What Don't They Do?

A tongue slid into Lois Lane's defenseless armpit. A hand clamped around her throat, as a beautiful pair of painted lips spit into her mouth. Down below, out of sight, a hot mouth slathered over the reporter's big toe on her right foot. One of the women straddled the stake-bound reporter, and Lois moaned as the ropes pulled painfully at wrist and ankle as the woman's fat ass and drooling pussy rubbed against the bimbo reporter's flat stomach.

Against the onslaught of the four sluts Lois had come to save, the reporter writhed. Tongues ran up the soles of her feet. Two women peeled her eyelids open so that they could lick the reporter's eyeballs, until Lois was crying, her vision hot and blurry. One of the women pulled the bound woman's hair painfully, while another gripped her throat with both hands, threatening to crush the reporter's windpipe with her thumbs. Nails scraped down the whole length of the reporter's body, and Lois flexed her muscles, trying to guide her breasts, her pussy, her ass or mouth against her tormentors...but no matter what Lois did, no matter how hard she tried, the women always slid away.

No hot tongues settled on her nipples or dripping cunt.

No fingers penetrated her eager ass or mouth.

As the **** went on, Lois began to beg...to babble...**** for something, anything, to penetrate her, rube her clit, bite her nipples, something!

Inside her own skull, Lois Lane was appalled at her bimbo self's actions. The wanton desperation that lust had driven the bimbo to was more degrading than anything that Lois could dream of. On occasion, the reporter's head lolled back, casting begging eyes at Circe...who sat there, toying with her own pussy, half-lidded eyes not missing a single moment of Lois Lane's sexual torment.

"Now you begin to understand, Lois," the hazel eyes burned with animal lust. "You will not cum until I order it."

Lois moaned, her whole body shaking as she fought to free herself...and Circe raised her right hand and snapped her fingers.