Epilogue: Missing Work

It had been a week since Lois Lane had appeared at the Daily Planet offices. Three days since she last answered a phone call or email. Her rent was due. Credit card bill unpaid. Mold grew on the food in her fridge. Her bed hadn't been slept in. Phone left by the charger, but not plugged in, had died this morning.

Three miles away, Rois Road was in a cheap hotel. At some point, Tyrell had cut off her old hair, so that she rocked a blonde pixie cut. Her tits hung from her chest like small watermelons; her dumptruck of an ass bounced. Smeared makeup made an ugly mask of her face, lips too swollen to close entirely, one eye closed shut by encrusted cum. Her long pink nails were chipped, her waist waspishly thin.

There were six men in the room, when he found her. There had been thirty at the start of the week, taking turns. They came and went, and now there was six. Empty bottles of water and little cellophane wrappers littered the room. Take-out boxes, spent bottles of lube. A glass mirror piled high with pink dust, a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill crusted with brown blood. No condoms, of course. Sex toys. The tripod for the camera, but no camera.

The last man blew his load just before Clark Kent came in. An old, overweight man, greying and out of shape; the kind that dreamed of trophy wives they couldn't afford, except by the hour. He pulled his swollen knob out of the bimbo's bruised and battered cunt and wiped his head on her thigh.

They had been keeping a tally on her body, in sharpie...until the marker had run dry. Groups of four lines crossed by another line covered the bimbo whore's buttocks, abdomen, even her swollen breasts and cheeks.

She stirred in the bed...and behind his glasses, Clark Kent's eyes began to glow red.

Not all of her customers had been gentle. The swollen lips were split. The cum crusted over a black eye, swollen and yellowing at the edges. There were bruises on her throat, teeth mark on the massive breasts...needle marks in the hollows of her elbows and between her toes.

One of the six men named a price for her. Clark had paid more for his last cappuccino.

Clark Kent closed the door behind him as he stepped inside. It was a measure of his self-control that when he opened the door again, the brainless bimbo in his arms and covered with the sex-stained sheet, the men were still alive. Some of them would even walk again. Someday.

"It's alright, Lois," Clark told her as they headed toward Bruce Wayne's private hospital. "It will all be okay. You'll see."

Somewhere, beneath a club, the demon Blaze pressed a button...and Rois Road's sexual escapades were uploaded onto the web. It was a pretty, considering that there was little enough of Lois Lane's brain remaining to even appreciate how truly fucked she was...but the scarlet succubus smiled to herself as she carefully mailed selected snippets from the erotic opus to Lois Lane's sister, father, and employer...and then shifted over to Lois Lane's social media, whose passwords had been given up long ago for one more pill, so that all her friends and followers would see Lois posting her own porn from her own official account.

"Stupid bitch," Blaze said, to no one in particular, as she closed her laptop.