Kiss The Reporter's Pussy

The reporter's legs were **** apart, separate straps over each thigh to keep Lois Lane from closing her legs. Poison Ivy let her fingers play with the carefully-trimmed patch of black pubic hair above the shaven pussy...and then her fingers dropped lower, to stroke the smooth labia...to peel those netherlips apart...and Lois gasped and winced as a finger slipped inside of her, without permission or preparation.

"Hmm...a bit dry. We can't have that. You might...tear...if we **** things without appropriate lubrication."

There was a glint in the green eyes as she said this, and the villain pulled her red hair back and wrapped an elastic band around it, the better to keep it out of her face. The reporter struggled weakly against her bonds, but there was nothing she could do as Ivy half-climbed onto the table...and brought her face down to Lois Lane's crotch, where the quim quivered with terrible anticipation.

The drunken reporter tensed as she felt those lips press against her cunny...warnings flared in her brain, of the toxic lipstick pressed against her, where the chemicals could easily enter her bloodstream...and then Ivy opened her mouth, and in so doing pried open the reporter's cuntlips, so that her pink tongue could sly into the dry slit...

Perhaps it was the booze, or Ivy's lipstick, but as the room began to spin around her, Lois felt the strength sap from her muscles. The tension slowly drained from her body as Poison Ivy's tongue ran over the inner labia of Lois Lane, and worked their way ever deeper in small circles. Lois felt her heart begin to beat faster, her chest rose and fell and the nipples on them were hard and stiff, and Ivy's helpers could feel the atmosphere too...Lois saw their faces flushed, their hands moved under their clothes as they uncontrollably felt themselves up, eyes focused on Ivy's one-sided worship of the reporter's pussy...and Lois could not help but feel her own body respond to these ministrations, the heat built between her legs, beads of sweat broke out at forehead and armpit...and down between her legs, her juices began to flow.

Until at last, Lois Lane was wet enough for Poison Ivy's purpose.

The villain raised her head, her lips a green smear where the lipstick had been mussed, a pink burn beneath the pale green skin of her cheeks, irises dilated.

"Bring it to me," she croaked, as Lois Lane's cunny juice dripped off her chin. "Bring me..."