A Lovecraftian Horror

The reporter's voice caught in her throat. For a moment, all her mind could process were random images...flailing tentacles, some as fine as a single strand of hair, tipped with spikes, mouths, bulbous penis-heads...breasts of every shape and size, but all with dark nipples leaking black, oily, iridescent goo...a woman's face, serene and perfect as the bust of Nefertiti, surmounted with two black horns like a crown...and a maw, anxious and dripping, lined with teeth yet more reminiscent of a vagina than an eel, the dark depths seeming to draw Lois in with its own horrible gravity...

...and then the horror moved, arms and tentacles outstretched. The outline as it moved was that of a woman, the tentacles weaving themselves into the rough shape of arms, legs, a body, coiling and uncoiling as though caught in a constant explosion, and never from moment to moment could Lois Lane say that any part of the creature remained still...except for that face, smiling impassively, like the hidden secret of the Mona Lisa, the dark eyes saying that they knew something you didn't.

It moved forward, and Lois was too shocked to fall back, even as the first tentacles began to crowd around her, not quite touching, the darkly human face descending toward her own.

"Lois," it was the Lady's voice, the voice of the thing that already violated the human woman, who had marked her with those piercings, and as the lips moved Lois was sure she saw things flutter inside the mouth. She felt sick as she realized that the face was just a mask, something to give a human seeming for...for what? Her own benefit?

"Who are you?" Lois felt her voice, small and weak and human, even in the face of that strange alien thing. "What are you?"

"Once, I was the Lady Blaze, Queen of Hell." There was something wrong with the voice. Like it came from the vibration of many strings, emulating what a woman might sound like. This close, Lois could pick up the subtle disharmonies that gave the lie to it. This close, she could smell its breath, a fetid sweet rot like a cumrag forgotten under the bed for weeks on end...

Fine, hair-like threads fell on the reporter's skin...and stuck there, like spider's web. But unlike spider's web, they moved, coiling about her limbs.

"In my search for power, I became a supplicant to the dark mother, Shub-Niggurath. And she has made me...more."

Tiny tightening of the threads seized Lois suddenly, drawing her closer, lifting her off the ground. In the mass of the thing, where the body was thickest, the vast, toothed vagina reappeared, surrounded by a ring of dripping tits.

"She has shown me such sights. Would you like to see them, Lois? Would you like to see what happened to those women who went missing?"

Lois Lane knew it then—an invitation, a promise. Every step of the way, she had been led, but not ****. It wanted her to say yes, had brought her down here, subjected her to all those indignities just, she was sure, to wrench that word out of her. For all of the creature's obvious power, it wanted...needed...someone to give themselves to it.

Or so Lois told herself, knowing that it could all be a fantasy. That maybe this creature, whatever it was or had been, was beyond human understanding. Maybe it didn't matter what she said...but she knew that it was giving her a decision, and that was a kind of power in itself. To choose her own path...