End: What Doesn't She Do?

When Lois Lane first walked into the club that night, she would never have found herself squatting on her heels, sucking off a gay man in public. Yet now, here she was. Uncaring who saw her. No...excited at the prospect that people would see her roll her tongue around his cockhead. Grip his balls with her nails so he couldn't pull away. Determined to get what she wanted from him.

Maybe a part of her did die that night. Maybe something else had slid into her soul. Dampened down all those pesky inhibitions. Tamped down the empathy. Heightened her sexual desires. Twisted the reporter's ethics and morality around.

As Sal shuddered, groaned, stiffened, and spurted his hot bitter load into Lois Lane's mouth, she found she didn't give a shit. The reporter swallowed the nasty spunk with relish. Proof positive of her sexual conquest.

Nor did she let Sal go when she stood up.

"Ready to talk, Sal?" she half-shouted in his ear, to be heard above the music of the club.

"You're crazy!" he shouted back, eyes wide with fear.

Her nails dug into his balls.

"Sounds like you need more convincing!" She said. "Where can we get some privacy, Sal?"

He whimpered. She tightened, nails digging into the soft flesh. His will crumbled.

"R-rooms in the back..." he pointed.

She tugged, he followed. Sal had ****. Lois Lane literally had him by the balls.

It wasn't much of a room. Barely wide enough for a single cot. Once, perhaps, it had been a storage closet. Some faded corporate poster, ripped and torn, still hung from the wall. It would do.

Lois Lane pushed Sal into the bed as she closed the door.

"Tell me everything," she said, as she stripped off jacket and heels. "And I'll only turn you bi. Hold out on me, and you won't be able to get hard for anything but pussy by the time I'm done with you."

"This is ****," Sal said as he backed into the furthest corner of the bed. "You bitch. Cunt. Monster! Leave me alone."

"When I'm done, Sal," Lois Lane promised, a dangerous gleam in her eye. "You'll dream of cunt."

It was a long night. Lois Lane did things to Sal she had never done to any man before. She laughed as she **** each unwanted orgasm from him. Licked his tears as he cried in shame. Fingered his asshole as she sucked him hard again, then mounted him as soon as she had **** life back into his dick. Sal never imagined what it was like, raw and unprotected in a woman. Never knew how many times in a night he could cum. Or what a woman could do to him, to get him hard.

By the end of Lois Lane's night out, she had swallowed fifteen loads...and Sal stared glassy-eyed at the ceiling, utterly broken. Even his balls looked a little smaller, limp and unresponsive no matter how Lois smacked them. Near dawn, in a voice near ****, Sal finally told her what Lois Lane wanted to know.

Her name was Blaze. She owned the club, ran it. The stuff in the bottles marked XXX, she provided it. Told them to dose young women, here alone. Mix it in with the cocktails. Some of them, it just made them hot and loose. Fuck in the bathrooms, dance wildly, drink more. Some of them, if they had too much, they'd get real quiet. Haunted eyes. Sal had seen them head downstairs to the Black Door...but they'd never come back. None of them. He didn't know what happened to them.

"Did you ever try that XXX Sal?" Lois said, then gave his limp prick one final lick. Utterly spent. A dry well.

"N-no. Sh-she warned us about that. S-said we w-weren't ready..." Sal gulped.

"What happens to the women, Sal?" Lois said. "The ones that go beyond the Black Door?"

"One...one of the other bartenders...she said they're living down there. Like in a cult. They get...they get deliveries at the back door...every Thursday. It's supposed to be like one big non-stop orgy or somethin'. I never...I never cared about that." He had no more tears to cry, but Sal's face twisted into a rictus of shame. "I only liked guys..."

"Not anymore, you don't," Lois grinned. She stood up.

"Thursday. That's my opportunity, then. To find out what's really going on. And Sal? You're going to help me do it."

Sal closed his eyes. He lay like one dead, but his chest rose and fell. The reporter could feel him surrender to her will. The power of her pussy. All that seed he'd shot swam around in her stomach...and Lois Lane felt electric. Alive. Motivated.

Maybe Lois Lane did die a little, on that night out...but something stalked the streets of Metropolis wearing her shape, with her journalistic instinct, drive, and curiosity...and with a hunger that could not easily be sated.