A Knock On The Door

The knock, not loud but imperative, broke through Lois' reverie. She frowned as she got off the bed, and fetched a simple black silk robe from the closet. It barely covered her ass, and did nothing to hide her perky nipples, which stood out proud and erect to make little tents of the fabric. With her flushed face and tusseled hair, Lois knew she must look like she had just been interrupted...doing what she had been doing.

The reporter had the presence of mind to wipe her face with a cloth, and glanced at the mirror just long enough to know what a fright she must look—she hadn't yet cleaned all the makeup off her face, and the cloth was smeared with lipstick and mascara as well as the grey goo she had scooped out of her vagina.

The taste of it was still in her mouth, the smell of it in her nostrils. Lois licked her teeth, and wondered what it was. She knew, now, what it tasted like. Cum. Not just ordinary cum, either, which in her experience was runny and bitter, with the slightly acrid taste like piss. This was thick enough she could almost chew it, salty and warm, and the bitterness had flavor, like the last dregs of old wine. Her stomach rumbled slightly, and she smiled. Lois knew she wanted more.

Then the knock came again, and Lois dropped the towel and headed to the door. She didn't notice the little trail of white drops on the carpet behind her.

The cramp hit Lois as she passed the kitchen table, and she almost fell to her knees. One hand desperately grabbed at a chair, and she leaned against it as a spasm of pain hit her belly. The reporter grunted, and paused as she analyzed the sensation. It wasn't like when she was on her period, or had pulled a muscle. It almost felt like a hunger pang—albeit one more intense and painful than she had ever known before, and located strangely low in her abdomen. Her guts churned, not with nausea, but a physical movement that she could feel inside herself, and behind her belly button some muscled fluttered briefly.

The knock came again, and this time Lois was brought down to her hands and knees. Her whole belly seemed to tense together in a rigor of sheer need. Something drove her forward, to crawl across the carpet toward the door. A wet, warm fluid leaked down her thigh from her cunt, and for a moment Lois thought she had wet herself—and then she smelled the intense odor, her own familiar intimate scent, magnified a thousand fold.

Another knock. Images flooded her brain then. Like a migraine, only distinct and sharp. Penises, erect, of every size and color, flashed past her eyes. Too fast to say whether she recognized any single one. Lois tried to crawl, through the pain, through the torrent of dicks, cocks, fucksticks... and then they began to erupt. White cream shot from them, oozed from them, burble and spat jets of cream, dribbled slow-moving rivers of milky ejaculate, throbbed and pulsed until her vision seemed to go white, and there was only splurt after splurt, and her pussy and stomach ached and throbbed in time with the semen that splattered her minds eye.

The reporter didn't pause to analyze it, only dragged herself further toward the door, before that infernal knock could come again. She panted, **** her limbs to move, and with a shaky arm reached out and grabbed the doorknob. Used it to pull herself up, work off the chain and deadbolt. Then flung the door open. An upraised fist was just about to pound on it once more...