Lois Keeps It

"No," the reporter said, stepping forward.

The sorceress followed behind her. "What do you mean, 'no?' It is mine! You have no idea how to use that power..."

"And you used it to turn Odysseus' crew into pigs." Lois said, going left more by instinct than any other reason.

"They were already pigs," Circe shot back. "I only helped them appear as they were."

Lois held up a finger to her lips, cautioning silence. She stood very still for a moment, listening...there was a sound of people ahead. Lots of people. Some sort of chanting.

"What is that?" she whispered.

"The demoness Blaze prepares for her ascension," Circe whispered back. "She has drawing women to her here, to raise and store a massive amount of orgone. Through her orgiastic rites, she will raise herself to Olympian levels."

Lois blinked. "English, please."

"She's using sex magick to become a god." Circe drew close, one hand sliding over the reporter's bare ass. "That is why I need my wand, to stop her."

The reporter frowned. She looked down at her legs.

"What happened to my pants?" Lois asked.

"Vaporized by the blast. You don't have enough control," Circe hissed, slipping two fingers into the reporter's pussy, the questing digits searching for the little rod. "That's why you need to Give. Me. The. Wand."

There is a maneuver in Suicide Slum called the Whore's Handshake—known and feared among every john who has ever tried to grab one of the streetwalkers without permission. A move that a young reporter on her first beat had been taught by a wise old prostitute she had interviewed for a human interest piece. Lois Lane gave Circe a handshake now.

Against the wall, the sorceress' offending hand bent back so far the wrist threatened to break and her face ground into the pavement, the reporter laid down the law.

"You touch me again without my permission, and I will snap your arm off and shove it up your miserable old cunt. Don't think I can't do it, either. You understand."

"Yes." Circe said quietly, her face a mask of pain and...not rage, Lois saw. Lust.

Serious masochistic streak there, the reporter figured. Yet there could be little doubt. Even in the darkness of the tunnel, the face looked flush, the nipples poking through the dress were hard, the hips and flanks quivered in anticipation as she was at the reporter's mercy.

"Okay. So we're going to stop this ascension, and get the women out of here and then...then...I'll give you back your wand. Agreed?"

"Very well," the witch said bitterly, as though hoping for some other price.

"Swear," Lois said. "Swear an oath you dare not break."

The purple-haired woman was silent for a moment, and Lois was afraid she was going to have to break one of her little fingers to show that she was serious...but then in deep and solemn tones, Circe spoke:

May the earth open and swallow me, May the sky fall upon me, May the sea rise and cover me, May fires consume me, If I am foresworn.

Lois released her, satisfied. Whether or not Circe would keep her promise, she didn't know—but she had no one else to help her.

"Right. So...what do we do to stop Blaze?"