End: Lois Lane Plays Dead

Okay, this was a mistake, the reporter admitted to herself, as the tourniquets were tied around Cheetah's arms and legs. A heavy sword was being sharpened, by a sweaty, bare-breasted ninja, whose features were hidden by a red mask, her nipples dark points on gently sloping tits. The cat-woman had been bound by chains to a large wooden block marked with ominous stains and clefts where the blade had fallen before. A butcher's block.

Cheetah had broken out of her ****-induced stupor and begun to thrash, bite, and claw at anyone within reach. Lois Lane could see the fluffy vulva was damp, and in between the hissing and spitting, Lois could see that Cheetah's nipples were stiff as well. The cat-woman was still in heat, and that had driven her over the edge into madness.

"It is a pity you could not see things our way," the woman Lois had privately named Head Ninja said. Her voice was older, and there were crows-feet around her eyes, which was the only part of the Head Ninja's skin visible. "But if you cannot behave, then we shall simply remove your arms and legs and pull your teeth. After all, it is only your blood we need."

Lois Lane, who had played dead all the way back, lay on her side, bound hand and foot but otherwise unharmed. She watched the scene through slitted eyes, and regretted her inaction. There were times when she could have thrashed and fought, and maybe together she and Cheetah could have broken away from the ninjas...but now...

Cheetah snarled, flexed her limbs...but there was nothing she could do as the ninja with the heavy sword raised it above her head.

"Wait!" Lois Lane shouted, her voice loud in the small space defined by the red sheets that served in place of walls. "I can...I can calm her down. You don't have to do that."

The reporter's knees were bound together, and her arms behind her back. So Lois shifted her body like a worm, and inched across the floor. The Head Ninja raised an eyebrow and with a gesture, put the swordswoman on hold. Together, they watched as Lois closed the distance, and raised herself up onto her knees.

Which put her face exactly level with Cheetah's pussy, that dribbled just at the edge of the chopping block.

The reporter took a deep breath...and then dove in, face first. Her tongue slithered and slathered over wet, acrid fur and into a hot, tangy slit. Almost immediately, Cheetah's snarls of rage turned into the mewls of a sex-starved alley cat. Her hips humped against the reporter's face, whose tongue and lips worked with the intensity of desperation, utterly artless as she swallowed pussy juice and nuzzled and licked at the cat-woman's clit.

For long minutes, there was no sound but Cheetah's pants, mewls, and moans. The chains ceased to clink, the jaws ceased to snap. The reporter's jaw ached...but the sword never fell.

"Interesting. So it seems you can be of use to us, slut," the Head Ninja said. "Very well. If you wish to live, you will keep the cat-woman under control. Fail, and we will cut off your limbs, and loan your womb out for surrogates."

The reporter pulled her face away just long enough to stare into the Head Ninja's eyes—and nod.

There was a cell. Somewhere underground. Two buckets came in every day; one with food, the other empty, for waste. The cameras in the corner gave them no privacy. The collar and chain kept Cheetah from the door. Once every week or so, there a bucket of water and soap for washing, and a tray with syringe and bag, so that Lois could draw blood from Cheetah's arms. The constant blood loss kept the cat-woman too weak to do much.

Usually, shortly after waking, Lois would began by rubbing her clit. She'd hold the warm, furry body against her own, and the reporter's fingers would rub her pussy like playing a cello. Lois had learned, over time, what Cheetah liked. The little love-bites at the back of the neck. A touch at her supernumerary nipples.

Whatever they had dosed Cheetah with, it had driven her almost feral. There were nights when Lois had woken up and found Cheetah ruthlessly humping her body, the hot, sore pussy squelched noisily as it rubbed frantically against the sleeping body like a dog with a pillow. Words came more difficult to Cheetah now, and Lois had to comb the long mane of hair to keep the knots out.

Lois Lane knew that eventually, someone would find them. Someone would know that she, the Daily Planet's greatest reporter, had gone missing. Yet as the days and nights went on, and Lois could only measure the time by the changes in her body, the hair on her legs and pussy that grew out without something to shave it. She knew a month had passed when one night she woke up to feel that strong, rough tongue lap at the menses that oozed from the naked reporter's overgrown cunt.

"Someone will save us," Lois whispered as she rubbed Cheetah's ears. A contented noise issued from Cheetah's throat, and the great eyes were dilated in the dim light. A mighty lioness that lounged, to conserve energy for the hunt.

Or so Lois hoped. She knew too well what happened to big cats in captivity. How they could get used to the bars. The easy food. The constant sex. At least the regular orgasms helped stave off depression and madness. Even when Lois was too tired, the insatiable cat-woman would rub or frot or lick her. She was Cheetah's sex toy...and would be, until they got out of there.

Lois hung onto that hope. When, not if, they escaped. She would talk to Cheetah for long hours about what they would do when they got out. How Cheetah could stay with her, in her apartment. They could go to Paris. Or Rio de Janeiro. Slowly, softly, all the reporter's stories came out. All her hopes, her dreams. Soft confessions of crushes on girls that had not come to pass, beastly blowjobs and unsatisfactory sexual relationships with men. That was how she knew something of Cheetah was still in there.

When Lois Lane talked about sex, the ears would perk up, the eyes would turn on her and focus with an expression of interest. Lois had learned to tell dirty stories, as her fingers combed through the cat-woman's fur. To tease Cheetah for a while with imaginary escapades. A long series of fantasies, of women and cat-women, down through the ages...and sometimes they would act out the parts, though Cheetah never spoke a word, and the glass eye of the camera watched them, always, always....

So Lois Lane's night out stretched out for many nights to come. For weeks into months, until the seasons changed...and then, at long last, the door opened, to find the two lovers locked in each other's arms, Lois as wild as the cat-woman who clung to her in the **** throes of their morning dalliance.

Yet who opened that door, and what the future held in store for the two lovers...that is a different story.