Until Lex Luthor's Balls Are Destroyed

Adults do not often get a chance to just play. Not in the uninhibited sense of children. The devil-may-care, no-one-to-stop-you, unreserved kind of play where you don't care who is watching you, and you can just laugh and scream and do whatever you want to your heart's content. Grown-ups just cannot turn off their brains, they're too self-conscious, too wrapped up in their reputation, their self-image, what other people would think.

Bimbos, in that sense, have no inhibitions whatsoever. They just do what feels good.

Which in Lois Lane's case meant the utter destruction of Lex Luthor's testes.

Tears ran down the paralyzed mad scientist's eyes as Lois giggled and ground the balls of her feet into the ruin of his scrotum. At some point she had stopped kicking and started stomping. The deflated sack was bluish-purple, soft and filled with a bloody slurry. A pinkish ooze dripped out of his soft, shrunken cock, and the bimbified reporter laughed and squealed as she jumped up and down between his legs, crushing the ruined ballsack beneath her feet, like a widow dancing on her husband's grave.

Ivy spent the time with her compact, freshening up her lipstick. She was dressed in her labcoat again. Lois Lane danced as though no-one was watching, her cock flopping about happily, breasts jiggling. The villainess leaned down and planted a fresh kiss on Lex Luthor's bald pate...and he shivered. His eyes rolled up in his head as the extra dose of her plant-toxin sent him into a light coma.

"I think that's enough, Lois," Ivy said as she straightened up. "There's nothing left. You did a good job."

"Yaaaay!" Lois cheered.

"Now," Ivy took the reporter's arm and guided her toward the door. "We need to decide what to do with you..."

Lois frowned. Her brow furrowed. There was a thought, an overwhelming need inside her brain, but trying to get it out, to express it, was so difficult. Finally, with an exhaustive effort, the Pulitzer prize winning reporter said—