Lois Is Not Alright

The reporter stared at her empty glass. The room had begun to spin, and too late Lois realized what must have happened. The bartender reached out and plucked the glass from an unresisting hand as Lois felt herself falling...into what felt like a great furry bed, a massive pair of shaggy pillows suddenly blocking out her sight.

"Carry her into the lab," the redhead behind the bar ordered the plump cat-woman who had served as mistress. He snapped his fingers, pointing at a couple of the other feline prostitutes. "You two, help her. The reagent is already taking effect."

"Yes, doctor," they said...and Lois Lane writhed as a sudden burning pain wracked her form. Her body twisted, her face buried beneath those pillowy cat-tits as padded hands grabbed her legs and lifted her. Together, the three of them bore her away...but Lois Lane could already feel the fever-dream overtaking her. Her skin felt two sizes too small, her cunny on fire...a sharp pain and stiffness at the small of her back, and as she tongue ran over her teeth they felt larger...sharper...

Like many converted warehouse-spaces, the true ceiling was higher than the drop-ceiling. It had been easy for Cheetah to push aside the ceiling-tile in the bathroom and access the hidden crawlspace above. With easy grace she had thus circumvented the security on the door...and tailed Lois Lane into the parlor of the Pussy Kat Club.

With gentle care, the villain peeled aside a tile to watch as Lois Lane foolishly accepted a drink from Emile Dorian—no doubt laced with T-99, the gene-splicing compound that was the basis for the rogue scientist's hybrids. Her nostrils twitched as she drank in the scent of his previous corrections...practically a clowder of women, at least eight or ten distinct scents.

Yet all was not right. Cheetah could smell the used-litterbox odor from here, hear the scratching at the walls. These were only Dorian's successful experiments—and it was all that Cheetah could do to repress a growl. The man was a genius, but utterly unconscionable, without morality or ethics. Still, she had hopes for his research...or at least, of adding it to her own.

As the cat-women obeyed his command, Cheetah followed them, navigating by sound and smell rather than risking drawing more attention by moving panels aside...navigating the maze of air conditioning ducts and wiring that filled the crawlspace, her fur rankling at the dust and cobwebs. She wondered what purpose Dorian had for Lois Lane...