Anything

Lois Lane's mouth drew a firm line. Her throat was parched, crotch burning. A part of her wanted—needed—to taste that.

The chalice was raised toward her, until the reporter's breath stirred the surface.

"That is just what they said," Angelica Blaze whispered, a hint of reverence in her voice. "Drink."

The brimming grail was brought to the reporter's lips...and she opened her mouth to let it flow in. Rich and thick as molasses, salty and bitter as every blowjob she had ever given except now...as the heavy, jet-black jism ran over her tongue, began to burn a channel down her throat...now Lois could taste the little flavors in it, highlights like peat and licorice, ouzo and the burnt black bits on a grilled filet of fish.

Images flashed through the reporter's mind, startlingly clear. A marble temple built around some ancient spring. A village of women, all the men dead, hefting tools and sowing fields. Something less than a god squatting in the darkness, head like a savage goat, a woman in toga holding forth the vessel, catching the black nectar bubbling forth from the inhuman prick...and the face of the petitioner, when Lois saw it for just a moment, was her own.

The burning jism hit Lois Lane's stomach like molten lead. She felt the liquid heat diffuse through her, whole body heating up, especially her crotch. A cramp struck her, sudden and shocking and painful, her entire stomach twisting within, pressure building, pussy tightening as she instinctively tried to hold something back, something within...

In her mind's eye, the dark woman in the toga with Lois Lane's face went through the doorway of the villa. The servants slept as she crept into the bed of the mistress of the house, the moon shining through the window, one pale arm stretching out to the empty space where her husband should be. The toga parted, revealing the throbbing phallus and heavy sack, a grim parody of the dark god's own organ...and the matron had no time to scream before the intruder was on her, in her, between her legs, thrusting away.

Lois Lane's lungs burned, her body forgetting to breathe as the ebon cum flowed into her. Between her legs she felt some seal break, warm wetness flowing down her legs, and now the pressure was different, something moving to get out. Her pants felt too tight, the bulging flesh pressing against the tight fabric, and the reporter wondered, very briefly, if this is what it felt like to give birth...

Her vision shifted, to the matron...and her daughter...and their servants...waking on shaking legs, dark stains running down their thighs, staining their bedclothes. Shifted as though she looked out from the hill to the whole village waking up, every woman from eighteen to eighty staggering to meet the dawn...and when the winter came and the spring, Lois knew, somehow, those bellies would ripen, even the old grandams who thought themselves past the age of childbearing. But the dark woman with Lois Lane's face would not see it, because she had moved on.

With a wrench of ripping cloth, the reporter's pants gave way. She could feel warm, dry air on her flesh...and she knew something had grown from her, some fundamental had shifted. Blaze began to pull the chalice away, and Lois craned her neck to hold on...

"Enough," the dickgirl ordered. "Enough now! Too much is dangerous!"