A Ritual

The stone was hard against her back. She stared up at the sky, where the moon leered down, full and bright. The inky black sky was alive with stars, so many, far more than she could ever see in Metropolis.

The altar was in the shape of an X. Once, she knew, turning her head to stare at the broken columns and shattered hall, this had been a temple. Though to whom or what, she could not remember.

Wind stilled. Insects, singing gently in the night, grew silent. There was only the shuffle of feet, moving in unison.

Robed figures filed in around her, their faces hidden. Yet the robes were little more than large panchos, and as they moved Lois could see the flash of naked skin beneath. Nude beneath their clothes...and Lois realized that she herself was naked, her nipples hard in the cold night air.

One of them approached her thighs, a large book in her crimson hands. Horns poked out from beneath the hood. Lois looked down the length of her naked body and felt the book placed between her legs, the hard leather thigh rubbing against her pussy.

Red hands flicked through the pages. The robed cultists kept their distance as the horned woman began to read.

"The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them, They walk serene and primal, undimensioned and to us unseen."

Lois felt a flutter in her belly, a moment of nervousness. The cultists mumbled something in unison, and then the horned woman read on.

"Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again. He knows where They have trod earth’s fields, and where They still tread them, and why no one can behold Them as They tread."

The fluttering in the reporter's belly continued, increasing in agitation. Horripilation crept across her skin as every hair stood on end, nipples hard, pussy wet from rubbing against the hard spine of the book. The moon seemed to take on a lurid green tint, and Lois could not help but feel it was staring at her, like an enormous eye.

"By Their smell can men sometimes know Them near, but of Their semblance can no man know, saving only in the features of those They have begotten on mankind; and of those are there many sorts, differing in likeness from man’s truest eidolon to that shape without sight or substance which is Them."

Pain wracked Lois Lane suddenly, a terrible pressure from within like a cramp. In a moment cultists were there holding down her hands and legs, holding her to the altar as the pressure grew and grew, her cunt rubbing up and down against the spine of the book between her legs. A terrible smell washed over her then, the smell of sex, old and stale, like sheets left unwashed after a dirty weekend.

On the altar, Lois stared down the length of her body, eyes pleading with the horned woman—and beheld her own belly, swelling gently but swiftly, flesh distending painfully as it was stretched out by whatever was growing within.