End: Be Traumatized Into Sexual Guilt Like A Repressed Puritan

"I think we broke her, sir." Mercy Graves said.

"So it would appear," Lex Luthor said, disappointment evident in his voice.

The reporter sagged in the stimulation chair, eyes wide but unseeing, breathing shallow. Alive, ****, quaking and shivering...mumbling...

"No...bad girl, bad girl...I'm a bad slut...no one wants to fuck me...I don't deserve to be fucked..." the words came from Lois Lane's lips in barely a whisper, like a mantra, over and over.

"Vaginal lubrication has decreased...blood flow to the genitals decreased...body temperature lowered...vaginal muscles tightening...brain activity has shifted away from ideal parameters..." Mercy tapped at one measurement after another. "I think she's traumatized."

Lex Luthor sighed and ran a hand over his bald head.

"Too fast," he said. "And perhaps too much negative reinforcement. Well, log the data, enact the Lethe protocol, and get her dressed and in a cab back to her own apartment. Perhaps we'll have better luck next time."

Mercy Graves tapped at the keyboard. A reddish crystal, metallic and reflective, was revealed from the wall in front of the reporter, bathing her in its strange rays. Her mumbling stopped as a pins-and-needles sensation hit her face...and seemed to sink into her brain.

Lois Lane awoke as the cab driver shuffled her out of the vehicle. She reeked of tequila, and her head felt like someone had unscrewed the top of her skull, taken a shit in it, and clumsily screwed it back on. The reporter managed to stagger into the building, past the frowning doorman, and into the elevator. It took three tries to hit the button for her floor...and then Lois leaned against the wall as the elevator shrugged into life and began to ascend.

The night was a blank. She remembered going to the club. Lois could taste the sticky-sour aftertaste of booze and bile in her mouth, but there was nothing of the headache she associated with hangovers. Her body was sore in odd places, and as the elevator stopped, doors opened, and she staggered out of the elevator she saw red marks on her skin...and her pussy hurt.

She shivered. Just the idea of sex made her feel...bad. Guilty.

Bad girl, Lois Lane told herself, overwhelmed suddenly with a queasy sensation in her guts. Bad slut. Bad...

The reporter rubbed her arms and hugged herself as she made her way to her apartment. Something had happened tonight, she was sure of it.

Could I have been roofied? She wondered. Was I...****?

Yet the thought of being **** didn't hit her with the horror it should have. Instead, there was that instinctive guilt, a sensation of worthlessness.

Who would try to fuck a worthless slut like me?

Lois Lane found her apartment, and a bottle of water. She sat there, huddled together, trying to work it out in her head. It was a puzzle...and trauma is not overcome in an instance, or a night. Her night out was long over, yet something had happened to her...something that made her shrink from the very thought of sex, that made her question herself...and Lois Lane knew that if she was to live her life, she would need to fix whatever was broken in her. Somehow.