Epilogue: Déjà vu

Something was off, as Lois Lane entered the club. A vague sense of familiarity as she saw the dancers in their cages, the lights playing over the dance floor, the bouncers in their tight black t-shirts, little earpieces in their right ears. She walked to the bar as if she was in a dream, like she was retracing old steps through the snow. The bartender, a young woman with mousy reddish hair and pierced nipples that showed on her too-tight shirt, smiled at Lois almost as though she recognized her...and without the reporter even ordering a drink mixed an odd grey cocktail, pouring a slurry from a bottle marked XXX, and pushed it almost into her hand.

The reporter brought it to her lips and took a test sip. Warmer than she had thought, salty and somewhat bitter, almost slimy...but also damnably familiar. She took another, deeper sip, letting it wash around her tongue, trying to place where she had tasted it before. There was something in there that left a slight film, coating her teeth and throat. Before Lois knew it, she was taking a third sip, and the drink was half-gone; she hadn't realized how thirsty she was.

"Buy you another?"

The woman had come up to the bar behind Lois. About a head taller than her, and dressed in a one-piece dress that went from the top of her neck down to just above her thigh, a slinky black tube which hugged every curve, outlining her modest breasts (no bra, the reporter noticed) to great advantage, but with two holes from which her bare arms emerged. Black heels completed the look, but what caught Lois Lane was her face.

It was like the bust of Nefertiti; there was something in the shape of the skull that was regal and elegant, the forehead broad, the eyes dark and laughing, a smile like Mona Lisa, holding back some great secret, the whole framed by a mane of wavy black hair that shined like black gold.

"Have we...met?" Lois said, louder than she would have liked, but wanting to be heard over the thump-thump-thump of the music.

"You might have seen me around," the smile stayed where it was. The bartender brought two more drinks—another grey cocktail for Lois, something dark and on the rocks for her acquaintance. Somehow, without knowing how she knew, Lois could tell it would be dark rum and tequila. They clinked glasses, and sipped. The woman leaned against the bar, to better thrust out her breasts; Lois tried to focus on her face, racking her brain to think of where she had seen her before.

"Angelica Blaze," her new companion said.

"Lois Lane," the reporter said, then wished she could bite her tongue. She should have given her cover identity, but there was no help for it now.

The club began to fill up as people spilled into the club. The music ramped up, a driving beat that almost made Lois want to bounce to it, as so many of the younger women around were doing. People began to crowd the bar, and Angelica leaned forward.

"Let's go somewhere we can talk!"

Numbly, Lois nodded, finished her drink, and followed the woman's round, swaying ass through the crowd...and then past a security guy, through a door, and into a corridor behind it. Once the door was closed, they were alone...and it was quiet enough to talk without shouting.

"You work here?" The reporter asked.

"It's my club," Angelica turned backward and threw that enigmatic smile at Lois. She reached and grabbed the reporter's hand, dragging the unresisting woman further down the corridor. "Come on, my office is right down here."

Lois followed, surprised at this stroke of luck. If Angie owned the club, maybe she knew something about those women that had gone missing...

The reporter frowned mentally. Angie...why did I go from Angelica to Angie so rapidly? It's not like me to just give people nicknames like that...not until I've known them a little while.

The office was faded elegance: plush blue carpet that had seen better years, wood paneling, a massive slab of an oak desk with a much more modern laptop occupying a tiny fraction of its real estate. Against one wall was a small bar, topped with black marble, and on top of that glass bottles and crystal glasses; against the other a small black leather couch, hanging above it a gilt-framed mirror, hanging down from the top. There was only one exit beside the door they had come in, and that was behind the desk, opening to what looked like a small private bathroom.

Angie mixed them drinks. Lois was going to protest, but found that she was actually quite thirsty, and didn't mind another of those grey cocktails. She also noticed that her initial intuition about Blaze's drink had been correct: a dark rum splashed with a lighter tequila. Something about the way Angie swirled the drinks in her hands instead of stirring them evoked a memory in Lois...but as soon as she had it, it was gone.

She took the grey cocktail thankfully, sipping it just enough to take the edge off her thirst. Lois could already feel the previous two drinks simmering in her stomach, a warm, almost queasy heat spreading out from there to the rest of her body.

"So, what brought you here this time?" Angie hid her smile behind her glass.

"This time?" Lois furrowed her brow.

"Hmm, memory can be such a tricky thing," Angie said, putting her glass down and leaning against the desk. For the first time, Lois noticed an odd bulge in the front of it...and for a moment the reporter wondered what underwear Angie could be wearing underneath that tight dress, to make it look like that. "Maybe you need a reminder."

Lois opened her mouth to say something...but by then Blaze was rolling up the hem of her dressed, and out flopped a cock and balls. Almost immediately, Lois felt herself blushing...but more than that, her nose twitched, and something clicked in her brain. She knew this dick, somehow. Without knowing how she knew, she felt like she could have drawn every bump from every vein from memory. Even half-hard it was clear it was an impressive organ, bigger than any of her boyfriends, and there was a greasy grey droplet of precum hanging at the very tip.

The reporter found her heart racing, her pussy suddenly swamped, oddly light-headed and somewhat dizzy. Angie pushed herself up from the desk, her cock swinging hypnotically...and there was a discontinuity. Like the reporter's brain just clicked off. One moment, the cock was moving toward her, half-limp, and the next...

The cock was in her mouth. Lois Lane's lips were wrapped around her teeth, Blaze's cock pushing against her cheek, making it bulge obscenely. The reporter realized she was leaning down on the couch, Angie's knees on the edge of the cushion as she pushed her dick in and out of the reporter's mouth, the balls rapping lightly against Lois Lane's chin whenever the cock pushed deep into her mouth, threatening to go down her throat.

There was just something so familiar about the whole situation. Lois instinctively sucked on the cock fucking her face, the taste of the dickgirl's precum exactly like that of the cocktails she'd slurped down. Vaguely, the reporter wondered if they had been **** somehow.

Without warning, Blaze pulled her cock out of the reporter's mouth. Gasping for air, Lois instinctively leaned forward, mouth open—Angie hadn't cum yet—but the dickgirl held her shoulders, holding the cum-drunk reporter off.

"Now now...remember what I said last time? Let's let your other mouth have a drink."

The words stirred dim memories in Lois Lane. Her hands fumbled with her tight red pants, pulling them down to her knees. Her pussy was dripping, and Blaze effortlessly turned her over.

She gasped in recognition as the cock slid into her hot cunt. Memories flooded her brain...pleasant and terrible.

How many times have I come to this club? The reporter wondered. How many times have I ended up just like this, this demonic dickgirl fucking my cunt, my ass, my mouth, jerking off onto my tips, wiping her dick on my hair...

Lois Lane knew she should be crying, angry, hurt, but her traitorous body responded to Blaze grabbing her elbows from behind by tightening her cunt. Lois could remember the demon teaching her to do that, like Pavlov's dog, over and over again.

"I think those pants are getting a little tight at the waist," Angie said as her balls slapped against the reporter's labia. "When was your last period?"

Shit, the reporter thought. I knew I forgot something!

In her own bed, in her own apartment, the alarm on her phone blared. Lois Lane sat bolt upright, wet with sweat, **** and panting. Her eyes immediately went to her arms and legs, and a **** relief went through her as she found them all present and accounted for.

She shivered at the vividness of the wet dream. Her pussy was still damp.

Great Caesar's ghost! I wonder what brought that on? The reporter stared ruefully at the empty bottle of wine by the table, the laptop still open to a pornographic video. She didn't remember drinking or rubbing one out last night, but Lois knew if she had killed an entire bottle, she might have suffered an alcoholic blackout. At least, that would explain why her pussy was sore...and sticky.

Lois shook her head, which had begun to throb. Definitely a hangover. She needed to quit drinking entirely for a while. Clambering out of the bed on unsteady legs, the reporter stripped out of her bedclothes, eager for a shower and a brand new day...

...never noticing the distinct white stains in her panties as she tossed them in the laundry bin. Or the pregnancy test sitting on the edge of the sink.

"I really have to go to that club tonight," she told herself as she turned on the water. "I need to find out what happened to those missing women."