hardness of her cock as it pressed against the tight pants that covered her ass.

"But it doesn't have to be that way. We can take it slow. What do you say, Lois?"

The reporter swallowed hard. She thought back to the events of the night. The ones that had brought her here now, to this place, with a succubus from hell macking on her. Blazes hands moved over her shirt and grabbed at the reporter's breasts...and all the rationality went out the window. Even though she had seen what happened to the other women. How utterly enthralled they had been. It was like offering someone a crack pipe after they had already seen the crackhouse, the addicts wasted and lost.

Yet Lois Lane's will crumbled in an instant. She was the moth drawn to the flame.

"Please," Lois whispered hoarsely. "Fuck me!"

"Of course, sweetmeat," Blaze said. "As you wish."