Beg Blaze To Knock Her Up

"You cannot cum, Lois Lane," Blaze said. The words had a strange intonation, as though spoken underwater—and a queasy sensation went through the reporter's stomach, a knot suddenly tying itself deep inside her gut, as though her uterus were curling on itself like a millipede. "Not until you beg for my seed to bear fruit in your womb. Then, and only then, will I allow you to climax."

Lois Lane moaned in frustrated need. She was there. Right there. Her fingers rubbed her clit to the threshold of pain. Her ass slapped back against the demon's hips, pussy clenching and milking for the creamy jizz at the center of that great long red lollipop. Body and soul cried out with one single desire.

Yet it died on her lips.

She gritted her teeth as she savagely increased the **** and fury of her fucking, driving the demon's buttocks smack dab into the wall with banging loud enough to wake the neighbors. Reached back between her legs, finding the fat swinging balls hanging there, and squeezed the mighty sack until she though one of the testes would burst. Blaze howled in pain and lust, and her hand came down in a hard smack on the reporter's ass...

But neither of them came.

It was a battle of wills, a millennia-old demon faced off against the Daily Planet's greatest reporter—and more than just Lois Lane's empty womb was on the line. Pride, stupid, stubborn pride, which was at the root of both of their identities, would not permit either of them to forfeit or beg. Though they bruised themselves, though cock and cunt were rubbed raw, bits of skin peeling off, leaving bloody streaks on the crimson cock with every stroke, the acidic environment of the mortal woman's pussy biting into the open wounds on the demonic dickgirl's endowment...though they howled and raved and cursed and swore at each other, and Blaze's hands gripped the wall until they pierced through paint and drywall, and her feet tore ruts in the carpets, neither would give the barest inch.

Minutes ticked by into hours. For those who have know the sexual repression of long periods of abstinence, they may recall the physical throb of sexual desire as a constant presence, always there, always on the cusp of consciousness. How much worse then, it must be, to be actively engaged in coitus, caught up in the sexual act, long past the point of pleasure, the mechanical grinding of hips a constant ache, muscles sore and weary, blood streaming down the thighs in small rivulets...when even superhuman stamina might be near the point of exhaustion, and even the strongest will and pride might waver...