End: No, Mistress

Something deep and primal inside Lois Lane rebelled. It cut through the madness, the pain, everything. Whatever core there was to her—whatever little bit of nothing that was her mind and soul—pushed back against that final capitulation. She would not give up everything she was to this woman.

Things writhed inside the reporter's brain. An image flashed through her mind, ultra-vivid, of Circe's fingertips like little cocks, sliding through her grey matter, spurting seed into the folds, the sperm wiggling down into the depths of her brain.

An amused chuckle sounded behind Lois. For a moment, it felt like all the heat flushed out of her body, veins filled with ice, a hole in her bowels empty and howling. Then Circe spoke.

"You amuse me, pet. I like that fire. I shall let you keep it..."

Lois shook as things slid across the inside of her skull. She could hear them, reverberating through bone. Her limbs began to shake and spasm, eyes twitching uncontrollably.

The reporter had heard how, when they were giving a woman a lobotomy, they had her recite the alphabet or the lord's prayer, so that they knew when they had destroyed enough of her brain that should could no longer function. She found herself babbling words, an uncontrollable torrent running from her mouth, almost **** of their meaning...

"WanttolickyourcrackmistressworshipyourgashwithmytonguemypussyisallforyouletmedrinkyourpissitslikenectarI'llfuckforyouI'llfuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckmefuckingyouyoumistressyourslaveyourcuntyourpussygashlickinglezziefaggotpussytoyclitsucker..."

Thoughts and images ran through the reporter's mind faster than she could follow. Weird sexual fantasies, more intense than any she had ever experienced, pierced pussy squirting uncontrollably. And at the center of them all, the subject of every vision, the foot pressing down on her face, the cold eyes that bored into her own as they **** her tongue into their cunt, was Circe with her lavender hair and full sensual lips curled into a kind of leer.

The physical symptoms abated. Lois was panting as she felt the...whatever it had been, either tentacles or magic or whatnot...withdraw from her ears. She shook her head as if to clear it. Her scalp itched, hair dangling in front of her face...had it grown back? It must have.

Fingers snapped.

"...thank you so much for finding us."

Lois Lane was nodding to the woman as she finished her story. The smartphone in her hand was recording the entire conversation. The reporter blinked, smiled. She was fully dressed, standing in an alley. Lights were flashing in the police cars as they loaded the pimps and customers into the paddy-wagons. The four missing women stood there in the alley, covered in blankets, the red marks of the shackles still on wrists and ankles.

A sex **** ring. **** prostitution. Lois could remember all of that. She could remember finding them in the club, contacting the police, being there for the raid, getting their stories.

They hugged her goodbye. Lois could feel her nipple-piercings press against them through her bra. Nothing they could see. Nothing anyone could see, so long as Lois was careful with what she wore.

The cab ride back to her apartment, Lois Lane probed her own memories. There was a discontinuity there. Like tonguing the space where a tooth had been. She had been with Circe. Then she found the women.

"What happened?" she whispered, her mind sliding around and around that bit of missing time.

The mystery hung over Lois like a shroud. She could feel the other effects of her visit with Circe. In the elevator, she discreetly pulled open her pants to see the brand, the tattoos. Her cheeks burned as she recalled the taste of the sorceress' piss.

"I told her no," Lois reassured herself. Maybe that was the end of it. Maybe Circe had accepted her refusal.

The door to her apartment opened before her key touched the lock. A familiar nude figure sat at the table, drinking Lois Lane's wine.

"Enter," Circe told her.

The reporter did, limbs feeling oddly heavy as she stepped past her own threshold, closed the door and locked it.

The woman on the chair spread her legs wide. Lois saw the familiar pussy. Her mouth began to water, a funny feeling in her stomach.

"Crawl," the sorceress told her.

"No," Lois said, even as she collapsed onto her hands and knees. There had been nothing special about Circe's voice this time, no magical compulsion that switched filters in the reporter's mind. Lois had simply...done as she was told. She began to slink forward. The woman brought her face right up into Circe's lap. The warm thighs pressed against her cheeks. The reporter turned to stare up past the slightly sagging breasts to the strange green eyes and lavender hair of that classically beautiful face.

"I...I don't want to," Lois said. She didn't either. Yet she couldn't bring herself to stand up, to move away from her. The reporter's every sense was alive, attentive, expectant, waiting on the next word from her mistress' lips.

"You say that," Circe replied, reaching down to brush the hair out of the reporter's face. "But you will."

The smell of the woman's pussy filled the reporter's nose. Terrible desires burned through her mind, and while some part of her fought and resisted, Lois Lane's mouth opened, drool pouring from her tongue as she lapped at the other woman's cunt, tongue sinking in to the salty gash again and again, swallowing the pussy juices. They felt warm inside her belly, and heat began to burn in her loins.

Her mistress patted her head like a good pet.

The dawn broke over Metropolis. The long night was over...but for Lois Lane, it was the start of the longest, darkest night of the soul in her entire life.