Blaze's Boudoir

They moved through corridors between rooms where passion sounded through the walls, and down a set of stairs. She sank down more heavily on that equine prick with each step, and she could feel in her head and the pit of her stomach that general sense that you get in an elevator as it heads below ground. Lois grit her teeth, trying not to get too turned on by the ordeal...but she could feel herself leaking over the black shemale's massive balls.

Modern concrete gave way to brick and, finally, stone—bedrock, if the reporter was to judge—and finally ended at a kind of archway without a door or curtain.

The chamber beyond was crude—natural—with touches of carving on the stone walls, a bare electric bulb overhead. A cave someone had turned into temple...or a boudoir. There was a large square slab the size of a queen-sized bed, covered with furs. A woman lay supine on it, although as Lois took in the scarlet skin, the great curving horns jutting from her brow, and the impressive cock and balls that rested between her legs, she decided "woman" wasn't quite the right word for it.

"Who is that?" Lois whispered to 'Vixen,' still under the hypnotic power of the reporter's super-pussy.

"The mistress," The ebony woman replied in a dull monotone.

"Where are the missing women?" The reporter hissed. "You said you were taking me to them."

"They are here too...they are always here..." The shemale replied...and Lois realized they were not alone.

From the shadows they came, slinking slowly, things that crawled which aught to have walked—yet it seemed to Lois as she watched them that they were perfectly fit and comfortable on hands and knees, arching their backs, asses in the air, as though it was their most natural place.

They were women, or so Lois thought she ought to call them. I general outline they were human, if humans had been shaped in wind tunnels and striped black and scarlet. Narrow torsos with breasts that were mere buds flowed smoothly into narrow hips and tight, muscular asses, not an ounce of fat on them, muscles bunching beneath the taut skin as they slunk and stalked forward, heads bowed.

None of them had eyes. The pale expanse of their forehead continued down uninterrupted into their cheeks, and they smelled the air, forked tongues tasting their way along like snakes. Lois stared at them, and quickly perceived that the combination of markings on each one was unique.

On each wrist and ankle was a manacle, black iron inlaid with gold in beautiful, elaborate geometric patterns. On each neck a collar of the same workmanship.

They came sniffing up to Lois, as dogs might to a master, straining at their chains.

"She...did this to them?" Lois whispered. The reporter took a deep breath. "Set me down." Her eyes focused on the sleeping demon. The reporter knew what she had to do.