Epilogue: Turnabout

Circe was there when Lois Lane arrived. The sorceress was drinking wine at the reporter's table, dressed in a sea-green robe. Behind her, Lois could see the living room. Where her couch had been stood an X-frame of wood, with leather straps to hold the victim in place. A plastic tarp on the floor underneath it.

The lavender-haired sorceress looked up at Lois, unable to see the sprig of moly that Lois had shoved inside her blouse.

"Good. You're here," with one graceful movement Circe stood. No—not so graceful. Lois saw how pink her face was, the bottle half-empty. Circe was half-drunk. Normally, that would be a bad sign. She was a mean, spiteful bitch without ****, but wine brought out the cruelty in those hazel eyes. Lois had the scars to prove it.

The sea-green robe fell to the floor. Circe was naked except for straps around her waist, which held a black silicone strap-on in place. It was about nine inches long, slender, curved, and came to a wicked point. There were spikes along its length.

"Strip," the sorceress said, without any added emphasis.

Lois took off her coat and shoes, stepping toward the table. Playing for time, distance.

"May I have some wine first, mistress?" Lois said, not making eye-contact, feeling the flower against her breast.

"I suppose..." Circe said, but Lois was already reaching for the bottle.

As a cub reporter, Lois had seen a woman try to smash a wine bottle to make a makeshift weapon. It hadn't worked; the drunken, angry woman had come up with a fistful of glass. The reporter grabbed the bottle and swung it with all of her strength at Circe's head. Even drunk, the sorceress had quick reflexes, tried to dodge, green fire blazed in her eyes...and Lois felt a surge of sudden glee as a look of confusion crossed Circe's face the moment before the wine bottle smashed into her head.

Circe fell back, blood and wine streaming across her face. Lois Lane's right heel caught the side of the woman's left knee. The sorceress screamed...and the reporter's left uppercut cracked against her jaw, a line of pain running from Lois Lane's knuckle to her elbow, but the witch's head snapped back like it was on hinges.

Then Lois was on top of her, knees pinning her tormentor to the ground, and leading first with her left and then with her right she began to methodically pound her face. Cold rage burned inside of Lois Lane. All of the humiliations she had suffered, all the pain, all the indignities and...stupid, hot tears flowed down the reporter's face as she heard herself babbling, heart thundering, pussy....wet and dripping.

Lois shook as her bruised, scratched fists suddenly went limp. She could remember every orgasm that Circe had **** on her. Every tender kiss. The magic that healed the wounds that Circe had inflicted. Her cunny burned, longing for that rough touch, and for the first time Lois really understood those women who stay in abusive relationships, who kept on long after it was clear to everyone else and themselves what was going on.

Because a part of her wanted Circe to treat her like shit again.

"No," Lois said as she stood up. Her mistress's face was purple and swollen, eyes shut, dark purple bruises around the mouth, nose almost shapeless, so that the breath came out as bloody wheezes. Still breathing, but not moving.

The reporter got onto her feet...and grabbed that lavender hair. She dragged the semi-conscious woman across the kitchen to the plastic tarp. Hauled her into place on the X-frame. It would have been easier, with a willing victim. Lois Lane worked mechanically as she strapped Circe's hands and feet into the leather restraints and cinched them tight. When Lois had been under Circe's control, she had been **** to cooperate.

Circe's head hung low, her body limp as Lois unbuckled the strap on. Small, thick conical plugs, maybe three inches long, were lodged in the sorceress's pussy and ass, came out with a wet schlick. Lois didn't even bother to clean it as she unzipped her skirt and pulled off her panties. The moly was secured in her bra, the only part of her clothing the reporter kept on as she stepped into the harness, the plugs slick with Circe's fluids as she drew them into place.

It wasn't like Lois hadn't had Circe in every one of her holes before.

The straps were cinched tight. She guided the sharp tip to the spread cleft between Circe's legs. A line of bloody drool drizzled onto the black silicone with its spikes and cruel curve. Lois grabbed the hair and pulled the head back.

"Just once," the reporter said. "I want you to know how it feels."

Lois pushed her hips forward and up. It wasn't easy. There was resistance. Something tore inside of Circe, and just for a moment the swollen eyes opened a fraction, the hazel irises just visible...and Lois grinned as she began to move, hard and fast, just like Circe would do to her...

"Should we...?" Superman said, obviously uncomfortable in the hallway outside of Lois Lane's apartment.

"She needs this," Zatanna said. "Give her time."

"I must concur with Superman," J'onn J'onzz, the Martian Manhunter said. "As cathartic as the experience must be, I am concerned for Circe's wellbeing. Even a villain has rights."

"Five more minutes," Wonder Woman said, in a voice that brooked no argument. "She's been suffering at Circe's hands for weeks."

In the end, they gave Lois Lane fifteen.