Sexual Slavery

Lois Lane clung to Tyrell...perhaps a little more than she absolutely needed to, because she admired the feel of his bicep, but also because she did need to, a little. By instinct, Lois took deep, slow breaths. She needed as much oxygen to the brain as she could. In fact, if she could claim the need to pee, the reporter thought she might be able to use the bathroom as a chance to vomit up her drink and hydrate a little...

She never got the chance.

The doors opened, and Tyrell shifted his grip to pin her arms to her sides as he spun her around, her breasts crushed against his chest. Lois looked into his brown eyes as unknown hands tore down her pants, and there was a bright jab of pain in the meat of her ass.

Tyrell's pace was utterly impassive, eyes cold, all friendliness and human feeling gone. Like the eyes of a slaughterhouse worker who cannot remember the individual cows...and then hands grabbed her, pulled her back.

They wore gloves, masks, hairnets, and long pale-blue aprons. Their movements were practiced, expressions almost bored. Four of them hold Lois as a fifth took a pair of tin-snips and sliced through her pants at the cuff, up one leg and down the other. Then the same with the jacket. Panties, bra, shirt, all fell in a heap of rags...and took with them her smartphone, wallet, the fake IDs, and all of Lois Lane's other preparations for her night out.

Her thoughts seemed to come at a glacial pace. It wasn't until the last of her clothes fell off of her that Lois tried to resist. Just trying to think was like swimming in molasses, and as the four held on, as though expecting this, the fifth placed his hands on her jaw and pain blossomed...and Lois Lane realized she couldn't close her mouth.

Someone fitted something to her head. It clamped tight about her cranium, and with delicate ease a tube was fed down the reporter's throat. Clamps were fixed at the edges of her mouth, over her teeth, like some elaborate dental bondage gear, her tongue squished beneath it. Lois Lane's eyes went wide as she saw a pink sludge fed down the clear tube, felt the thick goop hit her stomach...

The fight died in the reporter swiftly. She sank limp in her captor's arms. The wound on her butt began to throb and burn, to spread...and Lois was dimly aware that she was being carried to a table. Someone hooked up a vat of that pink sludge above her, the clear plastic sides stenciled with black letters...and then someone else came in, as the people in the gloves and masks tied her down to the table with cloth straps. Someone who wasn't masked at all

She was tall and almost inhumanly slim, the bones visible beneath the skin, like a hungry wolf on two legs. Long dark hair fell down in oily coils from a high, broad brow, a somewhat alien face like the bust of Nefertiti, a Mona Lisa smile on her lips. Her movements were graceful, yet precise; like a lioness on the hunt, and her dress was some kind of orange sarong that left arms and legs and belly bare, and exposed what little cleavage she had while keeping her small breasts covered. Here and there, the outfit was pinned with metal disks with leering, demonic faces.

"Hello, Lois," the voice was low, husky, and oddly-accented, though the English was perfect. A tray with syringes filled with different colored fluids was wheeled over neer the reporter's head, just as the blue-gloved hands fastened a strap that made Lois unable to twist her neck. The reporter wanted to struggle, to fight, but her body refused to obey her.

"Major muscle relaxant," the woman said, as though able to read her thoughts. "We don't want to damage the merchandise."

A slim hand reached over and squeezed the reporter's breast. Lois couldn't see it, but she could feel the warm, hard hand squeeze the sensitive and swollen teat.

"Now," the woman said. "What kind of sex **** will you be?"