Not Breathing

"Circe-y?" The bimbofied reporter asked.

The lavender-haired sorceress wasn't moving. She stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed. Her chest wasn't moving.

Lois Lane shook, suddenly cold. The big-breasted bimbo looked around and realized that the beach had gone. No sand, no sun, no pavilion. She was on her knees, naked, atop the unmoving body of the sorceress. Goosebumps rose on her skin, and the only light was a bare ten-watt bulb. She reached down and grabbed her mistress.

"Circe-y!" She whispered. "Wake up!"

The bimbo's brow furrowed. Her head hurt. Circe wasn't breathing. There was something you were supposed to do when someone wasn't breathing, but she couldn't remember what. It was so hard to think.

She found herself shaking the unresponsive woman by the shoulders, trying to get her to wake up. Not sure what to do. Knowing that there was something she _should _do. But the harder she tried to think, the more her head hurt, and her pussy was aching, and Circe-y just wasn't moving, and...

Tears welled up in the reporter's eyes. She was cold, and now she was alone, and Circe wasn't breathing and she didn't know what to do. The bimbo's tits quivered as she began to cry, her chest heaving heavily as stupid tears rolled down her cheek. Frustration welled up inside of her. One fist thumped into Circe's chest, and then another. Then, as if a storm of pent-up emotion was released, Lois was pounding on her chest with both hands...

Sobbing aloud, Lois felt prostrate on Circe, hard enough to squeeze the dead air out of her lungs. Instinctively, the top-heavy reporter pushed her face against that of the sorceress, placed her mouth over her own...and began to breathe...