Dark Dreams

On her back, Lois floated on a warm white sea, slimy and terribly familiar. Overhead she could make out stars in unfamiliar constellations...she had not seen stars, not really seen them, in years. You couldn't see them in Metropolis, there was too might light even at night, and the darkness was ever so bright...but she remembered going camping, when she was about thirteen. There in the sleeping bag, the fire dead and cooled to ashes, and she followed the smoke up to where it merged with the Milky Way, so far overhead...and she wondered at why that memory was so vivid, and then she recalled feeling sticky down there in the morning, and seeing the blood. It had been her first menses.

The stars above stared down at her, and Lois drew constellations in her mind—all the people in her life. Clark Kent and Jimmy Olsen, Lex Luthor and Mercy Graves...and she could see those faces, staring down at her, until she had to shut her eyes and wished they would go away...and found herself sinking, sinking, into that warm and familiar liquid depths...

When she opened her eyes again, it was still dark, and Lois' body felt cool. She was naked, resting on some bare, cold, hard floor...her nipples were hard. Lois tried to lift her hand, but felt she could not. It was the kind of paralysis that comes with night terrors, and Lois knew she must still be asleep, still be dreaming. Because she was wet and sticky between her legs, like long ago in the sleeping bag under the stars.

Then she felt something lapping at her slit.

All of her was cold and still, but her legs were spread apart, and a wet, hot tongue slathered at her pussy, hot breath brushing against her well-trimmed pubes. Lois wished she could open her eyes and see who—what—it was.

She couldn't move.

Lois knew this should upset her—the limp, ragdoll passivity was unlike her, and she knew she should fight, rebel, protest...but she was so tired, and the calm dream-logic had stolen over her. She lay there, limp and unresponsive, as the squirming hot thing bored into her slick cunt. No, not unresponsive—because while she could not move, she could still feel. Her nipples, hard as steel. The flush on her skin, so strange against the cold air. The hairs on her arm and neck standing up, and her own breath, coming quicker now in little pants, the hint of a whine beneath them...

...and the worst part is she didn't know what was turning her on, the tongue-washing or her mute powerlessness to do anything about it, the quiet betrayal of her body as it fulfilled its biological imperative, divorced from her conscious action. To think that it didn't need her permission to get this wet, to respond like this to this intrusion...and that thought made her wet too. The utter helplessness and surrender mixed with the pleasure of that squirming, seeking tongue that felt like it wanted to taste every inch of her gushing hole...

If only she could open her eyes, Lois knew she could see what rough beast was eating her out, what tongue was fucking her, driving deeper and deeper into her womanhood, like it wanted to **** her womb and soul...if only...she...could...

With a flutter, Lois opened her eyes. Lassitude still restrained her limbs, but she stared up at a blank ceiling and knew she was awake...and her crotch was wet.